#i love him so much and have so many thoughts about him

[saturngas]

hiding his wedding ring

[🪐] you hide your husband´s wedding ring just for fun. (heyy guysss, thank you so much for the support on my last posts!! im so glad you guys like them. and im working on the second part of the tinder fake profile like someone suggested :])

pairing: gojo satoru x f!reader

genre: sfw

warnings: established relationship; lots of fluff; I wanted this to be a crack fic but I ended up breaking down gojo's character; first 900 words of me rambling about gojo's role in the jujutsu world; end is very soft; you comforting satoru without using words; reader wears a bra;

word count: 2k

..

dark shades were still painting the city as the sun wasn't ready to rise and warm the breezy winter morning. you stirred in your sleep until you woke up. heavy arms belonging to your lovely husband were enveloping your smaller form. you breathed at the natural aroma of satoru next to you, vanilla from his body wash and subtle sandalwood from his expensive shampoo.

the stinging feeling of a full bladder started bothering you, giving up the chances to go back to sleep. you moved softly as to not wake up the tall lanky man behind you. satoru always had a bad time whenever you would leave the bed, whining like a child because you "took off all the happiness from his life." he was an expert to make you sigh and then giggle at his dramatics.

satoru could feel you moving though. his muscular forearms encapsulated you in a tight grip and his legs encircled yours. his over-180-pound weight did nothing to help you, however your chances of ruining the bedsheets with fresh pee were only increasing.

"satoru, come on~" you whined under your breath, inaudible to the knocked out man. after many shuffling and unnecessary force—because this could have been avoided if satoru wasn't as clingy—, your body was free. as you rose up to your feet, a cold breeze caressed your exposed skin.

after you finished your business in the bathroom, you sat on your shared bed with your husband again. you observed satoru closely. his pretty face was scrunched in a slight frown—probably from feeling your empty space—, his long white eyelashes were barely touching his high cheekbones and his soft and rosy lips were partially parted, letting out quiet snores.

he truly was a masterpiece. and to believe this beautiful man and strong sorcerer was your partner for life. this man who simply loves everyone and is kind at heart, his extravagant and loud personality playing a major role on other people's opinion on him.

but I love you just as you are, satoru... you thought with a light tug at your heart. satoru was a very sweet man, worrying and caring the most about you and his precious students, wanting to change the corrupted society you two work in. he deserved all the love from the world. from this world who would only see him as the strongest sorcerer but not as the human being satoru gojo was.

almost nobody would follow his travesties, share an agreement with him, or even laugh at his jokes. you could count the people who would do all that using just one hand: suguru, yuta, yuji, and well, you. there's a reason satoru proposed to you. of course he found you breathtakingly beautiful—his jaw would drop to the floor dramatically whenever you would wear a new attire he would bought you—, and your personality just complemented his, but you would also crack a smile or a laugh whenever he made a witty comment, you would partner up with his pranks, and you would be there too whenever he would get called out from his unprofessional behavior.

it was 4:25am and maybe you were thinking too much. you smiled sweetly once you caught a glimpse of the shiny band adorning his ring finger, his hand on his rising chest. a sudden wave of excitement rushed through your entire body. you felt funny. and maybe, just maybe, you wanted to make this morning a bit different, only to not make your lives monotone.

your hand reached out to his. the moment your skin touched his, your husband stirred—almost spasmed—in this sleep. of course he would have such a reaction to something so simply, he was just extra. you figured you'd have to be in your original position for him to not notice.

as you adjusted yourself back on the bed, next to him, satoru's long limbs recognized yours and got into a tangled mess with yours. his toned arms hugging you tightly, his palms caressing your back and lower back. you were chest to chest with him, well, almost, as the white haired man was almost on top of you.

"mmm, baby..." you heard him muttered while he adjusted his body to keep pressing onto you. rosy lips of his stroking your forehead, where you could feel his small breaths. his arm losing his grip a bit as his body relaxed again. you took this as an opportunity to grasp his large hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. satoru's throat did a nose, one mocking that of a moan.

was he getting hard from holding hands? you thought, but you didn't actually want to test your hypothesis right now. giggling silently as you remembered satoru did get hard from holding hands and being too close with you when he was a teen.

the cold ring brushed against your finger. you moved very slowly your hand as you drew it away gently, taking his ring with you. when the expensive little object was finally in your hold, his hand fell heavy on your waist. satoru unconsciously wasted no time to hug your waist. he did it so softly and gently and slowly that it sent a bunch of shivers down your spine, your body getting even closer to his.

once you had the ring, you actually didn't know where to hide it. under your pillow? you know that's the first place he's looking at. in a drawer? he'll find it eventually. inside a box? you couldn't even move your neck, how were you supposed to walk all the way to find a box to hide the ring?

so you put it in your bra.

you just had to make sure satoru wasn't feeling like it first thing in the morning.

"baby, baby, sweet cheeks," a pair of big hands were grabbing gently your shoulders as you were being lightly shaken. "baby, please wake up, this is an emergency!" satoru concerned voice got you restless, making you aware of your surroundings.

"satoru what's going on..." your voice lingered with slumber.

"baby, please don't be mad at me," his big blue eyes looked at you with panic and distress. he gave a chaste kiss on each or your cheeks, then his bottom lip jutted out forming a big pout. "but I lost my ring. I mean, I didn't lost it, well I did, but I just can't find it. you know I always sleep with it, so it probably slipped off my finger during the night but that's weird 'cause that has never happened, not even when we have sex and we—"

satoru kept talking, explaining with exasperation his situation so you wouldn't get mad. oh poor boy. for him, that ring represents the materialized love you two have for each other; the day you both said your I do's in the aisle takes form on a pair of circular bands; a piece of jewelry that shouts that you are his and that he is yours, being a loud announcement for any foreigner who dares to come to claim any of you.

"babyyy," he whined out your name. you weren't paying attention to him! "im so sorry I lost it, but please help me find it." he begged. as soon as he finished his sentence, he flipped off the bed, hading to the hallway probably to start searching in the entire house.

you sighed a bit. perhaps this wasn't a good idea. you certainly didn't think satoru would notice that quickly. he probably woke up and immediately noticed the empty space on his long finger and went frantic. now he woke you up at 7am on your day off.

I need to start thinking thoroughly these pranks...

"y/n!!" you heard your husband yell your name from down the hallway. "come help me!" he sounded agitated.

you got off the bed and threw one of the tall man's hoodie over your head. it was chilly. as you walked down the hallway, you visualized your husband throwing away each cushion from your couch to the floor, looking for the lost ring. one throw pillow went flying towards you, almost hitting you. his blue eyes were shining. you were certain he was using all six eyes to find it. how come he hadn't looked in your chest?

"satoru, my angel boy," you laughed softly at his state. "sugar boy, baby boy, sweet pie," you used all pet names left in your inventory to catch his attention.

big baby blue eyes met yours in an instant. you body relaxing once he saw you were serene. "hey boy, it is fine, don't worry." you said as softly as possible as you approached him. your right hand going right into his white locks, caressing his scalp. you could feel satoru's breath decelerate, his left hand placing itself on top of yours, engulfing it.

"but my ring..." his voice was quiet.

"don't worry, for real," you let out a hearty laugh, one that made satoru's cheeks burn with love. "I mean you can always buy another one." you teased him.

"yeah I guess I can." soft eyes stared lovingly at you. "Im sorry I lost it. please don't think I want to divorce you."

the chuckle you let out made your face red from the increased blood pressure. "I know, sugar boy."

your sugar boy took your left hand and kissed the expensive ring adorning your finger. his soft lips and apologetic eyes looking directly at you made you want to end this silly prank.

"im so sorry baby," a kiss.

"toru, please stop apologizing, baby."

"i deserve death," another kiss.

"stop."

"i deserve to be placed in prison for losing such important representation of love," two more kisses.

"toru."

"this is the reason why global warming is still a thing."

"okay." you rolled your eyes so hard you were certain your superior oblique muscles were going to cramp. the left hand that satoru was previously kissing went flying to lift the hoodie you wore, your right hand going under your blouse, searching for the ring.

"god baby, I love you lots, did me going insane turned you on?"

your frowned mouth moved up slightly, a smile threatening to play against you.

"no, you dummy." your fingers finally reached for the finger, taking it out of your bra. satoru's eyes widened so much you were sure they hurt a little due to the room light he turned on to look for such object.

"sweet cheeks..." he whined softly under his breath. grabbing the ring from your grasp. "it's so warm, thank you, baby girls." his free hand caressed your underboob. you giggled at his comments.

"im sorry, angel boy. thought it would be funny to prank you." you went back to caress his undercut, feeling him almost purr. "you always play dumb shit with me, guess it was my turn." you winked at him and your husband blowed you a kiss.

"oh girl... you're so naughty, I have so much fun with you." his lips found yours in a second, forcing them into a deep kiss. it was weird satoru would express out loud his emotions. even after years of being together, it was still hard for him to word his feelings, adding to the reason he was very physical with the people he loved—he didn't know how to display his love using words, only touches.

'i have so much fun with you,' you knew the deeper meaning behind those words. he felt alone even with other people. his students, only yuji seemed to enjoy going along with him, adding to whatever entertainment satoru was putting up with.

that was the reason the tall sorcerer loved you so much. you would keep him occupied all the time, it being with your mere presence, when you were all lovey dovey with him, when you would get mad, it being your giggles at his lame jokes, you pulling up pranks at him.

satoru loved you just like he loved his students and coworkers, but of course you were so much more special to him because you could keep up with him. him and the awful personality satoru claimed he had, him and his risky and demanding job, him and his inability to open up. because you could still read him as a book.

that was the reason he went rabid the second he saw his wedding ring was missing, he was afraid his love would vanish too. maybe it was too cheesy, but when it came to you, he recognizes he doesn't think straight.

[lavenderspence]

Cute, Outraged Genius | S.R.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Content warning: fluff, Spencer being a bit of a technophobe

Word Count: 1.5K

Summary: Spencer comes home only to find you using a kindle…cue, outrage

A/N: This is just a cute little story about Spencer being our little technophobe genius. I actually don’t own a kindle, so don’t know how those work or anything, but physical books are in fact superior, so.

The quote at the end is from “Book Lovers” by Emily Henry

You loved his apartment, sometimes more than you loved yours. Being in his space, surrounded by his things - his books, his clothes, the silly art he indulged in. Being drowned by his scent, meters upon meters of space he’d touched, it soothed you like nothing else could.

The peace you felt whenever you were in his space was unparalleled.

You loved his bedroom, the plushness of his bed, his closed, where you found yourself stealing his shirts and cardigans, never giving them back. 

Your favorite place in apartment 23 was his couch, where he found you often enough, when he returned from a case, curled up with a book. You loved the blanket thrown on the back and the windows that allowed for the whole apartment to light up with the sunlight. 

And then there were his bookshelves, in clear view from said couch. Filled with his favorite books, special editions he held close to his heart, or some that brought him knowledge. The shelves, that now also held some of your favorite books too.

Reading, books, was the thing that had brought you together in the first place, so when he’d made space for your clothes in his closet and your toiletries in the bathroom, he’d also made space for your books to sit beside his own. 

He’d insisted it made the place feel less like it was his own, and more like it was shared, even though you weren’t living together. It warmed your heart to know, that he saw his apartment as a home for both of you.

Seeing your books among his own, made you fall even more in love with him because he knew what they meant to you. So much so, he tumbed through a few, leaving sticky notes with his little thoughts between the pages.

As for your first meeting, it was funny.

You’d met a year ago, at a cafe close to his apartment. Stuck in a long queue, waiting for your turn, your nose had been buried into a book, completely oblivious to your surroundings. Spencer had been standing behind you, and like the nosy dork he is, had been reading along with you, over your shoulder.

When he’d pointed out an inaccuracy in the plot, compared to real life, you’d screamed, slamming the book shut, and successfully making a fool of yourself in front of the whole cafe. 

He’d apologized bashfully, and asked to buy your drink for you, and then lingered for a short conversation before he’d been called away on a case. 

In his hurry to get to the FBI on time, he’d forgotten to take your number. Two weeks later, and after a lot of blaming himself for being a dumbass, he’d seen you again, nose buried into another book, sipping a beverage next to the window of the cafe. 

You hadn’t attached puzzling looks this time, and he’d gotten your number. A year later, you couldn’t be more happy for the fact that your boyfriend sometimes didn’t really get social cues.

You smiled, thinking back on that day. 

You focused on your book again, eyes dancing around the page, following with rapt attention. 

Reading was one of the few things that brought you peace, quieted your brain, and improved your mood. 

Sometimes you envied Spencer’s genius, being able to go through War & Peace at breakfast, without batting an eye. Reading, and reading, and still having the time for other things. If, in your lifetime, you could read as many books as Spencer had read thus far in life, you’d be happy. 

You were giggling, kicking your feet, and enjoying your book, when you heard the telltale sign of Spencer arriving home - his key being inserted into the lock. 

You didn’t move your eyes away from the book, having reached a great part of the book. 

The door opened, and in walked your boyfriend, a peep in his step, happy he’d get to see you and spend time with you after 6 days of being away. 

He left his keys in the bowl next to the door, freed himself of his shoes, and set his messenger bag down. 

He walked further in, noticing the vanilla and chocolate scent in the air - you’d followed tradition, baking a small tray of chocolate chip cookies as a welcome for him. 

He stood behind you, draping his hands around your neck, and leaned over to kiss the side of your head gently, finally diverting your attention away from the book. 

“Hello, sweetheart,” he murmured, warm breath tickling your neck next, as he kissed around your ear and pulse point. 

“Hi there, babe.” you were whispering too, finally happy to be in your own bubble. “How are you? How was the case?” you asked, just like you did every time, just like you did every day. You always wanted to know how he was, you wanted to know about his day, and he’d gotten so used to it and had done it so many times for you too, it had become routine, a way to show each other you cared and loved each other. 

“I’m good, a little tired maybe,” he nuzzled your neck, eyes shut in contentment, “The case was tough, but successfully closed at the end,” he rarely elaborated, only if someone was hurt, or the case had taken a toll on his mental health. Other than that, he didn’t like bringing the gory details of the cases home with him. 

Home was his space with you, where you laughed, and sometimes cried. Where you cuddled and made love, read together, or to each other, where you cooked, where you relaxed. It was no place for the realities of a BAU profiler. 

“What are you doing?” it was a simple question. 

“I’m reading,” and there was an even simpler answer, except if you were Spencer Reid, a doctor with three PhDs, three bachelor’s degrees, an FBI agent, and a complete, and utter technophobe. 

You felt him lift his head before he choked out a high-pitched “You’re what?” and you turned around to see him, shock and betrayal written on his face, his eyes as big as saucers. 

You looked at him like he’d grown two heads, but you knew you should have expected this. 

You’d made the decision to get a kindle last week, and you’d used the time he hadn’t been home to set it up and try it out. 

“What are you even reading on that thing? That’s not a book!” he was outraged, but at the same time, he looked so cute, that you started laughing. You brought a hand to your mouth, in hopes of muffling the sound a little because you were losing it, laughing with everything you had. 

“Stop laughing, it’s not funny. I’m serious.” you just laughed harder, even though you tried to reign it in and stop. 

Around a minute later, your laughter started dying down, and you looked up, only to see him with his arms crossed against his chest, an expression between bewilderment, and those deep brown puppy eyes staring straight into your soul.

“It’s a kindle, Spence, it’s all digital,” you told him

“No, I know that, but you can’t be serious,” your brows furrowed, a bit butt hurt, until he continued, “You know, readers prefer physical books. A recent study found that only 21% prefer e-books, as little as 14% audiobooks, and 65% are physical book readers. Another study found that your brain absorbs less when you read on a kindle than on paper.” You laughed again, loving his brain, and then patted the space next to you, waiting for him to sit down.

“I thought you were pro saving the planet Mr. Three PHD’s.” you joked, waiting for him to sass you back. After all, one of your favorite characteristics of his was how sassy he was. 

“Well, yes I am, but statistically, physical copies are superior. A book needs to be physical, not whatever bullshit that is. Come on, let’s just return this, and I’ll buy you all the books you want,” he went to stand up, and you pulled him back down by the back of his shirt. 

“Aww babe, I know you will!” Spencer loved buying some of your books for you, he loved seeing the smile on your face when he bought a book you’ve wanted for a while. You buried your face into his neck, hugging him to you. 

“Come on, let’s cuddle before dinner, get a cookie, and I’ll read to you for a bit, I just reached a good part,” you whisper into his neck, and he exhales, reaching towards the coffee table to get a cookie before you relax into each other, and you pick up the kindle, reading where you left off. 

“We really are two opposing magnets, incapable of being in the same room without drawing together. I want to scrape my fingers through his hair and kiss him until he forgets where we are, and everything and everyone that ever made him feel like he was a disappointment. And he’s looking at me like I could, like there’s an ache in him only I could soothe.” you read, hand running through his hair, happy to have him back.

Reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated!

[sugarypinecones]

a panic challenge is busted and having to avoid the cops with dodge… sneaking you into his bedroom while his mom and sister sleep… giving you a rodeo t-shirt to sleep in… maybe making the first move straight away… or maybe going to bed and then waking up a few hours later tangled together in his bed…

we were jet-set, bonnie and clyde — dodge mason x reader

warnings: SMUT(?) he never actually gets close enough but he gets.. pretty close, like cum in your pants close oops but i can do a pt2 i just kinda got confused and unsure how to really.. like do things idk and i kinda hate it but it took so much time and writing i feel bad if i scrapt it, mentions of reader living in texas obviously, reader has no real desire to win panic, whiny desperate dodge, idrk how to tag its late im tired, dayna interrupts without knowing

a/n: oh i love this actually. like actually love this. like im foaming at the mouth thinking about this actually. title from getaway car by taylor swift also, love u all and ty for the request!! 💐💐 also sucks esp the ending but like idk im down to rewrite the ending if not continue the tangled thing! just lmk if you actually wanted it and dont be afraid to leave other requests.

Living in Carp, Texas meant that there weren’t many fun things to do. You can only drive around an empty parking lot for so long before getting bored. So when the opportunity of playing Panic rises, you rise with it.

And surprisingly, you didn’t immediately get eliminated. In fact — you’ve somehow made it this far, round two, which.. you’re sure you’re going to fall to your death or just entirely not do it. And you were fine with that, truly. You had your fun.

Now it was time to focus on something a little bit more real – your chances of winning the pot were low, especially because of all that stuff last year, and because of Dodge Mason.

If you didn’t know what determination was before that boy, you definitely did now. It was hard not to see him and not see determination, especially after the first challenge. He didn’t have fear in his eyes when he did it, unlike any of the other contestants. He had something else.

You shift on the hood of the beat-up car, sighing as you look over your shoulder for any sign of your friends. It was hard to tell through the sea of people — some juniors who were eager to see the game, some graduates who refused to play, such and such.

Dodge’s eyes roamed over to you, taking in the way you fiddled with the bracelets on your wrists and the tight, nervous expression on your face. He knew what you were thinking — he could see it in your eyes. I don’t belong here.

He watched you look around for your friends and found himself wondering why you were alone. Why weren’t you with them?

He seems to recognize you from the first challenge, and when you meet his gaze, he raises a hand. A small smile follows, and you can’t stop yourself from smiling in return.

Something sparked in Dodge’s chest as your lips curled into a small smile — he hadn’t expected a smile in return. Nor had he expected your eyes to soften at the sight of him, or your cheeks to flush a pretty shade of pink.

Maybe he had more of a chance with you than he thought.

The sight of you smiling in return gives him just enough confidence to walk over, stopping in-front of you. It was slightly unnerving, but it felt nice. Exhilarating, even.

He smirked to himself, shoving his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching out to you — and just like that, his bravado returned.

“So,” he started, turning his head to the side to look down at you as he leaned against the car. “Here to root for me?”

Your gaze tilts to him, and you almost laughed. “No, I’m here to win.”

Dodge raised an eyebrow at your response, a scoff and chuckle of disbelief slipping between his lips. He turned around, leaning his hip against the hood of the car, the smirk never wavering from his face.

“Oh, really?” He said, cocking his head to the side. “You honestly think you stand a chance against me?”

He wasn’t sure where all this confidence was coming from - because if it were anyone else, he would’ve just been nodding along with simple responses by now.

You grin. “I know so.”

He let out a hearty laugh and shook his head.

“I’m serious!” You exclaim, although, you really aren’t. You planned to chicken out the second you got called on that death-trap of a beam, no way in hell are you risking your life just to possibly lose in the end.

“Yeah,” he begun, but you shook your head; letting laughs fall from your lips. “No, not really.” You grin up at him, and he acts surprised; but he kind of had a feeling from the start you wouldn’t actually go through with any of this.

“No? What do you mean, ‘no’?” He asked, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re backing out just like that?”

Your eyes catch on the flex of his muscles as his arms fold over his chest, before flickering back up to his face with a shrug. “I guess—“

You’re cut off by the sound of sirens approaching, closing your eyes as you let out a frustrated exhale. Playing panic was dangerous — watching it, even.

Dodge’s expression quickly turned serious as the sound of sirens filled the air. He immediately turned his head towards the noise, his muscles tense and eyes narrowing.

He quickly looked back over at you, silently cursing how distracted he had become from your presence. He should have been on guard — his focus needed to be on the task at hand, not on some cute girl.

“Cops,” he said lowly, looking back at the police cars approaching.

“Obviously,” you retort, sliding of the hood as you glance over your shoulder. There wasn’t really much places to scatter to, but –

Your train of thought is cut off by his hand on your wrist, pulling you along towards a patch of woods.

Dodge moved fast, tugging on your wrist and pulling you away from the car. He quickly led you towards a patch of woods nearby, trying to put as much distance between you and the cops before they got out of their cars.

He kept his grip on your hand as you ran, his fingers wrapped firmly around your wrist. They were rough — calloused from working on the farm and years of horseback riding.

As they made it into the safety of the trees, Dodge pulled you behind a large oak, pinning you against the trunk.

He quickly retracted, internally cursing himself for doing such. “Sorry, instinct,” he grumbles, although not angry towards you, god, not you.

“You lead a lot of girls away from cops?” You quip, fighting the urge to laugh to yourself.

Dodge let out a huff of a laugh, shaking his head as he ran a hand through his hair. Adrenaline was still coursing through his veins, his heart thudding loudly in his chest.

He’d somehow managed to pull you almost 500 yards within that span of three minutes.

“Yeah, all the time,” he replied sarcastically, his smirk returning as he leaned his shoulder against the tree next to you. “You’re the twenty-third one I’ve led this month alone.”

You roll your eyes, “How charming.”

Dodge chuckled at your eye roll, leaning closer to you and looking down at you. His smirk widened as he pushed himself off of the tree, turning to face you fully.

“Yeah, I’m a real charmer,” he joked, crossing his arms over his chest once more. He paused then, noticing how close he was to you.

He cleared his throat before speaking again, pulling away, partially in fear of scaring you, partially in fear he couldn’t stop himself from asking to kiss you. “So, uh… you got a ride home or something?”

Fuck. No you did not. You hadn’t actually accounted that part down — you came with your friend, who is currently nowhere to be found, if not currently in the back of a cop car.

“No.” You huffed, narrowing your gaze as you looked at him, “I was gonna crash at Natalie’s,” You said, trying to explain your situation, which wasn’t hard to understand to begin with. Came with a friend, planned to leave with a friend, currently 500 yards away from said friend’s car, can’t exactly account to go home, as you told her you were going to bed three hours ago.

Dodge’s eyebrows furrowed at your answer — not out of annoyance, but concern. He knew the cops would be searching everywhere, and you didn’t have a ride home.

He thought for a moment, weighing his options. He couldn’t leave you out here alone until the police left. It was too dangerous.

He let out a sigh, running a hand through his hair again before speaking. “Alright,” he said, looking down at you. “You’re comin’ home with me, then.”

Your eyes widen, and you seem to swallow as you tilt your head forwards, perplexed. “What?”

Dodge raised an eyebrow at your reaction, his expression shifting to confusion. He was surprised that you seemed so shocked by his offer.

Although, he got it. You didn’t know him well — not outside of school at least. You had seem him a few times, sat by him in a few classes. Thought he was cute, too, but never would’ve admitted that.

“You need a place to stay for the night,” he explained, his eyes locked on yours. “And you sure as hell can’t stay here.”

He paused, eyeing you up and down before continuing. “So you’ll stay at my house. It’s not a big deal.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but quickly snapped it shut, knowing he was right. Spending the night in the woods with the cops searching was a recipe for disaster.

Going home would be even worse.

And yet… spending the night at his house still stirred something within you — anxiety, excitement, curiosity — you couldn’t tell.

“Okay,” You nod, eyes darting around. “Yeah.” You exhale, it was for the better. You weren’t gonna sleep on the side of the road, and you knew Dodge.. to an extent, enough to know he’s not gonna pull an axe on you in your sleep.

Dodge’s face morphed into a sly grin as you agreed, his eyes sparkling with amusement. He knew he was probably going to regret this later — he’d never brought a girl to his house before, let alone a girl his mother didn’t approve of.

“Atta girl,” he said, lightly patting your shoulder before shoving his hands into his pockets. “Let’s go.”

Dodge stepped away from the protective cover of the trees, gesturing for you to follow him. The coast was clear for now, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

As you fell in step with him, he leaned down to your ear. “Just so you know,” he began in a low voice. “My mom doesn’t know you’re coming over. So.. don’t talk too loud when we get to the house, alright?”

You cock your head to the side, a slight laugh escaping under your breath. “Doesn’t know or isn’t okay?”

Dodge chuckled, shaking his head as he continued walking. “Both,” he answered, his hands still shoved in his pockets.

“She wouldn’t exactly be thrilled to have some girl she’s never met before spend the night out of nowhere.”

You nod, wondering why he’d offer in the first place then. He could’ve left you to get in trouble with your mom, left you to get eliminated, anything else.

“Is that your car?” You tilt your head forwards, breaking the silence that fell over the two teens, eyeing a white car.

Dodge followed your gaze, looking at the car you were eyeing. He nodded, a proud smile forming on his lips. “Yeah,” he said, a hint of boasting in his voice. “That’s her.”

You find it slightly funny that he’s gendered his car.

He quickly started towards the car, reaching it within a few long strides. He pulled the passenger side door open, motioning for you to get in. “C’mon.”

You almost hesitate — but, it’s not like you have another choice — or enough self control.

You hesitated for a moment, looking at the open door before climbing inside. You settled into the leather seat, shutting the door behind you, your stomach twisting with nervousness.

Dodge walked around to the driver’s side and got in, settling into the seat and buckling his seatbelt. He twisted the key in the ignition, the engine of the car coming to life with a low, rumbling purr.

He pulled out of the field and onto the road, navigating the deserted streets skillfully. You sat in silence for a few moments, the only sound being the low hum of the engine and the occasional crunch of gravel beneath the tires.

Dodge glanced over at you out of the corner of his eye, noticing how tense and quiet you seemed. He cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “You alright?”

You nod. “Yeah, I guess it’s just..” You trailed off, unsure of how to actually describe the feeling.

It wasn’t scary, but it was. You were almost excited, but you didn’t know him well. Any knowledgeable person would be wary, but god, was Dodge Mason cute.

“I don’t know.”

Dodge chuckled, a sympathetic scoff falling from his lips at your failed attempt at putting your feelings into words.

He could tell you were conflicted about all of this — going home with a guy you barely knew, spending the night in a home you’ve never been to before… he didn’t blame you.

He sighed, his hands gripping the steering wheel tighter. “Yeah, I’m sure this isn’t how you planned to spend your night, huh?”

You scoff. “Who doesn’t plan to go home with a boy they barely know after cops raid them?”

He shook his head with a grin and looked over at you again, his eyes scanning over your features. Despite the absurdity of the situation, he couldn’t help the fluttery feeling in his chest as he looked at you.

You stayed silent for a moment, your eyes fixed on the passing scenery outside the car window. The night was still and quiet, only the hum of the engine breaking the silence.

“Dodge?” You spoke up suddenly, your voice soft.

Dodge’s attention immediately went to you, his eyes flickering over to glance at you. “Yeah?” He responded, his tone just as quiet as yours.

You shifted in your seat, turning to face him. “Can I ask you something?” you inquired, your expression slightly serious.

Dodge raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued by the sudden shift in your demeanor. “Shoot,” he replied, keeping his eyes on the road.

You paused for a moment, collecting your thoughts before speaking. “Why did you offer to let me stay the night?”

The question had been weighing on your mind since the moment he suggested it. You knew he wasn’t exactly the most responsible or trustworthy person, yet he’d gone out of his way to offer you refuge at his home.

Dodge’s grip tightened around the steering wheel as you asked the question. He expected it, knowing it was bound to come up eventually, but he wasn’t exactly prepared to answer it fully.

The truth was simple — he found you attractive, intriguing, and he was drawn to you in a way he couldn’t explain. But he wasn’t going to say that out loud, not yet.

Instead, he shrugged nonchalantally. “Seemed like you needed a place to stay,” he responded, keeping his tone casual.

Your eyebrows furrowed, sensing the hint of evasion in his answer. You knew there was more to it than that, but you also knew it wasn’t your place to push him for the truth — especially given your options in the current moment.

You let out a sigh, leaning back in your seat and looking out the window again. The rest of the ride passed in silence, only broken by the sound of the engine and the occasional rumble of the road beneath the tires.

After a few minutes, Dodge finally pulled into a long gravel driveway, leading up to a house. The house was modest, but well-kept. Even in the dim light, you could make out the meticulously maintained garden and the freshly painted exterior.

He shifted the car into park and killed the engine, turning to look at you. “We’re here.”

You unbuckled your seatbelt and looked out the windshield, taking in the sight of the house. It was cozy, but not overly extravagant. It looked lived in — a home owned by a family who actually spent time here.

You let out a shaky breath, nerves starting to bubble up inside you once more. This was really happening. You were really going in there.

It wasn’t like regular nerves you’d had before. Not like panic, more like when you’re hanging out with a friend you’ve met for the first time — although, you technically know Dodge.

Dodge could sense the anxiety radiating from you, your nervousness evident in the way you fidgeted in your seat. He let out a low sigh, his eyes flickering over your features for a moment before speaking.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he reassured you, his voice soft. “My mom and sister are probably already asleep, so just stay quiet.”

You nodded, smiling. “Well, let’s go then. I’m tired.”

Dodge returned your smile with a nod of his own, his gaze lingering on you for a moment before he turned his attention to unbuckling his seatbelt.

He pushed the driver’s side door open, the soft creak of the metal mixing with the sound of the crickets chirping in the night air. He got out of the car and shut the door, rounding the hood and opening your door for you.

You stepped out of the car, your shoes crunching on the gravel beneath them. You followed Dodge as he led the way to the front door, your eyes darting around nervously, taking in the surroundings.

He paused in front of the door and fumbled through his pockets, searching for his keys. After a moment, he fished them out and unlocked the door, pushing it open quietly.

He wasn’t exactly worried about making noise - his mom usually didn’t pay mind to him coming late. She figured he’d be home way later in any other circumstances, anyways.

As Dodge opened the door, a warm, inviting light spilled out from inside the house. You followed him inside, stepping into the entranceway and closing the door softly behind you.

The interior of the house was cozy and homey, with warm wood accents and comfortable furnishings. There was a sense of order and cleanliness, but it didn’t feel overly stiff or overly lived-in.

Dodge gestured for you to keep your shoes on, before nodding towards a hallway. “My room’s down there,” he whispered, indicating the direction of a long hallway to the left of the entryway.

You followed his gaze, looking down the hallway. You could see several doors lining the sides of the hallway, presumably leading to different rooms — bathrooms, bedrooms, and the like.

You looked back at Dodge, your heart rate increasing as you realized the implication of his words. His room. Where he sleeps. Where you’ll be sleeping, in close proximity to him.

Dodge noticed the look on your face, noticing the way your eyes widened slightly, betraying your thoughts. He chuckled softly, trying to ease the tension.

“Relax,” he whispered, his tone playful. “You’ll be fine. My room’s big enough for the both of us.”

You roll your eyes, “OK, cowboy.” You step into the open door, taking in the dimly-lit room. It wasn’t much. Just trophies, a wardrobe and a bed and small clutter around the room.

You liked it. You could get used to it.

Dodge chuckled at your nickname, following you into the room and shutting the door behind him. The atmosphere grew more intimate as you both entered the enclosed space, the faint smell of his cologne mingling with the scent of his laundry detergent.

He leaned against the wall, watching you look around with a slight smirk on his lips. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said, gesturing to the bed.

You don’t take any convincing, and immediately flop down onto the bed, exhaling at the feel of the differing comfort in comparison to his car and old truck.

Dodge let out another chuckle as you flopped onto the bed, his eyes watching you sprawled out on his sheets. the sight amused him - you looked like a starfish on the soft material of the mattress.

He pushed away from the wall and walked across the room, sitting down on the edge of the bed next to you. “Comfy?” He teased, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Yeah,” you hummed, a soft grin adorning your face. “although,” you sit up, glancing to him, “wish I would’ve known i’d be having a sleepover. All my stuff is in Nat’s car.”

Dodge chuckled, his eyes scanning over you as you sat up next to him. “Well, I didn’t exactly plan for this either,” he retorted, a smirk still playing on his lips.

He thought for a moment, his gaze flicking towards the door and then back to you. “You can borrow something to sleep in, if you want.”

You nod vicariously, laughing. “I am not sleeping in this.”

Dodge chuckled, leaning back on his arms as he looked you up and down. He took in your outfit, noting how out of place it seemed in this setting.

“Yeah, it’s not exactly sleepwear,” he agreed, amusement in his voice. He hesitated for a moment, his eyes flickering over your body before he spoke again. “I got some old T-shirts you can borrow.”

He stood up, walking over to the closet, before tossing a shirt your way. It was larger, but you could tell that it was his. It smelt faintly like him, and you can make the outlines out of a cracked pattern from an old rodeo.

You smiled up at him, appreciatively. “Thanks,” you said, placing the clothes down beside you. “Do you mind if I change here?”

Being caught by his sister or mom wasn’t exactly a want for you right now.

“Nope, go ahead,” he replied, leaning against the wall lazily. “I won’t look.”

You nodded, watching as his gaze shifts towards the closet, adjusting clothes.

You waste no time peeling the clothes off of you, pulling the T-shirt over your body as you exhale, and then pulling the old sweatpants over your body, tying them as tight as you could around your waist.

“Okay.” You said.

He quickly shook the thoughts away, clearing his throat. “You decent?” He asked, looking over at you.

“Yep.” You nod, shifting back on the bed some, “Oh,” you glance away, “you can change too, sorry.”

Dodge chuckled at your realization, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. He pushed himself off the wall and walked over to the bed, sitting down next to you again.

“Don’t worry about it,” he reassured you, reaching down and grabbing the hem of his shirt. “I wasn’t planning on sleeping in this, anyways.”

He pulled the fabric over his head and tossed it onto the floor, revealing his bare chest.

He knows how badly this could’ve ended - but, he was already here, and honestly the lack of sleep was beginning to make him more bold than he’d like to admit.

Your eyebrows raise, a soft laugh escaping your lips as you met his gaze.

Dodge noticed your reaction, his smirk widening as he caught your laugh. He chuckled in response, his eyes locked on yours.

“What?” He asked, his voice playful. “Never seen a guy shirtless before?”

You shake your head, blinking back shock. “I have,” you note, trying to pretend as if your eyes weren’t raking over his body.

“Just.. wasn’t expecting this.”

Her close proximity was intoxicating, the scent of her perfume filling his senses and clouding his thoughts.

He leaned in slightly, his face inches away from yours. His gaze flicked from your eyes to lips, the desire to kiss you overwhelming any logical thoughts in his mind.

"Tell me," he murmured, his voice low and rough. "Tell me you want this. Tell me to, and I will. But I need to hear you say it."

He leaned in further, his lips hovering just above yours, the gap between them practically non-existent.

"I want this," you admitted, barely audible.

Without another word, he closed the minimal gap between them, capturing your lips in a bruising kiss.

His hands moved from your cheek to grip your hips, pulling you flush against him.

But it wasn't just about physical need, you could sense. There was a sense of desperation in the way he held you, as if this moment was more than just a passing lust.

As the kiss deepened, Dodge backed you up against the bed, gently maneuvering you until you were trapped between him and the mattress.

His hands moved under your shirt, tracing a path up your bare skin, causing you to shiver against him.

Dodge trailed hot kisses down your neck and collarbone, leaving a trail of burning desire in their wake. His hands roamed over your body, worshiping every inch of your bare skin.

His mouth returned to yours, claiming your lips in a passionate embrace. He rolled his hips against you, eliciting a gasp from your lips as the friction between your bodies intensified.

With a smooth movement, he pulled away from your lips and moved to your jawline, nipping and nibbling at the sensitive skin there.

“You have no idea,” he rasped, his voice low and ragged with desire, “how long I've wanted to do this.”

His hands moved from your hips to your thighs, gripping the flesh hard as he shifted between your legs.

Dodge took a few moments to admire the sight of you beneath him, your face flushed and lips swollen from his kisses. He couldn't get enough of you, the way you tasted, the way you felt beneath him.

He leaned down to capture your lips again, his hands roaming further up your thighs. His fingers toyed with the waistband of the sweatpants, the thought of going further crossing his mind.

Dodge broke the kiss, panting slightly as he looked down at you again.

“God,” he rasped, his gaze roaming over your flushed face and disheveled hair. “You’re so damn beautiful like this.”

He leaned back down, his breath hot against your ear. “I want you,” he whispered, his voice low and rough. “All of you. Right here. Right now.”

His lips moved to your neck, trailing hot kisses down your collarbone as his hands continued to wander over your body. His fingers dipped beneath the waistband of the sweatpants, tracing patterns against your skin.

“Okay,” You nod, “okay,” you repeat softer.

Dodge's breath hitches at your agreement, his fingers stilling. He pulls away just enough to look at you, his expression a mixture of surprise and relief.

"Yeah?" He asks, his voice slightly shaky. "You're sure?"

You nod, “I’m sure.”

Dodge's response is immediate, his mouth crashing back down onto yours in a passionate kiss. His hands move faster now, pushing down the sweatpants and discarding them onto the floor.

He positions himself back between your legs, his body pressing against yours as he kisses you hungrily. One of his thighs slides against you, causing you to gasp into the kiss.

Dodge takes advantage of your moment of surprise, his tongue slipping past your lips to explore your mouth. His hands roam over your bare thighs and hips, gripping the flesh tightly as he continues to move against you.

You can feel his hardness pressing against you, the evidence of his desire evident and urgent. He pulls away from the kiss, panting slightly, and looks down at you.

“God,” he mutters, his voice ragged and hoarse. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

He shifts his hips, pressing against you more purposefully. The friction between your bodies causes him to let out a guttural groan, his head dropping down to bury in your neck.

He peppers your neck with kisses, his lips and teeth leaving behind a trail of marks and bites. He continues to rock his hips against you, the friction growing more and more intense as the seconds pass.

His hands roam over your body, mapping out every dip and curve with fervor. He's almost feverish in his touch, his need for you overwhelming his rational thoughts.

"I need," he gasps, his breath warm against your skin, "I need..."

He doesn't finish his sentence, instead moving to capture your lips in another bruising kiss. His hands move to your hips, gripping them tightly as he increases the pace of his movements. The friction between your bodies is enough to send waves of pleasure through you, the feeling consuming your senses.

Dodge breaks the kiss, pulling back just enough to see your face. He takes in the sight of you, hair mussed, eyes glazed over with desire, cheeks flushed with color.

He looks wrecked himself, his breathing labored and his body taut with tension. Every muscle in his body is pulled taught, as if he's holding back from completely letting go.

His grip on your hips tightens, his fingers digging into your skin. He's on the edge, you can tell. But he's still holding back, still trying to control himself.

"I want... I need..." he pants, his words coming out in shuddering gasps. "I need to hear you say it. Tell me I can... tell me you want..."

He trails off, unable to finish his sentence. He's desperate, his need for you almost palpable in the air.

He know’s he’s gotten your permission beforehand, but he needs to be sure.

“Please.” You whine.

Dodge exhales a ragged breath at your response, the sound almost a moan. He leans down, pressing his forehead against yours, his body trembling with need.

"Thank god," he gasps, his voice cracking slightly. "Thank god."

He captures your lips in a desperate kiss, his tongue slipping into your mouth hungrily. His hands move from your hips to your thighs, spreading your legs further apart as he positions himself against you.

The friction between your bodies is maddening now, the pleasure building with every movement. Dodge bucks his hips against you, causing you both to moan into the kiss.

He breaks the kiss again, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "You feel so good," he whispers against your skin, his words sending shivers through your body. "So perfect, so goddamn perfect."

His hands roam over your body, touching and caressing every inch of exposed flesh. He's everywhere at once, his touch igniting sparks of pleasure that spread through your body like wildfire.

You almost whine out at the lack of contact to your body as his hands travel to his belt.

Dodge's hands fumble with his jeans, the frantic motion a clear indicator of how desperately he needs you. He pushes the material down, kicking them off the edge of the bed with a hasty movement.

He's bare now, his body exposed and vulnerable in a way he rarely lets himself be. He positions himself back between your legs, bracing himself above you.

He pauses for a moment, taking in the sight of you beneath him. You're flushed and trembling, your eyes glassy with desire. You can see his gaze flickering over your body, taking in every detail, every curve.

He leans down, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss. His hands grip your hips again, holding you in place as he rolls his own into you.

The friction between your bodies is enough to drive you both insane. Dodge lets out a guttural moan into the kiss, his grip on your hips tight enough to bruise.

He swears he could come at the sight of this alone, and he honestly might.

A rapid knock to his door stirs him out of his frenzy.

Dodge grunts in surprise, pulled out of his passionate haze by the interruption. He looks up at you, his eyes still dark with desire but confused by the sudden intrusion.

"What?" he asks, his voice slightly hoarse as he called out to his sister in the hallway. "What's wrong?"

“I can’t reach the cereal above the fridge.”

He rolled his eyes, huffing as he pulled your — his, sweatpants over his body.

He raises a finger, as if telling you to wait, and you nod, but you were asleep by the time he finished helping Dana.

[fandoms-x-reader]

Wearing Their Clothes

OM! Brothers

Of all the things that surprised you in the Devildom, one of the biggest shocks was the fact that it had weather just like the Human Realm. Of course, there were many representations of what “Hell” looked like. You just never saw one that showed it raining or snowing there. So, when large snowflakes started falling, to say you were both shocked and confused would be an understatement.

You were still at RAD when it started snowing. There had been a mandatory student council meeting; and, afterwards, Lucifer had asked you to stay behind and help him with some paperwork.

Diavolo had asked Lucifer to have the exchange students fill out a survey on how their time in the Devildom had been so far; and, since you were already with him, he thought yours would be the easiest to fill out.

He was pleasantly surprised when you had nothing but praise to give Lucifer. He wore a proud smile as you talked about how much you’ve been enjoying your time in the Devildom. He loved hearing you talk about it - each commendation making him feel the all-too-familiar emotion that had been bestowed upon his demon form. 

He was having such a great time, in fact, that he didn’t realize how late it had gotten until he looked out the window and noticed how dark it was outside. 

“We must have lost track of time,” Lucifer told you before offering to walk with you back to the House of Lamentation. Not that you had a choice in the matter. After all, it was far too dangerous for you to walk back by yourself.

The second you stepped outside of RAD, you immediately regretted it. The cold air bit at your skin as the snow continued to fall. You cursed yourself for not bringing a jacket; but, how were you supposed to know that it was going to snow in the Devildom today.

You walked silently alongside Lucifer, doing your best to keep your teeth from chattering. Lucifer studied you as the two of you walked. You were usually more chatty. Was something wrong?

He looked at your appearance. Your complexion was flushed, your body slightly shivering. Lucifer raised an eyebrow as suddenly he understood what was happening - you were cold.

Lucifer was immediately taking off his large fur cape and offering it to you. The gesture warmed your heart, but you declined. He needed it or else he would be cold - you argued. Lucifer would make an argument about how much more fragile humans were than demons and then tell you, “Besides, I can’t have you die from the cold. It would be a bad look for Lord Diavolo.”

You chuckled at his words before agreeing, realizing Lucifer wasn’t going to back down. He helped place his cape over your shoulders, securing it in place. You were immediately thankful for the warmth the cape provided - the color almost instantly returning to your cheeks.

Lucifer couldn’t help but smile as he looked at you in his cape - the sheer size of it nearly enveloping your entire body. The snow fell on top of you, your hair and eyelashes being coated in white. You looked beautiful. 

Lucifer admired you the whole way home, hoping that it would snow more often in the Devildom so that he could see you in his cape more often.

Mammon liked to spend a lot of time in your room. After all, he was your “first” so why shouldn’t he be allowed in there whenever he liked. He would spend countless hours in there with you. It didn’t matter what the two of you were doing, as long as you were hanging out. Some nights, by the time you were done, it would be so late that he would just stay the night in there.

So, it was no surprise when he accidentally left one of his shirts in your room. It was just a plain, black t-shirt. Nothing truly identifiable about it. Because of that, you had accidentally mistaken it for one of your shirts. 

Mammon however knew the difference. He had been looking for that shirt, not knowing where he had misplaced it.

He came to check for it in your room, barging in without knocking. “Oi, Y/N,” he began but stopped realizing the room was empty. He heard the faint sound of water running coming from the bathroom and realized you were taking a shower. He sat down on your bed, deciding to wait for you.

He scrolled on his D.D.D. for a while until the water turned off. Then a few minutes later, you came out of the bathroom - wearing his shirt.

Mammon felt his heart stop as his eyes were glued to you, his D.D.D. long forgotten about. You were surprised to see Mammon sitting in your room and you were about to say something when you noticed the deep red blush that coated his cheeks as he sat there looking incredibly flustered. “Mammon, are you okay?”

He wouldn't answer your question. Instead, he asked, “I-Is that my shirt?!” Your eyebrows furrowed as you looked down at the black shirt you were wearing, now recognizing it as his. “Oh, I’m sorry,” you told him.

Mammon was a mess. The shirt clung to your body in the best way possible, leading Mammon’s mind to wander to different images of you in that shirt…and out of it. Noticing his expression you said, “I can change.”

“N-No!” Mammon said, jumping off the bed now. That was the last thing he wanted. Realizing his slip-up, Mammon tried to quickly cover his tracks by saying, “Just be grateful that the great Mammon is letting ya wear his clothes!”

When he does get his shirt back, he immediately notices that it smells like you, something that makes him smile. He will never wear it again or wash it. 

Levi was never supposed to find out.

You were doing a cosplay outfit for one of your favorite animes. You had made several videos online and had gotten a decent amount of likes. You loved it and the amount of online support you got encouraged you to do more and more outfits.

Well, it just so happened that the character you were trying to portray had a specific blue and orange jacket. It was pertinent to the character; but, you had nothing similar. So, you began brainstorming ideas on what you could do to try and replicate the clothing item.

Then, it suddenly dawned on you. You had seen Levi wearing a jacket with the same colors. It wasn’t an exact match but it would be close enough. 

You took in a deep breath as you made your way to the coat closet in the House of Lamentation, praying it was there. 

To your luck, when you opened the door, amongst the miscellaneous other coats, it was hanging up in the closet. You let out a small breath of relief. You reached your hand out to take the jacket but hesitated. Levi would probably freak if he saw you wearing his jacket. But, you really needed it.

You debated the pros and cons of taking the jacket.. One on hand, if you went and asked Levi if you could borrow the jacket, he would most likely mumble something about normies before declining out of embarrassment. Then you would be out of luck. However, if you just borrowed the jacket for a few minutes - just to make the video. Then, you could put it back and he’d never know.

Deciding that was the best course of action, you quickly took the jacket and headed back up to your room. You put the jacket on as the finishing touch and looked in the mirror. Perfect.

You began recording the video, making sure to have the perfect lighting and angle. When you were done, you rewatched it, satisfied with the results. Alright, time to put Levi’s jacket back.

“Hey, Y/N, what-,” Levi suddenly came rushing into the room. Both of you froze in shock. Was that…his? “Levi!” you said, nervously looking at him. You had been caught.

“I can explain,” you told him as his eyes widened and a blush coated his cheeks. Not only were you wearing his clothes like some normie couple, but you looked good in it. 

“I was making a cosplay video and I needed to borrow it,” you admitted. “C-Cosplay?” Levi asked, stuttering out his words as he tried to comprehend the situation.

He let out a small scream as he recognized the character you were dressed up as. It was from one of the animes he recommended to you. His eyes then trailed to the video that was still playing on your D.D.D.

You slowly took off his jacket and handed it back to him, blushing slightly. “Sorry, for taking it without asking.”

Levi took the jacket, not sure what to say. So he said the first thing that came to his mind. “Y-You’re missing the sunglasses.”

What? Levi looked back at the video again and you understood. Of course! You were missing the sunglasses for the cosplay. You knew you were missing something!

“I-I have a pair that might match,” Levi said, offering you back his jacket. If you were going to make a cosplay video, he was going to be part of it.

“That would be great!” you replied. Levi quickly left to retrieve the sunglasses as you put his jacket back on. He returned within moments, handing you the sunglasses. You put them on the way the character would and Levi asked if he could help you record the video to which you were unbelievably grateful for. 

Levi was smiling the whole time he helped. He couldn’t believe how talented you were in your impression of the character. More importantly, he couldn’t believe you were wearing his clothes!

You were sitting in Satan’s room reading a book while you waited for him to return. The two of you had been spending the afternoon together. You were reading one of your favorites, and he had been doing the same until about a few minutes ago. He had just finished his book and told you he was going to go to the library to get another book. He promised he would return shortly but it had already been several minutes.

You were huddled up underneath a blanket, but you were still cold. It felt like Satan’s room had no heat whatsoever. You let out a small sigh as you tore your eyes from the page, glancing around the room for anything that could help you warm back up. 

You couldn’t see any blankets, but you noticed one of Satan’s sweaters sitting not too far from you. You let out a small sigh as you turned the idea over and over in your head. He wouldn’t be mad if you borrowed it, right? Not if you told him you were cold. 

You wanted to ask Satan’s permission, so you waited a few more minutes, but when you realized he wasn’t going to be coming back for a while - you decided to risk it. 

You quickly jumped out of the blanket and moved over to the sweater. You picked it up carefully, admiring the material before slipping it over your head. You noticed that it smelt like Satan, the scent making you feel like you were enveloped in his arms. 

You clutched the sweater a little closer to you before moving back to your spot and huddling underneath the blanket. You opened your book back up to the spot you were at and got lost in the fictional world once again.

You were so distracted by the words on the page that you didn’t notice when Satan entered the room. He was about to announce his presence when he noticed the familiar article of clothing that you were wearing. 

His cheeks turned pink as he looked at you wearing his sweater. You looked so adorable curled up under the blanket, reading a book, while wearing his clothes. It warmed his heart. Satan moved over to you, doing his best to hide his smile. 

He sat down next to you and you had completely forgotten that you were wearing his sweater. As if it was second nature to do so. “Did you find a book?” you asked him.

Satan nodded his head before telling you, “I’m really excited to see how this turns out.” You smiled in response, thinking he was talking about the book. He wasn’t so sure.

From now on, if you were in his presence and looked the slightest bit cold, he would immediately offer you his sweater, wanting to see you in his clothes more often.

Asmo was the resident fashion designer in the House of Lamentation. Whenever someone needed advice on an outfit, they immediately turned to him.; and, it was no secret why. His fashion advice was always on point. He could turn the dullest of outfits into a beautiful masterpiece. 

Tonight, Asmo had invited you to dinner at a new restaurant that had open. They asked him to attend with a plus one to bring more business. After all, he had tons of fans who would go to the restaurant just to see him.

Asmo had asked you to be his plus one, and you couldn’t have been more excited. Until he told you how many people would be looking at the two of you and taking pictures. Then, nerves set in as you began panicking about what to wear.

“Don’t worry! I’ll help you!” Asmo comforted, taking you by your hand to your room. He would have you put on a mini-fashion show for him, trying on multiple different outfits to try and find the right one. But, nothing you had quite fit the vibe of the restaurant. 

Asmo thought for a moment, until he came up with an idea. He had the perfect outfit for you! Asmo quickly brought you to his room, pulling out the outfit and handing it to you. He ushered you into his bathroom, telling you to try it on.

When you did, you were surprised at how well it fit - and how good it looked. You stepped out of the bathroom and at first, Asmo didn’t say anything. He just stared at you, a large smile spreading across his face.

“How do I look?” you asked after the silence began to grow awkward. Asmo tried to keep his composure as the thought of you wearing his clothes in public threatened to spark his sin. “That’s the one!” Asmo told you excitedly before helping you do your make-up. By the end of it all, the two of you looked like you had walked straight off the pages of a magazine. 

You made your way to the restaurant and when you got there, you were met with countless cameras. It seemed like everyone wanted to capture the restaurant’s grand opening.

Asmo grabbed your hand as the cameras started flashing, documenting yours and Asmo’s presence. He led you into the restaurant, his smile only growing larger as he thought about you wearing his outfit. The photos would forever document that you were wearing his clothes.

It was a complete accident. 

You had left the House of Lamentation while it was warm out, so you didn’t think to bring an umbrella. Who would?

Well, apparently, it was the biggest mistake you could have made because on your way home, you had found yourself in the middle of a rainstorm. You had no protection from it, the droplets soaking you from head to toe.

You began running to the House of Lamentation, letting out a sigh of relief as you made it to the front door. You quickly entered, thankful to be out of the storm. Then you heard someone behind you. “I see you forgot your umbrella.” You jumped as you turned around and saw Lucifer standing there.

A small blush coated your cheeks as you were embarrassed of the state you were currently in. Lucifer asked you to go to the laundry room so that you didn’t track water everywhere and you agreed, making a beeline towards the room.

When you got there, you quickly took off your wet clothes. You looked around the large room for your basket of laundry, confused when you couldn’t find it.

Then, you realized you had taken it to your room earlier to finish folding the clean clothes. Could this day get any worse.

So, here you were standing naked in the House of Lamentation's laundry room, contemplating how you ended up here. 

You had to come up with something quick before one of the brothers accidentally walked in on you. 

Looking to your right, you saw a large black t-shirt with a design on it. You quickly picked it up, examining it. You had seen Beel wearing it at some point. You held it up to you and noticed that it was so big compared to you. It would be enough to cover you until you could make it to your room. 

You quickly slipped Beel’s shirt on, double-checking that everything was covered before opening the door. All you had to do was make it to your room without being seen. Easy, right?

You turned out of the laundry room, immediately bumping into a large figure. The force caused you to stumble back as you felt two large arms steady you. You looked up to see Beel, looking at you like a confused puppy as he took in your appearance. 

You immediately began blushing as he asked, “Are you wearing my shirt?” Your mind tried to explain the situation, but your words merely came out as a series of stuttered words before you gave up. “It’s a long story,” you told him defeatedly.

Beel could see that you had a long day and he didn’t want to make it worse. So, he didn’t question you any further. Besides, he had to admit it made him feel flustered, seeing you in his clothes. He thought it was adorable how his shirt looked like it was going to swallow you up at any moment.

“Keep it as long as you need,” Beel told you with a small smile. You were thankful that Beel didn’t make things any more awkward as you pushed past him to go to your room.

Beel entered the laundry room to get the rest of his clothes and noticed your discarded clothes. His cheeks felt hot as realized that you were completely nude underneath his shirt. 

He did his best to push out intrusive thoughts as he made his way back to his room, his clean laundry in his arms.  

Revenge.

When it came to you and Belphie, you were sure that was the only reason you did anything anymore. 

Belphie liked to act like a brat and decided to do things he knew would frustrate you because he liked to see the way you would react.

So, he decided to start a prank war with you. But, you were not a pushover; and, you were going to make sure Belphie realized that once and for all. 

So, when he started pulling minor pranks. You let him think he was getting the best of you, until you had pulled a much larger prank on him. You had surprised Belphie with your creativity and your tenacity. But, he wasn’t ready to back down either.

Minor pranks turned into much more serious ones, the two of you so wrapped up in your war that you could hardly pay attention to anything else.

You had just pulled your latest prank of Belphie the day before. You were waiting anxiously for Belphie to pull his prank, constantly watching your back. 

He could strike from anywhere at any time. 

It was getting late, so you had decided Belphie wasn’t going to pull his prank today. You went to your bedroom to go to bed.

However, as soon as you opened the door to your room, you immediately regretted it as a large bucket off water poured on top of you. You let out a small gasp as your clothes were completely drenched. Really?!

You let out a small scoff as you immediately began thinking of retaliation pranks, making your way to your closet to change into a dry pair of clothes.

But, when you got there, you saw that the closet was completely empty. Belphie had taken all of your clothes.

You were fuming as you made your way to the Twin’s Room, bursting through the door to find Belphie in there by himself, lounging on his bed with a smile. 

“Where are my clothes?” you asked him, crossing your arms over your chest. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Belphie replied, smirking back at you.

“All of my clothes are gone,” you stated, knowing full well that he was the culprit. “It looks like you’ll just have to sleep in your wet clothes then,” Belphie replied, turning his attention to his D.D.D.

You glared at him, anger coursing through your veins. He was not winning this one. After realizing Belphie wasn’t going to give you your clothes back, you came up with a new idea.

“Fine,” you told him, marching over to his closet. Belphie tore his eyes away from D.D.D to look up at you. “What are you doing?” he asked, watching your every move.

“If I can’t wear my clothes, then I’ll just have to wear yours,” you replied, stripping your shirt off before putting his on. The rage you were feeling was clouding your mind to the point where you didn’t even realize you had just undressed in front of Belphie.

Belphie most definitely realized though, the image of your half-naked body being seared into his mind as he looked at you in shock.

You then changed into a pair of Belphie’s sweatpants and his cheeks were stained pink as he tried to comprehend what was happening. Luckily, the shirt had covered most of what he would have seen. But, his imagination was running wild. 

You turned to face him, wearing his clothes and his eyes traced every inch of you. You wore a satisfied smirk as you locked eyes. “Good night,” you stated, walking back out of the twins room, a blush on your cheeks at the way Belphie was looking at you. You won.

[maopll]

Helloooo!!!! really interesting event you have going on here :D . a couple pennies for my request?

Can I get a "Hot things they do" prompt with

HSR: Jing Yuan, Sunday, and Boothill Genshin: Neuvillete and Pantalone

Gn!Reader please and thank you <3

HOT THINGS THEY DO

⋆·˚ you swoon over and practically drool whenever he does something which you love to the moon and back. even the simplest of things has you feeling something burning and fluttering inside ...

note : anon you've got tastes. I don't know if there is anything particular I like that they do everything will have me folding over.

sfw // fluff a lil goofy, slight suggestive gn!reader

— ୨ JING YUAN ୧

His breathy laughter is the best of both worlds. Nothing compares to it. Although you are a big fan of his chuckle whenever he is in a tight spot or has it figured out, his laughter is still incomparable.

But he kind of disagrees with you on this since he would have approved it if it was his thighs. He knows how thick they are and how the strap around his upper thigh makes it look even more enticing. "Who says I don't like it?" you retort.

— ୨ SUNDAY ୧

Whenever he is in deep thought, he would leave his pen, cross his arms and would run his fingers through his hair. Most of the time his hair is prim and proper. But when he puffs his chest up in frustration , eyes squinting , and hair a little bit messy, you can confirm that you become like a victorian man seeing ankles.

"Is this the way you like it?" Sunday says a bit unsure as he is practically wearing something that looks diametrically opposite from what he wears. Shirt, jeans, jacket, cap and all the items that screams 'rock metal genre'.

"Stay still pretty boy I need a good picture for my wallpaper"

— ୨ BOOTHILL ୧

"Babe I find you really hot when you threaten people to kill them whenever they try being real mushy mushy with me"

"You muddle fudger I can't even curse them with the real scary words and you liked that?" Boothill stares at you bewildered. "Your synesthesia beacon working overtime and your hands pointing the gun at him as you threaten to do the wildest shit to him if he ever touches me is very very hot you wouldn't understand". He would usually comply with whatever you say but this time he truly thinks that you've got a few screws loose there. But maybe that's your charm and your 'hot thing'.

"Well if you find THAT hot then ..." he swifts you off your feet and places his hat onto your head "don't you like it when I do this hmm sweetie ?"

— ୨ NEUVILLETTE ୧

While the things or his actions are mostly adorable or gentlemanly, even he has his sides which would leave your heart beating fast and hard. But oh lord have mercy on you because when he would tie his hair messily to focus on his paperwork, you fold.

Neuvillette was about to sit down after he tied his hair in a ponytail, but you noticed his tied hair and without thinking you blurted out,

"Do it again"

"Do what again ?"

"Tie your hair again.. I wanna see..."

He obliged to your request like he usually does even though he was a little confused, but when he turned around to face you, you were blushing HARD and one of your hands was on your chin as if scrutinising his every movement and every flex of his muscles. Neuvillette just chuckled at your antics. "Like what you see dear?" "Very much..." you strided towards him and placed a chaste kiss on his lips. No matter how many times you ask such silly requests of him, he will always fulfil them.

— ୨ PANTALONE ୧

You didn't know what captivated you to like pantalone and you wanted to find what was something he did that made you find it hot. Lo and behold you found it when he was threatening one of the fatui members.

Two new recruits were standing at esse in front of Pantalone, who was eyeing them from top to bottom. "So... cryogunner... what was the order?" The cryogunner, after swallowing down the lump in his throat with hesitation, replied, "s— sir ... we had to take down the owner of the illegal organisation–"

"And what was the result I received?" his voice cold and eyes piercing. His anger were visible in his eyes even though it did not reflect on his face. "Out of my sights right now the punishment that you two will receive for not abiding to the order will be not so savoury"

The two fatui scurried away after shouting a 'yes sir'. After they left, he removed his glasses and scrunched his face rubbing his temple. Looks like more work got added to his already pending list of tasks. His eyes were full of wrath and anger muttering archons know what

you chuckle "you know your face is doing things to me babe"

"dear I'm not in the mood—" but looking at your face has him rethinking his decision. You biting your lips and eyes dazed... hmm looks like you've found the way to relieve his stress then?

"It's going to be a rough day hm? dear"

[lnfours]

i could imagine how soft lando is after a fight and maybe you could write something about lando and reader had a lowkey big fight, and lando decided to join her to the shower (GWSJZHHAHZ) and apologize under the shower before finally creating a steamy scene with the reader

ooooh my god. oh my god.

smut (18+ please!)

send in your lando thoughts

the argument was something stupid. a result of exhaustion and frustration on his end. he hasn’t meant to upset you, or yell at you for that matter, but he had. and he felt guilty when you turned on your heels, walking away and leaving him in the kitchen.

you two hadn’t seen much of each other the past week and a half. between his traveling, his training schedule and your own calendar, it felt like you were always just missing each other. it felt like you didn’t get to spend so much time with the other recently, which was a big deal to you beings he’s hardly home to begin with.

you knew he hadn’t really meant to go off, maybe you had caught him at the wrong time. you knew he was tired, wanting nothing more than a simple break. but you couldn’t help it. you missed your boyfriend. plain and simple.

he walked into the bedroom, hoping to find you, but instead heard the sound of the shower running in the bathroom. he cracked open the door, stripping off his shirt.

“lando?”

“hmm?”

“what’re you doing?” you asked, but you knew what he was doing. he wasn’t being very subtle about it.

the shower door opened and he step foot inside with you, curls sticking to his forehead as the water fell onto the two of you, “joining you, is that alright?”

you nodded, letting his hands find your hips.

“i’m sorry,” he mumbled, letting your back hit his chest, lips brushing against the skin of your shoulder, “for yelling and getting short with you. i shouldn’t have yelled.”

you hummed softly, “‘s okay,”

“let me make it up to you.”

his words lost into the skin of your neck and the sound of the shower water pouring down around you. his hands rested on your tummy, holding you against him as you felt his teeth gently nibble at the skin where your neck meets your collarbone.

“how do you plan on making it up to me?”

his hands moved down, fingers dipping between your folds as he teased you. you gasped, head falling back against his shoulder as he smiled down at you, “‘ve got a few ideas.”

“lando,” his name on your tongue sounded heavenly to him.

“yeah, baby,” he said, “tell me what you want. i’m yours.”

you moaned, his teeth gently pulling at your earlobe.

“fuck,” you swallowed, grasping at his forearm. wet from the warm water and his muscles and veins peeking through his perfectly tan skin, “i need you. please,”

he was quick to move his hands to your hips, the two of you finding yourselves situated with your hands on the glass, his one hand on your hip as the other teased himself up and down your slit.

“this what you want, pretty girl? want me to fuck you up against this shower wall?”

“please,” you said. and he would’ve been lying if he said he could deny you like this. spread out and vulnerable, waiting for him to take care of the aching between your thighs that was simply his fault.

“c’mere,” he mumbled, hand wrapping around the base of your throat to pull your head back, your mouth opening in a gasp as he pushed in. no matter how many times he’d have you like this, the stretch and feeling of tightening around him was never not delicious.

“fuck,” he mumbled, slowly moving his hips once you had fully adjusted, “missed you.”

“i missed you too.” you managed to choke out. his hand was still around your throat and as he picked up his movements, the pressure against the points in your neck became greater and greater. your eyes rolled back as he moaned into your ear.

“i love you,” he mumbled, pressing a kiss to the skin below your ear, “so much.”

“i love you too,” you could barely speak, too drunk off of the way his dick was slamming in and out of you. how good it felt to let him have his way with you.

“so good for me,” his free hand traveled, finding your clit with ease as he began running tight circles against it, “come for me, baby. you deserve it.”

you moaned his name, making him pick up the pace just a little more as his hips met yours in a consistent pace. the pace that drove you crazy.

soon the coil in your lower belly was threatening to snap, “‘m so close, lan.”

“me too, baby,” he said, “gonna come for me? come all over my dick, hmm?”

nothing could compete with his dirty talk and he knew it. watching the way your body convulsed against him, your moans and the way you tightened around him sending him over the edge.

he came with you, moaning into your ear as you tried catching your breath. chest rising and falling as he pulled you back from the shower wall. he carefully slipped out of you, letting you turn around before he placed a kiss on your lips.

between kisses he mumbled against your lips, “how about we get cleaned up and take this to the bed, hm?”

you nodded, hands finding his curls, “please.”

[nostalgicmiscellaneous]

This is long, but i need to get this out of my chest:

I have made so many post defending Penelope when people talked about her issues, her traumas but right now i feel like defending Colin.

As a woman, sometimes i naturally tend to feel defensive and shield the girl but i need to be fair here. Colin's feelings and trust were deeply hurt, Colin is insecure, soft, thoughtful, introspective, sensitive and suffers with a inferiority complex, and he struggles to know his place in society and among the people he loves, on what he should do and the expectations of society from a 22 years old man.

What many don't seem to realize is that Colin, even before knowing Penelope is LW, was very insecure about what she loves in him ( and even if she did in fact love him, because she was about to marry someone else), about being worth of her, he says he wants to do something, to publish his diaries because he wants her to be proud of him…he already didn't think he was good enough for and to her. Colin is insecure about not being good enough in every aspect of his life, tbh. His lack of purpose, faith in himself and on others loving him from whom he is runs deep. His moment of vulnerability telling how much Penelope not answering to his letters affected him, his family too was very revealing. Him screaming at Pen with tears in his eyes that he felt foolish that she read his diaries and praised him as something special. This is something i've noticed even in other seasons too. The family not caring much about his need to connect and his somewhat strained relationship with Anthony, who wasn't really a good male figure to him. It's about male ego? A bit, but it's deeper than that in the series.

Another issue is, he put Pen in a pedestal too ( much like Pen did until 2x8), to be honest, and that is never a good thing, because people are not perfect. And he needed to learn all that. There is disappointment there. But, again, it goes further. It’s him not knowing her as he thinks he should. It’s him perceiving her humanity but reflecting on his own. We have to remember he's so happy because Pen chose him, because he thinks now he's someone's priority and he's someone's focus. He has the immature idea that you should be everything in every way to the person you love, and if you can't be their protector and the hero in their eyes, why should anyone love you?

Then he finds out…and his worldview crumbles. Not only Penelope broke his trust and hurt him deeply - and she never told him and never would have - and it wasn't just himself but his family too, but she shattered his belief he knew and connected with her better than almost anyone else, she shattered his barely there newly found confidence and sense of purpose, what he thought was his sense of self now. All modern sensibilities tend to be ruffled about this, but i think it's a fitting conflict that he would have issues with her being so self-sufficient, so successful while he believes himself to be less, way less than her, so to Colin she doesn't need him, and if she doesn't need him, why would she love him? Why should she love him?

Again, there is the side of him conflicted about knowing her. The pedestal was broken, because she lied to him. She is this powerful, talented, successful woman on her own, not just the pretty shy girl with sweetness and great witty personality that he loves, the one that thinks the world of him. She talked about him, she criticized him and while it rings true deep down, it rings devastation, because she could see beyond his farce and it makes him look and feel pathetic.

So he's struggling with two things: on how to love her, all of her, and how to feel good enough for her, love himself. He's trying to accept her new wonderful aspects and her hurtful flaws because he never stopped loving her, in no moment we see anything but love when that man looks at her, when that man is crying because of her and his deep sadness and longing, his anger is laced with so much love for her. He's angry at her but mostly at himself and he needs to figure it out a way to feel like he deserves to be loved by her. It fuels his issues and he also over compensates.

His hang ups with LW becomes his tangible target. Not only he sees as a dangerous thing to her, it puts her at risk, and with that in mind he can put himself in a role of her protector again, but he fixates on the idea that without Whistledown she's the Pen that he can believe is able to love him even if he's not good enough. Without Whistledown she's not so much above him and not so far from him, because Whistledown is her critical eye, it's Penelope appraising people very analytically and if she looks closely, he doesn't think she will see much in him, as she proved before with he S3 ep1 comment. He wants to get rid of it.

Sure, he's jealous too, he envies her success but exactly because he resents how much that makes him less worthy. It's also another thing that he thinks she's putting above him. He couldn't see clearly that it wasn't something outside herself (and he gets it after), but part of who she is, and all of those parts loves him. It's foolish and it's nonsensical because he doesn't understand that she has seen his flaws but she loves him anyway. He needed reassurance just as much as Pen needed. He needed her to keep on telling she loved him and why, because it heals him.

Some people were upset he didn't make love to her that day he went to get a blanket, but i get it. He wants it, he wants her so badly, you can see it. Colin has problems communicating and doing what he wants because he feels pathetic, jealous and that makes him feel worse, makes him feel shame. It’s him, not her that was the issue at that point. His connection with her runs deeper, it's respecting her and himself, with all the conflicted feelings why he didn’t.

It’s a slow process and i’m bloody glad it took its time to be resolved. But he starts understanding that his way wont help them, it wont bring them closer. He wont solve things by controlling and being the hero. He can’t change the past, he can’t change who they are. He wont solve anything by repressing his love.

Pen words help him figuring out a lot, her spoken words directed to him and her written words that he reads again. She needs him. She tells him she needs him and his love, not grand actions. He can show love and be worthy by supporting her. He starts to understand and ACCEPT that Whistledown is Pen, and loving Pen will include that part of her personality. He grasps that it was always there and it never made a difference in how much she loved being around him and him her, how much attention she dedicated to him, how much her words, in her letters, were full of admiration for him, to her love to him, how much she is his special person. She needs him just as much he needs her, she needs his love, his charm, his intelligence, his humor, his integrity, she needs him because without him she doesn’t feel complete, she doesn’t feel happy. He’s a good man, a fine man that makes her happy, always have. And he realizes she inspires him, she always had, and that isn't a problem, that having her helping him is not a problem, because he helps her too in many ways. It’s only when he can accept himself as equal and entitled to her love as she is to his that they could truly be together and happy.

Colin had the right to feel hurt, had the right to have his insecurities, had the right to need time and had the right to need space, had the right to lash out, had the right to come to term with the changes and surprises life threw at him, specially as a sensitive person that he very much is, and i'm glad the show didn't rush that.

[qlossytbh]

Hello my love can you do a spencer reid x reader who experiences olfactory hallucinations (smelling things that arent there) please i just scared the shit out of myself cus i smelled a burning power outlet for like an hour 😭 the whole time i was unplugging everything and i thought my house was going to catch on fire 😰 i want him

𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬- 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 you experience olfactory hallucinations and spencer’s there to experience the rollercoaster that come with it lol

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 fem!reader, established relationship, just a lot of fluff, allergies (ugh), reader is freaking out (anxiety), me pretending to be science-y and act like i know what im writing about!

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 1.2k

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 i actually loved this request because I myself experience olfactory hallucinations due to my allergies and it’s really cool seeing someone else who has it! i unfortunately smell a wide varieties of things such as spoiled food, clogged toilets (yay!), and tobacco (love that for me)

𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

You rubbed your right eye vigorously, sniffling loudly with a following groan. Your hand then fell to its familiar rhythm, writing down your notes as you tried copiously to ignore the stuffiness that enclosed throughout your throat and nose. Your face itched gratingly, the corners of your eyes running with tears that wouldn’t seem to leave no matter how many times you tried blinking them away.

You had taken your allergy medication about thirty minutes ago and it wasn’t easing up— you felt puffy and somewhat aggravated.

Your T-shirt hung around your hips loosely, bunched up onto the chair you sat on at the desk of Spencer’s apartment, completing an assignment you needed to get done for your current job. Your hair was damp, ends still wet from the shower you had taken to decompress your sinuses.

You suddenly stopped all together, mind running blank. Twisting around in your chair, you turned to the kitchen and lifted your chin, staring down the ambience as if it was looking right back at you. What was that smell?

It was smokey and acrid and rotten and— definitely not supposed to be floating around the apartment. Unless something was wrong, you thought. You stood quickly, bare legs meeting the cold air as you patted over to the kitchen.

Your eyes scanned it frantically, checking for any signs of smoke or if any of the gas burners were on. Your heart was beating gratingly against your ears. The silence was so heavy you were beginning to feel dizzy. It was the type of quiet that made your skin crawl all the way up to the nape of your neck.

You sniffed again, trying to make sure you hadn’t hallucinated smelling what you had but much to your dismay— it still smelled like something was burning.

You hastily made your way to the desk, grabbing your phone and opening your contact list. It was only a few passing beeps from the other line before a voice rang out. “Hello?”

“Spence,” Your boyfriend picked up on your tone quicker than you would’ve preferred.

“Hey,” He said, sounding like he was reassuring you that he was there, voice soft although he didn’t necessarily know what had made you so distressed in the first place. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m okay.” You tucked a strand of hair behind your ears shamefully, glancing over at the kitchen.

“I’m pulling into the driveway right now, what’s going on?”

You bit the flesh of your bottom lip, making your way back into the kitchen. “Did you leave any of the burners on? Or plugged in anything you maybe— shouldn’t have..?”

Spencer paused on the other line, almost in profound contemplation. “No. I didn’t, why?”

“Because it smells like something is burning Spence,” You reached at the small handles of the ovens burners, rotating them all to signal they were off. “Are you sure you didn’t leave anything in?”

“I’m positive,” Somehow he could practically feel your hesitation, so he continued. “Baby, I have an eidetic memory. I would’ve remembered leaving something on,”

You huffed, still not entirely convinced because the smell was right there. It wasn’t strong, which caused even more anxiety to swirl inside of you, but it was there. The sound of a car door slamming shut was heard on the other end of the phone. “I’m freaking out,”

“I’m getting into the elevator, I’ll be up in a few seconds,” You paused.

A few rather long seconds later, the door pushed open. Spencer glanced at the handle, brows furrowed in annoyance. “It’s not locked— Why isn’t this locked?”

Your habit with leaving doors open was a problem, but it currently wasn’t your biggest. The strong smell still floated around, dancing through your nose and torturing you slowly. “Screw the door, do you not smell that?!”

Spencer closed the door behind him and set his bag down, along with his shoes. You watched him from the kitchen, crossing your arms across yourself and hugging your body closely.

“Where is the smell?” He stalked over towards the kitchen. His eyes lingered on the sight of you wearing nothing more than a t-shirt. It was something he didn’t think he’d ever get used to.

“I don’t know where it’s coming from,” You griped. Spencer really tried to find where the smell was coming, only so that he could ease you from your anxiety, but he really didn’t smell anything.

“I don’t smell anything love,” He reassured, looking over towards the stove just to be absolutely, positively sure.

“How do you not–?” You stopped, face falling from its tightened up expression. A relief unlike any other fell over you the second you understood what was going on.

“I’m–” You rubbed your temples, letting out a breathy laugh. “I’m an idiot,”

Spencer furrowed his brows, quickly walking beside you and setting a very much needed and comforting hand on your shoulder. “What?”

You remain quiet, reaching out and wrapping your arms around his torso and burying your face into his chest. Spencer stood there, muddled by your behavior but nevertheless happy to oblige with whatever you deemed necessary to feel better. He wrapped his arms around you, rubbing a few soothing circles onto your back.

“Yeah, I get olfactory hallucinations,” You trailed off, resting your cheek on his chest and not yet looking up at him.

“Phantosmia?” He quipped. You pulled away, looking up at him inquiringly.

“Huh?”

“Phantosmia,” He shifted his arms down to your waist. “It’s a sensory perception disorder where people experience smelling odors that aren't present in their environment. Unlike actual smells, which are triggered by external stimuli interacting with the olfactory receptors in the nose, phantosmia originates internally within the brain.”

You pulled a face. “Well, I call them olfactory hallucinations.”

“Well, medically they’re called phantosmia.” He countered. You narrowed your eyes as he tucked a strand of damp hair behind your ear.

“Show off.”

He huffed out a laugh. “I thought you liked it when I talked a lot.”

You hummed. “Yeah, that's true”

Unfortunately, you got olfactory hallucinations– or phantosmia– often. And it should’ve been the first thing you recalled once Spencer was denying any smells of burning outlets and gas. It always simultaneously flared up when your allergies did, meaning you probably should’ve known better— definitely would’ve saved you the near heart attack.

Spencer dragged his hand up and down your waist instinctively while you poked a finger into the rough surface of his chest “Got some more info for me smart-ass?”

Spencer gave you a look, rolling his eyes at your ridiculous giddy grin. “It isn’t very common. When it comes to disorders that affect the sense of smell, phantosmia makes up 10% to 20% of cases.”

“Well that makes me feel unique.”

Spencer bit back the need to tell you that you were already unique, but he referred against it. Not because he didn't want to— he always wanted to. But he knew he spent every single chance he could get to telling you how special you genuinely were to him.

“For some people, the odors that they hallucinate are pleasant, like freshly baked sweets—“

“You're joking,” He shook his head. You huffed, drawing your lips into a pout. “Do you know what I'd give to smell that instead of a goddamn burning outlet— it gives me anxiety.”

“Yeah, but look on the bright side,” Spencer leaned forward kissing your forehead. You basked in the simplicity and loveliness of his touch. “At least there wasn’t actually a burning outlet.”

“Yeah,” You smiled up at him. “That's true.”

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

What is Broken IV (Aemond Targaryen x Pregnant Wife!Reader) FINALE

The war, the "Dance of the Dragons," as they have come to call it, is over. And yet, you are not celebrating. You have just learned that your husband, Prince Aemond, spent the last months of the war with another woman in his bed. Not only that, but his mistress is pregnant. Just like you...

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader (third person, no use of Y/N), side Aemond Targaryen x Alys Rivers

Warnings: traumatic childbirth, blood, semi-suicidal thoughts, Aemond is fantasizing about murder again, all the angst

Point of View: Limited third person omniscient

Author's Note: I don't understand why, but thanks so much for all the support I've gotten from this horribly angsty fic! This is my first go at angst so I really appreciate it. I'm gonna work on two happy-ish fic chapters before I get started on When It Breaks, but it's coming...

And a huge, enourmous thanks to @ewanmitchellcrumbs and @ripdragonbeans for being my betas for this! I was so anxious about getting this absolutely right and they were so kind and encouraging. Love yall forever 💜💜💜

Taglist is done via reblogs

What is Broken

She was so light, his ābrazȳrītsos.

Even while carrying their children – their sons – Aemond swore she was lighter than when he left. He held her close to his chest, her head resting on his shoulder and her legs draped over his forearm. With every step, he could feel more of the liquid that had spilled from her womb - now mixed with small, hateful tendrils of blood -  dampening his sleeve.

Gods, how much blood had he seen in the past year? How much had he spilled himself? There had even been times when he reveled in its metallic tang. But the sight of her blood was nothing less than abhorrent.

He ran faster, until he could not make out the faces of those he passed, shouting for a Maester to be sent to their chambers immediately. One of them must be a servant. With luck, the Maester would already be there when they arrived.

She cried out as he began to ascend the stairs, wincing with each step, her weak grip on him tightening. “It hurts, Aemond.”

“I know, my love.” He slowed down, though his pounding heart urged him to do just the opposite. “I’m so sorry. The maester will be here soon, and he’ll help you feel better, hmm?”

“He has to stop it. It’s too early,” her voice cracked, and Aemond’s heart with it. “They’re not ready!”

But it couldn’t be stopped, not by man or gods. Their children would be born today. The only question was whether they would survive. If their mother would survive. Her poor body was so weak, and her heart… he had broken that, too.

If any of them died today, that blood would be on his hands, and he would gladly accept his damnation to the worst of the seven hells.

“Come now,” he chided gently as they reached the corridor to their chambers. “Our sons are dragons – they will be strong. And so will you, ābrazȳrītsos.”

“Sons?” She lifted her head, her entire body trembling with the effort it took. Her eyes – those beautiful eyes now gilded by the setting sun outside the windows – locked with his. “How… you sound so sure.”

Just one more lie. One more, and then he would never lie to her again.

Besides, this lie was small, nearly inconsequential. Many fathers insisted that their children would be sons until the child itself proved them wrong. It would be so easy for her to believe. The truth would hurt her – perhaps weaken her further. Aemond did not want her to hear Alys’ name. She should never have to even think of that witch ever again.

But he could not bring himself to do it. He could not sully the birth of his sons with yet another lie. He pushed their door open with a shoulder, never breaking her gaze. “Alys told me after you left. Before… she had a vision of us holding our sons. I’m so sorry, love.”

She slumped again, her face dropping into the curve of his neck. Once, she kissed him there, slept with her head tucked there. Now, it was simply where her head lolled. “I’m glad it’s sons. You’ll have two heirs…”

Her words were cut short by a gasp of pain, but Aemond heard it clearly. It echoed in his very bones. So if I live, you’ll have no more need of me. The gods had just crumbled the ground beneath him, his heart and soul with it. He was falling, falling, falling…

“I am glad, too.” He set her down gently in the bed, brushing away several tangles of hair stuck to her sweaty brow before arranging the pillows around her, hoping he was adequately managing to hide his devastation. For he could not bear to be without her, could not bear to love her only from a distance. He would go mad. Yet he would happily accept that horrible fate if it meant he would not lose her to the Stranger. “Mother will be, as well.”

“Mother!” She tried to rise, but he held her softly to the bed. “I can’t do this without Mother, Aemond. We must return home immediately!”

“I am afraid that is not an option, Princess.” Maester Artos stood just within the doorway, maids and Septas streaming in behind him. He was a mountain of a man, better suited to the battlefield than the birthing bed. But he was good at what he did – very good. Aemond had seen him work miracles on men who should have never survived their injuries.

The moment the women began attending to his wife, he approached the Maester, speaking quietly so as not to frighten her. “Something is wrong, Artos, she is bleeding. And she’s very weak.”

Artos hardly acknowledged him, looking only at the princess lying in the bed. “The blood is not the problem. She is distressed and too thin.” He stated, as cold and clinical as all other Maesters.

“Yes, I know that already.” Aemond took a shaky, calming breath. He did not like the way Artos observed her, as if she was a thing to be studied rather than a woman – a princess. Perhaps when it was all over, he’d kill the man for it. “I fear she is not strong enough to survive this.”

She cried out behind them. Two maids were pressing damp cloths to her forehead. Another was hastily braiding her hair back. A Septa had begun cutting away her dress, leaving her only in her chemise as two more maids removed her slippers and stockings. Two other Septas knelt by the windows, praying, while one woman who seemed to be neither maid nor Septa laid metal and wood instruments atop a tall, thin table.

It took every ounce of Aemond’s self-control not to go to her. To shove away each woman because it should be him – and him alone – to touch his wife while she was so vulnerable. He should be the one to protect her, but he couldn’t. He could only hurt her, it seemed.

“Artos!” Aemond hissed.

“Is her spirit weak as well?” There was suspicion in his dark eyes. The same he’d shown when he confirmed Alys was carrying a child. If he hadn’t been so proficient a healer, Aemond might have killed him then.

But for now, Aemond was glad Artos was alive. He swallowed, avoiding looking back at the bed as his wife continued to whimper and moan. “Yes.” The maester just hummed before approaching the bed. Aemond followed, kneeling at the bedside, the maids immediately clearing away.

“This is Maester Artos, ābrazȳrītsos.” She stared wide-eyed at the hulking mass of the man who now knelt between her legs. Aemond tugged on her hand, her gaze snapping back to him. “I know him well. He’s going to take very good care of you, I promise.”

She shuddered, her eyes closed tight as she squeezed Aemond’s hand so hard he had to bite his tongue to keep from crying out. He delighted in it. She was not as weak as he thought, thank the gods. If she needed to break every bone in his hand – in his body – to live through this, he would let her do so without complaint.

“Are you going to stay with me?” she asked, her voice already ravaged by screaming.

Aemond blinked. When they first learned they were to have a child, he swore he would. But now, it seemed impossible for her to want him there. Not after what he’d done. “Do you… want me to stay?”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out but another moan of pain. Her eyes darted all over his face. The longer she stayed silent, the further Aemond’s stomach dropped, and his heart ached.

“I believe it wise to have the prince wait outside,” Artos said decisively.

Aemond felt her hand slide out of his, the sensation the same as if he were falling from Vhagar’s back—her answer.

He nodded, and though he knew he shouldn’t, he leaned over her and kissed her forehead, trailing a hand down her cheek. “I love you.”

As he walked to the door, he still held a little shred of hope in his heart, waiting to hear her say it back.

It never came.

The moment the door shut behind Aemond, she regretted sending him away. She wanted to call him back so she wouldn’t be alone with so many strangers. But panic began to set in as the maids pulled her gently down the bed, and her voice failed her.

“It won’t be long now, princess,” the maester said, but she found no comfort in it. She couldn’t even remember his name. Alton? Alyn? Amos? Aemond had said he trusted him, but…

But that meant he had been here when Aemond was with Alys. And that glint of pity in his eyes, not just for her conditions, but for what he knew. He knew. Seven Hells, he’d probably been the one to care for Alys and her pregnancy.

Alys. Alys, Alys, fucking Alys!

She did not know what to think of the woman who had stolen so much from her. Had she stolen it, or had Aemond given it? She could hardly make sense of what she’d learned in that dreary little room.

Alys was not the evil, scheming witch she had first imagined. But neither was she innocent in the affair, not wholly. She was not remorseful for her actions, but she apologized for hurting her. She had been kind.

Blinding pain shot through her, and she screamed. Wordless and desperate, her only outlet for release. She needed to scream, needed to roar, needed to breathe fire. Anything to distract from this. Gods, she even wished for a moment for Alys to be there, holding her hand. At least then, she could return some of that pain.

“Princess,” the maester said, though he sounded far away. Though it was more likely that her shouting was drowning him out. “Very soon, I will ask that you push. Do you know how, your highness?”

Push. That’s what the septas had instructed Helaena to do at the birth of her twins and for Maelor. She even had vague memories of the word from when she peeked through the open door to her mother’s chambers when Daeron was born. But what it meant and how to do it?

Her confusion must have been apparent, for the maester continued. His voice was frustratingly calm and steady. “It is fine if you do not, princess. You must simply follow your instincts. When you feel the urge, push the child outward with all your might.”

“I have no might.” She heard herself laughing through tears and only then realized she was crying. Someone took her hand – she didn’t know who. But the feeling of another’s skin on hers was heavenly.

“You have carried these babes for months,” the maester – Artos! that was his name – said gently, “while your husband and the realm were at war. In my estimation, you are the mightiest woman in Westeros.”

She felt nearly every muscle she had tense, turning her answering grateful smile into a grimace. The mightiest woman in Westeros would not have weathered her pregnancy as well as a paper boat in a storm. The mightiest woman in Westeros would not still love her husband after he betrayed her. The mightiest woman in Westeros would not have let her emotions weaken her or put her children’s lives in danger.

She was far from the mightiest woman in Westeros, and she could not do this. She wasn’t strong enough. She was only a weak and broken little girl.

A maid approached, a fresh cool, damp cloth in her hands. The princess had not looked at any of their faces, too absorbed in her pain and panic. But now, she caught the eyes of this girl—deep, rich brown, so similar to her own – to her mother’s.

“I want my mother,” she whispered to the maid, even knowing it was impossible. “I can’t do this without her.”

The maid gaped at her as if she could not fathom a princess ever speaking to her. She looked to her companions for guidance, but the princess only looked into the maid’s eyes and thought of her mother—the scent of the rosemary oil she used in her hair, the warmth of her embrace, and the soothing tones of her voice.

“Please, I want my mother,” she begged. A new surge of pain gripped her, radiating into her legs. They were coming faster now; she barely had time to breathe between each wave. “Please.”

“I’m so sorry, Your Highness.” The maid’s voice was high and breathy, nothing like her mother’s. “The queen is not here.”

She cried, turning away from those false eyes. She was alone – entirely and utterly alone.

“Princess, I need you to be strong now.” Artos’ sweaty brow was furrowed with half a dozen creases, his eyes wide and mouth a firm line. He looked more like a commander on a battlefield than a maester. The Grand Maester would have smiled at her, but he was not here, either. “Your labors are progressing quickly. It is nearly time to push.”

“I don’t know how,” she cried. She refused to open her eyes. If she kept them closed, she could almost imagine she was home.

Artos wrapped his hands around her ankles, pushing them upwards and further apart. “You do, princess. The Mother wove the knowledge into your body. Listen to it, and all will be well.”

“I – ”

Her next scream rattled the room, the keep, the entirety of the Riverlands.

Fire, ice, steel, and claw seemed to rake down her spine to her thighs. But Artos was right; her body reacted to the pain, her muscles moving near-unconsciously to force the babe out of her womb. She followed the instinct, pushing it harder, harder, harder.

“Very good, princess!” Was that Artos or Orwyle? She couldn’t tell anymore.

It was never-ending.

Pain, pushing, and a brief moment of reprieve.

Again.

Again.

Again.

It lasted hours, days, perhaps even years.

Was a child – a son – even worth this pain? How could she love someone who had tortured her so? Would she ever be able to look at him without remembering how she suffered?

Pain.

Pain.

PAIN.

Then –

“Stop, princess!”

She went limp, vaguely beginning to feel other sensations creep in: the coolness of the water on her forehead, the slight scratching of the sheets beneath her, and the hushed whispers of the maids and midwives.

The pain was still there, but softer. Less insistent.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice nearly unrecognizable, even to her.

Artos emerged from between her legs, relief painted over his harsh face. “Nothing is wrong, princess. It is simply time to be gentle and allow your body to do its work.” He smiled, chuckling under his breath. “I can see your babe’s white hair – quite a bit of it.”

Laughter bubbled up in her throat. Deep, joyous laughter. Another slight wave of pain passed through her, but she didn’t care at all. She was thinking about her niece and nephew, how Jaehaerys was born with nearly a full mane of silver frizz while Jaehaera had not a single hair on her head until she was over a year old. “He has hair?”

“Yes, although I do not know yet whether it is a boy, princess.”

“It is. He is.”

There was one more brief surge of pain, and then she heard her son cry.

It was torture to wait outside while his ābrazȳrītsos screamed with pain. At first, Aemond stood leaning against the wall, as Aegon did when Helaena began her labors, but his knees failed him when he heard a scream that rattled the world.

He’d been on the floor since, resisting the urge to cover his ears. But he had caused her this pain, so he must listen.

He would be in that room with her if he hadn’t been a weak, damnable fool. He would have held her hand, letting her release her pain onto him. She had only squeezed his hand once, yet he still felt the ghost of her touch on his skin. He would savor that pain for the rest of his life.

It seemed to be never-ending, the torture his son was inflicting upon her. How could he ever forgive the child for doing this to his own mother?

Then, it stopped.

Aemond leaped to his feet, panic infecting his blood like a disease. Why had she gone quiet? What was wrong? Was she dead? He couldn’t face –

A babe cried—his first cry, with his first breath.

Their son.

He tried to push the door open, but it was locked.

“Let me in!” he shouted, pounding his fist on the door. “Artos, let me in!”

There was no answer, but he could hear soft voices inside. None sounded like hers. Oh gods, had she brought their son into the world at the cost of her own life?

Aemond slammed himself against the door again and again, not caring for the damage he was doing to his own body. “Open the door now, Artos!”

He threw himself against the wood again and again. At some point, it had to yield. Either it would, or his body would.

It opened just before he launched himself at it again—not all the way, but it was open. Then, Artos stared at him through the gap with his hateful, disapproving gaze.

“Let me in,” he growled. Trying to force the door open was useless, as the maester was practically a giant and, apparently, throwing all his strength into holding it closed. “If you don’t let me see my wife, I swear I’ll – ”

“Your wife has not finished her labors yet, my prince.” Damn him, the mountainous bastard. “But I am pleased to inform you that she has borne you a son.”

Though he knew it was to be a son, the words still shot through him. A son. His son. Their son.

“Is he healthy? Is she?” There was no more fight in his voice. The warrior prince had vanished, replaced only by the husband and father. By all the gods, he was a father.

Artos nodded. “The boy is small but healthy. Your maester may have miscalculated the date of conception. He is remarkably healthy for being born so early.”

“And my wife?”

“She is tired, but well. The second babe is not quite ready to emerge, so she is resting.”

The weight of all the world was lifted from his shoulders. He felt like the little boy he had once been on Driftmark, wanting nothing more than to see his zaldrīzītsos and take comfort in her embrace. “May I see her? Please.”

“I’m afraid not, my prince.” Artos at least had the decency to sound genuinely apologetic. “She needs this rest. With the first birth, she was wonderfully strong, more than I could have ever imagined. But I fear she has depleted her strength. She fell asleep the moment it was done.”

“Is… is it bad that she fell asleep?”

Artos sighed, his eyes turning to the floor. “Ordinarily, no, but with how thin she is, how weak… it worries me.”

No. No, no, no. “Is there anything you can do? To help strengthen her?”

“I am afraid not, my prince.”

“Well, do something. Do whatever you can.”

A soft moan came from behind the door. Ābrazȳrītsos. Aemond pushed against the door, opening it as far as he could to try and catch the barest glimpse of her.

Her eyes were nearly closed, her reddened cheeks making them appear as dark as night. Her chemise was soaked through with sweat and whatever other fluids came out with their child. But no blood beyond what he already knew to be there.

“Ābrazȳrītsos! I’m here!” He shouted. It took a moment for her to look his way. He could have sworn she smiled. “I’m with you! You must be strong, my love. I know you can be. I love you! I love you so much, ñuha zaldrīzītsos!”

Artos pushed against the door, forcing Aemond back. “That is enough, my prince. Upsetting her will only drain her strength.”

Aemond knew it was true, that his presence would likely upset her rather than comfort her. So, he stopped resisting and allowed the maester to close the door. Just before it closed, he whispered one final command, “Take care of her, Artos. She is my world.”

The pain returned, worse than before. The lightning crept down her spine again, but it was now accompanied by a great force set on tearing her body apart at the seams. Pushing brought no relief, nor did it seem to move her son any closer to the world.

Artos came to her bedside, resting the back of his hand against her brow.

 “It’s worse this time,” she confided in the maester when it finally ebbed. “It’s so much worse. Why?”

He sighed and sat on the bedside, his massive hand nearly eclipsing her head as he stroked her hair. It made her feel remarkably like a kitten. “I cannot say, princess. There are many possibilities. This child could be larger, in a slightly different position, or…” He hesitated. “As I said, there are too many possibilities for me to be sure.”

His pause unsettled her, but it soon faded away when another wave went through her. “Is he nearly ready? I can’t do this much longer.” At least she knew what to do this time, so surely it would be better.

“Ah, another son, is it?” Artos stood from the bed to examine her spread legs. Several maids gently moved her to replace the sheets beneath her. “Not yet, but soon. Your motherly instincts will tell you when.”

Motherly instincts. Gods, she was a mother now. There was a child on the other side of the room that she had given birth to, that she had grown within her. A son who would depend on her for his entire life. Her, and his father.

Aemond would be a good father, she knew, even if he were decidedly lacking as a husband. But as a father, he would be attentive, kind, and loving. He would give their sons all the love he was denied by their own father.

They would not repeat the mistakes of the past. They would love their sons. They would not ignore them, speaking to them only to scold them. They would teach them the language of their ancestors themselves instead of relying on tutors. As soon as they were old enough, they would teach them how to be compassionate and fair rulers. They would not force them to marry for political advantage or the continuation of the bloodline but let them fall in love, as they had.

She could see them now. Both with white hair and unruly curls. Bright lilac eyes. The elder would take after her, but with Aemond’s determination. The younger would take after their father but with her gentle temperament.

As if the vision was summoning her second son, she felt her body constricting, muscles tightening. Without fear, she began to push.

“Princess, stop!”

Artos screamed as if someone was holding a sword to his throat, desperate and panicked. His eyes were wide and bulging as he looked from her face to where her second son should be emerging. “You mustn’t push now, princess. Not once. I…”

He stood, pulling one of the Septas aside. Others followed, and their frantic, poorly hushed whispers grew louder. She knew the sight should frighten her, but she forced herself to remain calm. Aemond said he trusted this man and had seen him work miracles. Whatever was wrong, Artos would fix it.

She was sure.

Artos burst out of the door without warning. Aemond pushed away from the wall. “Is it over?”

The maester sighed.

Shit. Seven Hells and all the Gods.

“Your wife is strong, my prince,” he began. Holy gods, he sounded as if he would cry. “Enough so that I would have little doubt that she could deliver your second child, but…”

“What’s wrong?” Aemond felt his heart race, his blood surge, his finger twitching for his sword. He was going into battle, but this was not a battle he could fight with steel or fire. This was not a battle he could fight at all. “Artos?”

“The babe is not in the right position.” He moved his hands as if it would somehow make Aemond understand what he was saying.

“What does that mean?”

“It means that the babe cannot be born, your highness.”

No. This couldn’t be happening. Not after everything she had suffered and survived.

“If she were to continue her labors, neither she nor the child would live.” Artos put a hand on his shoulder, an attempt at comfort. “I can save only one. Who survives… that is your decision, my prince.”

The gods were cruel to force this upon him – the very choice that had damned their family decades ago when Viserys chose to sacrifice his wife and queen for the chance at a son. That was where the seeds of destruction had been sown.

Aemond could not repeat the mistakes of the past. He would not be like his father. He had his son and heir. A second would be preferred, but not at the cost of his ābrazȳrītsos.

His ābrazȳrītsos, whose heart would break to lose her son. Who would never forgive him if he decided to –

He couldn’t choose. He couldn’t let her die, and he couldn’t let their son die.

He couldn't live without her, and he couldn’t take away her will to live.

He tore himself out of Artos’ grasp and stormed into the room.

Aemond threw open the door, his eyes wide and wet, and suddenly, she was not so sure that Maester Artos would fix whatever was wrong.

He ran to the bed, not sparing a glance at their new son. She burst into sobs the moment he took her in his arms. “Oh, ābrazȳrītsos,” he whispered into her hair as he kissed her temples. She entwined her fingers with his, desperately squeezing. “I’m here now. Everything is going to be fine.”

Liar. Sweet Liar. Beloved Liar.

“I want Mother. I want Helaena.” Her voice crackled with tears and exhaustion. Everything hurt. Someone – most likely her – was crying, though it sounded distant. And if Aemond was here, not waiting outside…

If Aemond was here, holding her hand and stroking her hair, it meant something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

“Mother is not here right now,” he said, squeezing her hand tighter. He wouldn’t look at her, wouldn’t meet her gaze. “And Helaena… she can’t be here. I’m so sorry.”

“She told me she would hold my hand like I did for her. She promised!”

“I know. I know, my love, but it is not possible.”

Because Helaena was dead. So were Daeron, and Jaehaerys, and Jaehaera, and Maelor, and Otto, and Ser Criston, and nearly every other person she loved. Aegon would be dead soon, too, then she would only have her mother and her husband.

Her mother, who had begged her to forgive the husband who betrayed her and broken her heart.

“I can’t do this alone, Aemond. I can’t.”

“You can, I know it. You are so strong, dearest.” Yet there was no confidence in his voice.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to tear his hair out just to make him hurt, too. “I can’t! I’ll die if you make me, Aemond, I know it. I know something is wrong. Please, tell me.”

He pursed his lips, eyes narrowed. “My love, I…” his voice faded, leaving them in total silence, save for that distant crying.

Then, he kissed her—not the soft kisses on the temple or head of the past fortnight, but the way he had kissed her when he said goodbye all those months ago. His lips slotted against hers perfectly, and she opened for him on instinct. She knew she should stop, push him away, and scold him, but she couldn’t.

Everything felt wrong—her entire body felt wrong. But this, kissing Aemond, felt right. Her desperation for comfort far overpowered her anger and resentment. Her trembling hand rested on his shoulder, her fingers bunching in his shirt. She pulled him closer, wanting more—more rightness, more connection, more feeling.

More Aemond.

But he pulled away, resting his brow against hers as she chased his lips again. He placed a hand on either side of her face, holding her still. “I’m going to fix this,” he rasped, his voice shredded by fear and desperation. “I will fix this, I swear.”

Then, he let go.

He stood from the bed and turned away from his wife.

He was leaving. He was fucking leaving her.

She screamed his name, cursed him, begged him to come back, hurled insults, and cried for him. He couldn’t do this to her, not after everything he’d already done.

This was not love. The heat that burned in her chest was not love.

It was hate.

For the first time in her life, she truly hated Aemond.

“Alys!” Aemond bellowed as he descended the stairs to the servant’s quarters, taking the steps two, three at a time. No one dared approach him. Not even Artos had tried to stop him as he ran away from his ābrazȳrītsos.

She may hate him forever for this, for leaving her when she was so weak and scared.

Fine. It would be worth it.

“ALYS!” The door snapped from its upper hinge as he tore it open. The witch was precisely where she’d been when Aemond left, her hand on her chin as she looked into the fire. What vile hell did she see in her visions now? “Alys!”

“I heard you, Aemond.” She did not look at him, only staring at the flames, those green eyes flitting around as if she were reading a book. “The entire continent heard you.” There was no humor in her voice, no hint of a smile on her face.

He swallowed, panting. He was crying – weeping like a little boy. That didn’t matter now. Very little mattered now.

Aemond fell to his knees before the witch with whom he had destroyed his life. He would do whatever she asked, destroy what little was left of his pride if necessary. “I need your help, Alys. Please.”

“She’s dying?”

“Yes. The maester said I had to… that I had to choose who to save.”

“And you can’t choose between her and the child.”

 “No, I – ” he swallowed as his voice shattered. He was going to vomit. “I can’t, Alys. I can’t. Please.”

“What is it, exactly, that you want me to do?” She was colder than the Wall, than the entirety of the lands beyond it.

“Save them, both of them.”

Alys’ eyes narrowed. Her face was painted with an expression he had never seen. He had no clue what it meant. “What would you sacrifice,” she asked flatly, “to ensure your wife and her children – your true heirs – live?”

“Anything,” Aemond croaked, “Everything.”

One corner of her sinful mouth lifted in a way that did not bring him comfort. She sighed as if taking the time to thoroughly consider his plea. The wicked bitch was gleefully stalling when the lives of his wife and child could end at any moment.

“Please, Alys,” he begged again, desperation crawling through his veins like spreading ice. “I cannot live without her, and she will never recover from her grief if she loses the babe.”

Something passed over her face, and she smiled fully. “You have always been a man of loyalty and nobility, Aemond.” Her grin sharpened as she laid one delicate hand upon her belly. “Almost always, at least.”

“Alys,” he growled in warning.

“Oh, don’t be a beast about it,” she scoffed. “I will do it – save them. If only in memory of our time together.”

Aemond sagged as relief swept through him, but it did not last long. She was still dying. The babe was still dying. Whatever Alys would do, she needed to do it now. He opened his mouth to command her to start, but she held up a hand to stop him.

“I promise it will be done.” She flung her hand to the door in dismissal. “You should be there for her. She is still so very frightened.”

He needed nothing more to run back to his wife.

She was alone. Even with Maester Artos and the dozen women hovering around her, even with her son cooing softly from the cradle by the window, she had never felt so alone.

Aemond was gone.

He’d left her. Without even a goodbye, he’d left her. He had not even stopped to meet his son.

Artos murmured something to one of the Septas, who quickly gathered the other women on the far side of the room. He approached the bed, again seating himself upon the edge, and pressed the back of his fingers to her brow briefly before petting her hair. “How are you feeling, princess?”

“Am I going to die?”

He hesitated in answering. “I cannot say for certain…”

“I know something is wrong. Please, tell me.” Her heart constricted as his fingers brushed against a spot where Aemond had kissed her. “You told him, now tell me.”

“Very well,” he sighed. His harsh face fell, and she swore she could see his eyes glistening. “The babe is breech. It should emerge head-first, but it is not. It’s… the way it is attempting to come out is nearly impossible. Should I not intervene, one or both of you will die.”

No. No, no, no, it wasn’t fair. To suffer for this long, to endure what she endured, only for her child to enter the world wrong? In a way that would kill them? She had always been good and devout. She prayed and studied holy texts, listened to her Septas and the Maesters, and avoided sin at all costs. Then why was she being punished?

Unless… the gods had not sent this to punish her.

Aemond had abandoned her and their marriage – their holy union – when he slept with Alys. It would be fitting, and very like the gods, for him to lose that which he had forsaken. She and her second son were merely instruments of punishment. But it wasn’t fair.

“There is nothing you can do?” She felt hollow as Artos continued to look at her in pity.

The warrior-maester looked as if he were about to cry, as well. “In these situations, it is usually asked of the father whom he would rather save.”

So that was why Artos left the room – to ask Aemond whether to save her or the child.

“Who did he choose?” Either answer would devastate her. He would either prove the fragility of his love for her, or he would willingly break her heart by killing their son. Whatever he chose, he would become a kinslayer thrice over.

“He… he did not, your highness.”

“What?”

“I explained the situation, and he stormed in here – to you. When he left, he said nothing. He just ran. I presumed he had…” But he hadn’t. Had not said a word about the peril she and their son were now in.

A coward. Too frightened to maintain his vows of marriage. Too weak to admit his wrongdoing. Too cowardly to even make this most crucial of decisions. The gods damn him.

If they hadn’t already.

“So… what will you do?” If she had to be the one to make the decision, so be it.

“There are three options.” None of them were very good, she knew, simply by looking at his forlorn face. She had thought him a grave man when she first saw him. Now, he looked mournful – a reluctant harbinger of death. “I can forcibly remove the child, more than likely killing it in the process. I can attempt to save it and, in so doing, certainly kill you. Or we can proceed with the birth, risking killing both of you and pray that the gods may be merciful.”

Such a choice – a decision of life and death – should be difficult. It should tear away at the soul to condemn another. It should be far beyond the limits of the heart or mind.

But it was easy.

“Save him,” she whispered. “Let me die.”

Artos frowned deeply, shook his head, and said something in return, but she did not listen – she could not and would not hear his words. She only vaguely saw him move to the end bed, ripping away the sleeve of his robes as he barked orders at the maid and midwives. Perhaps the gods were merciful to dull her senses now so she could pass peacefully.

What did it matter if she died now?

She will have fulfilled her duty and given her husband his heirs. Finding a new wife would be easy – what woman would not want to marry him? Even if news of Alys spread beyond the walls of Harrenhal, surely it was nothing in exchange for a crown. Aemond would have everything he needed to be king.

If she lived, what sort of life would it be? To raise one son while constantly mourning the other. To be the wife of a man she could no longer trust. To remain empty, a shell of her former self. She would be alive, but she would still be a ghost.

“Save him,” she said again, her voice fading.

It was easier this way. Hadn’t she already learned that it was easier not to fight? Letting Aemond take care of her was easier than fighting him. Perhaps it would be easier to let him care for the children, too. He would love them enough that they would not feel her absence.

Distantly, she felt pressure between her legs, then heard her firstborn son cry out to echo her own screams.

Her son.

Oh, he had no name.

She couldn’t leave him motherless and without a name.

Months ago, she had decided on names, but they were hard to remember now. What was it? She could grant him this one last gift. She just needed to remember…

“Daeron.”

Yes. It had been her brother’s name. Her kind, brave, daring brother. He died some months ago. There had been a battle. Why was her little brother fighting? He was too young for that.

Tendrils of pale mist crept into the edges of her vision, playfully willing her to sleep.

Once she was gone, Daeron—her Daeron—would have a little brother, too. He would need a name as well—a strong name, a courageous name. When she was dead, he would need courage.

“Aenar.”

A strong name. With courage enough to forge a new beginning.

There. Names for her sons, the little princes.

With that last parting gift, she could close her eyes at last.

Goodbye, she tried to say.

I love you, my children.

Be kind to each other.

Love each other always.

Goodbye.

The mist filled her vision, illuminated by a distant light. It was cool, like a late spring morning. She did not hurt anymore. Did not feel anything but an overwhelming sense of peace.

The distant light faded.

The mist darkened.

Through it, she swore she could see grass-green eyes and hear the faraway cry of a babe.

She was still screaming. Good.

Screaming meant she was still alive. Screaming meant Alys was fulfilling her promise. Screaming meant that Aemond was racing back to his wife – his living, breathing, beloved wife – and not her corpse.

The door was still locked when he arrived—one final obstacle between him and his family.

No, not final. Far from it. The door was the only tangible thing keeping him from his wife and children, yes, but there was far more beyond it. The pain he caused her, the hatred his ābrazȳrītsos now surely felt for him, and the third child that would soon be born still kept them as far apart as the earth and stars.

They would get past it. They had to. They were siblings, husband and wife, now destined to become King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. They were meant for each other. The gods or fate or whatever else had made her for him and him for her.

They were two parts of the same whole, cleaved.

“Prince Aemond.”

Cregan Stark, the man who humiliated him and his wife mere hours ago, stood behind him. Aemond snarled. “Leave. Now.”

Stark stood strong and still. “You have been my enemy. You may be still, I have not decided. I have no admiration nor respect for you, my prince. In short, I do not like you.”

“Do you want me to kill you?” Aemond asked. He did not wish to greet his sons with blood-soaked hands, but if Stark didn’t close his fucking mouth –

“To lose the woman you love so dearly in this way… it is a pain I know all too well and one I would not wish on anyone. I have instructed all my men to pray for the Princess and the child, and I will join them soon. Negotiations will be postponed indefinitely.”

“I…” Perhaps Aemond had underestimated the brute, if he was a brute at all. And though he knew the prayers were unnecessary, gratitude still dulled his rage. “Thank you, Lord Stark.”

He simply inclined his head and walked away, leaving Aemond leaning against that godsdamned door, listening to nothing but the sound of his own panting breath.

Oh gods.

He froze.

The screaming was gone.

It was silent.

Was she dead?

Had Alys betrayed him?

He would kill her. He would tear her apart with his own hands and –

A child cried.

Then…

Oh, thank each and every god a thousand times over.

For then, Aemond heard his wife laughing.

“Princess?”

She always expected that the voice of the Father would be deep and smooth, but shouldn’t it be the Mother to greet her, given how she died? And shouldn’t the gods greet her by name, not her title?

“Princess, it is time to wake up,” the voice said again. “Open your eyes for me.”

Oh, her eyes were closed. She should open them.

The Heavens were not as bright as she imagined, nor as golden. They were dark and sparsely decorated and looked very much like –

“I am not dead?”

Maester Artos looked down at her and smiled. It reminded her of the few times she had seen her father smile at her, sparking a warmth in her chest she had not felt for years. She had not known she still remembered those smiles. “I am very happy to say you are not, your highness.”

“But, my son – ”

“He lives, too.”

It couldn’t be. After all the suffering of the past year, she could not believe it could be true. Loss had become a certainty, as sure as the sun rising each morning.

A babe cried, and she turned toward the sound. A young maid was wrapping an infant boy with a shock of white curls in a cobalt blue blanket. Daeron.

A different, softer cry came from the other end of the room. There, another boy with only a smattering of silver wisps atop his head was being gently cleaned by a Septa. Aenar.

Her sons – alive and well and here.

She threw her head back against the pillows and laughed.

She laughed with joy and relief, with eight months of eager waiting and sickness. She laughed with a body nearly dead, saved only by some miracle she did not understand. And she laughed with a heart that was both shattered and overflowing.

This was the moment she had dreamed of since she learned she was pregnant, since the moment she married Aemond. She had dreamed of this all her life. It was her destiny, even if it was vastly different from how she had dreamed it. For she was not at home in the Red Keep but within the cursed stones of Harrenhal. Her mother was not by her side but miles away. The family that was supposed to crowd around her and coo over the children were nearly all dead. And her husband…

“Let me in!” he shouted through the door, the wood pounding against stone as he threw himself against it. He had been doing that before, but she did not notice until now. It was so like him, the impatience and need to act, that she laughed again. “Ābrazȳrītsos! Is that you? Tell me you are safe!”

Taking her laughter as permission, Artos opened the door. It was mere heartbeats later that Aemond was upon the bed, his eye flitting over every inch of her, his hands roaming to try and locate something wrong, to stem blood that did not flow or relieve pain that did not exist.

“I’m fine,” she said, breathless. “I did it, lēkia, and I’m fine.”

“You did it?” He looked down at her in utter disbelief and joy before his eye drifted to the Maester. Tears slipped from his eye and caught the light of the setting sun. “She did it…”

Her gaze went to the maid that held her firstborn – the girl with eyes like her mother’s. Fitting, for her to be the one to hold him. But it was her turn. “Bring Daeron to me,” she ordered,” some strength at last returning to her voice. “I want to hold him.”

Aemond stared at her. “Daeron?”

Was he angry that she named their sons without him? She couldn’t quite tell. Her mind was still fuzzy, like the mist she had seen still lay over her, casting everything in a sweet, happy light. She shrugged. “There are already too many Aegons, so…”

He laughed. She had missed that sound – she loved it so dearly. He settled into the bed next to her, their bodies fitting together perfectly, like two halves of a broken plate. So many familiar feelings – the warmth of his arm around her, the rhythm of his heart, his lips kissing her temple in the gentle way that always sent shivers down her spine. Hadn’t her spine hurt not long ago? “Daeron is perfect.”

Indeed, he was absolutely perfect. So tiny and precious as he was put in her arms, looking up at his parents with wide lilac eyes. Neither she nor Aemond said anything as they beheld him, taking in each tiny, perfect detail. The wild curls of his silver hair. Each and every eyelash framing his bright eyes. The pink of his lips. Fingers and toes so wonderfully soft and small. A toothless smile that lit the world.

“He’s going to be king someday,” she realized aloud. How could someone so tiny rule an entire kingdom? He had a lot of growing to do before the Conqueror’s Crown would fit.

“A great king, I think,” Aemond mused. He held out a finger, and Daeron instinctively wrapped his hand around it. “Wise and strong. Daring, like his namesake.”

“He must be kind, too.”

“He will be,” Aemond assured, brushing out her damp, tangled hair with his fingers. The feeling was so familiar, but each touch had her flinching slightly. “We will raise him to be kind. His brother, too.”

“Aenar.”

Aemond stiffened. Had he forgotten they had another son, or did he not like the name she gave him? He pulled his finger back from his son’s fist to touch the babe’s hair. “The Exile?”

“I just thought…” Perhaps it had been a foolish name. But it had felt right when it came to her, when she was on the brink of death. “Our family needs a new beginning.”

“Yes… I suppose it does.” He kissed her again with slightly too much pressure. “Another fine name.”

She looked at the Septa that had been cleaning him. Maester Artos stood with her now, along with several other women, crowding so much she could not see the babe. “I want to hold him, too. Bring him to me.”

None of them moved. The room fell silent.

“Allow me just a moment longer, princess,” Artos said. His voice shook, and he would not look at her or Aemond. “I am still finishing my assessment of the boy.”

He’s dead, her mind insisted. They saved your life at the cost of his. He died because of you.

“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no.”

Daeron began fussing in her arms, disturbed by how she began to tremble. She failed one son by killing him, and now she was already failing as a mother to the one who survived. Aemond tightened his arm on her shoulders, pulling her closer as his free arm gently lifted their son into his own grasp.

He hushed her, ducking his head to press his cheek to hers. “Lykirī, ābrazȳrītsos. Izūgō daor īlo bēvili gō.” Calm, little wife. Do not panic before we have reason to.

“Kostan daor,” she whimpered. If Aenar was dead…

“Is he alive?” Aemond’s hand moved to shelter Daeron’s head as if to shield him from whatever danger or heartbreak lurked. She turned to press herself into him – into the safety of his arms.

Brother. Husband. Protector.

Why did the feel and scent of him no longer make her feel safe?

“Yes, my prince,” Artos answered.

“Will he remain that way?”

“Yes…”

“You could tell me he’s green-skinned and winged for all I care.” His arm curled protectively around her, but it did not comfort her. Rather, she bristled against it, the possessiveness of it. He did not notice. “He’s alive, and that’s enough. Bring him.”

Artos hesitated but obeyed, hastily wrapping the babe in a dark blanket.

He looked whole – unbroken. Aenar’s eyes were closed as the Maester placed him in her arms, but she could feel his warmth, his little heart beating, and the faint rise and fall of his chest. He only woke when a tear fell from her cheek onto his.

Even then, he did not cry. He only looked at his mother with bright eyes – the same shade of violet as his father's and brother’s. “Ñuha trēso,” she whispered, and he smiled. My son.

“Taobosa sylvȳse,” Aemond added. “He already recognizes the language of his ancestors. He will serve his brother well. Dārys sepār Ondoso zȳhon.” Wise boy. The King and his Hand.

They had two perfect sons. So why did Artos still look like that?

The Maester’s frown deepened. “I am afraid…” he cleared his throat. “It appears that the younger prince was injured during the birth.”

She examined him again but could find nothing wrong. He was perfect. Surely, Artos was mistaken.

“May I?” His large hand hovered over the edge of the blanket.

Her instinct was to pull away, to not let this man touch her son. Yes, he had saved both their lives, but he must be wrong now. Why should she let him make a problem where there was none?

She suppressed that instinct and allowed him to uncover Aenar’s right arm. Artos’ demeanor had made it seem as though something was horribly wrong – that the arm would be missing or deformed. But it was just an arm, small and plump and pale, with a splotch of reddish-purple covering the shoulder like a pauldron.

“It… is it a birthmark?” She brushed a thumb over it, the skin smooth but slightly raised. A birthmark wasn’t an injury, nor was it exceedingly unusual. There were several families where such a mark appeared on nearly every child born.

“Explain yourself, Artos,” Aemond hissed. He looked ready to tear the man to pieces. If he did, he would likely do so without even setting Daeron down.

With a sigh, Artos ran a finger down the length of Aenar’s arm. “Note how he gives no reaction.”

“So he is calm,” Aemond spat. “I fail to see the injury.”

“Do the same to the elder.” He repeated the touch. “Gently, my prince.”

Aemond obeyed with a scowl. The moment he touched the babe, Daeron squirmed and flailed his arm.

“But he looks fine.” She looked down at her second son, her wise boy, and held out a finger, as Aemond had with Daeron. Aenar’s left arm squirmed within its wrappings, but the right was still. She touched the arm, silently pleading with the gods for it to move, for that tiny hand to reach for her.

It remained still. A desperate noise escaped her. “What did I do wrong?”

“Nothing,” Aemond and Artos said in unison. Her husband attempted to pull her into his chest, but she pushed him away. An embrace could not fix this. Nothing could. He did not pursue her again.

“It is not uncommon among children born breech.” the Maester explained. “I have seen many such injuries and many even worse.”

Artos offered no sympathy or apologies, and she was thankful for it. There was nothing he could say to ease the pain of knowing that her son would never be whole, just like his father. But unlike Aemond, he was never even given the chance, wounded from his first breath. What would the people call him? ‘Prince Aenar One-Arm, son of King Aemond One-Eye?’

“What do we do?” She asked her husband, the Maester, the gods. Anyone who may have an answer.

Aemond’s face was drawn with grief – for his son and for himself. “He will adapt, as I did. I will ensure it. He will be stronger for this. I promise.”

I cannot trust your promises.

The thought was a sudden gale of icy wind scattering the lovely mist coating her mind into oblivion, leaving her with only stark, wicked reality and the faint memory of green eyes.

“How did I survive?”

Too quickly, Aemond turned to her, taking hold of her chin and pulling her close to him. “It does not matter, ābrazȳrītsos. All that does is that you are still with me. You and Aenar.”

If he wasn’t holding her firstborn, she would have shoved him from the bed.Liar. Liar. Liar.

I will fix this. he’d said before he left her. The pure, unrelenting anger she felt as she watched him leave had prevented her from considering what those words meant. Now, she could think of nothing else. What could he do? He was no midwife nor Maester. He had no knowledge of childbirth, beyond the few questions he’d asked of Orwyle months ago. What could he have done for her and Aenar except beg the help of another?

Of Alys.

Alys, who had eyes the color of fresh grass and possessed a dark magic that allowed her visions of the future. Was she also able to influence that future?

How?

At what cost?

What had Aemond promised her in exchange for their lives?

“No Maester wants to admit to ignorance,” Artos smiled sadly as Aenar continued to try to wriggle his left arm free of his blanket, “but I cannot explain it. All I can think is that the gods are kind to you, princess, and for that, I am glad.”

She could not look at him or any of the others in the room who watched her as if they could see the Mother’s hand upon her shoulder.

The gods weren’t kind. They were cruel to allow her to now owe her very life, and that of her son’s, to the two people who had destroyed her. Would she ever be able to look upon Aenar and not remember? To not feel her soul torn between unyielding hatred and infinite gratitude?

Yet, she had her life – and her sons. Surely anything was worth that.

Wasn’t it?

“I’m tired,” she said. The day had seemed to last a year, and the sun had not even set. “I want to rest now.”

After what she endured, no one argued.

His ābrazȳrītsos fell asleep mere moments after Daeron and Aenar were settled into their cradles. She did not even wake when Aemond lifted her so the servants could replace the soiled bedding. Just as she had so many times before, she tucked her face into his neck as they sat in the window, sighing contentedly. Now, he lay beside her in the bed, trying to memorize how it felt to have her in his arms.

When she woke, he knew she would never allow him to hold her like this again.

She knew. Somehow, his wife knew what he had done to ensure she and Aenar survived, and she would never forgive him for it for as long as she lived.

But she would live.

Aenar would live. Though he would bear the wounds of his father’s sins forever.

After his wife had fallen asleep, Maester Artos had told him that it would likely be necessary to amputate Aenar’s arm. The purple mark on his shoulder had grown, apparently indicating further bleeding within the limb. If it grew much more before morning, the arm would be removed before midday.

It was his fault, Aemond knew.

Alys had told him that in her visions, both boys had been healthy. But that was before his ābrazȳrītsos knew that he betrayed her. Before he brought her to this cursed place. Before he failed to stop her from meeting Alys and learning the full extent of his sins.

He only hoped Aenar would not grow to hate him for it.

For now, the boy slept in his crib, limp arm hidden beneath the dark blanket he was swaddled in. Aemond rose from the bed, moving closer to his son.

How peaceful he looked now, with the redness of his skin finally faded. He did not have as much hair as his older brother, but his was wilder - more reminiscent of his mother’s curls than his father’s straight locks. At least he had that part of her, if not the warm brown eyes Aemond had hoped for.

In the other cradle, Daeron fussed slightly, though he did not wake. It seemed he resented being confined within the tight swaddle of his blanket. The thought made Aemond smile, remembering how his younger brother once did the same. It faded quickly.

He had to go to Alys. To thank her for giving him his family - a kindness he did not deserve. To say goodbye to the child he would never meet. Another cost he would force himself to pay.

He had to go now, while his ābrazȳrītsos slept.

“Before our wedding,” he whispered, careful not to wake her as he approached, “I promised to hold you every night I could, that I would do anything to return to you when I was away. I have failed to uphold that promise, and for that, I am so sorry.”

When he stroked her cheek, she turned into his touch, a small smile upon her lips. Seeing that some unconscious part of her still reacted to him with love warmed his heart, even as the knowledge that her conscious mind would never allow her to do so felt like a dagger buried in his gut.

Aemond knelt at her side, basking in her beauty, memorizing her peaceful face. “Now, I swear my devotion again. I know you no longer wish for me to hold you, and I promise I will not try to persuade you otherwise. But I swear I will always be with you, to love and protect you, even if I must do it from a distance. I will never fail you again.”

It did not matter that she could not hear his vow. Even if she did, she would not believe him. But he made it anyway, for his own sake, and so the gods, wherever they may be, would hear him. It was to them he spoke next.

“Should I ever harm you again, I pray that the gods will strike me down where I stand. And if they do not, I shall do so myself.” He kissed her brow - the sealing of a promise and a farewell - and left.

A maid shrunk away as she passed Aemond in a corridor deep beneath Harrenhal, cradling the bundle of cloth she carried closer to her chest. It was one of the same maids who had tended to his wife—the young girl with deep brown eyes. She did not wear the clothing of a midwife, but the colors of her linen dress were similar. Perhaps a midwife in training.

Strange, then, for her to be here. Stranger still for her to be seemingly performing the duties of a laundress.

He glanced down at the bundle of cloth she carried and froze.

There was blood. Too much blood.

A young midwife, carrying bedlinens soaked with blood.

What would you sacrifice? Alys had asked.

Aemond ran.

He knew what he would find. There was no other explanation. Yet he still hoped and prayed he was wrong. Loss had followed him like a loyal dog for so long, but today it was banished. It must be.

Alys stood in front of her fire. One hand rested on a stomach that was not as distended as it had been only hours ago.

His wife’s stomach now looked very much the same.

“What did you do?” His voice shook with fear and guilt and shame. Gods, he felt so weak.

Her eyes, cold and distant, slid to his. “What you asked.”

“I didn’t ask you to…” This blood was on his hands - the blood of his child.

The word that had haunted him for more than a year - the word that had nearly led to the death of every person he ever loved - echoed in his mind.

Kinslayer.

Killer of his nephew. His uncle. His child.

Aemond looked back into the corridor, hoping to see the young midwife again. Had he not looked closely enough? Had she been carrying the body of his child within those bloody linens?

“I only wanted you to save my wife and son.” His words were a justification, a plea. It fell on the deaf ears of the gods and the dead child’s mother.

“And you thought there would be no cost?” Alys laughed, cruel and cackling. “No god in the world is so generous as to save a life and ask for nothing in exchange, boy.”

“I didn’t think – ”

“You never do.”

Grief morphed into anger. Reckless, aimless, dangerous rage. “You should have told me!”

“What would you have done?” She faced him fully now, her hand falling to her side. There was no trace of the woman who had once comforted and reassured him - who had kept him sane amidst the insanity of war. There was only annoyance and derision. It reminded Aemond of his dead half-sister and her bastard sons. “If I had told you?”

“I –”

“Would you have left your wife to die? Let her son die?” Alys’ lip curled in a hateful sneer. “You could not choose between wife and son, yet you believe you could have chosen between two sons?”

The world stopped. Only Alys’ flickering fire and burning eyes remained.

“I… it was a boy?” Aemond leaned against the wall, sliding down to his knees, savoring the scrape of the rough stone against his back. He deserved every bit of pain. More.

Alys let a single hint of sorrow slip through her cold façade. “It was. Three sons within a year. What your father would have given to have had the same.”

The last thing Aemond wanted to do was to think about his father. The king who had nearly destroyed his throne by choosing one child over another.

Gods, was he any better?

Did his ignorance of his son’s sacrifice absolve him of blame? The guilt?

It certainly didn’t feel like it.

Alys sighed. “Better for his death to mean something than for his life to be spent destitute and fatherless.”

“I would not have allowed that to happen,” Aemond said. It was a reflex, a reassurance he’d grown used to giving since he learned he seeded a bastard.

“Wouldn’t you? Perhaps if my visions had not changed. But now…” She shook her head, more exasperated than sorrowful. Did she mourn the child at all? “No. You’d have wanted us as far away as possible and done anything you could to not think of us.”

“I would have ensured your comfort.” The words felt as hollow as his chest.

“Your wife would, yes.” Alys smiled fondly, just as she had when his ābrazȳrītsos sat across from her earlier that very day. She had never smiled that way for Aemond. Never truly cared for him. He should have known. “She is kind-hearted. But not you. Your resentment of me, of us, would have festered until you found some way to be rid of us.”

He wanted to deny it. To say that there was nothing that could drive him to do what she insinuated. Once, it would have been true. But now, with the man he’d become in the war and how close he’d come to losing his heart itself, it would be a lie.

If he had killed Alys along with the rest of her cursed family, would he have become this man? Would he have learned to cherish the metallic tang of blood and its warmth as it coated his hands? Would he have become so proficient a liar that false words rolled off his tongue like a Valyrian lullaby? Would he have grown so accustomed to violence that it now came as naturally to him as loving his wife?

Would he have broken his ābrazȳrītsos’s heart?

He’d trusted her visions. It had been a mistake.

One mistake that led to thousands more, and it was all her fault.

Alys was the one who lied, who deceived him. Who had pulled his strings as if he were no more than a puppet, knowing that he was married and his wife was lonely and infirm.

His failure as a husband. His wife’s pain. The death of his third son.

Her fault. Her fault. Her fault.

Aemond’s heart slowed, his breathing becoming deep and steady. No longer the heart of a broken boy or a desperate husband. Now, it was the blackened heart that had carried him through countless battles and raging rivers of blood.

“I will be rid of you now,” he hissed as he stood. “And I will be rid of you forever.”

The bitch had enough sense to look scared.

“In memory of the son you killed, I will allow you to live. But no more than that.” She didn’t even deserve that, this woman who did not mourn her own child. Perhaps it was good that the babe was gone, for surely he would have suffered with a witch as his mother.

He approached Alys, sneering down at her and the false bravery on her wicked face. “As Prince Regent of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I banish you from these lands forever. You have ten days to leave Westeros. After that, if you are ever seen here again…” He reached out and grabbed her by the throat, holding just tight enough to steal a bit of her breath - just enough to make her fight for it.

“I will kill you myself,” he promised. “Without hesitation or remorse, I will kill you. Slowly. And I will savor every moment, for it will bring me far greater pleasure than that withered cunt of yours ever did.”

She fell to her knees when he released her, clutching at her throat as she coughed and gulped for air. He didn’t care. He only turned on his heel and left, not sparing a single glance at the woman who had only hours ago been carrying his bastard child.

Only one woman mattered now, had ever truly mattered to him.

His ābrazȳrītsos was still asleep when he returned to their chamber, as were their sons. They had no idea where he had gone - that he had even left at all. No inkling of the fact that a moment ago, he had again become the man who wiped an entire bloodline from the earth, slaughtered tens of thousands, and delighted in the suffering he had wrought.

Now, as he leaned down to gently kiss his sons’ brows and muss their soft hair, he was a mere man of twenty, his heart bursting with love and affection for his family. How could a heart overflow with such love at the same moment it was fracturing with grief and regret?

It was a question far beyond him at that moment. Perhaps forever beyond his reach.

He was so tired. Too tired to consider the heartbreak that would come when he woke in the morning and his wife pulled out of his grasp. He could face that pain when it came. But now, he needed to feel whole, if only for a few hours.

So, Aemond climbed into bed with his wife, wrapping his arms around her and tugging her into his chest. He remained awake only long enough to kiss the top of her head and whisper, “Jāla tetan, ābrazȳrītsos. Īlon lentot selagon kosti.” It is over, ābrazȳrītsos. We can go home.

She woke to the sound of Daeron fussing. Strange how quickly she was able to tell them apart, even just by their little noises of discontentment. Although, considering she had been with them every moment of the last seven - near eight - months, it may not be strange at all. Perhaps that was why she felt so sure that it had been Daeron who occupied the top of her belly, constantly pestering her with his tiny fists pounding against her at the most inopportune times.

“Hush, little prince,” a soft voice said. “You’ll wake up your mother, and after what you and your brother put her through, I dare say she needs her rest.” A maid was speaking to him, a slight, old woman leaning over his crib. She had not seen the maid before, and somehow, it comforted her.

Daeron continued to grumble. She moved to stand but found Aemond’s arms wrapped around her waist. Thankfully, he was still asleep. Quite deeply asleep, apparently, for when she untangled herself from him, he did not wake.

The maid curtsied when she saw the princess approaching and stepped away from Daeron’s cradle. His fussing had now roused Aenar, but the younger prince made no sound, only glaring at his brother in what seemed to be intense displeasure at his sleep being interrupted.

“Is something wrong with him?” she asked the old maid. Daeron quieted slightly upon seeing his mother but still fussed.

“Nothing to concern yourself with, princess.” The old maid had a kind, soothing voice - that of a wise grandmother. She looked at the babes with fondness and a hint of apology. “They are simply hungry.”

“Where is the wetnurse?” She immediately regretted asking. In her sleepy haze, she had forgotten that Alys was the wetnurse at Harrenhal. Why wasn’t she here? Did she even want Alys here? No, of course she didn’t. Had Aemond requested another be found so she would not have to see Alys again?

The old maid looked away, sighing. “I’m afraid she’s left us. No wonder why, poor thing lost her babe again. Such a shame. We all thought she’d had a miracle with this one. But not to worry, Maester Artos sent some men to find another girl from the closest village.” She shook her head and again leaned over Daeron’s crib. “You’ll be fed soon, darling prince, don’t you worry.”

Alys’ child - Aemond’s child - was dead?

It was a good thing, wasn’t it? There would be no bastard son of the new king, no living reminder of what he’d done. This was good news. She should be happy, shouldn’t she?

But she wanted to cry.

“Mother, forgive me,” the old maid looked horrified as she clutched her pendant of the Seven-Pointed Star. “I should not have said that, princess. Not when you’ve only just finished your own labors. Please, forgive me.”

She glanced at Aenar, now peacefully asleep once more. How close she had come to losing him. It had devastated her. Made her willing to forfeit her own life if only he could live. If she had lost him and had to live with that loss… it would have driven her mad.

“How…” she licked her lips. “How many children has she lost?”

The old maid dropped her pendant. “I do not know, exactly. Enough that we all stopped counting.”

Oh gods. She blinked to clear her eyes, wiping away an errant tear with her thumb. “You said she’s gone?”

“Yes, princess. She left in the night. Didn’t say where she was going, to my knowledge.”

It made no sense. If Aemond had struck a bargain with Alys to save her and Aenar’s lives, why would she leave? Had whatever he offered her not been enough to keep her in the place where she’d lost so many children?

Daeron cried again, his face reddened and wrinkled. He was so hungry, she could nearly feel it herself. She… she could feel it. When she looked down at herself, she saw two dark stains on her chemise right above her breasts. Her milk had finally come in, which meant -

“I can feed them.”

The old maid looked aghast. “Princess, there is no need - ”

“I want to do it.” She was their mother, why shouldn’t she be the one to feed them? It was her body that made them, that brought them into the world. It made sense that it would continue to care for them even now. “Can you show me how?”

It took a moment for the maid to close her mouth before she smiled gently. “I’ve raised nine children myself, princess. I think I know a few tricks.”

The maid had gone by the time Aemond woke.

Daeron was still suckling at her left breast while Aenar had fallen asleep using the right as his pillow. She had not realized how heavy and uncomfortable they had felt until the boys had drunk from her, easing the pressure that she’d become accustomed to.

“You should not be doing that yourself,” Aemond muttered as he raised himself on an elbow. His eye darted from son to son, only ever glancing over her exposed breasts. Once, he loved to worship them, quite similarly to how his sons fed from her now. “Where is the wetnurse?”

Did he not know that Alys had left? Had no one told him of the death of his child?

No. Those were the faint remnants of tear tracks lining his cheeks, and there was a deep sadness in his eye that was not there when he held his sons for the first time. He knew. He knew, and he was grieving, though he was fighting to hide it. She still saw it.

Perhaps that was the real reason he never returned to King’s Landing during the war - he knew she would be able to see the guilt on his face.

“There is no other wetnurse,” she explained gently. “Alys left. They’re looking for another woman now.”

Aemond froze, his gaze growing distant. She could not decipher his expression. Rage? Guilt? Sorrow? Grief?

“I’m sorry, Aemond.” He frowned and shook his head, but she continued. “Truly, I am.”

“It’s better this way,” he whispered. He didn’t believe it. Neither did she.

He reached out to her. No, not to her, but to Aenar, gently stroking his hair. She allowed him to take the babe and hold him against his own chest.

Aenar opened his eyes and looked up at his father. Then, he smiled.

Aemond took in a deep breath. “That boy should never have existed,” he said, letting Aenar take hold of his thumb and mouth at it. “I already had what I needed. And wanted.”

So it was a boy. Another son. A brother for her own. Would he have had his father’s nose, as Daeron did? Or his stern brow, like Aenar? Gods, why did she care?

“You are allowed to mourn him. He was innocent. I bear him no ill will.” Bastard or no, a babe was a babe, blameless of his parents’ sins. Deep in her heart, she mourned him, as well.

Again, Aemond shook his head. “I cannot mourn what never should have been.” He turned his head to face her, face open and pleading. “And I am mourning too much already.”

“I am alive. Aenar is alive. There is nothing to mourn.”

“You know that is not what I mean, ābrazȳrītsos.”

She did. He mourned not for the loss of a life, but for the loss of their life. The life they should have shared, and would have, had Aemond not strayed. In truth, she mourned for it, too.

“I know.”

They sat in silence for a moment as Daeron finally finished feeding, stretching his little arms to push her breast away. She pulled her robe closed again to combat the chill.

Aemond raised a hand to help her. She flinched away. He winced in response.

“Ābrazȳrītsos, please.” His voice was already breaking, his eye watering. The sight should have tugged at her heart. His begging should have fanned the flames of her anger. But looking at him, she felt very little of anything, save a small seed of pity. “Alys is gone. My… the bastard is gone. Can we not return to the way we were? Pretend none of this ever happened? Can’t you forgive me at last?”

The answer came without hesitation.

“No, Aemond.”

Within her, there was no longer a grassland, barren with loneliness and despair. The never-ending field of raging fire had also vanished. In its place was a small, lush garden, safely contained within tall stone walls draped with flowers and a polished iron gate – locked firmly, but perhaps not sealed forever.

“I shall always be your sister, your blood, and the mother of your children.” Daeron cooed, as if he knew she was talking about him, and she could not help but smile down at him. “I will remain your wife in the eyes of gods and men. And when Aegon dies, I will be your faithful queen.”

Aemond shook as his breath quickened, failing to keep the heartbreak. “You will be a wonderful queen, ābrazȳrītsos. I know it.”

She pulled away, taking Aenar from him and into her empty arm. “But I will never again be your ābrazȳrītsos.” She forced herself to ignore the whimpering, broken cry that escaped him, the breath that carried it echoing like a death rattle. “I will not share your bed. And I will no longer allow you to hold my heart.”

Between desperate sobs, Aemond raised his head to face her. Utter devastation lay in his eye, but so too did acceptance. Anguished surrender. “My heart is and always shall be yours.”

I don’t want it, her mind told her, even as her heart cried, I will cherish it forever.

But her decision was made. In all but name, their marriage – their once legendary romance – was finished. A few fragments of love remained but would never be repaired. Could never be.

Slowly, she rose from the bed, her sons still in her arms. Aemond began to reach for her, but when she did not even acknowledge him, he covered his face with his hands and wept. Though it tugged at her heart, it was the same she would feel for any man weeping so, no longer the instinctive pull of a wife. She did not comfort him.

The soft, pitiful sounds of Aemond’s grief faded as she walked toward the eastern window, settling herself in the cushioned seat just beneath it.

Daeron smiled, watching the trembling branches of an oak tree dotted with the first tight green buds of the season. Aenar angled his head just so, until the sun warmed every bit of his fat, pink face, then promptly fell asleep. She sighed, taking in the sweet scent of spring on the wind, and realized she had not breathed so easily in months.

It was a lovely morning in Harrenhal.

[fanaticsnail]

Can you write something romantic for yandere Mihawk? Like a drabble or headcannons?

🐈‍⬛

I don't think I've ever written yandere before, but I wanted to give it a go. I hope this is what you were looking for! 🖤🐌

Obsession

Masterlist here

Word count: 1,200+

Synopsis: Many believe Mihawk keeps the knowledge of his spouse a secret because he is a private man. Truth of it is, he is simply obsessed with you and doesn't believe any other pair of eyes is worthy of meeting their gaze with your majesty.

Themes: yandere!Mihawk x gn!reader, possessive attitude, obsession, infatuation, pining, longing, lusting, love, romance, kissing, yandere trope.

Notes: I will do anything to write a man in love. I love how period-drama romance looks on Mihawk, and I couldn't not write him with a little bit of a possessive flavour. I made the banner with OPLA's Mihawk wanted poster.

Tag list: @since-im-already-here @feral-artistry @mfreedomstuff @gingernut1314 @jintaka-hane @daydreamer-in-training @carrotsunshine @indydonuts @i-am-vita @sordidmusings

While many were aware that Dracule Mihawk was married, they simply presumed he was a very private man. He enjoyed keeping to himself, and allowing himself the courtesy of remaining in solitude with his spouse while tending to his title as World's Greatest Swordsman.

In some aspects, he did. He did enjoy keeping to himself and remaining in solitude while he lived in the high keep of his castle, surrounded by swirled mountains and his well-tended gardens. But at the crux of his entire life, the center of his world and the prized diamond in his vast treasury, was you.

You ruled his heart, controlled his chin and the direction his gaze fell with a simple whisper of a word or the scent of your perfume. He was a man consumed, humbled by his infatuation to the point where his love fell into captivated, depraved fixation.

To put it simply, Dracule Mihawk wanted to keep you all to himself. He was a man consumed by his bewitchment and infatuation with the owner of his heart.

He was never one for sharing, never joining a crew or forming a bond other than rivalry with another person. As soon as he met you, everything changed for him. His heart soared, his breath was stolen from his lungs, and his eyes never strayed from honing in on your beauty.

He wasn't sure what it was you did or didn't do that had him fall to his knees and begin to worship at your altar. All he knew was he wanted you so desperately, craved to be by your side always, and wanted to shy you away from the wandering eyes of all whom he deemed unworthy to have their gaze fall upon your majesty.

When your courtship first commenced, he attempted to keep his tribute humble and small. But as your eyes lit up at the first offer of a simple rose he carved from his favored floral shrubbery, he knew he wanted to spoil you with lavish luxury. Each gift was catered to your interests and tastes, items you never thought he paid enough mind to your conversation while promenading, hand interlaced within the crook of his elbow.

He paid mind to it all. The way your voice changed when speaking on your passions, the questions you asked him about his life before working for the World Government, how you paused in the garden and listened to the sweet chirps of birds begin courting their mates. He hung on your every word, movement and motion.

For someone so stoic and reserved, the way his heart melted for you the moment your eyes met was as if his cold vessel was chaperoned into the bright light of a warm sunset. He couldn't get enough, and when he was certain you returned his love, he refused any exchange of dowry for your hand.

He wanted you to be his just as much as he desired to be yours. That was more than enough for him, and he would never leave you for wanting or without for all the days of your life.

The first time he was summoned to perform his duty as a warlord for the World Government after your marriage, he was overcome with rage at the thought of leaving your side. He almost took the head of the carrier bird with the summons for his assignment, but withheld his violent act at the sight of you offering the bird your Berry, and gifting them your palm filled with sunflower seeds.

As soon as the bird fled, he lifted your palm within his own, brushed the darkened casings of the remains from the seeds' shells, and rose the flesh to his lips to kiss away the indents of pecks the bird left in raised welts on your skin. Cupping his bearded chin, you rose his amber eyes to meet with yours.

“I will return to you,” his voice mourned for you above the softest whisper, “I will always return to you.” Leaning his cheek and chin into your palm, he closed his eyes and furrowed his brows in deep yearning.

“You are always so good to me,” you responded in a tone that mirrored his own, prompting his eyes to snap open and gaze deeply into your own. “I trust you to find your way home once you conclude this contract.” Ushering his face closer to you, you whisper against his lips before fully making contact, “I will be right where you left me, waiting for you to return.”

Mihawk's eyes darkened, his pupils blown black and eclipsing his honey-hue with the intensity of his possessive gaze. He knew he was many things to you, and good was far from a sentiment he held for himself. His desire to keep you secret was not to keep you safely tucked away from those who wished to do him harm, but because he was truly a selfish man.

As your lips closed in around his own, he was ready to commence his enthusiastic consumption of all that you had to offer him. Each kiss he pressed into you felt both like the first time he had ever felt such passion, and the last time he was ever to claim such a prize.

Hands clawing at your hips, he drew you flush with his own and angled his chin to deepen the oscillation. Tongue darting out to taste yours like a delicacy he was never again to roll over his palate, the muscle ground against your lips and lewdly consuming your kiss with lusting desire.

Both pulling away from one another, he rested his forehead against yours and took a moment to catch his breath. Eyes closed and brow lowered, he shared breaths with you and savored every moment you shared with one another.

“I crave the day we meet again, my precious consort,” he pressed his lips to your forehead, “My guiding light to point me home,” his lips dart down to claim your cheek beneath it, “The crown jewel in my treasury, and reigning monarch of my very soul.” He pressed a chaste and longing kiss once more against your lips before pulling away.

“Always so charming, my love,” you smile up at him, removing your hands from his face and smoothing over his leather shoulder pads of his outer great-cloak. “I will be right here ready to receive you, as I always am.”

“My beloved,” he whispered, his eyes falling half-lidded and dark eyelashes fluttering from your lengthy confession.

“My dear,” you breathed his whisper within your chest and replaced it with your own. You pressed your lips to his cheek, an offer of your blessing to embark on the next chapter of his journey.

Dracule Mihawk was a man consumed with the love he had for his counterpart. He rued each day to depart from your side, and would have no quarrel with offering his opinion as such to the official whom summoned him.

Truthfully, he was a man infatuated by his spouse that it bordered on domination by his strongest emotions, but choosing to keep them beneath the surface to not tighten you with his intensity. It was his addiction, his fix in a world full of darkness and torment.

He was your loyal zealot, knight and fierce protector, and you...

You were his obsession.

[chrisevansonly]

Pawrent’s Day Out

charles leclerc x female reader

summary: you, charles and leo head out for a much needed break on the sea

warnings: none :)

a/n: i know i know im the worst updater and writer ever, but im back slowly but surely, and this is so so tiny fyi i just wanted to get something out 😭

Race season was always taxing in many ways, one being the time you and Charles got to spend together when it came to your relationship. You didn’t really have the luxury of travelling to every race like others wags, especially not when you had sweet little Leo.

Leo had been to a few different race weekends but of course the noise and being without either of you, wasn’t the easiest nor safest place for the puppy.

“Snacks, drinks, towels…dog treats…can you think of anything else baby?”

Your voice called out to Charles as you checked over the bag that rested on the kitchen counter, Leo was waiting patiently, sitting at your feet.

“No I think that’s perfect mon amour”

Pressing a kiss to your cheek, he took the bags, leaving you to pick up Leo and hold him to your chest, taking his leash and one of is favourite toys.

Charles didn’t have to leave for Barcelona until Tuesday so this weekend was all about your little family, and what better way than to take out the yacht and enjoy the warm weather on the water.

“This was a good idea my love, we should do this more often..”

“I couldn’t agree more”

The boat rocked softly with the waves, Leo ripping apart the little dinosaur toy on the floor as Charles sat next to you, his arm sliding around your shoulders and tucking you into his side.

“Our little family…couldn’t get more perfect than this”

You couldn’t help but agree, there was no more perfect moment than right here, with the love of your life and your little baby Leo. Someday there’d come a ring, and many kids to fill your home with laughter and so much excitement.

“Someday, we’ll have little me’s and you’s running around on this boat Char…you ready for that?”

A small laugh spilled from his lips as she nodded his head, pulling your chin up to place a kiss to your lips

“With you? I’m ready for anything..”

It wouldn’t happen for a few years, but the thought of it made your hearts swell, the future would be full of endless possibilities, something the two of you were more than excited and ready for.

But for now, right here on the warm water, this was all both of you needed..

[street-smarts00]

Drabble: Superstitious

Spencer Reid x Reader

Reader gets stressed and locks herself in the bathroom. Penelope grabs Spencer to help her calm down.

Tags: reader has anxiety, fluff

Penelope rushed to grab the hotel key from her bag and unlock the door. Once the door was open she led Spencer inside and pointed towards the bathroom.

“She’s in there.”

His head turned to the closed door with the bright cool light peering out the bottom.

Penelope fidgeted with the hotel key card in her hands. “Do you want me to give you two a minute?”

“Yes please,” he answered softly under his breath. His eyes still on the bathroom door. Penelope softly smiled at Spencer’s concern for you as she walked out of the suite. She knew of all people who could calm you down, it was him.

He lightly knocked on the door twice. “Y/N? It’s Spencer. You in there?”

After a brief pause he heard two knocks from the other side. He let out a sigh of relief at your acknowledgement.

“Can I come in?”

“No!” You abruptly pleaded. “I’m sorry. I just don’t want any bad luck.”

You tended to be a very superstitious person. So he’s not surprised you would be strict with the not seeing each other before the wedding rule. But still, he so desperately wanted to walk in and comfort you.

“It’s okay sweetheart,” he comforted. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

“Today,” you quietly mumbled. He wouldn’t have heard you if he said wasn’t resting his head against the door.

“So many things kept going wrong this morning. I’m so anxious Spence,” you said a bit louder this time.

“And you’re scared something bad is going to happen during the wedding?” He didn’t have to have profiling skills to know you inside and out.

He heard your shaky breath before you responded. “Yeah.”

This wasn’t the first time you spoke to him about worst case scenarios. He found himself to be your anchor, he pulled you back down to earth when your mind would go against you. When you got caught in a storm of uncertainty and fear.

He knew this wasn’t just about the wedding.

“That’s not all is it?” He pondered.

You sighed as tears threatened to spill from your eyes, “No.”

“I kinda thought spiraled and started thinking about our jobs. How scary that might be once we get married,” you tried to hide the small gasp of breath that threatened to escape your throat. Spencer still heard it as small as it was.

“What happens to people in our line of work and what happens to their spouses. I- I could never forgive myself if something happened to you.”

He wanted to bust open the door and hold you as tight as he could. Melt away all your worries.

But he understood how much these superstitions meant to you. At times when your anxiety was against you, a knock on wood or throw of salt would ease your mind. So he stayed on his side of the door, and used his words instead.

“You’re right, our job can be scary. There’s gonna be bad days and there’s gonna be even worse ones. But through all the bad I will always be here with you, even when you can’t see me,” he smiles and lightly taps his knuckles on the door.

A small laugh escapes you at his actions. He loved the sound of your laugh. He could get drunk off that sound.

“I will never stop fighting for you and I will never stop loving you. I want to go through all those bad days with you as your husband.”

“We can’t let the fear of what could happen, stop us from being happy.”

A stray tear makes its way down your cheek, “If that is what you say to cheer me up, then I think your vows are going to ruin my makeup.”

Spencer chuckles with a bright smile on his face. After a moment of yours and his quiet laughter he gets an idea.

“Stand behind the door,” he calmly orders.

“Why?”

“I want to hold your hand but not break tradition.”

Your lips parted and eyes widened. No matter how long you knew him he could still give you butterflies from being so adorable.

Spencer heard you shuffle closer to the edge of the door and slowly turned the handle. He pushed the door open just enough to reach his hand out making sure to look away from the door.

Suddenly he felt your hand intertwine with his. The action practically made him melt. When he started rubbing his thumb against your hand, he was met with a gentle squeeze from you.

[munsonsmixtapes]

hi my love <3

i was wondering if you could do a fluffy benedict x reader where the reader doesn't want any kids and she constantly feels pressured how the rest of benedict's family memeber get kids within one year or smth. so it's just so much fluff

Hello, lovely! Yes, absolutely! I love this!

Benedict Bridgerton x wife!reader

cw: hurt/comfort

It seemed that as soon as you and Benedict were married, you were expected to start trying for a baby. Violet had told you to take your time, but your parents weren’t as gentle about it. They had told you that you only had a year to be with child and that caused you to panic. Not only because that really wasn't a very long time, but also because you had absolutely no interest in having children.

You never had, actually. When you had heard other woman talk about it, you found that you didn't feel the same way. It wasn't like you hadn't liked children, you just didn't feel like being a mother was right for you.

And you were terrified to tell Benedict that fact. Every time you tried, the words just wouldn't come out. They always just sat heavy on your tongue like a weight and you were afraid that he was going to be upset with you because of it. Having at least one child was expected of you along with every other woman, and even though many grandchildren would be had throughout the Bridgerton family, you were still nervous about being disowned.

Benedict laid on your chest as you were snuggled up in bed, the both of you having just woken up. You combed your fingers through his hair as his drew a lazy pattern along your stomach, causing your heart to race. For once, you were quiet and it didn't go unnoticed by your husband. He loved hearing you speak, no matter what you were talking about.

He leaned up and pressed his lips to yours before pulling away, running his hands up and down your arms as he let out a contented sigh, wondering how he had gotten so lucky as to be able to wake up next to you every morning.

"What's going on in that pretty head of yours, hm? You're quiet this morning." You had hoped he hadn't noticed, but Benedict noticed every little thing about you. When you weren't acting like yourself, he was quick to spot it and let you know that you could talk to him, but you didn't have to if you didn't want to.

You closed your eyes tight and took a deep breath, feeling tears well up in yours eyes. Benedict was quick to wipe the ones that had fallen down your cheeks and was quick to sit up, pulling you into his arms as you began to cry.

"Hey, hey, what are the tears for, darling. What's going on?" He just wanted to know so he could try his best to fix it. He hated when you cried.

"Benedict," was all you were able to say as you buried your face into his shoulder. His arms wrapped around your waist and his hands rubbed up and down your back sympathetically as he pressed his lips to the top of your head.

"What is it?" You pulled back to look at him and his heart broke at your tear stained face. You took a deep breath as his hazel eyes looking into yours and in that moment, you knew that you could tell him the truth.

"I-I don't want children." That wasn't at all what Benedict thought you were going to say, but that didn't at all change the way he felt about you. Sure, he had wanted children, but to him, your happiness was much more important. If you didn't want children, then he wasn't going to force you to. You were going to be the one who would have to carry around for nine months and that just seemed like a lot of time to hold something that you didn't even want.

"Is that all?" He asked as if you had just told him what the weather was going to be. You should have known that he was going to be so nonchalant about the whole thing. He was always so supportive and this situation was no different.

"Yes," you nodded. "Are you mad at me?" Benedict felt his heart break at your words. He couldn't have been mad at you if he tried. You were the sun, always shining bright and he basked in you whenever he got the chance.

"Oh, my love, I could never be mad at you. If you do not want children, then we won't have any." He said the words so matter-of-fact that it seemed like he was talking about something more casual than the discussion of having children.

"You're serious."

"I've never been more serious about anything in my life and if anyone makes a single negative comment when we tell them the news, I will be the one they have to answer to." He made a fist then held it up and you laughed as he pulled you into a kiss before rolling out of bed and offering you his hand.

"Now come on, my love. I think it's time we had a bath." You took Benedict's hands and he pulled you from the bed and you both made a beeline for the bathroom as you both were in a fit of giggles, the conversation completely behind forgotten for your sudden need to take a bath with your husband.

[weird-is-life]

hey lovie! what about a remus x reader where he sees her asleep in the back of the library one evening on his prefect rounds and he wakes her up. he is more concerned on how long she’s been studying/asleep since it’s so late…on their walk she just walks with him during his rounds because they are just chatty

they both fancy each other but neither of them think the other thinks the same. he walks her back to gryf tower snd he finally says what he’s wanted to say for years

(i hope that makes sense and if ya hate the idea, no problemo lol)

xoxo

Hii lovely🥰 ty for the request. I tried my best, hope this is okay. Warnings: fluff, use of y/n, like one swear word, (0.9k)

Remus has seen you many times before. Either in the common room, halls, dining room, and the most in the library.

Remus always sees you in the library. Sitting quietly more at the back of the room. Either reading some book or doing the assignments for the classes.

So it's no surprise to see you here even now. But it definitely catches him off guard seeing you here so so late. Remus was on the last one of his prefect rounds before heading to bed himself, and he wasn't expecting to see you in the library.

Remus, from a shorter distance, notices that you are asleep. Softly exhaling one breath after another. Something stirs in Remus's heart at the sight of you, but he ignores it.

Remus approaches you, and tries to wake you up as nicely as he can. He doesn't want to scare you. He gently shakes you by your shoulder, and whispers your name a few times.

You rouse from sleep, blinking,  completely baffled by Remus's handsome face.

Remus thinks you are even more cute when you are half asleep. It's not doing any favors to his feelings for you. But he wills those thoughts away, and says, "sorry, y/n. You fell asleep in the library, and it's getting pretty late."

The sleep haze quickly dissappears when you realise where you are. You are up on your feet in a matter of seconds, packing your things away.

"Shit. I'm sorry. I was reading, and-and I must have fallen asleep," you explain in a mild panic. You would be in a lot of trouble if it was anybody else other than Remus that had found you here. Students aren't allowed out of their dorms this late at night.

"It's alright," Remus reassures you with a warm smile," I've done that so many times. I can't even count how many times James or Sirius had to walk down here to retrieve me."

"Really?" you giggle quietly, still very much sleepy and a little stressed.

"Yeah, really," Remus chuckles, too. "Now c'mon, let's get you to your dorm. I'll walk you there. Well, that is if you don't mind."

You shake your head. Indicating that you don't mind at all. Your cheeks go pretty pink as Remus and you start to walk towards the dorms.

You've always thought that Remus was so handsome, and so so smart. You'd never done anything about your crush, of course. Too scared to say anything. But that doesn't mean you haven't been admiring him. You have just-........from afar.

"Why were you in the library so late?" Remus asks to fill in the awkward quiet between you. And also he's a bit worried about you staying there until so late.

"Just studying, I couldn't figure out one assignment," you sigh. You still haven't figured it out, even if you stayed in the library for so many hours.

"The one for the potions?"

"Yeah," you admit in defeat," I've read everything I possibly could, but still i didn't find the answer."

Remus gives you a hesitant smile. You two are just a few steps from the dorms. You were walking too long in the awkward silence, and now the flowing conversation is about to end.

"I can give you the answer. I'll give it to you right away if you give me a second to look for it in my room," Remus instantly offers.

He's spent good few hours trying to find the answer too, so he understands how frustrating it can get. So he's very willing to give you the answer just so you don't go to bed with that on your mind. And also because he likes you, like a lot, and he would give you literally anything if you'd asked for it. He's down that bad for you.

"Really? I would really appreciate it, Remus," you say, happy about his help. You can't even think of how you could possibly thank him for it.

"Just give me a second," he turns towards his dorm, but he suddenly freezes halfway to the door.

Remus abruptly gets a better idea or well it depends on how well it goes. He just can't help his feelings for you any longer, and he needs to know what you feel, too. Even if he may get rejected, and end up with a broken heart.

Remus slowly turns around to face you again, a shy smile on his face.

"Or-r," he starts," we could go to Hogsmeade during the weekend, and I could explain it to you there. With something nice to eat and drink." Remus blurts it out in one breath.

Your eyes go very wide. Is Remus Lupin asking you out on a date or are you still very much asleep in the library, dreaming of this moment?

"L-like a date?" you sheepishly ask, blushing, and looking everywhere but him after your question.

"Yes. Exactly like a date." Remus states, looking nervous and hopeful at the same time.

You look up at him with a smile, you can't really believe that this is happening, " I think, I'd love that."

"Really?" Remus questions happily.

"Yes, really," you nod your head, sending a reassuring smile his way.

"Great. I can't wait," he tells you with a visible excitement.

"Me too," you admit bashfully.

"Well, I'll see you tomorrow. We can sort out the time then. Goodnight, y/n," Remus says, giving you one more soft smile of his.

"Yes, tomorrow then. Goodnight to you too, Remus," you wave him goodbye, and quickly dissappear into your dorm before you can collapse on the spot from the way your legs have turned to jello.

You think you can hear pretty loud cheers of the Marauders as you head to change into your pyjamas. A shy giggle escapes your mouth when you think about Remus telling his best mates about your date, and them being so happy about it.

[koenigami]

tags : fem!reader, fluff, spoilers about wriothesley's past

thinking about how much of an honour it must be to marry wriothesley. be his wife. be his family. bear his children. you're telling me that he never got to grow up in a loving family, have healthy relationships with his parents and siblings, share his worries as well as his happiness with someone, but you, you get to show him all the love that he has missed in his life? you have the honour to let him feel homeliness?

you're his first home. a home that makes him look forward to actually return to after finishing work in his office. you're his first "welcome home", his first warm meal after a long day, his first "you tired? how about i draw you a bath?". there are so many things that he learns thanks to you. loyalty, mutual trust, honesty. because wriothesley has never been a liar, yet being honest doesn't end at telling the truth. it goes way beyond that. it is talking about shitty paperwork, about how enjoyable a lunch with sigewinne is, how difficult it is to sleep when having recurring negative thoughts about yourself and your past. honesty is opening up, and you get to be the first person wriothesley truly opens up to.

and when you've made his heart swell with so much love that it feels like it is beyond its capacity. when you put his large, rough hand over the softness of your stomach and look at him with teary eyes and a bright smile on your face. wriothesley realises that there is yet so much more that he has to learn. so many more firsts that he has to experience, but at least he'll be able to share them with you.

yeah, being someone's first lover, someone's first kiss, someone's first sex partner- all of those things are great, really.

but being someone's first family is just so- wow.

[mangostarjam]

OKAY HEAR ME OUT I sent this to one other person and I feel like maybe you’d also vibe with this but PLEASE DONT FEEL LIKE YOU HAVE TO RESPOND OR WRITE ABOUT THIS I JUST LIKE SHARING THOUGHTS

So like Hoshina is lowkey possessive(not like scary kind but the kind where it’s like “hey that’s my gf wtf”) and lets say his s/o is a platoon leader and people have noticed that she has a bite scar where her neck and shoulder meet(maybe one of the rookies likes her oooooh 👀) and there’s rumors and NO ONE KNOWS HOSHINA HAS A MATCHING BITE SCAR ON HIS NAPE BECAUSE ITS ALWAYS COVERED BY HIS COMPRESSION SHIRT(and then Kafka notices in the bath ALL HELL BREAKS LOOSE WHAT DO YOU MEAN THE VICE CAPTAIN IS MARRIED) AND JOKES ON EVERYBODY BECAUSE HIS WIFE IS ALSO POSSESSIVE(or maybe she got fed up with his shit once and bit him back lol)

OKAY ANYWAYS I LOVE YOUR WRITING AND THANK YOU FOR YOUR TIME PLEASE MAKE SURE TO REST AND DRINK WATER BYE

-🐌

bless you snail anon i was ignoring some hardcore writer's block and this jump started something in my brain

bathtime revelations — hoshina soshiro x f!reader, established (secret) relationship, reader is a platoon leader, some minor narumi slander (sorry buddy. love that loser but it had to be done), biting, marking, possessiveness, uhhhh hickeys, edging?? nothing descriptive though sorry not today, 1.7k words

"Did you get attacked by a kaiju there, platoon leader? That's a strange looking scar."

The remark is innocent enough. You've been a member of the Defense Force for ages, and it's only natural to have numerous scars and aching bones from all the missions and kaiju neutralizing. Especially since you're a platoon leader of the Third Division, and you've leapt into the thick of things time and again to help Captain Ashiro get the best possible angle for her killing shots.

It would be fine, except the scar in question is a neat ring of teeth marks at the juncture between your shoulder and neck, where you're sensitive.

"Oh... no, that's not. Um." Shit. You've taken some of the Vice Captain's newest officers for an afternoon training session, and they're all looking at you now as you fumble for an explanation that doesn't expose your relationship. "I didn't get attacked by a kaiju, don't worry."

"Eh?? But that looks like a bite mark, platoon leader!" Iharu's voice is loud. You frown at him.

"It wasn't a kaiju," you say firmly. That much, at least, is the truth. "Anyway, if you guys wanna stay alive with just as many battle scars as me, go run some laps!"

Whew. There's a murmuring grumble, but everyone obeys orders. The summer heat and humidity wears you out quickly, and in an effort to combat the drain, you've stripped down to a tank top and your uniform pants. The bite mark in question feels like a brand on your skin, a ring of slightly raised flesh that should blend in with your other scars except for the clear circle it makes. You watch the rookies run, but your mind drifts, thinking back to when you got that set of teeth marks on your skin. Your body warms at the memory. Stupid boyfriend with his stupidly sharp canines.

You snap back to attention as Kikoru and Reno jog past, their words floating towards you on the breeze —

"—looks like maybe human?"

"Definitely not kaiju. You think the platoon leader's still with the person who marked her?"

"Oh, we can't ask that. Hibino senpai will be devastated."

Oh, jeez. There's no way you can let your boyfriend hear anything about this —

"How's it goin', platoon leader?"

Shit. You turn to the Vice Captain of the Third Division and frown. "What're you doing here?"

Hoshina Soshiro smirks at you, taking the tiniest step closer into what most people would consider to be personal space. "Just checkin' on my lil' fledglings! They've still got breath to gossip, eh? Are ya lettin' 'em off easy today, platoon leader?"

"I was letting them run off some energy so they'd forget about this bite mark on my neck, you vampire," you mumble. Soshiro laughs, leaning just a bit towards you. The afternoon sun glints off his purple hair in sparkles that dazzle your eyes, though it's easy to get pulled into his orbit when he's so magnetizing. You catch yourself and bring your outstretched hand up to your face, rubbing at your nose instead of sinking your fingers into the fluffy strands like you intended.

"Sounds like someone's got a lil' crush on our fearsome platoon leader," Soshiro says quietly, shooting you a lopsided grin. "Not that I blame 'em since it's you we're talkin' about. Still, it'd be good to send a message, y'know? Should I refresh your marks tonight?"

Your face feels hot. "'Marks?' But only one of them is visible when I'm in uniform!"

"What about the bath? We should give Shinomiya somethin' to report, don'tcha think?" His low voice sends a shiver down your spine and you frown to hide how much it's affecting you. Your boyfriend tilts his head. "Fresh marks'll show 'em all you belong to me."

Something hot and sharp lances through you and you bite at your lip to hold in a whine at the words. "That won't work," your voice is breathier than you'd like, but Soshiro is watching you like he wants to eat you alive and it's thrilling and terrifying and not enough. "They won't know it's you unless we match."

He raises an eyebrow at that, but the corner of his lips twitch as he fights down a grin. "Good point, platoon leader. We should discuss this in my office later."

"You're a menace."

Soshiro's smile softens into something fond and he takes another tiny step closer, until the fabric of his jacket brushes against your bare shoulder. You inhale his scent — bright, woodsy, something intrinsically Hoshina Soshiro — and all of your muscles relax. "And you're too dang cute for your own good, my love. See ya later?"

You nod and salute as he walks away, biting down a silly grin as you watch him call out encouragements and teases to his rookies. They all respond with good cheer and an edge of fierce determination, and once Soshiro fully exits the training area you allow yourself to return to the task at hand. You know, possibly more than anyone else on base, how hard Soshiro works to take care of his officers. You aren't going to let him down.

... but maybe you'll die of embarrassment first.

"Platoon leader! Did you spar after our training session? I would've liked to join!" Kikoru says, coming closer eagerly as you begin washing up in the communal bath. Your hand slips along your leg as you jerk up in surprise and Kikoru visibly falters as she takes in your bruises.

"This was a... private session, Shinomiya. I'd be happy to spar with you another time, though." Your entire body is warm, and not from the steam wafting through the echoing room.

"Aah, yes, of course! Sorry to disturb you, platoon leader!"

You resume your scrubbing with a quiet snort, listening as her footsteps return to the corner where Akari and Hakua are clearly ready to pounce. The girls probably don't realize how much sound travels in the bath, but you can hear their hushed whispers and giggling as Kikoru reports back that you're covered in hickeys.

You press down on a few of the blossoming bruises between your thighs and snort again. There's no way these could pass as training bruises — they're too intentional, too close to your aching center where Soshiro paid special attention earlier in his office — without letting you reach your peak. Bastard.

He made sure to leave marks along your chest and neck and shoulders again, taking advantage of your tank top for its easy access to your skin. Only after begging and pleading did he finally remove his stupidly tight compression shirt for you to drag your nails down his back and shoulders, fingers fisting into his hair as he licked and sucked at your core. After he ripped away your orgasm, you made good on your promise and left your own marks on his skin, kissing and sucking along the strong column of his throat and shoulders and pumping him with your hand until he nearly came on your thighs. Two could play at that game, after all.

Your ears perk as you catch your boyfriend's name. "Vice Captain Hoshina says I'm improving rapidly," Kikoru says cheerfully, tossing her head back. She certainly has the right to boast — her combat power levels just keep rising. She's going to make both of you proud. "Someday I will beat him in a practice match!"

"I'd like him to spar with me," another officer giggles. "Have you seen his back? Defense Force men are really no joke."

You bristle automatically. You're used to it by now — Soshiro's hot — but it doesn't make it any easier to hear confirmation of the fact out loud. "What about Captain Narumi? He's got really nice arms!" another officer says.

"You mean Captain Ego?" The communal bath fills with laughter as the girls gossip. "He's good looking, too, but Vice Captain Hoshina in that shirt..."

You're done bathing and changing into your nighttime clothes when a loud commotion from the other communal bath erupts. You share a look with a few of the girls, but you take your time pulling on your clothes (Soshiro's shirt, your shorts, your panties mysteriously missing — though you're sure you'll find them safely tucked into Soshiro's own sleeping pants pocket later).

You come out of the changing room and blink. "Vice Captain, how could you?!" Kafka is wailing dramatically. "You've already beat me by taking my spot by Mina's side, but you're beating me in having a girlfriend, too?!"

"Hang on a sec, old timer! You've already got the 'childhood friend promise' with the Captain!" Iharu shouts. "Leave something for the rest of us!"

"My, my, what a fuss," Soshiro says, waving his fingers. You blink, but the vision before you doesn't change. Most of the men are shirtless, towels wrapped around their waists as they spill out into the hallway in their chaos, and Soshiro is no exception. You can clearly see the raised pink lines your nails left behind on his densely muscled back, even with the small clump of officers between you. "We're all gonna catch a cold standin' out here like this."

"Those bruises on his neck... they look... fresh..." Reno says, his bright gaze darting between his Vice Captain and your exposed neck. Belatedly, you swing a towel around your shoulders, but Reno's eyes widen and you groan inwardly. "The platoon leader has fresh bruises, too."

Soshiro turns and your eyes snag on the blossoming pink and purple along his neck and shoulders. A quiet satisfaction settles in your gut at the sight, and you can't help but grin. "Keep that up, Officer Ichikawa, and you'll end up getting snagged for the Investigations Unit."

"They look good on her, don't they?" Soshiro hums, raising an eyebrow as the officers put two and two together. He meets your eye from across the small group and smirks. "Ain't it nice, platoon leader? Matchin' with the Vice Captain?"

Your answering smile makes his face light up with a deep fondness. "I wouldn't have it any other way."