#devastating to the tiny mind

[galebecky97]

self portrait

[nabaath-areng]

A vague OC concept I had a few years ago but never developed has been coming back to haunt me in full force recently and I don't know how random that really is given how shit has been lately

[adeptustemptations]

Imagine finally getting a night alone with Caleb after what feels like months of pent-up sexual frustration and desperate touches that always ended in baby cries, 'mama I pee-peed!' and empty 'I'll touch you later' promises. You two were in a constant cycle of getting blue balled by your daughter.

But tonight was different.

Caleb was kissing down your neck with the kind of focused attention that meant he couldn't wait for any longer. His hands were under your shirt, already unclasping your bra with expert ease, your fingers tangled in his hair, and the look in his eyes screamed need. desire.

“She’s asleep, right?” he murmured against your neck.

“Out cold.”

“Perfect,” he grinned, lips moving lower. “Because I need to be inside you. Now."

Clothes are messily strewn on the bedroom floor, bodies bare. Desperate kisses exchanged and hands feeling each other up. His left hand's squeezing your breasts, his thumb gently tweaking your nipple as he greedily makes out with you. His right hand hooking right under one of your thighs, lifting your leg so he could gain better access.

"Fuck, I missed you.." he gasps out after pulling away from the kiss. He positions himself right to your entrance, teasing the tip around your slit. But just when he's about to slip himself in...

knock knock knock.

You both freeze.

“Mommy?” You knew that voice. The tiny gremlin tone of a three-year-old who was definitely not asleep.

You both turn toward the bedroom door like it just declared war.

“No,” Caleb breathes, forehead dropping to your shoulder in pure devastation. “I'm going to lose my fucking mind.”

Knock knock. Again.

“Mommy? Daddy? I had a dream that Uncle Gideon turned into a waffle. Can I sleep in your bed?”

He dramatically rolls off of you, muttering to himself, “I didn’t even get to put it in.”

You chuckle as he stares at the ceiling. Looking lifeless. Emotionally dead.

Then, a whisper. “A waffle.” Followed by a choked, near-broken laugh. “He got turned into a waffle, and now I have blue balls.”

You're trying not to laugh. You really are. But your daughter knocks again, and you're both yanked from lustful heaven back into parent mode.

"Remind me to tell Gideon I hate him."

Seems like it was another typical night, after all.

[MASTERLIST]

[jijournal]

THE GREENHOUSE EFFECT | D.M

Summary: When you're paired with Draco Malfoy for Herbology, you expected eye-rolls and dead plants. But, you don’t expect that the most sudden pairings bloom the brightest.

wc: 1.7k+

cw: Hufflepuff!reader x draco. FLUFF! FLUFF! FLUFF!, a very pouty reader who loves and names her plants.

A/N: Alright you got me. I made up some of the plants mentioned cause I got lazy going through all the canon plants in hp. I LOVE LOVE LOVE HUFFLEPUFF!READERS! 💞

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

You’d witnessed many botanical tragedies during your years in Hogwarts’ greenhouses—Mandrakes shrieking their way into fainting fits, Puffapods misfiring into clouds of spores, even a Dungbomb incident involving a Fanged Geranium with a grudge and poor aim—but nothing, not even that, prepared you for the quiet devastation that was Draco Malfoy trying to care for magical plants.

“This one’s supposed to be droopy, right?” Draco asked one chilly morning, holding up a miserable-looking Flitterbloom, his face in lost confusion. The plant sagged from his gloved fingers like a limp dishcloth, the edges tinged with black rot, its once vibrant fronds now hanging as though in mourning.

Professor Sprout audibly gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. “No, Mr. Malfoy, it most certainly is not supposed to look like that! That poor dear is drowning in water it didn’t ask for!”

You bit down on your smile, valiantly trying not to laugh. You really did try. But the look on Draco’s face—offended, a little baffled, and thoroughly disgusted—was too much. Your shoulders shook with suppressed giggles, and Professor Sprout caught your eye with a hopeful glint.

“Y/N,” she said, a little too sweetly, “would you mind pairing up with Mr. Malfoy for the rest of the term? He could use someone with your… patience.”

You blinked, unsure whether you were being punished or knighted. “You want me to help him?”

“I don’t need help,” Draco snapped, standing straighter.

“You do,” you and Sprout said at the same time, your voices perfectly overlapped. Your eyes met. She looked vindicated. Draco looked betrayed.

And that was how you became Draco Malfoy’s unofficial plant handler.

⸻

You wore flowers like armor. Always. In your hair—violets carefully tucked into your braid, a daisy behind your ear, sprigs of baby's breath pinned like secrets. Your jumpers often had tiny embroidered petals curling down the sleeves or buttons shaped like blooming buds. When people asked, you just smiled like the flowers had chosen you that morning and not the other way around. Flowers were a part of you, just like freckles were a part of others.

“Is there a reason you always dress like a sentient meadow?” Draco asked once, squinting as you buttoned up a coat stitched with little yellow marigolds that seemed to flutter when you moved.

“It’s for luck,” you said serenely, smoothing a daffodil-shaped pin at your collar. “And it makes the plants feel at home.”

He stared like you’d just offered him a slice of moonlight for breakfast. “You think the plants care what you’re wearing?”

You tilted your head, genuinely perplexed. “You don’t?”

The first incident came swiftly. You’d barely begun working together when he attempted to nudge a Puffapod into blooming. One gentle poke was all it needed—delicate, respectful. Draco prodded it like it owed him an explanation, and it exploded in a soft-pink mushroom cloud of pollen.

You stood in stunned silence, covered in fuzz, bits of petal clinging to your braid like confetti. You tried not to pout. You really did. But you ended up cross-legged on the floor, mournfully collecting the petals and whispering soft apologies.

“She just needed patience,” you murmured, fingers brushing the frayed bloom. “A bit of kindness.”

Draco sneezed and looked utterly unconvinced. “It was a plant. Not a therapy client.”

“She had a name,” you said sharply, shooting him a glare. “Lulu.”

He gave you a flat look. “You named the Puffapod?”

You met his gaze with unflinching sincerity. “I would've told you her name if you didn't blow up her sister Lala earlier this year.

He sighed. "yeah... because plants have siblings."

The next week, he crushed a Bubotuber in a moment of casual irritation. One second he was ranting about someone stealing his socks, the next he squeezed the bulb like it had personally offended him. It responded by erupting in a burst of thick, greenish goo. Draco’s shriek of horror echoed off the greenhouse walls.

“You strangled her,” you said disappointed, trying not to frown as you dabbed away goo with a Moondew sprig.

“I barely touched it!”

“You manhandled her like she owed you money.”

“It attacked me!”

“She was terrified.”

He stumbled back, covered in yellow-green sludge. “Of what? My refined bone structure?”

You crouched next to the limp plant, wand raised, murmuring a soft charm. “Of being misunderstood. She’s very shy.”

Draco groaned. “Merlin help me. Not again.”

“She has a name,” you said firmly. “Matilda.”

“Of course she does.”

With a flick of your wand and a quiet word, Matilda shivered back to life, wiggling slightly in your palm. You leaned in and whispered something that made her glow faintly. She’d forgiven him. Barely.

“She’s a menace,” he muttered.

“She’s sensitive,” you corrected, stroking her stem.

Draco stared at you like he was trying to decide if this was some elaborate Hufflepuff prank. You smiled serenely and tucked a fallen blossom behind your ear.

By the fourth week, Draco had managed to offend a Flutterfern, enrage a Shrivelfig, and traumatize a Fanged Geranium into permanent wilt. The final straw came when he took pruning shears to a Venomous Tentacula like he was avenging a personal vendetta. It lashed out in protest, its tendrils flailing before curling in on themselves, whimpering.

You didn’t speak to him for the next twenty minutes.

Instead, you crouched beside the wounded plant, gently gathering its injured tendrils in your hands. You rocked slightly, whispering something ancient and low—more lullaby than incantation. Slowly, the Tentacula calmed. Its color returned in hesitant pulses. One vine curled around your wrist, tentative and grateful.

“You’ve got to be doing this on purpose,” Draco muttered from the other side of the greenhouse. “No one’s that bad at plants unless they’re cursed. Or a Gryffindor.”

You glanced up, your voice dry. “You think I’d hex my own greenhouse just to make you look bad?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “With great pleasure.”

You dusted soil from your cheek with a dramatic flourish. “I’m petty, Malfoy. Not suicidal.”

He eyed you, then your boots. “You’ve got roses on your socks.”

“They’re embroidered,” you replied, lifting your foot slightly to show him. “Climbing roses. Very resilient. A bit clingy.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Like you?”

You grinned. “Like you.”

His ears turned pink.

The sixth time was different. He didn’t kill the plant. He merely terrified it.

A small Mandrake sat trembling on its roots while Draco hovered uncertainly nearby, brow furrowed, tongue between his teeth in sheer concentration, wondering how the hell did you manage to stop a mandrake from crying. You watched from a few feet away, arms crossed, trying not to interfere.

“If you’re going to loom like that,” Draco muttered, glancing sideways, “you might as well do it yourself.”

“I’m observing,” you said proudly. “You’re improving. That Mandrake hasn’t flinched in at least two minutes.”

“It keeps looking at me.”

“you mean, He. Well, duh he has eyes. Of course he's looking at you.”

“Judgmentally.”

“That’s a compliment,” you said. “He doesn’t usually acknowledge people he dislikes.”

Draco scowled, but the Mandrake remained intact. Which, for him, was practically a miracle. When he wasn’t looking, you snuck the plant a leaf treat. It quivered happily.

Later that afternoon, while you adjusted the angle of a sunlamp for your Asphodel, you sensed Draco stepping beside you. He didn’t say anything at first, just hovered—an odd, uncertain weight in the air. Then his voice came, softer than usual.

“You missed a spot.”

You turned, confused, just as he reached out. His thumb brushed a smudge of soil from your cheek, lingering a second too long. You froze.

The world narrowed. You forgot the cold, the damp, the faint buzzing of Pixie-flies overhead. For one suspended breath, it was just you, him, and the inch of air between your faces.

He cleared his throat abruptly and pulled his hand back. “You had… dirt. On your face.”

“Oh.” You touched the spot instinctively. “Thanks.”

He turned away, cheeks faintly pink. You didn’t say anything. Your heart was too loud.

⸻

All term, you’d been tending to a single Moonlily in the corner of Greenhouse Three. Once silver-bright, it had withered into something curled and gray, like it had forgotten what light felt like. Every class, you brought it a fresh blossom, whispered to it like an old friend. “I’m still here,” you told it. “Come back when you’re ready.”

Draco never asked about it. But he noticed. You caught him glancing at it when he thought you weren’t looking. Watching the way you cared.

And then came the last day of term.

Most students had left for the holidays. Snow pressed against the greenhouse windows, and frost dusted the vines in glittering white. You were alone, brushing a light dusting of ice from the soil, when you heard the sound of footsteps.

Draco.

He looked a little windblown, hair tousled, scarf half-untied. In one gloved hand, he held something fragile. Small. Pale.

A pot with a single marigold.

Its stem was crooked. Its petals trembled. But it was alive.

“I, uh… Professor Sprout helped,” he said quickly, almost defensive. “A bit. Mostly she just stopped me from killing it.”

You stared, lips parting. He shifted, awkward.

“It’s not perfect,” he said.

You reached out and took it gently, your fingers brushing his. The flower quivered in your palm like it knew who had grown it.

“It’s exquisite.” you whispered.

His shoulders sagged, some tightness easing in his jaw. “I... It reminded me of you. It's bright and... pretty. Very, pretty.”

You stepped closer.

“Thank you,” you murmured, voice thick with something you didn’t dare name. “I love it.”

And then, without thinking, you kissed him.

It was soft, tentative—dirt-smudged noses, cold fingers brushing warm cheeks, and the quiet, sweet hush of something just beginning. He tasted of peppermint tea and the kind of wonder that comes only after you’ve stopped pretending not to care.

Behind you, something stirred.

You turned as the Moonlily—the one you’d nurtured all term—gave a shiver, then slowly unfurled. Its silver petals caught the moonlight and glowed like a promise, blooming with the kind of gentle pride only magic, patience, and love can grow.

Draco stared, wide-eyed. “Was that... because of us?”

You clutched the flower he'd given you to your chest, heart fluttering. “She’s been waiting. I think... she felt it.”

He looked at you, the usual edge in his voice softened into awe. “You’re completely mad.”

You grinned, breathless. “You still think the plants don’t notice?”

And then, for the first time all term, Draco Malfoy laughed—really laughed. It spilled into the greenhouse like sunlight after rain, warm and unexpected.

“Fine,” he said, shaking his head. “Maybe they do.”

You reached up and tucked the crooked little flower he’d grown into your braid, letting it nestle behind your ear like it had always belonged there.

“Then they’ve clearly been paying more attention than you have.”

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

masterlist!

[vanesycho]

• s.coups + fem!reader • cockwarming, soft dom!cheol, teasing, orgasm denial, begging, heavy tension, sub!reader 0,6k

“twitch again and I’ll pull out. you want that?”

but of course—your body betrays you. It’s not an act of defiance, not some bratty pushback. It’s desperation. he’s been inside you for too long—warm, thick, unmoving— pressing so deep it’s like your body doesn’t know how to handle it anymore.

every second he stays buried inside, your mind slips further. the stillness is unbearable, maddening, like being held right at the edge and never allowed to fall.

a soft whimper slipped past your lips, barely a sound, but more than enough for him to hear. his smile curved instantly, slow and amused, spreading across his lips like it had been waiting there the whole time. he didn’t bother hiding it—he never did.

no, he loved this part.

watching you fall apart, squirming with the need for more, while he stayed perfectly still inside you... it thrilled him. every helpless little sound you made reminded you who was in control—and that thrill? that was everything to him.

“please…” your voice cracked, barely more than a breath. “want to move…”

his grip on your hips tightened. firm, grounding, impossible to escape. “shh… don’t even think about it,” he murmured, voice low and steady against your ear. “you said you could take it, didn’t you?”

you buried your face into the crook of his neck, your body trembling with restrained need. his skin was hot against yours, every shallow breath brushing across your collarbone, making your nerves jolt.

the wetness between your thighs was overwhelming—slick, desperate, and far too much for this kind of stillness. his cock sat heavy and thick inside you, pressing right against that devastating spot, and yet… he didn’t move. not even an inch.

the sheer absence of motion made it worse. It turned your desire into a slow, burning ache that bloomed deep in your belly.

you clenched around him helplessly, needing something—anything—but he stayed painfully still, as if dragging out your desperation was just as satisfying as finally giving in.

being filled by him like this, completely motionless, felt like torture. a slow, beautiful kind of suffering—pleasurable, yes, but maddening enough to leave you trembling on the edge of breaking.

hands? resting on your thighs like a king. not moving. just staying there, his thumbs rubbing lazy circles. his voice like velvet with venom.

“I’m not even moving and look at you. breathing like I’m fucking you.”

when you finally pulled back from his shoulder and looked up at him, your eyes were glassy—filled with a raw mix of pain and pleasure.

sweat clung to your neck, small beads trailing down your skin as your lips parted, maybe hoping for a little mercy?

he chuckled—quiet, low, indulgent.

his fingers slid beneath your chin, lifting it gently. his thumb brushed across your lower lip, slow and possessive, like he was testing how much more you could take.

then he leaned back. relaxed, perfectly in control.

“poor baby… already shaking?”

his voice was nothing more than a whisper, rasping from the back of his throat, thick with amusement.

cheol stayed quiet for a moment, just listening—soaking in the soft, pained whimpers falling from your lips like it was the sweetest melody he’d ever heard.

his eyes darkened with amusement, a lazy smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, completely unbothered by your unraveling.

then—barely there—his hips shifted. just a tiny roll forward. barely enough to register… and yet, the fullness inside you moved, and the sudden sensation knocked the air right out of your lungs. your breath caught. your nails dug into his skin.

silence again.

until he leaned down, lips brushing your ear, voice low and unrelenting.

“If you want me to move… beg.”

a pause.

“and if I like how you beg...I’ll let you come.”

If you enjoyed it, I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments and see a reblog! thank you so much for your support!

taglist: @vernorica123

[renarots]

The ability to evacuate is a privilege and I’m sick of people applying Florida logic to the Appalachians right now. Yes it is horrible for those who couldn’t in Florida but the people in the Appalachian’s had no warning. People still have “dial up” there, 55.9% of the population is under the poverty line. “I’ve been seeing warnings for a week” no you haven’t the warnings were for Florida and Georgia, even then it wasn’t supposed to hit the apps like this at most flooding but they would recover. When hurricane helene took that turn it was too late to even warn others before dams broke. The infrastructure is not meant to take this beating especially given the storm they had the week before causing all of the waterways to be full already. Towns are wiped out, towns that relied on tourism and coal mining to bring in revenue are gone. My great aunt and uncle lived in a trailer off a plot of land and were so happy they finally got a clean running water system hooked up two years ago. They have one tiny little old android that they have to travel about an hour in town to use so they can call us up. They lived off a fixed income because any sort of job was two hours away at least and they’re getting older they can’t just travel that much anymore. My great uncle can’t walk without his cane and my great aunt is getting there too. They always joked about taking me home with them and I would always say when I got older they would come live with me because I knew how rough it was for them but they couldn’t just leave. I haven’t been able to contact them in over 48 hours and the highways leading out after the one hour evacuation notice was given was shut down. Most places are air rescues only because there is no other way for them to be rescued. To add on as well that they deployed FEMA in many of the places affected but yet there is barely any coverage and radio silence from our government. No national guards are here to rescue them they are left to fend for themselves. People are drowning, being electrocuted, some didn’t even stand a chance. These are human beings who have been prayed on for generations the least you can do is show some fucking sympathy. I don’t care what you have to say family’s are being devastated. I wouldn’t wish anything like this to happen to anyone so if you find yourself in your bed at night I hope you know that out there, there are families who are grieving all they have lost and you are cozy at home with running water, electricity and a warm bed and you feel an ounce of guilt for even thinking that.

A link to ways that you can help. Keep Appalachia in your minds do not look away.

[matt-murdockk]

Nine-Nine!

an extremely self indulgent brooklyn 99 and criminal minds crossover

pairing: spencer reid x reader (with a tiny bit of almost jake peralta x reader for funsies)

words: 3.0k

warnings: none, this is fluff and comedy <3

summary: Spencer Reid’s grip on sanity? Loose. (Y/n)’s patience? Tested. Jake Peralta? Accidentally in the middle of a romcom finale with no snacks. There’s banter, jealousy, a tasered vending machine, and one (1) emergency love confession.

a/n: crossover episode my beloved; this was extremely fun to write lolllllll, hope you like it <3

Spencer was already three tangents deep into the geographic profile, talking fast, hands moving like the words were trying to escape faster than his brain could handle. (Y/n) had learned years ago to just let him go. He’d loop back around eventually. Usually.

“The spacing of the disposal sites suggests he’s sticking to a routine. All within a tight radius— three miles or so. That kind of pattern almost always means it’s familiar territory. Could be work, could be home base. Most likely night shifts, given the dump times— between 2:10 and 3:30 a.m. Which means fewer witnesses, less traffic—”

“Or he just likes moonlight and solitude,” (Y/n) said absently, scribbling something in her notebook. “Creepy guys tend to romanticize the weirdest stuff.”

Spencer didn’t look up. “That’s… statistically consistent with other narcissistic or compulsive offenders, actually.”

She glanced over at him. “You know you could just say ‘you’re right.’ It won’t kill you.”

He did look at her then, quick, with the faintest smirk pulling at his mouth. “I’m not sure I’ve tested that hypothesis thoroughly enough to risk it.”

She snorted. “Tragic. I thought you loved me.”

Spencer didn’t miss a beat. “I do. But not enough to sacrifice academic integrity.”

“Wow.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “Wounded. Devastated. Utterly betrayed.”

“Noted,” he murmured, turning back to his screen with an annoyingly smug look.

Derek leaned forward from his seat across the aisle. “Are y’all gonna do this the whole flight?”

JJ didn’t even look up from her file. “They’re gonna do this the whole case.”

“I’m sitting right here,” (Y/n) called over.

“And yet, you keep doing this,” Emily muttered, sipping her coffee. “Every case. Without fail.”

Spencer turned his tablet toward (Y/n), pretending not to hear them. “There are five possible buildings inside the comfort zone. Abandoned commercial spaces, all accessible. No cameras.”

She leaned closer, squinting at the screen. “That one. Tucked behind the construction site. No visibility from the road.”

He nodded. “I had that ranked third.”

“I outrank your list.”

“You outrank logic?”

“I outrank you, Reid.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Bold claim for someone who once tripped over their own shoelaces during a takedown.”

“You’re never letting that go, are you.”

“Absolutely not.”

(Y/n) sighed, grabbing her coffee and slumping back in her seat. “You’re lucky I find your chaos charming.”

Spencer, without looking up, murmured, “You’re lucky I find you charming.”

And just like that, she paused.

It wasn’t even the words— it was the way he said it. Like it was obvious. Like it wasn’t meant to land the way it did.

Her fingers stilled on the coffee cup. Just for a second. Then she shook her head, eyes narrowing. “You trying to throw me off before we hit the ground? Because that’s a dirty tactic, Reid.”

He smiled, faint. “If I wanted to throw you off, I’d bring up that time you accidentally used your taser on the vending machine.”

“That was one time.”

“I still have the video.”

Derek threw up his hands. “Okay, I need noise-canceling headphones or a fire alarm. One or the other.”

“Let them have their foreplay,” Rossi grumbled from behind his paper. “Just as long as it doesn’t slow down the case.”

(Y/n) rolled her eyes, but she didn’t stop smiling. Not even a little.

And Spencer? He didn’t say anything else.

But his knee brushed against hers under the table.

And he didn’t move it.

——————————————————————————————————

The precinct was pure, barely-contained chaos. Phones ringing, printers jamming, someone yelling “I said decaf!” from the breakroom. (Y/n) stepped in behind the team, her eyes scanning the flurry with the kind of calm that only came from years of being thrown headfirst into crime scenes that smelled like old pizza and adrenaline.

Then— like he was summoned by the gods of caffeine and chaos— a voice cut through the noise.

“FBI? Oh thank god. Tell me you’re the FBI. If one more lieutenant hands me a case file on raccoon-related vandalism, I’m going to start speaking in riddles.”

The guy had two coffees in one hand, a folder under his arm, and the kind of face that said yes, I’m sleep-deprived, but I’ve made it part of my personality now.

“Detective Jake Peralta,” he added, stepping forward and immediately handing one of the coffees off to a passing officer. “You must be the reinforcements. Welcome to our deeply unfortunate circus.”

(Y/n) stepped forward with a polite smile. “Agent (Y/l/n), BAU.”

Jake looked at her and forgot what vowels were.

“Oh. Cool. Yeah. Wow.” He blinked. “Hi. Sorry. That was… a very professional reaction to a federal agent. I’m super normal.”

(Y/n) raised an eyebrow, amused. “Totally. You look extremely normal.”

Jake pointed at her like he was confirming her existence for himself. “And funny. She’s funny, too. Great. Just awesome.”

Spencer, two steps behind her, tilted his head the tiniest bit. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough that Emily, walking next to him, noticed immediately.

“So,” Jake said, already spinning on his heel and motioning them toward the evidence board, “we’ve got three victims, matching M.O., a dump site triangle, and a ton of questions. I’d love to walk you through it. Bonus: I also know where the best snacks are hidden in this precinct. Critical intel.”

“Let me guess,” (Y/n) said, falling into step beside him, “you keep gummy bears in a murder folder?”

Jake gave her a wide-eyed, deeply serious nod. “Listen, I can’t solve murder with low blood sugar. That’s just biology. Forensics and fruit snacks— two pillars of modern justice.”

She actually laughed, bumping her shoulder lightly into his. “That’s what you’re going with? Fruit snacks and felony charges?”

“Look,” he said, glancing at her with a grin, “some people have badges, some have instincts— I have a snack drawer and a vibe.”

(Y/n) shot him a look. “And a lot of confidence, apparently.”

“It’s the only thing holding me together.”

Spencer, still watching from behind, clenched his jaw and stared very intently at the murder board— as if sheer willpower would make Jake Peralta spontaneously combust.

Derek leaned over slightly. “You good?”

“I’m fine,” Spencer said. Way too quickly.

“Uh-huh.”

(Y/n) looked over her shoulder, smiling. “Spencer, you coming?”

Spencer blinked. “Right behind you.”

Emily raised an eyebrow as he passed, giving him that look— the one that meant I know, and I’m about to say it out loud.

He walked faster.

Behind them, Emily whispered to JJ, “We have now entered full-blown Jealous Spencer territory.”

JJ winced sympathetically. “He doesn’t stand a chance.”

——————————————————————————————————

The dump site was taped off, abandoned and eerie in the late afternoon light. A narrow alley backed by cracked concrete walls, discarded furniture, and silence— except for the occasional buzz of Spencer’s pen clicking in his pocket. Repeatedly.

Jake and (Y/n) were walking ahead of the rest of the group, ducking under the tape, their steps crunching through gravel.

“Okay,” Jake said, scanning the alley. “I know it’s not exactly a five-star view, but I promise this is the cleanest murder site we’ve had all week. That’s a weird sentence.”

(Y/n) laughed. “It’s fine. We spend half our lives in parking lots and basements. Honestly, this is kind of charming.”

Jake pointed at a tipped-over dumpster. “Ah, yes. Classic small-town ambiance.”

She crouched near a drainpipe, tilting her head. “He’s dumping at night. No cameras. But the dumpster’s too obvious— too accessible. He’s not just hiding the bodies, he’s watching them.”

Jake blinked. “Okay. That’s… both creepy and very insightful. You do this a lot?”

She looked up at him, playful. “Solve murders? Yeah. Flirt at them? Not usually.”

He smirked, a little lopsided. “Hey, I haven’t even started flirting yet. That was just me being charming.”

“Oh, just charming?” she teased.

Jake leaned against the wall, watching her. “Let me know when you’re ready for the full Peralta experience. It includes sarcasm, emotional baggage, and an impressive knowledge of Die Hard trivia.”

(Y/n) stood, brushing off her knees. “That’s a lot to take in on a first crime scene.”

He grinned. “So you’re saying there’ll be a second?”

A beat. Just a pause. She didn’t answer right away.

Spencer, across the lot with Derek and Emily, had stopped mid-sentence, his entire expression shifted from mildly focused to openly horrified.

“She’s laughing,” he said flatly.

Emily glanced up from her notes. “Yeah, that tends to happen when people are enjoying themselves.”

“With him.”

“Oh no,” Derek muttered. “We’ve lost him.”

The rest of the team returned to the SUV, but Emily stayed behind, as if she knew this wasn't done yet.

“She’s laughing at his jokes,” Spencer repeated, eyes still locked on the two figures across the alley.

“She laughs at yours,” Emily said.

“That’s different. She knows mine are objectively not funny.”

“Okay, you know what?” Emily snapped her folder shut. “We’re doing this now. Let’s go, Genius.”

Spencer blinked as she grabbed his elbow and dragged him toward the SUV.

“What? No— I’m working.”

“You’re spiraling,” she corrected. “And doing it in a crime scene, which is new.”

Behind them, (Y/n) was still talking to Jake, standing closer now, arms crossed and leaning in like she didn’t even realize she was doing it.

Spencer’s voice dropped. “Emily, I’m fine.”

“You’re jealous,” she said, eyes sharp. “And for a guy who can read microexpressions from thirty feet away, you are shockingly bad at clocking your own.”

“I don’t get jealous,” he said, almost insulted.

She gave him a look.

“…Okay, I am jealous,” he admitted under his breath. “But I don’t know what to do about that.”

Emily leaned against the SUV, watching Spencer like she was trying to figure out whether she needed to slap sense into him or hug him. Maybe both. Probably both.

He was pacing. Not frantically, just… tightly. Hands in his pockets, jaw tense, doing that thing where his eyes tracked the ground like the answers were written there.

“I mean, it’s fine,” he said finally, like he was trying to convince the air. “She’s allowed to laugh at someone else’s jokes. I’m not— entitled to anything.”

Emily stayed quiet.

He glanced back at the alley where (Y/n) was standing with Jake. She was leaning on one foot, comfortable. She looked happy. And it gutted him.

“It’s just— he’s charming,” Spencer muttered. “And funny. And he’s got that whole casual swagger thing going on. I mean, who even has swagger in 2025? Apparently, Jake does. And she’s… she’s smiling.”

“You’re allowed to be upset,” Emily said, her voice soft, even.

Spencer didn’t answer. His hands were twitching in his pockets now.

“I’ve had… crushes,” he said finally, like it was painful to admit even that much. “A few. Not a lot. But some. And usually they’re easy to understand. You think someone’s cute. You like their voice. You want them to notice you.”

He shook his head.

“This isn’t that.”

Emily just watched him.

“I notice everything,” he went on, his voice quieter now. “Not because I’m profiling her. Not because I’m analyzing anything. I just… do. I know when she’s about to make a bad joke because she gets this look— like she’s proud of it already. I know she only pretends to like black coffee when we’re around local PD because she thinks it makes her look tougher.”

A pause. His voice dipped even lower.

“I know the sound of her laugh when it’s real. I know when she’s tired, even if she’s smiling. I know when she’s faking being okay. And I know when she’s actually okay. And I know that right now…” He looked up, eyes fixed on her across the lot, where she and Jake were still talking, still laughing.

“…She’s really okay. With him.”

Emily stepped closer, gentle. “Spence.”

He didn’t look at her.

“I think about her all the time,” he said, like he was just realizing it out loud. “Not in a way I… planned. Just— suddenly I’m at a bookstore and wondering if she’d like the cover of something. Or I hear a song and I can’t tell if I like it until I know if she would. It’s— constant.”

He laughed once, breathy and humorless. “And statistically, I know crushes fade. The brain adjusts. The novelty goes away. But this? This has been over a year. Maybe longer.”

Emily tilted her head. “And?”

Spencer blinked.

“…And I think I’m in love with her.”

A pause. Then—

“Oh,” he breathed. “Shit.”

Emily smiled, just barely. “Took you long enough.”

He ran both hands over his face. “I don’t— what am I supposed to do with that?”

“You tell her,” she said gently.

“What? No, I can’t.”

“You can.”

“Emily, she's quite possibly the closest friend I have. What if it ruins everything?”

Emily didn’t answer for a second. She just looked at him— really looked at him— and said, “Spencer. You're already miserable. At least ruin it with some dignity, damn it.”

He looked back at (Y/n). She was saying goodbye to Jake now, walking back toward the team, tucking her hair behind her ear like she always did when she was distracted. She looked like home.

Spencer exhaled. “Yeah. Okay. I’m completely screwed.”

Emily nodded. “Yeah. You are. Oh, and for the record, I thought I was your closest friend, and honestly, I feel so attacked right now."

"You'll live."

"Hey!" retorted Emily, followed by a smack to his arm.

——————————————————————————————————

The sun had dipped low, casting long shadows across the precinct lot. The case was wrapped, files turned in, media dodged. (Y/n) was leaning against the SUV, arms crossed, sipping from her now-cold coffee like it was still doing something.

Jake jogged up to her, slowing as he approached. Not suave. Just… trying.

“Hey,” he said, offering a lopsided smile. “So, weird question for the end of a triple homicide, but— any chance I could take you to dinner sometime?”

(Y/n) blinked. “Oh.”

She smiled, a little surprised. “Jake, you’re— great. I had fun working with you.”

Jake’s grin faltered just enough to be human. “But…?”

“But—”

“Wait!”

Both of them turned.

Spencer was standing about ten feet away, looking like he had sprinted here but didn’t want to show it. His hair was windswept, his shirt slightly crooked, and his expression somewhere between resolute and deeply alarmed.

(Y/n) blinked. “Spencer?”

Jake glanced between them. “Should I…? I can come back.”

“No, no,” Spencer said quickly, stepping forward. “You’re fine. I mean— not fine, you’re not staying. I mean, yes, you’re staying right now, I just—”

He looked at (Y/n), all the air gone from his lungs.

“I need to say something.”

(Y/n) tilted her head, cautious now. “Okay…”

Spencer glanced at Jake. Then at her. Then back at Jake.

“This is going to be weird with him here,” he muttered.

“I can pretend to be a lamp,” Jake offered, backing up slightly. “I’m excellent at furniture-based camouflage.”

“Jake,” (Y/n) said, half-laughing, “you don’t have to—”

“I really think I do,” he said, hands raised. “There’s a lot of emotion in the air and I don’t want to get hit by it.”

Spencer ignored him. His eyes stayed on her.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” he said softly. “I told myself it wasn’t the right time. That we had too much to lose. That maybe I was just… projecting.”

He swallowed. “But then I watched someone else get to make you laugh. I watched you lean in, and talk like he already belonged in your world. And I realized— I’ve been pretending that I didn’t already live there.”

(Y/n)’s breath caught.

Spencer took another step closer. “I know the way you look when you’re solving a puzzle you don’t know you’ve solved yet. I know how you take your coffee differently when you’re pretending you’re fine. I know that you hum when you’re reading case files, and that you’ll always find a way to make the worst days seem funny, just to keep us all going.”

He paused, voice low. “I notice everything about you. Not because I’m profiling you. Just… because it’s you.”

Jake mouthed oh my god to himself, backing up another step.

(Y/n) stared at Spencer, wide-eyed. “You— you’ve never said any of this.”

“I didn’t know how,” Spencer admitted. “But I’m in love with you. And it took me way too long to say it. So if you’re going to say no— please do it fast, before I combust.”

Silence.

Then—

“Spencer,” she said softly, stepping toward him. “You’re an idiot.”

His face fell— until she reached out and grabbed the front of his jacket and kissed him.

It was fast. Then slow. Then somewhere in between. Like they’d been waiting for years but were still trying to catch up.

Jake, standing off to the side, made a quiet choking sound.

“I am so intruding,” he muttered. “You know what? I’m gonna go. I’m gonna walk into the woods and never come back. I’ll start a new life. Join a wolf pack. Change my name. Just... yeah.”

They didn’t hear him.

(Y/n) pulled back just slightly, forehead still resting against Spencer’s.

“You’re in love with me?”

He nodded, breathless. “Deeply. Disastrously.”

She let out a laugh— half relief, half disbelief— as her forehead rested against his. “Oh, thank God. It was killing me thinking it might just be me.”

Jake was halfway to the sidewalk when Spencer called out— without looking—

“Thank you for not asking her out.”

Jake froze. “I did. You just… intercepted mid-sentence.”

Spencer blinked. “Oh. Sorry.”

Jake clapped once. “Well, that was the best romcom finale I’ve ever witnessed. I’m gonna go cry in my car.”

He turned again, walking toward his car like a man who had just lost a bet to fate.

God, I’m never gonna hear the end of this from Rosa.

[sixeyesonathiel]

what happens when the pint-sized copy of gojo satoru fails the quiz his dad helped him review?

the door slams.

not shuts. not closes. slams—with the full, righteous fury only a small, betrayed child can muster. a tiny, furious body with too much emotion and too little upper-body strength, using every ounce of indignation to make an entrance.

a backpack ricochets off the hallway wall, landing with a sad, almost pitiful plop. you pause mid-slice, knife hovering above half a strawberry on the cutting board, sugar-dusted fingertips twitching.

from the living room, satoru blinks behind a pair of wire-framed reading glasses—askew on the bridge of his nose, balancing in the space where his usual sunglasses would sit. he’s sprawled lazily on the floor, legs kicked up onto the coffee table, wearing a pair of navy blue pajamas patterned with tiny mochi cats. an open manga flutters against his chest.

he doesn’t sit up. not yet. just slowly turns his head toward you, peering over the edge of the couch with the exact caution of prey sensing a distant predator.

“...was that the wind?” he asks, voice very hopeful.

you lift a brow, flicking your eyes toward the front hallway.

“baby,” you deadpan, “we don’t get wind indoors.”

and then—like a summoned curse echoing from the depths of a broken heart—a sound shatters the air.

a wail.

high-pitched. raw. as if the whole world had crumbled under a pair of light-up velcro sneakers. you barely have time to process it before—

“mamaaaaaa!! daddyyyyyyyy!!”

satoru flinches like he’s taken physical damage. the manga slips off his chest and hits the floor with a soft thup. both your heads snap toward the hall just in time to witness the grand, devastating arrival of your son.

he’s tiny. flushed pink from the cold or from his tears, it’s hard to tell. his white hair is a mop of fluffy chaos—tufts sticking up where little fingers must’ve raked through it on the playground, a single rebellious cowlick curled toward the sky like a question mark. cheeks blotchy. nose red. lower lip trembling so hard it casts its own shadow.

and he’s crying.

not sniffles. not whimpers.

crying. open-mouthed, sob-shattered wails that rattle the windows and tug at your heart. arms flailing, body stumbling forward like a tragic protagonist in a historical drama. his sleeves are too long—he must’ve tugged at them all day—and now they flap as he wipes his eyes with the cuffs, trailing streaks of moisture across the fabric.

your knife is already down. you round the kitchen island in record time and crouch, arms open.

“baby, what’s wrong?!”

he doesn’t just run into your arms—he launches himself, full body-weight, like a little cannonball of despair. his backpack thumps against your hip as he buries his face in your chest.

“i didn’t get ice creeeeeeam—!!”

you blink.

“...oh,” satoru says from behind you, having finally peeled himself off the floor. he crouches beside you, pajama pants riding up a little around the ankle. his hair’s a fluffy mess, eyes wide behind his reading glasses, mouth open like he’s still buffering. “you didn’t get what?”

“ice cream,” your son sobs, voice thick and hiccuping. “everybody got some ‘cause they passed the quiz and i didn’t—even though we studied!! even though we did the ming dynasty thing and daddy wore the stupid kimono!!!”

“it wasn’t stupid,” satoru frowns, indignant. “it was authentic.”

you pinch the bridge of your nose. “sweetheart, slow down. what quiz?”

“the history one,” your son says, sniffling miserably. “with the ming dyna—hic—sty and emperor yongle and daddy said if i remembered the porce… porcelain stuff i’d get full marks…”

you and satoru lock eyes.

oh.

that quiz.

the living room flashes back in your mind—satoru in a patterned bathrobe tied with your silk scarf, chopsticks in his hair, declaring himself emperor of all snacks. your son clutched his stomach from laughing so hard he rolled off the couch. satoru called it “immersive education.”

apparently... it wasn’t effective.

your son’s lower lip quivers again. he pulls back slightly to sniff, his little brows furrowed, his voice small and wounded. “it’s not fair… daddy said he was the best at history and he lied and now everyone got to go to the cafeteria for ice cream and i had to stay and read with ms. matsuda and it was boring and i don’t even like maps—”

satoru visibly stiffens. his head tilts.

“...oh no,” he mutters. “it was geography?”

you stare at him.

“wait,” you say slowly, turning back to your son, “you did the ming dynasty for geography?”

he pauses.

his eyes widen. he turns to satoru. horror dawns.

“...what?”

satoru clears his throat. tugs at the collar of his mochi cat pajama top.

“...oops?”

“daddy!!!” your son bellows, fists flying. he punches satoru’s arm with all the fury in his tiny frame. it’s like being attacked by a particularly angry cloud. satoru lets himself be dramatically thrown back onto the floor, flopping like a fish.

“argh!! fatal blow! betrayal by my own bloodline!!”

your son sniffles, shoulders rising and falling, too tired to be mad but too heartbroken to forgive. he plops back onto the floor with a heavy sigh, pulling his sleeves over his hands like a soggy little dumpling of grief.

“...so i don’t get any ice cream.”

from the floor, satoru grins.

“nope. you’re getting a whole bucket.”

you whirl on him. “satoru—!”

“what? he suffered, he deserves it.” satoru pushes his glasses up and cracks his knuckles. cursed energy begins to shimmer faintly around him, blurring the air like heat off pavement. “i’ll be back in fifteen. or maybe two. actually—let’s make it one.”

you gape. “you’re using your limitless to get him ice cream—?”

“and this is why you married me,” he says with a wink, and then—

pop.

he’s gone. air displaced in a puff of cool wind and sparkles.

you sigh. your son leans into you, cheek pressed to your shoulder. you wrap your arms around him gently, brushing your fingers through his hair. still soft from this morning’s brushing. a few crumbs from lunch clinging to the ends.

he tugs your shirt, voice muffled.

“...mama,” he says, “if i cry again, can i eat more scoops?”

you pause.

squint down at him. “that depends. are the tears real?”

he considers. long pause. then, with the gravitas of a stage actor, he pinches his nose and starts fake crying—loud, wobbly sobs that rock his whole body.

and then—pop.

satoru’s back. disheveled, pajama sleeves windblown, glasses askew, and arms cradling an absurdly massive neon plastic tub that smells like every ice cream flavor ever invented. it’s glowing. it might actually be radioactive.

your son stops fake-crying mid-sob.

“…score.”

satoru beams. “for my little emperor of the ming dynasty!”

you all end up piled on the couch, one tangled mass of pajama legs and sticky fingers. strawberry slices forgotten on the counter. your son curled between you both, spoon held like a royal scepter, dribbling rainbow cream down his chin as he proclaims flavor rankings with the gravitas of a judge.

“your majesty,” satoru intones, spoon raised high, “may i present the cookie dough scrolls of diplomacy.”

you roll your eyes fondly, head resting on satoru’s shoulder. “you’re such an idiot.”

he kisses your cheek, smiling.

“uh huh. but i’m your idiot.”

your son silently shoves a spoon in both your mouths.

he’s still sulking. a little. but the betrayal has been soothed by frozen sugar, warmth, and the fact that tomorrow, daddy promised to stage the tang dynasty.

correct subject pending.

a/n : i need to have his babies so bad nobody understands 😔🥀 yes you can't convince me he wouldn't teleport just to get his kids ice cream even if he's wearing ridiculous pajamas <3

[littlelamy]

rafe having a breeding kink? Use of mama and praises?

you had spent the afternoon at your aunt’s house, watching her baby gurgle and coo in rafe’s arms. it was almost surreal, the way he softened, the way his rough hands cradled the tiny bundle so carefully. he had looked at you then, something unreadable in his blue eyes, something dark and hungry lurking beneath the tenderness.

"you’d look so fucking good carrying my baby, y/n" he had murmured, just low enough for only you to hear, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. the words had sent a shiver down your spine, pooling heat low in your stomach. rafe had spent the rest of the visit teasing you with lingering touches, whispered promises, his fingers grazing the curve of your belly as if he was already imagining it round and full.

by the time you got home, the tension was unbearable.

rafe leans in, his breath hot against your ear, a wicked smirk playing at his lips. "you know what i want, don’t you?" his voice is thick with lust, dripping with that deep, possessive hunger that sets your skin on fire. his hands, rough and commanding, slide down your waist, gripping, kneading, holding you in place as if daring you to run. not that you would.

"mmm, fuck—look at you," he groans, his fingers spreading over your stomach, possessively pressing, as if he’s already claiming you from the inside out. "gonna put a baby in you. gonna watch you swell with me—fuckin’ mine."

the heat pooling between your thighs turns molten, a slow, sinful ache as he grinds against you, his cock hard and thick, straining against the fabric separating you. his mouth finds your throat, lips dragging, sucking, teeth grazing just enough to send a delicious shiver down your spine. "gonna make you take it. gonna fuck you so deep, there won’t be a doubt who you belong to."

your whimper is met with a low chuckle, rafe’s hands gripping your hips tight, pulling you flush against him. "say it, baby. tell me who’s gonna fill you up."

your voice barely comes out, breathless, needy. "you, rafe."

"that’s right, mama. only me."

he lifts you with ease, pinning you beneath him, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his body heat searing into yours. his fingers trail between your thighs, teasing, playing, spreading you open like his own personal feast. "already so wet for me. fuckin’ perfect."

he doesn’t rush. no, rafe likes to make you desperate. likes to watch you writhe, to hear you beg. his fingers slip inside, slow and deliberate, his thumb brushing over your clit just enough to make you shudder. "gotta make sure you’re ready, mama. need you to take every inch. need you dripping."

your back arches, hands clawing at his shoulders, at his back, anywhere you can hold onto as he builds you up with those wicked hands, his lips ghosting filthy praises against your skin. "such a good girl. so fuckin’ perfect for me. gonna take me so well, aren’t you?"

all you can do is nod, desperate, mind hazy with pleasure as he works you open, stretching you, preparing you. when he finally lines himself up, you’re already trembling, already teetering on the edge of something devastating. he watches you, eyes dark, lips parted as he presses in, inch by inch, filling you, stretching you, claiming you exactly the way he promised.

a strangled moan leaves your lips, and rafe groans in response, his hands gripping your thighs, pushing them open wider. "fuck—yes, mhm. that’s it. take it. take every fucking inch."

he moves slow at first, letting you feel every thick drag, every pulse of him inside you. his lips brush against your temple, voice thick with something dangerous. "gonna fuck my baby into you. gonna keep you so full, so perfect."

and then he snaps his hips, thrusting deep, raw, possessive. the pleasure is overwhelming, dizzying, white-hot and consuming as he pounds into you, as he takes you like he owns you. his praises mix with filthy promises, his hands gripping, his body relentless. "you want a baby, mama? gonna keep you like this forever. filled up. used up. marked."

you’re already falling apart beneath him, but rafe isn’t finished. not until he’s buried so deep you feel him for days. not until he’s sure you’re ruined for anyone else. and as he presses a hand against your stomach, feeling himself inside you, he grins, wicked and proud.

"gonna put a baby in you. and there ain’t a damn thing you can do about it."

notes: crossing my fingers that this wasn't cringy, i hope you liked it! 🤍

taglist: @namelesslosers @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @sstargirln @rafedaddy01 @soldesole @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @rafesbabygirlx @drewsephrry

[monicahar]

“my wife.”

how they address you. why does it make your heart skip a beat each time?

characters; neuvillette, wriothesley

—female pronouns obvi, aaaa this is so random😭 fluff, tad bit of crack, has suggestive themes/dirty jokes cause that's my humor in general, just tryna get into writing again heehaa don't mind me ʘ⁠‿⁠ʘ

NEUVILETTE always accompanies the term with unmatched affection. it rolls off his tongue perfectly like a match made in heaven, coupled with the serene image of you instantaneously appearing in his mind before he even thinks of the uttering the endearing term. he still finds it surreal that you are both even lawfully married, yet the way he calls you his wife is already on instinct. is it too presumptuous of him?

well, in the end, he can't find any means to worry about it when you seem to equally adore the nickname.

“ooohh, say it again, say it again!”

he can't tell whether he married a child or not, but he still obliges your request and calls you his wife affectionately once more.

meanwhile, furina nearly gags everytime she hears him say it so softly—like using any other tone when referring to you would land him in the hands of the fortress of meropide. sure—she might've been the one who set up both of you—but the drama and thrill akin to watching a romance film has delightfully ended, and she can only meddle so much in marital matters. the iudex just might actually have her head in a platter if she were to do anything mischievous at that point.

but while a happy neuvillette is running around announcing 'my wife' this and 'my wife' that, you are currently stuck on what to call him in return, sadly enough.

“at this point, i think i'm just going to call you daddy.”

it was unfortunate with the way he choked on some of the water he was drinking—well, thank goodness he didn't spill much as before. for this wasn't the first time you said something unprompted while he was in peace with his water—he can only internally sigh.

“and what exactly has influenced you to arrive at such a conclusion, my wife?” he does not miss the tiny shudder of your body that followed the endearment. your face burns a tad bit at that, and he softly chuckles.

“your effect on me is no joke, you know?” you pout at his amused smile, “the way you refer to me so sweetly makes me want to call you my dearest husband everytime.”

“i don't recall voicing any complaints. is something else holding you back from doing so?”

you nod solemnly in agreement at that, which prompts him to raise a brow in mild curiousity.

“thing is, i really like calling you by your first name. same with monsieur neuvilette. there's something mildly erotic within it—you get what i mean, hehehe...” he only stares at you, clearly unimpressed, and a bit concerned at the implication. you clear your throat, apologizing under your breath.

“still—it's such a devastating predicament to be unable to choose between the three.” you sigh defeatedly, moving to slump your entire weight on his lap. you mutter, “my dearest husband monsieur neuvillette...mmm, no, that's too long.”

chuckling at your dramatic antics, he plants a soothing hand on your waist, the other fixing your wrinkled clothing as you practically melt against his hold. “and you thought settling on daddy was the appropriate option?”

“i'm not hearing any objections.” you jest, feeling cheeky.

“please refrain from calling me such a thing in the eyes of the public atleast.”

“...huh? you're actually allowing it??”

WRIOTHESLEY on the other hand, says it as if he's flaunting. it leaves his lips like a taunt each time, indirectly telling the other party 'i have a hot wife and you dont' even though most of the time the people he mentions you to don't even know what you actually look like. it's silly, childish even, but you still love it nonetheless.

sigewinne and the other inmates have collectively told you that ever since you got married, he has never uttered your actual name to anyone else. some find it weird, some find it somehow disrespectful, and some are now convinced he's crazily obsessed with you, and now he's showing it off every chance he gets, much to everyone's dismay.

it's arrived to the point where a small percentage of people have actually forgotten about your name, and now refer to you as the duke's wife, or even duchess, to which you made a face at. that's kind of pushing it by then.

anywho, in the end, it's funny and endearing, maybe even makes you a bit giddy, but there is no way you're telling him that. the situation might escalate even more if possible.

“you know, my wife is very mean to me today.”

as a pair of strong yet gentle arms wrap around your waist, you resist the growing smile on your face, deciding to mess with your husband for a bit.

“is that so?” you continue your chores without a care in the world. he huffs.

“mhm. she won't look me in the eye the whole day, even though she seemed sooo happy last night.” face instantly burning, you hiss as you slap his arm in a fit of embarrassment, pulling a hearty chuckle from the man behind you.

“—and now she's hitting me as well. i can't believe this.” you both know very well he was not fazed in the slightest bit.

“if her husband wasn't such a pervert then maybe—”

his facade cracks as he forces out an awkward laugh, “hey now, baby, you know i'm nothing like that.”

“wriothesley.”

he clears his throat awkwardly, “okay, maybe a little. it's exclusive for you though! my wife doesn't have to be so mean about it, you're making me reallyyy sad here, y'know?”

there it is again, you think. that nickname. that damned word that makes you want to turn around and smash your lips against his and—wait, hold yourself together! don't forget the reason you're being cold to him!

“you deserve to feel remorse. i've been struggling to even move the whole day because of you.”

you go rigid.

you didn't mean for that to come out so bitter...oh no.

“oh. so that's what this is about.” you don't even have to turn around to know that there's a smug look on his stupidly handsome face, his grip on your waist turning into soothing circles as he presses a kiss to your neck.

“if my wife wanted a massage, she could've just said so.” it's husky when it leaves his mouth, leaving you to shiver with the chills he enunciates.

flustered, you completely disregard the way your knees buckle at the endearment laced with that low voice of his, hitting his arm once more, earning a tiny 'ouch' from him.

“pervert. i want rest, not another round!”

“heh, i didn't say anything about another round, my perverted wife.”

“you—” you are abrupt cut off as you yelp in surprise when your feet are raised off the ground, your face now much closer to your husband's as he carries you gently in his arms.

“shhh, just let me take you to bed. if my wife was feeling terrible the whole day, she should've just told me in the first place so she could stay in, don't you think?”

he's right, but you're still angry. “shut up.”

“just letting you know i'm not completely at fault, wife.” you attempt to ignore the furious beating of your heart, face burning at his smug expression. “i'm not the only one who wanted it.”

hsr version...? if i feel like it...🤔🤔

[hisfavegirl]

Held Only in Dreams - Aegon Targaryen x Wife!Reader.

Summary : There was a time when your halls rang with laughter. When your chambers were filled with the soft shuffle of tiny feet and the scent of lemon cakes cooling on the windowsill. A time when your husband’s hand curled possessively over the swell of your stomach, whispering prayers to gods he claimed not to believe in. A time when you were not only queen—but mother, wife, sister, daughter, beloved. That time is gone. Now, the Red Keep feels like a tomb. Your son is dead—burned before your eyes in the dragonpit, his small body offered to flame while your screams echoed through stone and fire. And with him, the future you built crumbled to ash.

Warning : Reader is Rhaenyra's Daughter, Angst, Mentions Of Bloods, Fluff, Child Loss, Stillbirth, Grief, Death Of a Loved One, Trauma, War-related Violence.

Aegon II Targaryen Masterlist.

House Of The Dragon Masterlist.

Tom Glynn-Carney Masterlist.

Dividers by @zaldritzosrose

The scent of death was a bitter perfume in the Dragonpit that day. Smoke, old stone, and blood clung to the air, heavy and unmoving, as though the world itself had paused to mourn. You stood still, the silk of your black mourning gown whispering around your legs in the thick silence. The wind toyed with the ends of your dark hair, but you barely felt it.

Your eyes—wide, bloodshot—were locked on the small, shrouded body of your son, Jaehaerys. He looked too small to be dead. Too light. Too still. The pyre of wood beneath him crackled faintly, waiting for flame. And yet all you could hear was the memory of his last breath.

“Mother—”

That broken whisper. That tremble in his lips. The way his little hand clutched yours like he still believed you could save him. It played again and again in your mind like a cruel curse. You couldn’t stop it. Wouldn’t. Didn’t want to forget.

You did not weep. Not until it started.

Aegon moved before you even registered it.

He stepped forward, his white hair untamed in the wind, shadows etched deep under his violet eyes. He didn’t look like a king—he looked like a man stripped bare. The grief in his jaw was rigid, his throat moving as he swallowed it down, over and over again. His gaze flicked up to Sunfyre, who waited just beyond the pyre, golden and restless.

Aegon voice hoarse and unsteady.

“Dracarys.”

The word echoed.

And then Sunfyre unleashed.

The fire roared, gold and white, greedy and all-consuming as it swallowed the wood, the silk, the body. Your baby. The heat slammed into your face and that was when the sob tore free, unbidden and raw, and you collapsed.

Your knees hit the stone with a crack, hands shaking, teeth clenched so hard your jaw hurt. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think. The flames danced in your eyes but all you saw was his smile—his first steps—his tiny fingers playing with your hair. Gone. Burned. Turned to ash.

You didn’t notice Aegon move until he was there—kneeling beside you, wrapping his arms around your trembling form like he was holding himself together by holding you. His grip was desperate, his chest shaking against your back.

“I should’ve protected him,” he said against your hair, his voice a whisper turned to splinters. “Gods, I should’ve protected him.”

You turned, slowly, painfully, looking at him through your tears. “We’re his parents. We both should have.”

He cupped your face, and for a moment, the firelight turned his eyes to molten amethyst. “You blame me,” he said, barely audible.

“I blame the war. I blame the greed. I blame the fucking throne,” you whispered, gripping the front of his coat. “I don’t have room to hate you, Aegon. I’m too full of hurt.”

He nodded, a slow, devastated motion, pressing his forehead against yours. His breath was hot with whiskey and regret.

“I wake up hearing his voice,” he said. “Every godsdamned night. And I pray for the morning when it doesn’t break me.”

Your lips parted, your breath catching. “Then let it break you. Let it destroy everything, but not us. Not now.”

Aegon’s thumb brushed your cheek as if memorizing the shape of your sadness. “Then burn with me,” he said, voice cracking. “We burn together.”

You kissed him—not for passion, not for want, but for grief. A kiss that trembled with loss, mouths crushed together in silence, tasting salt and ashes. It was an anchor. A promise. A shared ruin.

Behind you, your son’s pyre roared louder. And as the sky darkened and the smell of smoke soaked into your skin, you held each other there on the cold stone floor—two parents grieving a child lost to the madness of dragons and crowns.

The fire ate everything but the pain.

The hearth crackled, low and unrelenting, casting flickering shadows against the stone walls of your shared chambers. It was late, though you couldn’t say what hour. Time had lost its meaning somewhere between the scream that tore from your lips the day Jaehaerys died, and the silence that followed.

You sat curled in front of the fire, your nightgown wrinkled and damp with old tears, legs drawn up tightly to your chest. Your bare feet were cold against the floor, but you didn’t move. The warmth from the hearth touched your skin, but could not reach the frost that settled inside you. That hollow ache had rooted deep, twisting through your ribs like a knife left in place.

The door creaked open.

You didn’t look. You didn’t have to.

Alicent Hightower.

Her steps were soft, deliberate—like one might approach a wounded animal. You felt her presence like a shadow behind you. A ghost that lingered long after the spirit had gone.

“Child,” she called gently, the same tone she might’ve used before you married Aegon—before the world became red and burning and ash. “Please. Look at me.”

You didn’t.

Your gaze remained fixed on the fire. The flames were mesmerizing. They didn’t care who they consumed. Perhaps that’s why you liked them now.

“I did not come to fight,” Alicent continued after a moment. “I only came to see if you—”

“If I what?” you whispered, not turning your head. “If I still bleed? If I still have a voice to scream your name into the void of loss? If your grandson still lies in ash while you walk freely in silks?”

Silence. Her breath caught, but she didn’t move.

“I came to grieve with you,” she said quietly.

You laughed, a low, humorless sound that scraped from your throat like gravel. “You came to ease your guilt. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

“I loved Jaehaerys.”

At that, you turned your head—slowly. Your brown eyes, hollow and rimmed with shadow, met hers with a weight that made Alicent physically recoil.

“Not enough to stop this,” you said. “Not enough to stop your father. Not enough to stop Aegon from being forced into a crown soaked in blood. You stood there. You chose it.”

“I was protecting my family.”

“And I lost mine.”

The words hung in the air, thick and furious, trembling on the edge of sobs. You pressed your forehead against your knees, voice muffled when you spoke again.

“The gods are cruel,” you whispered. “To take my grandsire. To make Aegon a king he never wanted to be. And now… now our boy. My son.”

Alicent stepped closer, but you raised your hand without looking.

“Do not touch me.”

She froze, her hands curling into her skirts.

“My son died because your house could not bear to see mine rule,” you continued, your voice low, steady, like the calm eye of a storm. “Because your father—your ambition—demanded Hightower blood on the throne.”

Alicent flinched. “You think I wanted this?”

“I think you let it happen,” you hissed, turning back to the fire. “And now I sit in a palace of rot, raising ashes to my lips and pretending they are food. I sleep in a bed soaked with the screams of a child who will never wake.”

“You are not alone in this—”

“I am!” you snapped, finally standing. “Do you think Aegon can even look at me without falling apart? Do you know what it’s like to feel your husband’s hands shake every time he touches your stomach, as if terrified he might find it growing again, and lose another child? Your grief is guilt. Mine is emptiness.”

Alicent’s face crumpled, but no tears fell. She swallowed her sorrow like she had done her whole life—one bitter cup after another.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

You shook your head, stepping closer to her, voice trembling now. “I was his mother. I should have died before he did. And instead, I live—watching my world fall to pieces while the people who shattered it come to me offering apologies wrapped in silence.”

Alicent reached out again, but this time you didn’t move away. You let her fingers brush your arm, light and uncertain.

“You don’t have to forgive me,” she said.

“I won’t.”

Her hand dropped.

“But,” you added softly, “if you want to honor Jaehaerys… if you want to be more than a puppet in your father’s hand, then fight for peace. Fight for something besides thrones and dragons and gods.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“You have to.” You looked into her eyes, firm now. “Because I have nothing left to fight with.”

The fire behind you flared, its glow bleeding through your silhouette like a halo of grief. And Alicent, for the first time in years, said nothing. She just bowed her head and left you alone—again—with the flames.

The echo of your footsteps carried down the long, cold corridor of the Red Keep like a ghost haunting its own halls. You hadn’t walked them in days—not since the fire, not since the world bled your son from your arms and left behind the hollow shell of motherhood.

But today, the silence in your chambers had felt too loud. The walls too suffocating. The hearth too cold.

And so, wrapped in black, with your hair braided back like a warrior in mourning, you walked.

You reached the heavy doors of the council chamber and paused. Fingers curled at your sides. The guards opened them without a word, heads bowed—not as subjects to a queen, but as men who had seen death too close.

Inside, the chamber was dim despite the daylight. Clouds smothered the sun beyond the high windows. Around the long table, the council murmured—quiet, uncertain—but they stopped when they saw you.

And you saw him.

Aegon sat slouched in the throne-like seat at the head of the table, his shoulders curved forward as if the crown itself weighed too much to bear. His tunic hung open at the chest, the buttons undone and forgotten. There were dark circles under his eyes and stubble lining his jaw, as though days had passed without sleep, without care.

But worst of all—he wasn’t listening. He wasn’t even there. He stared blankly at the tabletop, unmoving, like a man carved from grief. Your heart clenched so tightly in your chest it hurt.

His head turned slowly when he felt your presence. His breath hitched the moment his eyes landed on you—as if you had appeared from a dream, or worse, a memory he wasn’t ready to see in the flesh.

You stepped forward, your voice soft but commanding.

“Leave us.”

The lords hesitated. One of them opened his mouth to protest—perhaps to speak of duties or strategy—but your gaze flicked to him, and the sharp grief in your eyes struck him dumb.

They stood, slowly. Chairs scraped the floor. Cloaks brushed the stone. No one dared speak. They filed out with silent bows, the doors clicking shut behind them, sealing you inside with him.

Aegon didn’t speak. Just looked at you like you were the last star in a dying sky.

You approached him slowly, your skirts rustling, your steps measured. Each one toward him felt like a step through fire. You stopped just before him, not touching, not breathing.

“I’ve missed you,” you said softly, your voice a cracked whisper.

His eyes brimmed, but no tears fell. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

“You didn’t come to me either.”

“I couldn’t,” he rasped. “Every time I looked at the bed, I saw him. Every time I touched your pillow, I felt your sobs in my hands. Gods, I didn’t know how to be with you without falling apart.”

You dropped to your knees before him, your hands resting gently on his thighs, fingers curling into the fabric of his trousers.

“You’re supposed to fall apart with me, Aegon. We’re not meant to carry this alone.”

His chest heaved, and he looked away, ashamed. “I’m the king. I don’t get to grieve. I sit in this chair, I listen to them speak of banners and blood, and all I want is to scream his name until the gods bring him back to me.”

You leaned your forehead against his knee, eyes shutting. “I died with him too.”

His hand moved—tentative, trembling—and threaded into your hair.

“I keep waking up expecting him to run into our chambers,” he whispered. “Asking me to carry him on my shoulders again. And then I remember… what they did to him. What they took.”

He choked, his voice cracking with guilt. “He was only a boy. And I was supposed to protect him.”

You lifted your head and looked up at him, eyes glistening. “He died because they wanted your throne. Because we were born of fire, and they would rather burn the world than see it ruled by dragon blood not of their making.”

Aegon looked down at you—really looked—and his face crumpled. You stood, then, sliding into his lap, your arms around his neck. His hands grabbed at your back, desperate and tight, like he was trying to fuse you to him. His lips found your neck—not in lust, but in need—and he buried himself there, breathing you in like he was drowning and you were the only air.

“I need you,” he murmured against your skin. “I can’t do this without you.”

“You don’t have to.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, your hand cupping his face.

“You’re not a king right now. You’re just my husband. Our son is gone, and all we have left is each other. If we don’t hold on to that, we’ll drown.”

He kissed you then—messy, wet, raw with grief and love and desperation. Not to forget, but to remember. To feel. His hands curled into your sides, pulling you closer, and your tears mixed between your mouths.

“I love you,” he whispered brokenly. “Even in this ruin, I love you.”

You pressed your forehead to his, breath mingling. “Then don’t leave me alone again.”

“I won’t.”

Outside, the war still burned. The court still whispered. The gods still played their cruel games.

But inside the council chamber, on a throne of sorrow, a king and queen clung to one another in the only kind of power that mattered now.

You stayed in Aegon’s arms long after the storm of sobs had passed, held together not by strength but by shared ruin. Your face was buried in the hollow of his neck, his hands splayed across your back as though if he stopped touching you, even for a moment, you’d vanish again. The air in the council chamber was heavy with salt and smoke, with grief and something older—like the lingering scent of burnt flesh and broken oaths.

It was the first time in days that you’d felt him. Truly felt him. And then the doors opened, Aegon’s arms tightened around you, instinctive and bracing.

You didn’t lift your head.

You didn’t need to.

You knew who it was the moment the sharp footfall struck the stone. Measured. Unflinching. Proud.

Aemond.

You remained perfectly still.

“My king,” his voice rang out, calm and cold, like the blade that had started this war. “The man who murdered your son—he is in the black cells. He awaits your judgment.”

Silence.

Aegon’s hand moved slowly, brushing over your hair, down your spine. You could feel his throat work against your cheek as he swallowed. You could feel the way his chest tensed beneath your palm, the way his rage and sorrow warred against each other like wildfire.

You didn’t move. You couldn’t.

Not when he was standing there. Not when his voice was in the air you had to breathe.

“You should go,” you said quietly, not lifting your head. Aegon looked down at you, confused.

“I can’t—” Your voice cracked. “I won’t see him.”

“My love…”

You pulled away from Aegon’s embrace just enough to sit back, your eyes glistening but firm. You stared at the stone floor, not at the door.

“I can’t look at the man who tore my brother from the sky. I can’t see the face of the one who turned dragons into monsters and blood into war.”

Aemond shifted near the doorway, but said nothing.

“Everything began with him,” you whispered. “With his arrogance. With his wrath. With his need to claim victory over a child.”

There was silence, heavy and thick, like smoke pressing against your lungs.

Aemond stepped forward. “You think I do not carry the weight of Lucerys’s death every day? You think I sleep easily knowing what I did? It was not meant to be—”

“Don’t,” you snapped, lifting your head for the first time, your brown eyes blazing with sorrow and fury. “Do not stand there and speak of regret while my brother is bones in the sea and my son is ash in the wind.”

Aemond faltered, just for a moment, his mouth tightening.

You turned away again, facing the fire like it could shield you. “You want forgiveness. You want understanding. But you don’t get to ask that of me. Not when your sword carved a wound into my family that will never heal.”

Aegon stood, moving beside you. His hand rested on your shoulder, grounding you. He looked at Aemond then—his brother, his kin—and for the first time in weeks, his voice held something sharp beneath the grief.

“You should have never been there, Aemond. You were supposed to be my sword, not my firestarter. Look at her,” he motioned to you gently. “Look at what’s left of us.”

Aemond’s eye burned with some emotion too complex to name—remorse, shame, defiance.

“She is my family too,” he said. “I did not come to ask her pardon. I came because I thought she deserved to know that the man who took Jaehaerys’s life will suffer. That justice, at the very least, is within our grasp.”

You stood slowly, your voice quiet, trembling with tightly caged fury. “Justice?” you echoed. “Justice would be turning back time. Justice would be undoing what you did to Luke. What your mother and grandsire did to this realm. What you—all of you—burned in your hunger for a crown.”

“I never wanted it,” Aemond snapped.

“But you never stopped it either,” you said, each word like a brand pressed to skin. “And now you speak of justice while the blood of children—mine and my mother’s—stains the stones beneath our feet.”

Aemond stepped back then, just once.

And it was enough.

You turned to Aegon, your face softening only for him.

“I want to see Jaehaerys avenged,” you said quietly. “But I will not find that peace in a cell or on a blade. I will find it when the realm stops bleeding. When the gods no longer feast on our young. When men like your brother stop pretending their violence was fate.”

You didn’t stay to hear Aemond’s reply. You walked past him without looking, the scent of ash and steel trailing you like a cloak. Your steps were sure now. You didn’t need fire in your lungs or vengeance on your tongue.

You had something sharper.

Truth.

And the weight of all that had been lost. Behind you, the council chamber remained still—just two broken brothers and the memory of everything they’d ruined.

The hearthfire crackled low in the corner of your chambers, casting long shadows across the walls—shadows that looked like dragons, or monsters, or memories. You didn’t know which anymore. You sat in the center of the bed with your legs folded beneath you, a soft woolen blanket clutched tightly in your arms. It was small—barely large enough to cover a toddler. Faded in color now, worn from use. But every thread was familiar. Every stitch had been made by your own hand.

It had taken you weeks to embroider the blanket for Jaehaerys. Tiny stars in silver thread danced along the edges, encircling a golden dragon stitched in the center—just as you had once whispered to your son, You are my little star. My little dragon.

You brought the fabric to your nose and inhaled deeply. His scent was still there. Faint, barely clinging to the threads, but there.

It was lavender soap and sunshine and the warmth of his tiny skin after a nap against your chest. You let out a trembling breath, and then a soft, broken laugh slipped from your lips.

You smiled.

For a moment, it felt like you were holding him again.

And then the moment passed.

Your chest tightened. Your heart clenched so violently it knocked the air from your lungs. The smile faded as your throat caught, and then your shoulders began to shake.

You curled tighter around the blanket.

“I held you,” you whispered, voice shaking as you rocked gently. “I held you as you were born… and I held you again as you—”

You couldn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t say the word. Died. It tasted like blood and iron and grief on your tongue.

Your arms loosened as the sob slipped from your lips, quiet and sharp.

You knew where Aegon was—down in the black cells. You hadn’t spoken a word when he left. His hand had lingered on your shoulder, his eyes searching yours. But there had been nothing left to give him. Not in that moment. Only silence. And your son’s blanket.

He had gone to face the man who’d taken your baby’s life.

But you… you could not face the world.

You pressed your palm to your lower stomach, gently stroking the place where you had once felt life flutter. Jaehaerys had kicked there. He had hiccupped there. He had grown in your womb like a flame.

And now…

A sharp twist clawed through your belly. So sudden, so vicious it knocked the breath from your lungs. You gasped, your body lurching forward.

Your fingers clutched at the sheets as the pain lanced through you, deep and low. You tried to move, tried to rise—but your knees buckled beneath you before your feet even touched the floor. You collapsed sideways on the bed, one arm tangled in the blanket, the other pressing desperately to your stomach.

“No—no, no, no,” you panted, the pain doubling you. “Not now…”

You could barely think. The agony twisted and pulled like a vengeful spirit inside you, wringing every nerve. Your vision blurred. You tried to breathe, but your chest was tight with something worse than pain—terror.

Had grief broken you that deeply? Had loss hollowed you so fully that your body was now unraveling from the inside out?

You moaned, biting your lip to keep from screaming. You didn’t want the guards to hear. You didn’t want the maids or the servants or the court to see you like this.

You just wanted Aegon.

Your hand scrambled across the bed, reaching for anything—blankets, pillows—something to anchor you. Your fingers found the soft cloth again, the one with stars and the golden dragon.

You clutched it to your chest like it could save you. And then, through the fog of pain, you felt something. Something warm trickling down your thigh.

Your eyes widened. You looked down—and the dread that washed over you was cold, like seawater stealing the last embers of a fire.

Blood.

Not much. But enough.

You choked out a sound that wasn’t quite a sob. Or maybe it was. Maybe it was all sobs now. Maybe that was all you would ever be—a woman made of cries and ashes.

The door was too far.

Aegon was too far.

And you… you were crumbling.

Not from a sword or a war.

But from the ache that only mothers could know.

Still, even as the pain swallowed you whole, you did not let go of the blanket. Your fingers curled tighter around the scent of your son. Your dragon. Your little star. If this was death coming for you, it would have to pry it from your hands.

The corridors were silent as Aegon walked them, save for the fading echo of his boots across stone. He was numb.

The black cells had given him no satisfaction. No vengeance. Only the stench of rot and the hollow sound of a man begging for mercy that Jaehaerys had never been granted.

The crown on his head felt heavier than ever, like it had fused to his skull. He didn’t remember when he’d last eaten. He didn’t care. His hands were still smeared with dirt from gripping the iron bars too tightly, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. There was only one place he wanted to be now.

With you.

He reached your shared chambers and paused briefly before opening the door—bracing himself for your silence, for your back turned to him again, for the distance between you both that grief had carved like a canyon.

But when the door opened—

He froze.

The blood drained from his face.

You were on the floor. On your knees.

Your nightgown was soaked in blood from the waist down, the dark stain spreading fast across the silk. Your hands were pressed between your thighs, trembling as you clutched at yourself, and your face—gods, your face—was contorted in pain so raw, so violent it turned his bones to ice.

You didn’t even look at him. You just groaned, your voice low and ragged, like something was ripping you apart from the inside.

“No,” Aegon whispered, then louder—sharper. “NO.”

He bolted across the chamber, nearly slipping on the rug as he dropped to his knees beside you.

“Guards!” he bellowed, voice breaking with panic. “Get the maester—NOW! MOVE!”

You whimpered, your head lolling toward him as tears streaked your cheeks.

“Aegon,” you croaked. “I—it hurts—I can’t—”

“I know, I know,” he rasped, cradling you into his arms with a gentleness that defied the tremble in his hands. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, love. You’re safe. Just breathe, alright? Just—just breathe.”

But how could you breathe with your body betraying you like this?

You writhed against him, crying out again, your fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic. Blood soaked into his lap as he held you, thick and hot and terrifyingly real. His mind raced—was this a miscarriage? Had he not known? Were you pregnant again after Jaehaerys?

Had the gods given him another child… only to tear it away again?

His throat closed. He pressed a shaking kiss to your temple.

“Stay with me,” he begged in a whisper. “Don’t—don’t leave me too. Please.”

You whimpered again, collapsing into his chest. “I’m sorry,” you cried. “I didn’t know—I didn’t even know—”

“Shhh, no.” He cupped your cheek, forcing you to look at him through your haze. “Don’t say that. Don’t you dare apologize. This is not your fault.”

The door burst open again, and he shouted over his shoulder, “Maester! She’s bleeding! Get over here, now!”

The elderly man rushed in with his apprentice and a flurry of linen and herbs. But Aegon wouldn’t let go of you.

Not until the maester forced him to.

“Your Grace, please—she needs to be laid down—”

“I said I’m not letting her go!” he snapped, eyes wild, voice cracking.

“Then help me,” the maester said firmly. “We may still save her.”

Those words snapped Aegon into motion. He helped lift you onto the bed, whispering soothing things even as you screamed again, your body arching from another wrenching spasm. The blood kept coming. The pain did not relent. And your eyes—

They found his. Desperate. Distant. Frightened.

“Don’t go,” you gasped. “Don’t leave me.”

“Never,” he swore. “Never, do you hear me?”

He sat at your side, gripping your hand so tightly his knuckles whitened, his other hand stroking your hair back from your damp forehead as the maester worked below the sheets, murmuring instructions and prayers.

The minutes passed like lifetimes.

You faded in and out, whimpering his name between cries of agony. He didn’t dare move. Didn’t breathe unless you did.

The worst kind of helplessness crawled beneath his skin. He was the king. He commanded armies. He held the lives of lords in his palm. And yet here—here, watching the only thing that mattered to him scream in pain—he was useless.

Useless and broken.

The chamber was dim, the fire in the hearth reduced to a low, wavering glow that painted the stone walls in the color of dying embers. The smell of herbs and blood still lingered in the air, clinging to everything like a shroud.

You didn’t speak.

You couldn’t.

You just lay there, in the cradle of Aegon’s arms, your face pressed into the hollow of his chest, and wept.

The sound was low at first—shaky, broken gasps that caught in your throat like glass. But then they deepened, became guttural, as though your soul had been carved open and all it could do now was ache.

And Aegon… said nothing.

He simply held you.

One hand curved protectively around the back of your head, stroking your hair in slow, aimless motions—like he might soothe the storm if only he kept his hand moving, if only he could pretend hard enough that he had the power to keep you from shattering completely.

His other arm circled you tightly, pulling your trembling body closer to his chest until you were clinging to him like a lifeline. Your fists curled in the fabric of his tunic, knuckles white, your nails digging in, but he didn’t flinch. He didn’t move.

The only part of him that did was his jaw, clenched so tight it ached.

And his eyes—closed now—because he couldn’t bear to see you this way.

The maester’s words still echoed in his skull like a curse: The babe did not survive.

It should’ve been another whisper in the whirlwind of this war. Another quiet death among too many. But it wasn’t. This wasn’t a piece in the game. This wasn’t strategy. This wasn’t duty.

This was you. His wife. The only person left who touched the parts of him that were still human.

And that babe—

That had been the flicker of hope. The thing you both hadn’t dared to speak aloud after Jaehaerys. The balm that might’ve softened the open wound in your chests. Something small and warm and yours. Something that wasn’t built of blood and betrayal.

Now gone.

A future unmade in silence, in blood, on the cold stone floor of your chambers.

Your cries twisted into something smaller now—hiccuping gasps, hoarse whimpers, the sound of someone trying to breathe through grief that refused to loosen its grip.

You pulled back for just a moment, and Aegon looked down, eyes red-rimmed, haunted.

Your face was streaked with tears, lips parted as though you wanted to speak—but no words came. Only a soft, trembling shake of your head before you buried your face into his neck again, another wave of sobs wracking through you.

“I know,” he whispered finally, his voice low and ruined. “I know, love.” It was all he could say. Because there were no words that could unmake what had happened.

No king’s decree could call your baby back.

No dragonfire could burn the pain away.

Aegon held you tighter.

And for the first time in weeks, he let his own tears fall—silent and steady, slipping down his cheeks and into your hair as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

“We should’ve had peace,” he murmured, not sure if you could hear him, not sure if he was speaking to the gods or cursing them. “We should’ve had a life. A family.”

His hand kept moving, slow and reverent. He didn’t move even when your sobs quieted into nothing, when sleep finally took you from exhaustion, from pain.

He just held you there, with his arms locked around the one thing he still had and prayed the gods wouldn’t take you too.

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting amber shadows on the walls, but the warmth didn’t reach you. It couldn’t. Not when your insides had frozen over with grief.

You sat curled in on yourself, knees tucked tight against your chest, your arms wrapped around your shins like armor, your forehead resting lightly on your kneecaps. The clean nightgown clung to you loosely, the scent of the bathwater—lavender and lemon—already fading. You didn’t feel clean. You felt hollow.

Behind you, the chamber was quiet save for the soft rustle of silk and the hesitant approach of footsteps.

“Sweetling…” Aegon’s voice was barely above a whisper, thick with helplessness. “Please… talk to me.”

You didn’t move. Your eyes remained locked on the flames, as if there was something there you could decode—some hidden meaning in the dance of embers, some sign that might make sense of all this pain.

He stepped closer. “I can’t fix this. But I need you to let me try—”

You flinched when you felt his hand. Not because it startled you, but because it hurt—the gentleness of it. His fingers slid carefully through your hair, brushing it back from your face. He crouched behind you, resting on his knees. He was always taller, stronger, the dragon who carried fire in his blood… but right now, he seemed so small behind you. So unsure.

You said nothing. Just let him stroke your hair as your lips moved with a whisper that grew heavier with each repetition.

“The gods are cruel…” you murmured. “So cruel.”

Aegon exhaled shakily, pressing his forehead to the back of your shoulder. “I know.”

“No, you don’t.” Your voice cracked, your eyes never leaving the fire. “They don’t punish you. They punish me. They take my children. Our children. Over and over and over again.”

“I lost them too,” he whispered, and the pain in his voice made your spine stiffen. “I lost them with you. Every time.”

“But I carried them,” you whispered, and your voice caught. “I felt their hearts. I held them inside me. I gave them names in my sleep. I dreamed of what they’d look like—if they’d have my eyes or yours. I sang to them when you weren’t there.”

You turned your head just slightly, your profile catching the firelight. The tears had started again, sliding down your cheeks silently now, no longer wild or loud. Just endless.

“And what did I get for it?” Your voice shook. “Jaehaerys… murdered in his own bed. Our babe gone before they could take a breath.”

Aegon didn’t speak. He just rested his palm against your back, rubbing slow circles as if he could soothe the wound beneath your skin.

You inhaled shakily, your voice so soft now, it barely survived the air.

“This is my punishment.”

His hand paused.

You blinked, still not looking at him. “For choosing you. For choosing you over my mother.”

“Don’t,” he said quickly, voice rising. “Don’t you say that.”

“She warned me,” you went on, like in a trance. “She said loving you would destroy me. That war would follow you, pain would follow you. And I didn’t care. I chose you. I married you. I stood by you.” You finally turned your head toward him, your eyes bloodshot and wet. “And now… my children are dead. One by one, stripped from my arms.”

He looked like he’d been stabbed. “You think I don’t carry that guilt every time I look at you? That I don’t wonder if you would’ve been safer without me?”

You swallowed hard, your voice breaking again. “Maybe I would have.”

Aegon’s hand dropped from your back. He sat down beside you slowly, legs folding beneath him. The fire danced between your bodies, painting both of you in gold and shadow. You stared at each other in silence for a long moment—broken, tired, grieving in different ways.

“I know you hate me right now,” he said finally, his voice tight, like he was forcing it out past a wall in his throat. “And maybe you should. Maybe I deserve it. But gods be damned, I love you. I love you so much it hurts. And if I could take this pain from you—if I could give my own blood to bring him back—I would.”

You dropped your head again, your forehead brushing your knees. “I just want to be a mother again,” you whispered. “I want to hold my child. I want to feel life in my arms, not death.”

He reached out again, pulling you into his arms this time. The gesture was quiet, small… and yet full of the weight of a man who was watching the woman he loved drown.

You didn’t speak again, and neither did he. You simply melted into his arms in front of the fire, surrounded by the warmth you couldn’t feel, and the ghosts you couldn’t escape.

The scent of lemon cake still lingered in the corners of the chamber. You hadn’t touched it.

Aegon had left it for you on the small side table three days ago, a quiet offering, accompanied by a soft kiss to your temple and a promise you hadn’t answered. It had been your favorite once. Now, the sight of it only twisted your stomach into knots.

You hadn’t spoken more than a few words since the babe died. The pain clung to your skin like ash—so heavy, so absolute, it felt like you’d been buried with your child.

You hadn’t left the bed, either. The silken covers had long since twisted around your limbs, heavy and wrinkled with the days you’d spent curled in their cocoon. The hearth had gone cold, the fire long since died. You hadn’t asked anyone to tend it. What was the point?

Grief did not need warmth.

Your eyes were half-lidded, dry and red-rimmed, when the familiar creak of the chamber doors caught your attention. You didn’t look right away.

You expected the maid. Or perhaps Aegon again—come to coax, to plead, to wrap his arms around you and whisper that he was still here, even as you drifted further from everything.

But then—small footsteps.

You turned your head.

And the moment you saw them, your breath caught like a dagger in your throat.

Aegon stood in the doorway, his hand resting gently on the shoulder of your little daughter, and cradled in the other arm was your youngest—Maelor, still small enough to be carried.

But it was Jaehaera who shattered you. The soft golden hair. The pale, thoughtful face. The shape of her nose, the curve of her lips—so much like her twin brother.

So much like Jaehaerys.

Your body tensed, your arms shaking where they gripped the edge of the blankets, and your eyes stung before the tears even came. But they did come.

Not like before—not silent, not restrained. These tears broke through like a storm, sudden and unstoppable. You pressed a hand over your mouth as your shoulders crumpled forward. A sob tore from your throat.

Jaehaera stared at you, wide-eyed, not quite understanding why her presence had sparked such pain. She looked up at Aegon, confused, but said nothing—just held the small wooden doll in her hand tighter, as if for comfort.

You barely noticed Aegon’s steps as he crossed the room. Only when he knelt beside the bed and placed Maelor gently in the crook of your arm did your breath hitch again.

You turned your face away, overwhelmed, but then Jaehaera’s small hand touched your wrist.

“Mother?” Her voice was quiet. “Are you sad because my brother is with the gods?”

Your throat closed. You couldn’t speak.

You nodded, a slow, shuddering movement.

Jaehaera crawled up beside you carefully, climbing into the bed without hesitation. She tucked herself under your arm and laid her head on your chest.

“I’m sad too,” she whispered. “But Maelor still laughs when I tickle him. And I still remember when Jaehaerys told me stories about dragons flying backwards just to make me laugh. So maybe that means he’s not all gone. Maybe he’s still in the stories.”

That did it.

The sob that came out of you wasn’t just pain—it was a letting go, a surrender to everything you’d been trying to hold back. You held both your children tightly to your chest, one in each arm, and buried your face in Jaehaera’s soft hair.

Aegon sat on the edge of the bed beside you, not saying a word. But his hand covered yours, grounding you, as your grief spilled out in waves.

Your fingers clung to Jaehaera’s nightgown, the fabric soft and worn. You pressed a kiss to the top of Maelor’s head, his tiny hand patting your arm as though he, too, knew you needed to be brought back.

And for the first time since your womb had gone quiet, you felt something else break through the ache.

Not peace.

But presence.

The pieces of your heart that still remained—fragile, bruised, and alive—curled up in your arms. And for now, they were enough.

The chamber, once dim and heavy with mourning, now glowed soft with the orange flicker of candlelight. The hearth had been rekindled, its warmth reaching out in golden threads across the stone floor, weaving through your limbs, curling around your fingers.

You were still in bed, propped against the headboard with pillows stacked behind you, your hair loose, your gown wrinkled. But today—tonight—there was a softness on your face that hadn’t been there in weeks. Not a full peace. But something like… a pause in the sorrow. A breath of stillness.

Maelor was curled in your lap, warm and heavy against your stomach, his little legs splayed carelessly over the folds of your blanket. You had one hand around his back, supporting him, while your other arm held Jaehaera tucked beneath it. She was gently brushing the edge of your sleeve with her fingertips, lost in some private world of thought and comfort.

Maelor looked up at you, eyes wide and bright, those chubby cheeks pink with firelight. He babbled something incoherent—a string of sounds only a mother could recognize as a question. You blinked at him and tilted your head playfully.

“What is it, my sweet boy?”

He stared at your mouth like it held some grand secret. Then, with the solemn focus only a toddler could muster, he raised his tiny hands—soft, still sticky from honeyed bread—and cupped your face.

You barely had time to react before his thumb pressed into your cheek and his other hand reached down and grabbed your lower lip between two fingers.

It wasn’t painful—just surprising. The sudden tug made your mouth part in shock, and a small puff of laughter escaped you.

“Maelor!” you gasped through a breathless laugh.

Aegon, seated at the foot of the bed now, let out a playful huff, leaning back on his hands. “Gods,” he said with a smirk. “He’s already got your mouth. Now he’s claiming it.”

Your laughter grew, the sound light and trembling, like a song you hadn’t sung in far too long.

Jaehaera squealed with laughter beside you, her arms wrapping tighter around your waist as she buried her face against your side. “He always pulls mine too, mama!” she giggled. “He’s a silly dragon.”

“Silly indeed,” you murmured fondly, as Maelor, apparently satisfied with your lip, released it and let out a triumphant coo. Then, just as suddenly, he dropped forward and nuzzled into your neck, his little nose smushing into your skin, warm and soft and so achingly present.

Your breath hitched.

It wasn’t the sadness this time.

It was the ache of feeling, of realizing how much you’d missed this—how long you’d been drowning beneath the weight of your loss, barely able to register the blessings that still clung to you like lifelines.

Your arms wrapped more tightly around them both—your daughter and your son, your little lights in the long night—and you glanced toward Aegon.

He was watching you, his eyes softer now, the playful smile dimmed into something reverent.

Something aching.

“I missed you,” he said quietly. “We missed you.”

You swallowed, the knot in your throat tight but not suffocating. You leaned your cheek against Maelor’s curls, inhaling the faint scent of milk and lemons and the clean linen of his sleep tunic.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I was trying to hold it together… but I forgot how to reach for anything else.”

Aegon shifted closer, reaching out to touch your knee gently. “You don’t need to hold it together,” he murmured. “Not here. Not with us. You just need to be. Let them carry the rest.”

You looked at him, tears shining in your lashes, and nodded.

For a moment, the four of you were wrapped in something sacred—flawed, fraying, but still holy in its own quiet way.

Your son tugged your lip again, giggling now, proud of his new trick. Jaehaera shrieked with laughter, her head thrown back against your chest.

And you—you laughed too.

Real, full, and trembling.

Aegon closed his eyes as the sound filled the chamber, and when he opened them again, his gaze rested not on the shadows of your pain, but on the living proof of everything you still were.

Still whole.

Still mother.

Still here.

©2025 hisfavegirl. No part of this story may be copied, stored, transmitted, or shared in other apps.

Tag list : @danytar @hangmanscoming @julessworldd @yazzzmints @giirlinblack @searatarg @vaelry @callsignwidow @ceoofglytchell @ashblooddragons @hayleythecannibal @laedeviour @venusbyline

[thefunkfactory]

The Perfect Boyfriend

It had been a great night. Probably one of the best dates I’d ever been on, if I was being honest with myself.

Anakin was adorable—small, lithe, with those wide, innocent eyes and that effortless charm. He had this way of tilting his head when he laughed, tucking a strand of his dark hair behind his ear, and every time he did it, I felt my chest tighten just a little. I was a big guy, broad and built, the kind of man who turned heads in the gym. And yet, here I was, completely enraptured by this tiny, delicate twink, feeling like some lovesick idiot.

Dinner had gone perfectly, conversation flowed easily, and when I suggested coming back to my place for a drink, he agreed with a coy smile that sent a shiver up my spine. Now, we were on my couch, bodies pressed close, his lips warm and eager against mine. My hands roamed his back, feeling the subtle ridges of his spine through his tight-fitting shirt. His hands, smaller than mine, traced along my jaw, sending jolts of pleasure through my body.

And then—disaster.

It started as a low, ominous sound, a gentle vibration against my thigh. My brain barely had time to register what was happening before the smell hit me like a brick wall.

Thick. Pungent. Unholy.

It clawed its way up my nostrils, searing itself into my sinuses like a brand. I stiffened, my hands instinctively gripping his waist. He giggled softly, shifting on my lap. Another one slipped out, hotter this time, the scent intensifying like a bomb had just gone off between us. I tried to play it cool.

“Uh, hey… you, uh—you okay?” My voice cracked slightly, my brain scrambling for an exit strategy.

Anakin nuzzled into my neck, his breath warm against my skin. “Mmhmm.” Another burst of rancid air seeped into the space between us, curling around my face like an inescapable fog. I coughed, tried to turn my head discreetly, but it was too late. My lungs were already compromised. The stench dulled my senses, made my head swim. I needed to get out—needed fresh air, but my body wasn’t cooperating. My muscles, usually so reliable, felt heavy, sluggish. My tongue was thick in my mouth, my thoughts slipping through my fingers like sand.

“Y-you know, maybe we should—uh—should call it a n-night?” I mumbled, trying to stand. My legs wobbled. I sat back down with a graceless thump.

Anakin pouted. “Aww, but we were having so much fun.” He shifted again, and another wave of pure evil erupted into the air, wrapping around me, invading my very being.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to center myself, to fight against the growing fog in my brain. I was stronger than this. I was a man—a man. And yet… The warmth of the stink wrapped around me, seeping into my clothes, my skin. It was inside me now. I could feel my resolve crumbling.

Anakin ran a hand down my chest, his fingers tracing lazy circles. “Relax,” he murmured, his voice honeyed and sweet.

I tried to respond. Tried to say no, I need air, but the words wouldn’t come. My lips moved uselessly, my brain too sluggish to form a coherent thought. I was losing. Losing to the stink. And as Anakin snuggled closer, releasing another devastating blast that melted what was left of my resistance, I realized something horrifying. I wasn’t sure I wanted to fight it anymore.

A deep, primal part of me still fought—still clawed at the edges of my mind, screaming at me to resist. I was strong. I was disciplined. I wasn’t some dumb, brainless jock who let a pretty boy turn him into a drooling mess. But the stench… oh god, the stench.

Anakin’s farts had already battered my senses, worn me down like waves eroding a cliffside. Each breath I took dragged more of his stink into my lungs, dulling my thoughts, making my body feel heavy and warm. I was slipping, my willpower draining with every second I spent trapped in his cloud of corruption.

I groaned, forcing my hands to push at his waist, trying to create space. “N-no… I gotta—”

Anakin simply giggled, his soft fingers tracing over my jaw. “Aww, don’t fight it, big guy. You were made for this.”

Made for what? My sluggish brain tried to process his words, but everything was getting harder to understand. And then he pulled out his secret weapon.

With a slow, deliberate movement, he lifted one leg and slid off his sneaker. The moment the shoe came free, a wave of concentrated, festering foot funk rushed into the air, thick and heady. My already weakened mind barely had time to register what was happening before Anakin—sweet, evil Anakin—pressed the inside of the rancid sneaker right over my nose.

I gasped in shock, inhaling a full, unfiltered lungful of pure, fermented twink foot stench. My brain short-circuited. It was over. The last vestiges of my resistance shattered like glass. My thoughts, my intelligence, my very self melted under the overwhelming power of his scent. The acrid, vinegary musk of sweat-soaked fabric and well-worn insole invaded every part of me, rewiring my brain, hollowing me out. Everything felt warm and fuzzy. Thoughts? Didn’t need ‘em. Words? Hard. Brain? Empty.

I let out a deep, dumb-sounding grunt as my body relaxed completely. My arms, which had been trying to push him away, instead wrapped around his tiny waist, pulling him in close. He giggled, knowing he had won.

“That’s a good boy,” he cooed, rubbing a hand through my hair. “You don’t need all those pesky thoughts. Just be my big, beefy boyfriend, yeah?”

I nodded, my heavy head lolling back against the couch. “Mmm… yeah… beefy…” My voice sounded different—deeper, dumber. Like my intelligence had leaked right out of my ears, replaced by an all-consuming need to obey.

“Good boy,” Anakin purred, shifting to straddle my lap. He let his sneaker fall to the floor, but the damage was already done. His scent had infected me, changed me. I wasn’t the same man I was an hour ago.

I was his now. His big, dumb, muscle-bound boyfriend.

It didn’t take long for me to settle into my new role. My old self—the strong, independent man who thought for himself—was long gone. Now, I was just Anakin’s big, obedient, muscle-bound boyfriend. I didn’t think much anymore. Thinking was hard. Anakin was much better at thinking than I was, so I let him do it for me. All I had to do was listen. And obey.

“Babe, go get me a drink,” Anakin would say, snapping his fingers, and I’d lumber to the fridge without hesitation, my body moving before my mind even processed the words.

“Rub my feet,” he’d hum, wiggling his toes in my lap, and I’d eagerly scoop up his reeking feet in my big hands, pressing my lips to his noxious feet as if worshiping a god.

I lived to please him. His happiness was my happiness. But sometimes—sometimes—that pesky little part of my brain, the last flickering remnant of the man I used to be, would stir.

Like the time Anakin told me to carry all his shopping bags through the mall. My biceps bulged under the weight of his endless purchases, and something deep inside me whispered, Hey, maybe this is a bit much… Or when he casually told me to massage his feet with my tongue. For a split second, my brow furrowed, my lips parting like I was about to say something. And every time—even the smallest sign of hesitation—Anakin would simply turn around, grin mischievously… and let one rip.

A deep, low brrrrrrrrpppffftttt would rumble from his tiny frame, a vile, noxious cloud slithering into the air and wrapping itself around my head. And just like that—poof!—any thought of resistance melted away. My eyes would go glassy, my jaw slack. The thick, putrid stench would flood my nose, creeping into my brain, softening it like warm butter.

Anakin would giggle, wiggling his fingers in front of my dazed, dumb expression. “Aww, is my big boy getting all fuzzy-brained again?”

I’d just grunt, sinking deeper into the fog, my powerful body going completely slack under his spell.

“Now,” he’d coo, booping my nose, “what were you saying, babe?”

I’d blink slowly, struggling to remember. Had I been about to argue? About to resist? No, that didn’t sound right. Anakin knew best. Anakin was everything.

“… Nothin’, babe,” I’d finally murmur, a dopey, love-drunk grin spreading across my face. “Just wanna… make ya happy.”

He’d giggle and pull me into his arms, pressing a soft kiss to my lips. “Good boy.”

And just like that, I was his again. Fully. Completely.

Obedient. Mindless.

Happy…

[moonstruckme]

hi mae!!!! i was wondering if you could write any marauder x reader where it's the readers first time and during she begins to not enjoy it as its kinda painful for her and wants to stop, and the marauder of your choosing is just very lovely and reassuring about her not wanting to continue. i love all your writing!!! xoxo

Love you, thanks for requesting <3

cw: mature content mdni, afab reader, implied inexperienced/virgin reader

James Potter x fem!reader ♡ 825 words

You keep James close. There’s safety in his embrace, in the gentle press of his lips against yours, and you crave that solace right now. You hold his face in your hands, making sure he doesn’t retreat far enough to see your face or to leave you here by yourself. 

You want a partner, not a witness. 

“You feel so good,” he says, voice dropped about two octaves since you got him out of his clothes in the dimming light of his bedroom. “So perfect, angel.” 

You keep your hips still and kiss up at him half desperately. 

James groans. “Oh, god. You’re so perfect. How’s that feel?” 

Your kisses turn breathier, your tight chest not taking in quite enough air. You let him cup your breast in a loving hand. 

“Angel? Talk to me, m’love.” 

You don’t feel confident you have the breath to speak. You don’t know why you can’t just do this.

The next exhale you send out pushes James away. 

“Stop,” you say, voice already breaking. 

To James’ credit, he follows your instructions immediately. “What? What’s wrong?” 

“I’m sorry, I want to stop.” 

“Okay. Okay, lovely.” You cover your face with your hands as James sits up. The slight movement of him inside you isn’t enough to hurt, but the feeling makes you tighten anxiously anyway. You hear him hiss. “I’m just going to pull out, alright?” 

It’s a funny sensation when he does, loneliness and relief both at once. You try not to make a sound as tears turn your skin slippery beneath your fingers. 

“What’s the matter?” James’ tone is gentle, devastated in a way you think he’s trying to hide but can’t. “Does it hurt?” 

“No,” you choke out. 

Impossibly, his voice quiets further. “Did it hurt?” 

A tiny sob jostles its way out of you. You nod without moving your hands. 

“Oh, sweetheart.” James sounds gutted. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” 

“I’m sorry,” you whimper. 

“What’re you sorry for? Hey, can I touch you? Is that alright? You can say no.” 

There was never any doubt in your mind that you could, but you wouldn’t want to. You nod again, and in an instant James’ warm hands are soothing up your sides. The loneliness dissipates. 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t do it,” you say, still unwilling to move your hands. “It didn’t hurt that badly, I just—I freaked out.” 

“Angel.” James sounds like he might be chiding you, if he could bring himself to do it. He takes your hands, and as it turns out, you’re perfectly willing to have them moved by him. His gentle touch has your face coming out of hiding, bearing witness to his crushed expression. 

“Please don’t apologize,” he begs. “I don’t want to hurt you at all. I definitely don’t want to scare you.” 

“I know that.” Your voice is frail. “It wasn’t your fault.” 

James’ brows hook. “I think I probably had some role,” he says, dropping a tender kiss to your cheek. “Does it still hurt?” 

“No.” 

“Would you tell me if it did? You won’t hurt my feelings.” 

He’s absolutely lying, but you’re telling the truth. “It doesn’t, James. It barely even hurt when it happened.” 

Your boyfriend makes a soft, sad sound. “Still.” He places a kiss next to your nose like he’s planning to soothe you inch by inch. “Do you think you might be bleeding?” You’re unsure. “Can I check?” 

You hum your consent, albeit somewhat nervously. James kisses you in thanks. He reaches a hand down between your legs, bringing it back up to find only the sort of wetness you both intended. He wipes it off on his own leg, kissing you again. Kissing, kissing, kissing. 

“We can try again,” you start to say. “Maybe not today, but—” 

He shushes you. “We don’t have to, lovely. I mean, if you want, of course we can give it another go, but don’t feel like you have to.” 

You feel a sort of shrinking in your chest. A quiet, vicious insecurity darkens your thoughts. “You don’t want to?” 

James’ eyebrows jump. “Do you?” 

“I…” 

“Sweetheart.” He rubs your hip, brown-eyed gaze soft. “You said you got freaked out, right? I mean, it’s understandable, I would have too, but when I have a bad experience with something I usually want a bit of a break before going at it again. Don’t you want a breather?” 

“Oh.” Your voice quiets. “I don’t…I’m not sure.” 

“That’s okay,” he says. “Take your time, lovely, I’ll be here. You just have to say the word, yeah?” 

Your reply is a low hum. You finally muster the courage to go to him. You sit up to put your arms around James’ shoulders, your warm chests pressing together. He envelops you without hesitation. 

“It wasn’t a completely bad experience,” you mumble into his skin. 

You can practically feel the bloom of his smile as he presses it into your forehead.

[yanderenightmare]

All For One

TW: nsfw, noncon, yandere, captive reader, mind deterioration

fem reader

All For One has a habit of subjugating you for his own pleasure. 

It’s a game he likes to play—quite like chess, only… you start off with a single pawn, and you don’t know any of the rules. And he’s been world champion ten years in a row. And he plays dirty.

Tonight, he’s dressed you up in a costume. Not any old Halloween costume, but a slutty one. Not a playboy bunny or a maid, nor a schoolgirl—this was worse—a sleazy rendition of your old hero uniform.

You’d barely recognized the faintly familiar design when he first laid it out on the bed for you. Silly and naïve, you thought his games of derision would end when you finally offered your submission, but that was a fool’s thought. What fun were you if not proof of his undying victory—a reminder, a trophy, a relic?

It’s beyond degrading. Tight and revealing. Less than an actual costume, it was more something one would wear in the bedroom, cosplaying for some fantasy starring an overly sexualized you. Only God knows where he’d gotten it from.

Your steel armor, once with the dignity of a knight, had instead been swapped out for a silly silver bikini—the shimmery fabric tacky and cheap, allowing your nipples to peak forth. Covering it was a top and a skirt made up of silver chains, which only further mocked the appearance of chainmail—looking more like the jewelry a stripper might wear.

He’d forgone your helmet, boots, and sword entirely. Truly, if it weren’t for the detailing of the pattern making the fabric vaguely resemble plated armor, it wouldn’t have been much different from any other set of lingerie.

And still, it’s just similar enough to make it sting.

“Look at you...” he jeers, his voice sodden with taunt—carmine stare faded and gleeful, thoroughly enjoying it. “What a sight for sore eyes.”

He stands behind you in the mirror, holding you delicately by the hips, intimately close, dressed in another one of his black suits, fully clothed in devastating contrast to you. His smile curls as he roams your ill-covered body, kissed with the flush of chagrin, leering at you in the reflection—his voice slithering right by your ear.

“Though I can’t say I remember it being quite so revealing, can you?” he jokes, running his hands up and down your waist, fiddling some with the intricacies—metal daintily clinking and clangoring. “No, there’s something else that’s different...”

You feel so humiliated, so small—as if he could hold you up by the scruff of your neck with ease. It isn’t just a feeling—you’re well aware that he most likely could.

“Why yes, of course…” he hums with delayed realization—you know he’s faking for anticipation, chittering while wrapping his thick arms around your tiny midsection, giving you a firm squeeze. “You’ve lost all muscle.”

It’s a painful truth. You don’t know how many months it’s been. Perhaps a year has passed already, maybe even more. He keeps you well aware of his triumph in the outside world, but time still eludes you.

You’d tried maintaining it in the beginning, even after he’d taken your quirk. You’d been vigilant, keeping up your workout regimens just as religiously as before. But you couldn’t pick what you ate, nor when—and he’d only feed you cake. It wasn’t long before all your hard-earned muscles had melted away like popsicle syrup off the stick, licked and lapped right up by the man holding you.

“Mmh, yes…” he murmurs gratingly while swaying you back against him, lips pressing against your ear. “And it’s left you oh-so-soft.”

His bulbous crotch slots against your upper ass, resting there as it grows fatter and warm—a sign of his enjoyment. The weight of him makes you feel all but paper-thin.

His voice rasps now. “If I were to give you your quirk back, I wager you wouldn’t even be able to use it anymore—it would sooner rip your poor limbs apart.”

It’s beyond cruel to suggest—as if disgracing your old costume wasn’t enough torment already. You bite your lip, gnaw it harshly—don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t let him see you cry.

“Isn’t that just fascinating?” He gives your earlobe a gentle bite, and the whimper in your throat springs free like prey out of hiding.

A sniffle shortly followed—along the dribble of the night’s very first tears. Your diminished spirit has made you all too prone to cry as if there’s nothing else for you to do but indulge in the small comfort it gives.

“Oh, sweetie—don’t weep over prowess long since lost. It was never enough to challenge me anyway,” he coos, as if consoling you—swaying your smaller brittle body back against his looming chest, a cage that seemed to swallow you whole.

Steering your jaw, he holds your face still before the mirror, unable to look away as the tears dribble down your sorry cheeks—he smears them further with a kiss.

“The world would chew you up as you are now, fragile like glass.” The grin curling his lips makes you resemble prey caught on a predator’s teeth—you can’t help but shiver at the sight of it. You wish he wouldn’t toy with you like food and just kill you already. “Mark my words, hero—the belly of the beast would not grant you as much comfort as I do.”

His other hand slips down to cup your mound—firmly, with a squeeze that has you curl yourself back against him as he presses two tough fingerpads into your clothed clit, rubbing it tightly enough to make your thighs shake.

“You’re better off like this,” he grunts, snickers at how your weak hands clutch the sleeve of his suit, curling the fabric in your palms until your knuckles whiten—watching the furrow further crease between your cinched brows as you try and bite back your pathetic little sounds even as more tears come tumbling down your swollen cheeks. “Mh, my pretty plaything.”

He makes you continue to look at yourself as he simply slides the panty to the side of your cunt. Encouraging you to place your hands flat against the mirror as he bends you forward, then to step back and stand atop his dress shoes.

“Don’t be shy now,” he makes sure to tell you. “You’re as light and negligible as a feather.”

He parts his feet and yours along with them, spreading your thighs enough to accommodate the fat heat he soon slides between them. Rigid and veiny, it competes with the size of your forearm—so thick that when he slaps it up against your slit, your knees buckle from the impact.

His chuckles rumble across your body like an earthquake. You only realize how much it makes you shake when he encloses your hip in his big hand, steadying you. Holding you still as he drags his engorged cockhead through your lips, catching your clit before resting on your entrance.

You’re so sore from prior nights—countless hours locked in this room with his visits the only thing keeping you company—everything has yet to forgive you for the wreckage those visits leave behind. Your sorry little puss rues and dreads another defeat now as he sinks inside the comfort of your battered walls, one unyielding inch at a time. 

You wince and tense, shoulders bracing, and yet he pushes deeper, sliding you down his shaft until you rest at the hilt of his base, kneading the tip into your gummy womb, giving it a deep kiss that bulges out from your poor belly.

The sight in the mirror is morbid, even more so than the feeling—the way he molds your insides to fit him, to cater and house his length and size. 

“Ah—just perfect, isn’t it, hero?” he purrs, chest resting heavily upon your spine while dwarfing both your hips in a firm grip, chin-stubble scraping along your neck as his voice comes out hot against your ear, “Obedience suits you so well, don’t you agree?”

Your knees buckle once he starts the heavy pace—slowly pounding into you from behind, dragging out and pushing deep in womb-robbing thrusts. You pant from the toll of it, feeling your muscles give—too tired and too broken to continue acting tough. He’s the only reason you’re left upright on your feet—keeping you standing with just his hold on your haunches. It seems like nothing to him, though it feels like the weight of the world to you.

“It’s only a shame it had to come with all these scars.” He clicks his tongue, eyes raking across your body as it takes him, resting on each mark disrupting the otherwise milk-smooth skin. “If only you’d accepted your place sooner.”

The ember burning within you is all but a piece of cooling charcoal now. You feel it diminish every day, leaving you even thinner than before.

“But then again, I quite enjoy you like this—littered with my battle scars from your toes up to your crown. It’s rather intimate, isn’t it?” he hums with a smile. “Proof of all the times I could’ve quashed you beneath my foot like a pitiful bug but decided to spare you. Teach you how to worship like the weak ought to.”

There was a time when you still humored the thought of killing him, even with your quirk taken from you. You thought, in your foolishness, that being this close to him must garner an opportunity, any, however slim, just enough for you to take advantage and finish what you vowed to end so long ago.

Now, you almost don’t care anymore. The world had moved on without you, and there was nothing more you could do about it.

You realize your promise had been as cheap as this outfit.

“The greater the fall, the sweeter the surrender, isn’t that right?” he states. “Doesn’t it feel good to finally accept your place in the world, hero?”

You can only nod your head and agree.

♡ BOKU NO HERO ACADEMIA masterlist

[gtgbabie0]

i love how you write lottie sm shes so soft babie gf :( may i rq smth where r decides to prank her by calling her charlotte instead of lottie or some pet name to see how'd she react cus shes so whipped and puppy like that she'd immediate pout n wonder what she did wronh (fluff n established relationship !!) <3

{Calling Lottie ‘Charlotte’ as a prank}

Thank you anon! Soft Lottie for the win always <3

Lottie was utterly head over heels in love with you, in every sense of the meaning— like her heart skips several beats when your hand even slightly brushes against her own like she could just admire you for hours upon hours without getting bored type of whipped. You’ve turned her into some lovesick puppy and she had zero complaints.

Especially when she gets to lounge around with you in your tiny dorm room, snuggled up in bed all weekend— her head resting against your chest, wrapped up in one of your jumpers, humming along to the songs that were softly playing through your cassette player whilst it rained heavily outside.

The cassette restarts, replaying the same songs you’ve both already heard for the second time— “Can I change the tape?” Lottie asks, tipping her head backwards to catch your gaze with a soft smile.

“Yeah— of course.” you turn your attention from your book to her, dropping a kiss to her forehead before she sits up. “The box is under the bed, baby.” And you certainly don’t miss the way her eyes light up at the sweet endearment, a subtle blush to her cheeks that dimple into a smile.

She’s always been like that, going all giddy at even the most corniest of nicknames— anything you did turned her to mush if we were being completely honest, but the sickly sweetness of those damned names really did something to her and her hopeless romantic heart. You couldn’t help but wonder how she’d react if you were to call her by her full name. Oh, how absolutely evil of you.

You watch her as she sits criss-cross rummaging through the box of old cassette tapes, no longer interested in the book that was now lying on your lap— the bookmark that Lottie had made for Valentine’s Day last year you now neatly slotted into the page. Your poor girlfriend was completely oblivious to the devious thoughts that crept into your mind, too focused on rummaging through all your tapes to notice that smirk that meant nothing but trouble.

“You found one yet Charlotte?— pretty sure I’ve heard this song for the fifth time today.” You ask, fighting against the sudden urge to giggle as her head turns to face you.

The look on her face was downright devastating, big dark eyes melting, her lips turned downwards into a confused pout, brows pinched together slightly. Just like a damn puppy, you swear if she had ears they’d be all droopy in sadness. You felt awful for enjoying it so much.

Lottie doesn’t say anything but her lips part as if she wanted to— words at the tip of her tongue but far too stunned to actually form them. “What’s the look for?” You have the gall to ask as if you haven’t just completely broken her damn heart!

She doesn’t like it all, there was something so oddly wrong about the way her full name sounded coming from your mouth— not even ‘Lottie’ or ‘Lott’ but ‘Charlotte’ it was horrible. She immediately abandons the box of cassettes to shuffle closer to you, still wearing that adorable pout on her face.

“You okay, Charlotte?”

She's all too quick to respond, frown deepening. “Why’re you calling me Charlotte— you never call me that.”

Her fingers brush against your palm as if trying to make sure you were angry at her and when you don’t pull away it soothes her worries if only slightly because her deep brown eyes are still roaming across your face— studying you almost with a small tilt of her head.

“Did I do something?” Her words damn near break your heart and before you can apologise she’s whispering a small apology.

“Oh no, hey— hey, m’just being dumb.” You reassure, pushing yourself to sit up before curling your arms around her shoulders and she’s quick to melt against you— pressing her face into the crook of your neck with a sigh, relief flooding her as her fingers clutch at your shirt. “Just messing with you baby.”

You could feel her pout deepen against your neck, lips pursing out as her finger jabs into your side lightly with a small huff— “You’re the worst.” She murmurs, not lifting her head up from your shoulder. “Seriously. Don’t do that again, idiot.”

You turn to press a kiss to her cheek, then another and another until she’s nuzzling into you with a small smirk— arms wrapping around you a little tighter. “Alright. Okay, m’sorry— you just look so pretty when you pout, baby.” You tease, lips brushing against the soft curve of her jaw as you speak which only makes her dissolve further into you, your hand rubs her back as her own dips beneath the fabric of your shirt to caress over your waist.

Lottie pulls back, scrunching her face up even more before dropping her forehead against your own with a soft chuckle— her lips brushing a feather-light kiss to yours, her soft hands coming up to cup your face.

“Well don’t make a habit of it, you’re not allowed to call me Charlotte. Ever again.” She whispers against your lips, nose nestled into yours with a soft grin— stealing your words with a kiss.

[thebearer]

love me tomorrow |carmen berzatto x reader| part three

prompt: after time apart, you and carmen meet up for the first time since the fight.

or part three and the final part of the devastation fic (spoiler- the resolution haha). part one and part two can be found here :)

contains: angst. hurt with comfort (finally lol). mentions of mean!carmen, past fighting. past trauma, family trauma. carmen's been to therapy (yay). language. mom!reader x dad!carmen. fluff at the end, i had to make it a little funny and end on a light note bc it felt so heavy lol. word count- 4.7k+

“He’s here,” Sugar announced, the chime of a doorbell following nearly cinematically. 

Your shoulders tightened, stomach twisting with an ache of nerves you tried to swallow. You were so nervous- why were you so nervous? He’d fucked up, not you. He was here to grovel and beg for forgiveness, not you. Still, you felt your hairline prick with heat, hands clammy when you heard the door opening downstairs. 

“Okay,” You tried to steady your voice, exhaling slowly out of your nose. “I’m almost done.” 

Sugar nodded, not leaving, keeping her post behind you. “You know you don’t have to do this.” Sugar looked at you through the mirror, arms folded over her chest, watching you carefully for a sign- anything that would give her a red flag, make her call this off. 

“I know,” You swallowed your buzzing nerves, jittery in the pit of your belly. 

“I’ll tell him to go away. You give me the word, and I’ll kick him out.” Sugar stood, pushing off the door frame and walking towards you. “Seriously. One wrong word, wrong look, anything, he’s gone. Say the word.” 

You gave a small smile. “I think I’ll be alright, but thank you.” You muttered, looking down at your bare ring finger. You still found yourself reaching for your ring, heart spiking in a panic when you’d see it was gone, only to sink when you remembered why- why you left it. 

“I feel like it’s time.” You admitted, trying to convince yourself more than Natalie. You were still unsure, so jarred and hurt by the last time you’d spoken to Carmen. The things he’d said, how he’d hurt you. “I think we have to figure something out.”

“You don’t have to do anything.” Sugar gave you a pointed look. “Trust me, if this was me, Pete would never live that down- never. He’d be at my mercy for the rest of his life, if I even let him back into it.” 

You knew Natalie wasn’t joking, that she would do just as she said, but that was also easy for her to say; when Pete could not fathom ever thinking those things about her, let alone saying them to her. Sometimes you wished Carmen could be softer, a little more like Pete in that way. 

“He’s been going to therapy,” Richie’s voice played in your mind. “He’s, uh, he’s doin’ good. Tryna get better for you, for both of you. He loves you, you know that, sweetheart. He’s just… He’s fucked up, y’know? We all are a little, but he’s workin’ on it.” 

You hoped that was true. For your marriage, for your baby. Sugar and Pete had been taking Teddy to see Carmen. You couldn't bring yourself to see him yet, but depriving him of Teddy felt cruel and inhumane. 

Downstairs, you could hear her gurgling, Carmen’s soft tone greeting her in hushed excitement. It soothed you, even for just a moment, it felt familiar- felt like home. What you’d missed so badly, what you longed for to have again. 

“Uncle Carm, why haven’t you been staying here too?” MJ’s tiny squeak of a voice rang up the stairs, greeting you as you quietly crept down them. 

“MJ,” Pete muttered, shaking his head gently. “C’mon, bud, you know Uncle Carm’s been on a business trip.” 

“Right, yeah.” Carmen nodded, his hand patting Teddy’s back gently, soothing her and him. Just feeling the weight of her back on his chest, it put him at ease. She was bigger now, longer than he remembered, but he tried not to think about that, nose pressing into her soft tufts of hair. 

MJ saw you first, his face falling into a pout. “Aw, does that mean you’re going home?” He whined, looking at you then back at Carmen. “Are you takin’ Anchovy and Teddy?” 

Anchovy skittered towards you, running up the stairs at the mention of his name. He’d been a trooper with MJ and Maggie, both kids enamored with the cat who was less than impressed with them. 

Carmen stiffened at the sight of you, spine rigid, heart skipping and falling in his chest. There was a pause of awkward uncertainty, neither of you sure what to say. “If you’re good,” Sugar stepped in. “Maybe your aunt and uncle will let you play with them a little longer while they go out.” She looked at you, shrugging gently at the suggestion. 

You looked at Carmen, eyes meeting him in a brief, unsure gaze, before nodding. “Yeah, that would be- that would be great, MJ.” You gave a soft smile to the boy. 

Carmen stood, passing Teddy off to Sugar with a quiet muttering of thanks. He met you in the doorway, hand reaching for yours, but stopping himself, pulling back hesitantly. Instead, he held the door open, letting you pass by him first. 

The car smelled like a mix of cleaning supply, masked with car fresheners he’d stuck in the vents. He’d been smoking, more than usual, you were sure of it. He’d gotten down to one a day after Teddy was born, paranoid that he’d give her asthma or a rash or something worse. 

“Um,” Carmen hesitated, his voice shaking in a way that he hadn’t since your first date. “I was… I was thinkin’ we could go somewhere t-to talk?” Carmen’s gaze met yours, lips pressing together, swallowing around the lump in his throat. 

You nodded, your hands clasped in your lap, both of you too rigid, too uncomfortable. “Yeah, that’s a good idea.” You looked down at your nails. “We could go get coffee? Go to the one by the restaurant.” 

Carmen’s heart burned with a dull ache. The coffee shop a block from The Bear had been a staple in your relationship. When you’d first moved in together, to the shitty downtown apartment to be closer to the restaurant, Carmen would go every Sunday. Sometimes he’d pick up, other times you’d come with him, sit in the corner seat side by side in a booth- like the couples you used to roll your eyes at, lovesick. 

Someone was already sitting in that booth when you got there, so you settled for a small two seater in the back, secluded and empty. Carmen brought you your coffee without asking, he knew the order by heart now, etched into his mind permanently. 

“Thank you,” You muttered, accepting the paper cup, your eyes not meeting his, but your hands brushing. You didn’t pull away this time. 

Carmen sat across from you, a dread filled silence falling thick between the two of you. His knee bouncing under the table. “I, uh, I wanna talk first if-if that’s good with you.” Carmen’s eyes lifted under his ball cap, pulled low on his head, curls peaking out. 

You nodded, twisting the paper cup around on the table, too nervous to drink it. Carmen took a breath, trying to calm his racing mind. “Take a deep breath before you start. It’s ok to take a second to get your words in order, Carmen. Collect your thoughts.” Dr. Mullins’ words rang through his head. 

“I wanna start by saying that I’m sorry.” Carmen looked at you when he said it, eyes rounding in a pathetically sweet way. “I-I’m sorry and I…I didn’t mean anything I said. I would never- It wasn’t you.” 

You looked down at the table, the familiar heat burning in your nose and throat, a threat of tears already. “Hey,” Carmen said firmly, leaning forward. “C’mon, look at me. Please?” You look at him hesitantly, jaw clenching, trying to keep yourself from crying. 

Carmen held your gaze, his lips pressing together in a tight line to keep his own emotions in. “It wasn’t you.” His gaze was intense but soft all at once, holding yours. “It… It was all me. All of it. I-I was overwhelmed, I was stressed, I fucked up, a-and-” Carmen’s voice cracked, breaking at the end, his hand running over his face to try and calm himself. 

You felt your own eyes well with tears, chin ducking closer into yourself, leaning towards him. You wanted to reach out, to grab his hand that rested on the table, squeeze it in comfort like you always did. Instead, you looked at him, waiting for him to continue. 

“And I shouldn’t have said any of that shit because-because none of it was true.” Carmen continued, his voice strained. 

“So why’d you say it then?” You surprised yourself with the firmness in your tone, edging on a snap. 

Carmen blinked, surprised but not entirely shocked. His knee bounced faster and faster under the table. He took a second, holding his breath before exhaling, trying to keep the growing tightness in his chest to a minimum. 

“I was stressed. I was tired. I-I was overwhelmed, and… and I was an asshole.” Carmen admitted, but you still didn’t seem convinced. You knew him better than anyone, better than Dr. Mullins, better than even Fak or Richie or Sugar. 

“I… I was hurting. I was hurting an-and I was so fuckin’ angry. I don’t-I don’t even know why I was so angry.” Carmen admitted, nodding slowly, eyes flickering from your gaze to his hands nervously. “I just… I think I wanted someone to hurt like I was hurting. I just, I don’t know, I wanted someone else to feel like I was, an-and I should have- it was fuckin’ stupid, an-and selfish, and…” 

Your eyes were glassy with tears you tried to hide, blinking a tear that fell down your cheek, wiping it quickly. Carmen’s chest ached, burned with hurt at the sight of you. 

“And I’ve never regretted anything more in my life.” He looked at you sincerely. “I-I-I never said anything more untrue and fuckin’ stupid in my life.” 

“You…” You took a breath, your voice shaking with emotions. “You really hurt my feelings, Carmen.” You admitted looking at him. He nodded, jaw flexing, neck blossoming with splotches of emotion. 

“I just don’t really understand how-how you didn’t mean to say those things. I mean, clearly you-you’ve thought that before.” Your voice lifted higher and higher, climbing with a cry that threatened to break. “I know you’re saying you didn’t mean those things, and I get that, but my problem is you’ve thought them before-” 

“-No, no, I swear-” 

“-You have, Carmen. Clearly you have. You wouldn’t- You didn’t just come up with that shit out of nowhere.” Your voice was beginning to climb, trying to level it out in the cafe, keeping your composure. You took a breath, pinching the bridge of your nose, pad of your thumb swiping the corner of your eye to catch a stray tear. “Just… Just don’t lie to me.” 

Carmen pressed his hands together, trying hard to remember his breathing while his mind was racing. Sugar was right, it was uncomfortable, worse than he could have imagined. 

“You’re right,” Carmen admitted with a nod. There was no point in lying, not to you, you always knew better, knew him better. “I-I did, but not-not like that. Not,” Carmen’s breath hitched, chest tight with a wave of anxiety. 

“You know wh-when I was at the restaurant, and I… I would be ready to rip my fuckin’ hair out. Everything was just goin’ to shit, o-or we’d realize there was a critic on the books, or I’d forgot to order some shit, I’d be going fuckin’ crazy, ya know?” Carmen rambled, words spilling out in tumbles of jumbled truth.

 “I’d go to my office for a second, just to-just to take a fuckin’ breath, and… and I’d check my phone and I’d see a text from you.” His heart swelled at the memory. You’d text him updates through the day, knowing he’d seen him when he could. Baby Teddy in her crib, Anchovy in the bassinet, her outfit for the day, nap time- all the moments he missed at work because you wanted him to see. You had considered him. Carmen missed it more than words could describe the past days, checking his phone out of habit, hoping to see a little OOTD with a smiley face and a wrinkly baby Teddy attached- instead, he saw nothing. 

“I’d just… I don’t know. I was sittin’ there, just fuckin’ stressed o-or angry, and then I’d see that and I-I’d feel,” Carmen paused. Gather your thoughts, gather your thoughts. 

“I felt… I just felt weird about it?” Carmen’s brows pinched together, looking at you for help, unsure. Your face fell, his heart lurching with fear. 

“No, no, no, no. Not-Not like that. I- fuck, that’s not what- I love the pictures. Love them. I-I- They’re the only things that get me through the day, it-it’s not that-” Carmen stuttered out, head dropping into his hands in defeat. Way to go, Berzatto. 

“Felt weird?” You repeated, calm, your way of soothing him. Keeping your voice even, steady without any tones he could read into and spiral. It was second nature at this point. “Weird how?” 

“It made me feel like… like I was, I was missin’ out.” Carmen admitted, eyes shining bright and a little wide like they always did when he’d finally admit something. Wide eyed, scared, almost, like he shouldn’t have told the truth. 

“I felt like, I’m at work, an-and you were at home with Teddy, and…and I felt like I was bein’ a shitty dad. Like I was there too much, an-and I’d miss out on her, and then I’d miss you, I’d just…” Carmen threw his hands out lightly, cheeks puffing with a slow, shaky exhale. 

“I was jealous, maybe? Ma-Maybe that’s the word, but I just… I didn’t want to be there, and I know,” He lifted his voice before you could begin to speak. “I know I’m th-the boss, and-and I get that. And it’s not- it’s not your fault. It’s not your fault you’re home- I’m glad you’re home, I am, because you’re doin’ so much. You are, an-and I know that, I know. You’re-You’re doin’ the most important job in the fuckin’ world, I mean, you’re keepin’ ou-our baby alive.” 

Carmen laughed humorlessly, a scoff that turned into a sniffle, shaking his head. You sat quietly, listening to his words, taking them in with a slow nod. Carmen looked at you, trying to read you, taking in your expressions. Your shoulders less tense, tired, face neutral but he saw the way your lips twitched, holding back a cry. 

“Just sometimes when-when I’d be in the shit, I’d just want to be home.” Carmen admitted. “I’d want to be home, but… but I knew I couldn’t be. I knew I had to-to take care of things, take care of you an-and Teddy, and I don’t- fuck, I don’t mean it like a bad thing. I like doing it, I mean obviously I fuckin’ do, it’s just- it-it’s a lot sometimes and I get-” 

“-Carm,” You cut off his ramblings, reaching across the table, your hand sliding over the top of his, squeezing it gently. 

Carmen thought his lungs might have given out, his heart too, looking down at your hand in awe. Bolts of electricity shot through his body, tingling at his skin that touched yours with excitement. He’d missed this, missed your touch, missed you. It felt surreal, sitting here, feeling you, seeing you. 

“I’m sorry.” Carmen whispered, turning his hand to hold yours. Hands clammy, fingernails bitten to the quick. His fingers intertwined in yours, holding your hand so tightly your fingers tingles. He held your hand like he was scared to let go, like if he did he might never get to hold your hand again. 

“I’m sorry. It-It wasn’t fair. It..It’s not fair.” Carmen squeezed your hand, shaking his head lightly. “You didn’t… I don’t know how to say how much you mean to me.” Carmen looked at you, eyes glassy, red rimmed with tears that gathered at his water line. 

“I, uh, I-I tried to- Well, Richie’s thera- my therapist told me to, uh, to try an-and write out what I wanted to say to you. Take time and reflect and give it to you, but I, uh, I was up all night because I kept starting over.” Carmen rambled on. 

“Everything I was tryna write it just… it didn’t feel like enough. It didn’t do you justice.” Carmen looked up at you, thumb brushing over your knuckle gently. “I felt like it just wasn’t enough. They’re aren’t any words to describe you. To…To describe what you mean to me, an-and how much I love you.” 

You swallowed back a sob, looking into his eyes. An intensity you hadn’t seen since he said his vows, maybe more now. “I-I love you so much, and… and I don’t deserve you. I don’t fucking deserve you.” Carmen choked out, a sob slipping out between his confessions. 

“I-I’m a fuckin’ loser, an-and a psycho, and I-I’m a shitty dad and husband…And I-I’m fucked up, and you-you chose to love me anyways. An-And to marry me, and have a kid with me- start a family with me. And what do I do? I fuck it up, and I don’t deserve you. I never have, an-and I never will.” Carmen rambled, tears sliding down his cheeks freely, leaning towards you, shoulders stuttering with a choking of tears.

“Don’t say that.” You sniffle, shaking your head. “Don’t say that-” 

“-No, it’s true, it’s fuckin’ true-” 

“-No, it isn’t. Carmen, don’t say that.” You reach your free hand out, cupping his cheek across the table, thumb swiping over his cheek, wiping away a stray tear. You held him, feeling the heat in his cheeks, he turned into your touch, breath slowing. 

“You’re not a loser. You’re not a psycho. You’re not a bad dad, or-or a bad husband either.” You leaned forwards, closing in the gap between the two of you, the edge of the table digging into your stomach. “You made a mistake-” 

“-No, that’s-that’s- it’s worse than that. It’s so much fuckin’ worse than that. Don’t-” 

“-You made a mistake.” You said, firmer this time, cradling his cheek in your hand. 

Carmen took a breath, squeezing your hand in his, sniffing deep to keep his tears in. “I don’t… I don’t want to be like my parents.” He whispered, eyes rounding in a scared way. “I-I don’t want to fuck up you o-or Teddy or… I just don’t wanna end up like them. I wanna be different.” 

“You’re not gonna end up like them.” You shook your head softly. 

“No, I-I was actin’ just like them.” Carmen muttered. “Yellin’ at you a-and actin’ like a complete fuckin’ lunatic. Just like them, an-and I don’t wanna live like that.” 

“You won’t.” You reassured him gently, whispering across the table. He shook his head in protest. “Carm, listen to me. You’re… You’re not like them, ok?” 

You could feel Carmen start to shake, a trembling through his system that was a tell-tale sign of a panic attack. Your eyes scanned over the restaurant, filling up with the mid-afternoon rush. “Come on,” You nodded towards the door, pushing your chair back, hand still in his. “Let’s get some air.” 

Carmen didn’t argue, he wouldn’t- couldn’t even if he wanted to. Your hand in his, squeezing his gently, pulling him towards the car. Carmen pulled the keys out with shaky hands, unlocking the door. He reached for the passenger door, but you pulled the back door open instead, surprising him when you slipped in the backseat, nodding at him to follow you. You squeezed into the middle, Teddy’s car seat pressed to your back, Carmen pressed into your side, shutting the door.

“You’re not like them.” You broke the silence, turning yourself towards him. “You’re not.” 

Carmen leaned his head back against the seat, tears leaking out of his eyes. “You-You don’t have to do this, say that.” He shook his head. “I don’t deserve it.” 

“Carmen, you’re not like your parents.” You reached for his hand again. “The fact that you’re scared to be like them, scared and trying to stop it, that shows me you’re not like them.” 

Carmen’s chest stuttered, a hissing of a cry leaving his lungs. “You made a mistake.” You swallowed, your own heart aching. “But… But that doesn’t mean you’re as a whole a bad person. It just means you made a mistake, and if you learn from it and become better, then it’s ok. It’s a lesson learned.” 

Carmen nodded, eyes squeezing shut, tight like he was trying to keep everything in. “I just…I really fucking miss you.” Carmen admitted through a wobbly voice, eyes still closed. “I-I really miss you, and… and I want you to come home.” 

You shook your head, tears sliding down your cheeks. “I miss you too.” You whispered, squeezing his hand. “I missed you so much.” 

Carmen turned, arms wrapping around your body, pulling you tightly into him. His nose pressed into the top of your head, breathing in detergent that didn’t smell like what you used at home, shampoo, too. You held onto him, fingers digging into his shoulders, pushing him further and further into you until it felt like your bodies were meshing together, fusing into one. 

Whispered apologies shared through teary, wet sniffles filled the space. Carmen’s nose rubbing against yours, hesitating before he kissed you. You pulled him into you, finally soothing the aching longing that had built in your chest, your lips catching his, the two of you staying unmoving, wanting to feel the other. Clinging to each other, hands grabbing, lips parting, Carmen pressing you against the car seat, hand cradled on the back of your head. 

“I-I understand if you still don’t wanna come home.” Carmen muttered, breath hot over your cheek, nose rubbing against your skin. “But I really fuckin’ miss you.” 

“I miss you too.” You muttered, lips buzzing against his neck, tears hot and trickling onto the collar of his t-shirt. “I-I want to come home.” 

“A-Are you sure?” Carmen’s eyes lit up with hope, though he tried to hide it, the way he always did; too scared to let him get too excited, too hopeful because he always feared it would end. 

“Yeah,” You whispered, nodding gently, balling the back of his shirt between your fingers. 

“Yeah?” Carmen repeated, lips pressing together to keep his cry in, a different one this time. One of relief. For the first time in days, he felt like he could breathe, like his lungs weren’t constricting and on the brink of collapse. His mind didn’t race and cloud with delirious confusion. No, here and now, holding you, Carmen had clarity. 

The both of you stayed in the back of the car, holding the other, chest to chest until your heartbeat became the same, steady rhythm, matching the others. 

Carmen held your hand on the drive back, pressing wet kisses to your knuckles, trying to wipe his eyes of any tears. “Can’t let Pete see me cryin’ again.” He muttered. “That was a new fuckin’ low.” You had giggled softly, enough to have his heart fluttering. He’d never admit it out loud, not now, anyways, that he was thankful for Pete. How he’d taken care of you, of Teddy, of Anchovy. He’d stuck up for you, even if it was against Carmen, and that meant the world to Carmen. 

Pulling into Sugar and Pete’s house, Carmen shoved the gear shift into park, his hand still in yours, both of you sitting in each other's company for a minute longer. Just a little bit longer the two of you, before you had to face the others. 

“Oh, uh, one more thing.” Carmen’s thumb ran over your knuckles before he let go of your hand for a moment, raising up in the seat to dig into the front pocket of his jeans. 

“I, uh, I brought your rings back.” Carmen’s voice dropped, a shake in his words that matched the shake in his hands, pinching your wedding band and ring in between his fingers. 

You swallowed at the sight, Carmen holding the ring between his fingers, it took you back to years before when he’d proposed. Nearly as nervous as he was now, just as shaky, but for a different reason. 

“You don’t have to put them on or anything. I don’t- I’m not tryna make you do that, it’s your choice, obviously. I just,” Carmen took a breath, looking at you. “I thought you might want them back.” 

You paused for a moment, looking at the rings, the sting of the last time you saw them still burning and aching in your chest, but this time, it wasn’t as crushing. It was more of a dull ache, a tiredness that came with it instead of devastation. 

Reaching out, your fingertips tickled his palms, gathering the two rings in your hand. You looked at them, turning them over in your hands. “Thank you,” You mumbled, looking up at Carmen. He swallowed, giving a nod, trying to mask the hurt that you hadn’t put them back on- you didn’t miss it. 

“Do-” Your voice caught in your throat. “Will you put them back on?” You blinked at him, wide eyed, asking so sweet, Carmen thought his heart might give out entirely. 

You held the rings out towards him. “Will you put them back on for me? Please?” 

Carmen didn’t deserve you. The notion rang loud over and over in his head again, throat burning, welling up with tears. He didn’t deserve you. You were too good, too fuckin’ good for him. 

His hands trembled, holding yours and slipping the rings back onto your ring finger, back to their rightful place. Carmen twisted them, a deep breath of a sob that was threatening to break filling the space. His fingers intertwined with yours, free hand cupping your jaw, pulling you into a kiss over the console. 

Sugar looked out the window, peeking through the blinds. “What’re they doin’ out there?” Pete whispered behind her, like the two of you might hear them. “Do they look happy? Sad? You don’t think it went bad, do you? I mean, Carmen can be-” 

“-Pete,” Sugar snapped with a soft huff. “Look for yourself.” She moved, biting back a small grin. 

Pete slid in her place, pushing the blinds apart, sneakily looking out the side of them. He could see the two of you in the car, Carmen’s hands on the back of your head, holding you while you leaned across the console in a deep, passionate kiss. 

“Well, lookie there.” Pete grinned, letting the blinds fall. “I guess there was a happy ending after all.” 

Sugar rolled her eyes, lips twitching in a small smile. “He still has a lot to make up for. I hope she didn’t let him off the hook too easily.” She grumbled, crossing her arms. “But I am glad they made up. I would kill Carmen if he fucked things up with my favorite sister-in-law.” 

Pete let out a small laugh, looking out the window again. “The kids are gonna miss Teddy and Anchovy when they go back. MJ’s gonna be devastated they’re taking them.” Pete muttered, Sugar nodded. 

Pete paused for a moment, looking behind him with a soft frown. “Y’know, this is gonna sound crazy, Nat, but I’ll be kinda glad when Anchovy is gone.” Pete admitted in a hushed tone, like Anchovy might hear him. 

Sugar snorted lightly. “Yeah. Except MJ and Maggie will be begging for a cat of their own. They’ve already started and I told them-” 

“-No, I mean,” Pete turned, watching the orange cat slink around at the top of the stairs, Anchovy glaring down at Pete before disappearing to the guest room. “I don’t think that cat likes me.”