#no time to make gifs so this is the best i can do...

[risuola]

▶ NEEDY AND SHAMELESS — Satoru was needy and couldn't deal with it himself.

contents: needy, whiny, whimpering Satoru (that's a warning!), college!au, roommates, nsfw, oral (m! receiving), reader discretion is advised — 2,5k words

a/n: dedicated to my dear 🎶 anon for creating the movement #HeadForGojo, love ya! but also, we're diving into dangerous waters with the trio and i'd like to think that the reader is closer physically with Satoru and mentally with Suguru but fear not, spicy Suguru is coming as well!

𝙇𝙊𝙑𝙀 𝙈𝙀𝘿𝙇𝙀𝙔 | series masterlist

You’re not the type to get easily surprised.

Usually.

Living with two boys and knowing them for most of your life had prepared you to expect the unexpected and it was the spontaneity that was at the base of most of your best memories. The impromptu hitchhike travels during which you’d sprawl on top of either of their lap, the tight spaces in which you slept sandwiched between them, the unplanned sleepovers and long, nighttime rides on their motorbikes.

You’ve watched the stars with them, spread-eagled on the dew-sprinkled grass outside the city, talking the nights away while getting eaten alive by mosquitos and you loved every second of it. You’ve survived few days on nothing but instant ramen just so you three could get the best time at the beach without robbing a bank. You didn’t blink twice when Satoru once dragged you into a kissing competition just so you could win a two nights’ stay in one of the most luxurious hotels in Tokyo for all three of you around valentine’s day — you won of course, and after that you partied like royalty, getting drunk with Suguru on expensive champagne (and getting Satoru drunk), and jumping on beds in hotel-branded robes.

“I’m sorry, can you repeat that?” But this time you were flabbergasted. Blinking a little faster, you tried to force the gears in your head to turn and process what you just heard. There was no way he just asked you to—

“Can you suck my dick? Pretty please—”

—never mind. The question sounded just as unexpected as the first time, if not more. There was no reason to it, no background information, no nothing that could make it sound a little less out of place.

“Context?”

Gojo groaned. You watched his cheeks turning bright red, the tips of his ears crimson as well and his hand met his face, covering it, hiding it from your expectant gaze. He was nervous, he was embarrassed and you had no idea what the hell was going on underneath the white mop of fluffy hair, but it wasn’t hard to tell that there was smoke coming out of there. For a short moment you wondered if he’d be able to trigger the fire detectors in the building.

“God, this is so embarrassing. I can’t— fuck.” He stuttered and it was the first time in your life you herd him stumble over his own words. “I really can’t do this with my hand. I just can’t, it doesn’t feel right and I’m so fucking frustrated because I tried to get some girl from the campus to give me a head but I can’t force myself to get hard for them. I somehow go all limp and useless whenever they throw themselves at me and ironically the thought of you makes me so painfully, impossibly bricked up that I might just chop the thing off to feel some release.” He was speaking so quickly it was almost difficult to understand, looking everywhere but at you. His eyes were bouncing off the walls and furniture, windows and ceiling but not once settled on you.

“And you want me to get you off?” You questioned, making sure that you understand his rumble correctly and the moment you spoke, Satoru finally stopped fidgeting and froze. His gaze slowly made its way towards you and his breath hitched, his heart pounded in his chest, his whole body tensed up. His mouth opened and closed, and then opened again but nothing came out. It took him a good ten seconds to find his voce, and even then, it came out as barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” he said simply, the single word hung heavy between you. His hands were in the pockets of his sweatpants, fingers curling around something — maybe a coin, maybe his own sanity; knuckles turning white from the strain as he took another deep breath. “I know we’re friends and roommates and all sorts of things that should make this a terrible idea but, I swear to all gods out there, it’s not about me wanting you to get me off, it’s about me needing you to get me off.” He swallowed hard, the knot in his throat threatening to choke him. This was so wrong, so incredibly bad and yet, here he was, practically begging you to touch him. To taste him. To swallow him whole. “I know it’s weird and fucked up and probably a huge mistake, but I don’t know what else to do here.”

You saw the vulnerability in those cerulean orbs, the raw honesty behind his confession. The desperation in his voice almost broke your heart, he looked like he’s about to pass out from sheer exhaustion — emotional, mental, physical; every kind imaginable, and you knew him. It wasn’t one of his whims, you can see through them in a blink of an eye. He was serious, he was trembling, his eyes seemed to well with tears as he begged you.

“Does it come from the day you asked me to judge your cock?”

“Yeah, I guess so. You said I make you salivate and fuck, the vision stuck with me.”

And then, he dropped onto the bed, sitting on the edge with elbows resting on his knees as he buried his face in his hands. He swallowed thickly, gulping down the lump in his throat. He hated the thought of ruining what you had as friends, it terrified him.

“Satoru—” you let out a sigh and he flinched, straightening up and looking at you again.

"I'll do anything. I can eat you out after that to pay you back. I can clean the room for a month. Fuck, I can even give you money if you need it. I'm just fucking going to combust if it goes for any longer–“ He rambled, babbled, desperate to get his point across. "I'm so impossibly hard when you're around, it hurts and every time I try to get my shit together, it's just getting worse."

“You don’t have to pay me back, Toru,” you said lightly, laughing at his nervousness. “I love you, idiot, I’m not gonna let you suffer, though I warn you that I might suck at this, no pun intended.”

“You don’t even have to use your mouth, honestly, if it’s your hand I’m sure it’s still going to be fine, as long as it’s you.”

“Oh, no, if we’re doing this, you’re getting the proper, sloppy, messy head,” you teased and he nearly moaned. The very thought of your mouth wrapping around him almost made him cum in his pants.

His cheeks heated up, all of his body felt like it’s on fire and he loved the feeling. You were straightforward; there was never any pretense or games played between you and him and he adored that about you.

“Please,” he whimpered, paralyzed by the thrill of excitement. The nerves were churning in his stomach, ecstasy coursing through him like electricity through wires. He watched as you moved, putting down the phone, there was a grace in the way you were crawling to the edge of the bed and you made a little sound when you got down onto the floor. He was quick to grab a pillow to throw below your knees, and you shot him a little grin.

It felt odd to you, to kneel in front of your best friend like this with intention so explicit but you also felt at ease with it. It wasn’t pity that drove you, you just loved him genuinely and there was no forcing involved in the way your hands moved to give his thighs a little squeeze.

You chuckled, amused by how sensitive he was, how impatient when just the slightest touch of your fingers over his clothed legs was enough to make him jolt. You could feel the heat radiating from his body and as your eyes moved down from his face, you noticed how strained his cock was against the fabric of his pants. There was a tiny dark spot where his tip was underneath, precum soaking through the grey sweats and you leaned in, flicking your tongue over the cotton, teasing him and he moaned.

“Sweets, please, have mercy. Mochi, I beg you–“ he was a whimpering mess, he was flushed, his chest was heaving and you touched him just barely, through the clothes.

“Oh, patience Toru,” you grinned, reaching up and hooking your fingers over the waistband of his pants. The elastic snapped against his stomach, making him whine and you acted innocent as if you didn’t do it on purpose.

“I’d love to be patient but keep it going and I might just bust in my pants and then die,” he dramatized; his knuckles were turning white from the sheer force he was squeezing the sheets behind him.

Finally, you pulled on the band, taking both pants and underwear at once and his manhood sprung free. The tip hit his stomach, leaving a droplet of seed on his light skin and he twitched as the cool air hit his sensitive flesh. The sight of him made you swallow, the saliva gathering at your mouth because he did look delicious and yet again you were reassured at the belief that god has his favorites.

Dragging your nails across his thighs, you reached to wrap your fingers around him, feeling his weight against your palm and the girth you struggled to embrace at once. You stroked him few times, experimentally, and it made him writhe and fidget, with the whiniest of moans. Satoru felt like he’s going to go crazy, your touch was gentle yet firm and it sent sparks shooting up his spine. He bit his lip to stifle another moan, his hips bucked into your hand involuntarily, seeking more friction. Despite his best efforts to maintain control, he couldn’t help but squirm beneath your touch.

“Be a good boy,” you warned playfully, leaning in, and savoring the moan that broke his apology when you run your tongue along the curved underside of his dick, the veins there felt prominent against the flat of your muscle. The kiss you planted on the tip of it was almost tender, gentle; the salty taste of precum mixed with your own saliva when you twirled your tongue around him.

“Fuck, that feels amazing,” he managed to gasp out between his clenched teeth, his eyes fluttering shut as the pleasure surged through him. He could feel the heat, the tension coiling within him and he swallowed thickly. The sensation of your mouth was unlike anything he had ever experienced before and he felt his eyes rolling to the back of his head when you took him in. Satoru’s whole world narrowed down to the feel of your mouth on him — so wet and warm and wonderful — enveloping his cock in a velvety embrace that had him seeing stars. Your tongue was hot and slick, gliding expertly over his throbbing length. Each lick, each suck had him writhing in pleasure and he barely managed to hold his hips down, to not thrust them deeper into the dreamy embrace between your lips.

The mixture of precum and your saliva was coating his cock, dribbling down his length and your chin. Messy. You were bobbing your head up and down his length, taking more and more of him sloppily. You were greedy, your movements like a dance to an unknown melody with the main dancers being your tongue and his member. You were twirling, tasting, teasing him mercilessly. Your cheeks were hollowing and your nose meeting the few white hairs at the base as you took him deeper and deeper and he was moaning. Shamelessly, loudly and oh so sweetly.

“Swee–mhaah–‘m gonn—” he stuttered, whined, tried to warn you but the words came out incoherent and stretched along the sounds that were ripping through him. His heart pounded in his chest, a wild rhythm that matched the rapid beat of pulse in his veins. Satoru felt his body tensing, one of his legs bouncing as tried to keep himself from shooting his load into your mouth.

Panting, heavily, shakingly, he watched you below him. You looked pretty like this, so drop dead gorgeous and straight out a fantasy that he’s been pushing to the back of his mind for the longest time now. Truth is, he wanted you, needed you much more than a friend would long for a friend, but he was too scared to act on it.

You hummed, the vibrations of your vocal cords pushing him near the edge, sending jolts of pleasure straight to his balls. His cock throbbed in your mouth, leaking precum that coated your tongue with its salty sweetness and he squealed, reaching to grab your head, your hair, to pull you away before he—

A loud, lewd mewl cut through the room and Gojo’s body went rigid as wave after wave of pure, carnal pleasure washed over him. He saw fireworks underneath his eyelids, he felt them exploding inside his veins, and he exploded too. The feel of your mouth sent him spiraling right into climax, speeding with no brakes and he was delighted. His cock twitched, pulsed with each spurt of cum and his entire body trembled with ecstasy, head tilted back, spine arched and mouth agape.

Joyful. He felt so utterly, unapologetically joyful.

Wave after wave of pleasure crashed over him, leaving him panting and spent in their wake. He looked down again, catching the sight of you lapping at his cum, licking him clean and he finally went limp, falling back onto the bed with a weak, gleeful moan.

“Fuck… that was… oh god,” he panted, his blue eyes glazed oved with delight. His chest was raising and falling rapidly, each breath coming in short gasps as he struggled to regain control of his senses but he didn’t want to. He wished to bask in the afterglow a little more, a little longer.

You finished the job with a loud pop as you took him out of your mouth and finally let go. He was softening, his body deflating, relaxing and you took it as the job well done. Once fixing his underwear and sweats, you climbed back onto the bed and dropped next to him, taking in the sight of his flushed face and disheveled hair. He looked angelic, with teary eyes and parted, swollen lips, glistening from saliva. You committed the picture to memory.

“Good?” You asked, though the answer was obvious from the way he looked.

“Heavenly,” he panted out and turned his head towards you. He watched as you reached up to the corner of your lips, thumb wiping off the lone drop of cum that lingered there and he grabbed you gently, pulling it to his own mouth. You chuckled when he sucked on your digit, his warm tongue circling it precisely as his mouth enveloped it whole.

“Nasty,” you teased and leaned in to kiss his forehead.

“Look who’s talking,” he played back, his words muffled over your finger before he finally let go of your hand. A string of saliva stretched from the tip of it and to his mouth but he licked it off like a kitten. “Thank you, mochi.”

“You’re welcome,” you offered him a smile and got off the bed, heading towards the bathroom. “You’re cleaning for a month by the way!”

He whined and you laughed.

taglist: @kibananya @r0ckst4rjk @rixo-19 @soraya-daydreams@hyun0200 @ilykii @roscpctals99 @mushkasstuff @siimp4youu @juicedcherry @themoreeviltwin @stevenknightmarc @ms5m1th @local-mr-frog @minimorale @lansy-4 @dancer545 @lordbugs @tojislittleprincesss

[woso-dreamzzz]

Injured (Jenni's Version): Future

Grace Clinton x Reader

Summary: You need to leave

"Mami! Mami! Mami!"

You smile slightly, continuing to pack your suitcase as your son lays back on your bed.

"Yes, my James?"

He grins at you. "Can I come?"

You shake your head. "You know you can't."

"But why?"

"Because Paris is a long way away from Lyon." You add another set of pointe shoes to your bag. "And I need you to do a very special job for me."

You sit down on the bed, patting the spot next to you.

James is more than happy to crawl towards you, leaning close to hear his special job.

"You're a very responsible boy, aren't you?"

He nods. "I helped Mummy pick up Ollie's poo yesterday on our walk!"

Ollie's your family dog. Grace had gotten him for you when the first two rounds of ivf didn't take and you'd been so down about it. You were right in the middle of your third round and losing hope when Grace had come home with a German Shepherd puppy.

You called Ollie your good luck charm because two weeks after you'd successfully potty trained him, you fell pregnant with your other golden boy, James.

"That's very responsible!" You tell him," Because I need a very responsible boy to help me out."

"I'm responsible! I'm responsible! What is it?"

"I need you to be in charge of the house while I'm gone," You tell him," That's why you can't come with. You've got to make sure Mummy doesn't order takeout every day and cleans up Olivia's toys when she's done playing."

Olivia's the other light of your life, your nearly one year old daughter.

You didn't particularly want to leave either of them but you'd been called up by the Paris Opera Ballet to be their guest Principal for one of the shows they were putting on and you loved dancing in their venue.

Originally, you were going to say no but Grace pushed you to accept. She was more than capable of looking after both of the kids at once.

"I'll make sure Mummy eats healthy and cleans up!" James tells you," Can I go tell her I'm in charge while you're gone?"

"I'm sure she would love that."

James goes bursting out of the room and you take the time to finish packing.

Ollie whines a little as you zip up the bag.

"I'm sorry, Ollie," You say, gently stroking his head," You know I'll back soon."

Ollie's the family dog, technically, but, secretly, you know he's yours. He had been incredibly protective over you when you were pregnant with Livy and he had been super excitable as a puppy when you were pregnant with James.

Fully grown now, he loved being in the same room as you. He adored the kids and Grace, of course, but you had always been his person.

Frankly, you were getting a little worried he was lonely in the house alone all day so you and Grace had been in talks about getting Ollie his own puppy.

It was only fair to Olivia as well.

Ollie grew up with James. It's only right to have a puppy for Olivia to grow up with too.

But, that was a conversation for when you got back and after your planned trip to Spain in the summer.

It would be nice, you think, to have a puppy for Ollie to be the best big brother too just like how James is the best big brother to Livy.

Ollie follows you down the stairs, his favourite tennis ball in his mouth as you start pulling your suitcase down.

Grace appears at the bottom, hurrying up to swap the bag with Livy and carry it the down for you.

"Careful, beautiful," She says as you swap," You don't want to strain anything before you go on stage." She winks at you and you roll your eyes.

"Did James tell you I've left him in charge?"

"He did," Grace replies with a grin," I think he's already planning on demanding Big Bed access."

"Don't let him," You remind her but your wife just shrugs.

"I don't know. He's making a convincing case. Says that it would be cold without you and he should be there to warm it up."

"If you get him in the habit of sleeping in our bed while I'm away, Grace Clinton, then you're in trouble and I'm choosing what breed the next puppy is."

"Oh, come on!" Grace is laughing though so you know she isn't taking your empty threats too seriously. "Cab's here though. You finished up just in time."

"Okay." You pull on your coat surprisingly well for someone balancing a baby in the other arm.

You litter kisses all over Livy's face as Grace calls James to the door.

"I'll miss you, Mami," He tells you and you crouch down to give him kisses too.

"I'll miss you too, James," You say," I love you, baby."

"Love you too."

He curls into your arms and your rock him side to side softly before pulling away.

"Remember, you're in charge, okay? So I want you to boss around Mummy and make her eat healthy, deal?"

He nods. "Deal."

"I'll see you in a week, amor," You tell Grace, pecking her lips a few times and laughing when she tries to chase your kiss each time.

"Love you, beautiful."

"Love you too."

[louisaskywalkerani]

Whispers in the Dark, forbidden embrace.

Pairing : Anakin Skywalker x f!Reader

synopsis : anakin reassures you about your forbidden relationship in more ways than one.

CW : 18+, smut! minors DNI. no movement but, p in v penetration, cock warming.

an : ok this is my first fanfic i've ever written, i'm completely petrified tbh, i tried to do my best, if u can give me some advice, it would be super nice. enjoy this ig.. the end is also inspired by @ohcaptains !!

The dim lighting in the temple corridor casts long shadows. Anakin's footsteps echo softly as he approaches you, a determined look in his eyes. You've been avoiding him, knowing the danger of your connection. Tonight, there's no escape.

"Anakin, we shouldn't be here," you whisper, your voice trembling with the weight of unspoken emotions.

He steps closer, his presence overwhelming. "We can’t keep pretending, not anymore," he replies, his voice husky. "The Council doesn’t understand what we feel."

You look into his eyes, seeing the conflict mirrored in your own. "What if we're caught? The Council—"

"Screw the Council," he interrupts, his hands gently cupping your face. "I need you. We both know this is more than a fleeting desire."

Your breath hitches as his thumb brushes over your lips. "Anakin, we're risking everything."

"Some things are worth the risk," he murmurs, leaning in. His lips capture yours in a kiss that speaks of months of longing and suppressed passion. The kiss deepens, and you feel the warmth of his body against yours, his heartbeat pounding in sync with your own.

Breaking the kiss, he rests his forehead against yours. "Tell me you don’t feel the same, and I'll walk away."

You close your eyes, the truth undeniable. "I can’t," you admit softly. "I’ve tried, but I can’t."

With a relieved sigh, Anakin wraps his arms around you, holding you close. "Then let’s not fight it anymore."

—

The night is serene, stars twinkling above as if to guard your secret. Anakin spreads his cloak on the ground, inviting you to sit beside him. “Remember when we first met?” he asks, his voice a soft murmur.

You smile, the memory clear in your mind. “You were so arrogant,” you tease. “I thought you’d never take anything seriously.”

Anakin chuckles, his hand finding yours. “And you were so serious. Always following the rules.”

A comfortable silence settles between you, the bond deepening with shared memories. You both lie down on the cloak, looking up at the stars. "I used to think the stars held our destiny," you say, your voice barely audible.

"They still do," Anakin replies, his fingers intertwining with yours. "But we can choose our path."

The quiet of the night is broken only by the soft sounds of the temple gardens. Anakin turns to you, his eyes reflecting the starlight. "Do you ever wonder what life would be like if we didn't have to hide?" he asks, his voice tinged with sadness.

"All the time," you admit. "But the life we've chosen doesn't allow for what-ifs."

Anakin's grip tightens around your hand. "We could leave. Start a new life, far from here. No rules, no codes, just us."

You look at him, the sincerity in his eyes making your heart ache. "And what of our duties? Our responsibilities?"

"We've given enough," he says fiercely. "Isn't it time we lived for ourselves?"

The temptation is strong, the vision of a life with Anakin almost too beautiful to resist. But the weight of your commitments anchors you. "I don’t know if I can."

Anakin sighs, pulling you closer. "I can't lose you," he whispers. "Not now, not ever."

"You won't," you promise, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "We'll find a way to make this work."

The night stretches on, filled with whispered words and tender touches. As dawn approaches, you both lie entwined, the weight of your choices pressing down but the warmth of your connection offering solace. For now, in this moment, you are together, and that’s all that matters.

You lay there, enveloped in the warmth of each other’s embrace. The temple gardens, usually so serene and quiet, now seem to pulsate with the forbidden energy of your bond. The leaves rustle gently in the night breeze, almost as if they are whispering your secrets.

Anakin strokes your hair gently, his fingers tracing patterns that send shivers down your spine. “I’ve always admired your strength,” he says softly. “You’ve kept us hidden so well, even when it must have torn you apart.”

You sigh, nuzzling closer to him. “It hasn’t been easy,” you admit. “Every time I see you, I have to fight the urge to run into your arms. But I’ve never regretted it. Not for a moment.”

His grip tightens around you, as if he fears you might slip away. “I want to show you something,” he says suddenly, sitting up. “Come with me.”

Curious, you follow him through the winding paths of the garden until you reach a small, hidden alcove. The moonlight filters through the leaves, casting a mystical glow over everything. Anakin kneels and presses a hidden switch, revealing a small passageway.

“How did you find this?” you ask, amazed.

“I have my ways,” he replies with a wink. “Come on.”

The passage leads to a secluded chamber deep within the temple, one that even you, with all your knowledge of the place, had never discovered. It’s filled with ancient artifacts, relics of Jedi history, and texts that seem almost forgotten by time.

“I come here to think,” Anakin says, lighting a small lantern that casts a warm glow over the room. “It’s a place where I can be myself, away from the pressures of the Council and the weight of my duties.”

You walk around, marveling at the treasures surrounding you. “It’s incredible,” you whisper. “Like a sanctuary.”

Anakin smiles, coming up behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist. “I wanted to share it with you. A place that’s ours alone.”

You turn in his embrace, your eyes meeting his. “Thank you,” you say, your voice thick with emotion. “It means more than you know.”

For a moment, you simply stand there, holding each other, surrounded by the silent witnesses of a bygone era. Then, with a gentle tug, Anakin leads you to a small nook filled with cushions. You sit down together, and he pulls you into his lap, his lips finding yours once more.

He breaks the kiss and smiles up at you, taking in every curve of your body, his hands brushing along your thighs as he drinks in the sight of you.

“You're so beautiful... even more so up close.” he whisper 

He reaches up, his hand cradling your cheek as he kisses you again. As the kiss deepens, he pulls you closer, his hand sliding lower along the curve of your waist. His touch is gentle at first, but as his passion grows, he holds you tighter against him.

Anakin's tongue explores your mouth as his hands roam over your body, tracing the curves of your hips. His touch is electric, sending shivers down your spine as it ignites the fire burning within you.

You moan softly into his mouth as you feel his fingers brush across your skin, their touch leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. Your hands explore his back, feeling every muscle as they clench and relax beneath your fingertips.

Anakin breaks away from you briefly, trailing kisses down your neck and collarbone. His teeth graze against your skin, causing goosebumps to rise in their wake.

“Ani... what are we doing...?” You breathe, biting your lip as his lips find a sensitive spot on your neck.

Anakin chuckles, his breath warm against your skin as he leaves a trail of kisses along your jaw.

"I think you know, love.." He murmurs, his hand slipping under your chin to tilt your head back and expose your neck to him.

“I want you,” he whispers in your ear, his voice low and husky.

His words send shivers down your spine, and you can't help but arch your back, pressing yourself closer to him. Your body aches for his touch, but you’re thankful that he can’t see the way you clench your eyes closed. 

Regardless, he can sense you tightening your grip on the back of his head. As you shift up against his thigh, the heat from your underwear burns against him.

He is aware that you are hesitant.

“It can be like i told you last time.” He stutters, licks his lips, and struggles to get the words out of his throat.

“Just- sit on it.” he managed to say. “If you don’t want to move it’s alright love, just wanna be inside you.” 

He buries his head into the crook of your neck and kiss it carefully to not leave any marks.

“Anakin..” You whisper softly as you struggle not to close your eyes to his touch.

He pulls away from your neck and looks up at you.

“What? Are you afraid?” 

Your eyes roll slightly “No i’m not afraid.”

A slight smile appears at the corner of his lips. “Then what is it?”

You squint at his attitude. “Nothing. I- I just won’t move.”

He nods and slowly kisses your neck, his fingers tangle in your hair, pulling your head back to expose your neck. “Alright, love.”

You shift back so he can pull his trousers down to his knees, and you take his cock in your hand, feeling him melting at your simple touch.

“Love,” he whispers, his voice deep and rough. “I want to be inside you. Now.” 

You feel a surge of heat between your legs, and you can't help but moan in response. You've never felt so aroused, so completely lost in the moment.

You push your underwear to the side, and you lift yourself to sink onto him as Anakin breathes “Take it easy love, don't want you to hurt yourself.”

You halt. To avoid pushing him inside of you all at once and hurting yourself, you grip his shoulder to steady yourself.

You push against him once more, and the tip of his cock nudges between your folds, forcing an ache to shoot through your clit and make you dizzy. You pause as a slow burn builds in your thighs, you clench down in an effort to relieve the pain.

“Fuck,” Anakin grunts as he wraps his arm around the back of your hips, “Lemme,” he mumbles, and he flexes gently his hips up, slowly feeding his cock into your soaked core and kiss your neck again to distract you from the potential pain.  

You're gasping for air, you moan softly in pleasure, the heat of his mouth on your skin igniting the fire within you. You've never felt anything like this before, and you never want it to end.

When you finally sink to the depths, the pair of you moan out loudly in unison.

Anakin buries his face in your neck, “Now, don’t move. Just don’t move.” He grunts once again.

You nod a little too vigorously, which creates a slight movement in your hips, and because of that you feel Anakin pulse from inside of you.

he manage laughs falsely and grips your hips more firmly “What did i say?”

“S- Sorry” You whisper as you feel his wet lips brush against your breasts which makes you throw your head back.

“If you move again,” Anakin begins to say, panting, “I'll leave the Jedi order and do what I should have done a long time ago.”

Anakin always wanted to fuck you properly and it drove him crazy not to be able to do it.

“D - Don’t try to tempt me, Anakin” You managed to say, saying in your head to yourself,  

Don’t even move.

But Anakin brings you out of your thoughts by licking gently your neck, making you clench around him, causing him to groan deep against your neck.

“I'm warning you, this is the last time.” He says, gritting his teeth and gripping your hips even more firmly, but not enough to hurt. 

“It’s all your fault this time” You whimper as you tighten your grip on his shoulders. 

“Just stay still,” He said firmly, concentrating on not moving and coming inside you.

[hattiewritesalot]

Awake

Azriel x fem!Reader

Summary: Azriel is undeniably furious, especially considering the fact that Y/N has yet to wake up. But, when she does, what will become of their relationship?

Warnings: Vomiting, mentions of Az wanting to kill people for his bbg, very fluffy. Bit of hurt/comfort for both Azriel and Y/N

A/N: Here is part two of Poison (which, btw, thank u for all the support I've been getting on it 😭). feel free to send in requests for acotar bc I'm bored<3

---------------------------------------------------------------

Azriel doesn’t think he’s ever been angrier in his entire life.

He’s supposed to stay calm and collected, every inch the mysterious spymaster, but not even the strongest sedative could settle the rage brewing in his chest. His shadows curl menacingly around his limbs, the black essence seeming to share his fury.

Rhysand sighs, rubbing his temples. Feyre stands behind him, probably to offer some form of comfort. They both adore Y/N. They’ve practically adopted her with how much they coddle and coo at her, despite her loud laughter and complaints whenever they do.

Cauldron, what Azriel wouldn't do to hear that laugh right now. 

It’s been three days. Y/N is not awake. His mate is not awake.

Rhysand finally looks up at Azriel. “We’ve got answers, at least.” Before Azriel can interrupt, he keeps talking. “Beron has admitted to poisoning Y/N. He figured that if he targeted her, we’d crumble. Not because she’s the strongest, but because she’s the most… beloved, daresay. He didn’t think we’d hit back, and he thought he’d be able to crush us with this crack in our defences.”

Azriel’s scarred knuckles are alabaster from how hard he’s gripping the arms of his chair. “That doesn’t make sense. Why would he just admit it?” The High Lord of Night takes a deep breath.

“He found it funny.” The noise that tears from Azriel’s throat is completely inhumane, and completely unlike him. He storms to the door, but Cassian’s strong arms hold him back, urging him to stay calm, urging him to breathe. He can’t. He’s gone past being angry, and he’s gone past blaming it on the new mating bond.

Y/N is his best friend. He’d die and kill for her, he’d steal the moon and stars if it meant she’d be happy. The Mother’s bond can go and fuck itself, because the one he’s already got with Y/N will always be stronger.

“I’ve arranged a meeting with Eris Vanserra.” Rhys’ firm voice cuts through the haze of rage. “He says he has plans, and that this event has solidified his desires. I may be unable to tell you what comes of the meeting, but I guarantee that Beron will suffer for what he did to Y/N.”

Mate. Awake. He almost doesn’t realise what his shadows are whispering to him. Awake. Eyes open. Vomit. GO. He chokes, and desperately tries to break free of Cassian's grip. He needs to see her. He needs her to be okay. “Az, Rhys just said-”

“I know what he just said!” Azriel hates the way his voice is more of a sob. “She’s awake- she’s- please, let me go to her!”

A shadowsinger shouldn’t beg. He shouldn’t grovel. He should attack.

But he doesn’t, because he knows that Y/N is far more important than any conflict he could have with Cassian right now.

And, besides, Cassian lets him go. He’s never run so fast in his life. His feet are barely on the ground, legs and shadows and wings working in tandem to get him there as soon as possible. He thinks he might be the one vomiting in a minute.

Rhys groans. “I know they’re close, but he’s going to drive me insane before I even have this meeting.”

But Feyre, ever the observant High Lady, stares at his retreating form, hand squeezing Rhys’ shoulder. “Give him time. I’m sure he’ll cool off, when he knows she’s safe.” A small smile quirks up at the corners of her lips, knowing exactly why Azriel is so worked up.

---------------------------------------------------------------

His chest heaves as he pushes the door open, but then it’s filled with warmth. Alive. She’s alive, and upright, and very visibly pissed off but it’s okay because she’s alive.

“The one time I drink something that isn’t champagne-” she croaks out. “-and it turns out to be fucking poisoned. If that’s not my luck I don’t know what is.”

Azriel can’t control the desperate sob that bursts from his lips as he clambers onto the bed, pulling her into his chest. She’s sweaty, and feverish, and she’s just puked into the bucket next to the bed, but he’ll be damned if he cares. She’s alive. He buries his face in her hair, arms and wings squeezing her so tightly it makes her squeak.

“Alright big guy, I’ve just been sick, let’s not try and go for round two.” Her tone is teasing, joking, but the moment he pulls away, her face falls. “Az…” she murmurs, moving her fingers up to wipe his tears. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” he spits, sobbing again. “What’s wrong!? You were fucking poisoned! You’ve been puking and coughing and writhing and screaming ever since you got here, and you’ve been out for three days. Three whole days- where- I didn’t know if you were dead, I didn’t know if you-”

“Az.” her tone is a bit firmer now, thumbs pressing against his lips. “I’m okay. I’m gonna be okay. I’m here, I’m breathing, and I’m going to be fine. Breathe.” 

He heaves a deep breath, clutching her so tightly his fingers make indents on her skin. If she notices, she doesn’t care. “You’re… okay.”

“I’m okay.” She smiles. Her lips are cracked and slightly discoloured, but he’s missed her little smile so fucking much. “Come on, Az, you know me. Tough as nails.” She flexes her arms, and Azriel snorts.

“There’s nothing there. You should really stop skipping training.” “No! You’re always a dick to me in training!”

“Yes, because Cassian’s about as mean as a wet sponge, and it isn’t potty training, it’s battle tactics.” She scoffs. “Whatever, whatever.” And he grins, and hugs her again, trying to engrave the memory of her wrapped up in his arms into his brain, just to keep there forever. “Azriel?” He hums in response. “I- so, you know a couple days back? When... this... happened, and I was just about to fall asleep?” She swallows. “I think I felt something… snap.”

His heart pounds in his chest. “The bond? You felt it too?”

“Uh- yeah.” She looks up at him, big eyes blinking up at him like a doe, her face so sweet he wants to coo. “Are you disappointed? That it’s me?”

That makes Azriel frown. How could he be disappointed? She’s everything and more, anyone can see that. Even if he pushes aside the fact that she’s drop-dead gorgeous, she’s got a brain to match it. She’s quick and clever and sassy in a way that rivals even his own spunk. If anything, she should be the disappointed one.

“No.” he says, brows furrowing. “Y/N, sweetheart, you mean the world to me. How could I be disappointed?” He wants to catch all of the butterflies in his stomach and lock them away forever, because they're making him woozy. “Are- are you?”

“Am I?” her tone is confused, almost shocked. “Az- Az, I’ve been into you for, like, forever. I’m not disappointed. I could never be disappointed, not with you.”

They stare at each other for a long moment, blinking, suddenly coming to terms with the fact that this bond has, for lack of better wording, startled them. They’ve always prioritised everyone else over them, always considered others' needs and benefits above their own, but they’ve never had the chance to fully acknowledge themselves. Maybe that’s what made them so alike. Maybe that’s why the Mother paired them together, knowing that amidst the sarcastic comments and teasing touches, the sturdy roots of their relationship came from their unwavering trust and care for one another.

Azriel’s hand moves to Y/N’s clammy forehead, softly pushing the hair away from her face. Despite everything that’s happened in the last few days, she’s still her, and he’s still him. Nothing is ever going to change that.

“You’re beautiful.” He whispers. She rolls her eyes. “I’ve got a raging fever, I’m drenched in my own sweat, I just threw up and you’re calling me beautiful?”

He laughs, oh, by the Cauldron, he laughs. “You could be a corpse and you’d still be the most beautiful girl in the world.”

“That’s necrophilia, Az. Pretty sure that’s illegal.”

“You’re hilarious, sweetheart.”

“Is that why you fell in love with me?”

“Okay, who’s saying I’m in love with you?”

“Me.” and she grins, nudging her nose against his. “Because I am not only hilarious, but also very observant.” He lets out a little hum in response, scarred fingers still twisting in her hair. Everything’s perfect, because they’re not. Their imperfections are intertwined, just like their souls, and the knowledge the other will always be there to love them is all they've ever wanted.

Azriel’s eyes flit down to her lips, and then he’s leaning in, and she’s doing the same, and-

She pulls away, wincing. “I puked about five minutes ago. I don’t think you want to kiss me right now.”

He rolls his eyes, tipping her chin up. “Y/N L/N, I have waited at least two centuries for the opportunity to kiss you. Don’t stop me now.” And he presses his lips to hers. It’s gentle, soft, sweet. Everything he feels around this girl.

“You’re gross.” She mumbles.

“That’s what love does to you.” 

“And you’re a sap.” She grins. “I suppose you’re lucky I love you, even if you are going soft for me.”

“Shut up, sweetheart.”

--------------------------------------------------------------

@topaz125 @starryhiraeth @nahminae @quiettuba @thecraziestcrayon @honeywithemoney @marvelsmylife @sunny1616 @lilah-asteria @emryb @i-am-infinite @st4r-girl-official

my loves ty for ur support! :)

[rinneverse]

✶⋆.˚ SPONSOR A WIP FOR GAZA .ᐟ 🍉

hello oak nation and friends! life has finally slowed down enough for me to make this post - i will be participating in the @ficsforgaza initiative!! while i was initially very anxious about making this post, i realized that i want to do something meaningful and contribute what i can to the fundraising efforts for gaza. i highly recommend checking out their blog for more info + see the other participants!!

this post was last updated: 05.28.24 !

﹙🍉﹚HOW CAN I PARTICIPATE?

great question! i've outlined the process below.

the rate is $1.00 USD = 100 words.

make a donation to a vetted fundraiser/charity of your choice; you can find some here!!

screenshot proof of your donation. send it via ask to me with ALL PERSONAL INFO redacted and mention the fundraiser you donated to. (do NOT send me any screenshots you've used for other creators: they will be shared with @/ficsforgaza to verify.) i will not be publicly posting asks.

then in that same ask, just let me know which wip (out of the ones listed below) you'd like to sponsor!! i will be updating this post minimum once a week (hopefully more) with any updates to wc/donations/status etc etc.

example: hi oak! i've donated $x.xx to [chosen fundraiser] and i'd like to sponsor your vampire blade wip. thanks!! (attach your proof here!)

once a fic is fully sponsored, completed, and posted, you will be mentioned as one of its sponsors !! (you may opt out of this part, just let me know while sending your ask!)

﹙🍉﹚WHAT ARE YOUR RULES, OAK?

another great question! for starters, here is my blog rules post. i also have a couple more for this initiative below.

i am not accepting money directly. please donate through the vetted fundraisers!

since i am an 18+ blog, i am requiring that all asks should be sent OFF ANON and your age must be easily accessible on your blog. YOU MUST BE 18 YEARS OR OLDER TO SPONSOR A WIP. your sponsorship is null and void if you do not follow this rule.

i am a slower writer, so it may be a hot minute before wips are fully edited and posted after reaching a goal. that being said, the main goal is to raise awareness as well as donate to an important cause!! i vow to do my very best to make sure everyone's donations are honored. this is my first time doing something like this, so lets all be kind here!

MINORS, BLANK, AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI. nsfw + dark content is included in the wips featured below the cut.

﹙🍉﹚OAK'S WIPS AVAILABLE TO SPONSOR!

✩ you're so handsome (when i'm all over your mouth) — vampire!blade x f!reader

summary: your mother has always warned you to never to stay out long after the sun sets; the lord knows what may be lurking after night falls. in your carelessness, you are lost at sundown, with no grasp on your location nor the path home. time for you to learn just what kind of beast hides in the shadows. -> sponsored wc: 0/10,000 -> written wc: 0/10,000

✩ little bird, won’t you sing a song for me? — yandere!sunday x f!reader

summary: you’ve lived nearly your entire life in captivity. you yearn for freedom, to escape your gilded cage, but your keeper urges you otherwise. he is adamant in his refusal to set you free, and you are all the more resentful of him for it. (or: you wish to leave the planet despite sunday’s wishes. this does not bode well with him.) -> sponsored wc: 0/10,000 -> written wc: 0/10,000

✩ *take a bite — satoru gojo x f!reader x suguru geto

summary: your roommate, satoru gojo, always has his pretty dark-haired friend over to your shared apartment as a frequent guest. one night, when the three of you play a little drinking game together, things get much more heated than you could have ever expected it to. (no curses/modern au!) -> sponsored wc: 0/10,000 -> written wc: 0/10,000

— if you've made it this far: thank you!! if you don't take interest in any of my wips in particular, i implore you to explore the creators featured on @ficsforgaza and see if there is something more your cup of tea.

*regarding the wc of these wips (take a bite in particular), i am unsure of how many words these fics will be. i will start with a baseline of 10k, but if i find that i will be needing wayyyy more than that, i will increase the donation limit. so keep ur eyes on this post!!

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

omgg yess plz part two of the overblotts

Overblot Universe (2) | Yandere Twisted Wonderland

“I’d be wrong not to speak my piece when both parties so clearly have withstanding debts with me.”

Both of you turn behind to look at the newcomer

Smiling wide he’s holding up a golden glowing contract 

Idia sucks his teeth moving to summon Ortho to attack

The blotted version does attempt to attack the overblotted Azul before being launched back after touching the golden shield that flashes around him

“You seem to have forgotten that my all-powerful contracts don’t allow for your retaliation!”

“Ahhhh!!!”

Overblotted Azul holds the contract up which sends an electric shock to Idia

He’s wailing like a baby completely missing the inky tentacle that grabs you by the waist

Pulling you towards him, you have no choice but to lean against him

“Good to see you, traitorous pearl. We have so much to discuss.”

Two of his tentacles squeeze along your sides as he lets his lips linger near your ear 

“S-s-S–T-O P it!!!” 

The pitiful wail comes from the blotted Idia who is doing his best to fight the constant beam of electrocution

The octopus-mer glares at him before letting that twisted smile spread back on his face

“As  a small currency back to me we’ll be using your technology to take our exit. Us two will be very busy with our own marriage contracts.”

“nO!”

His cries are ignored as you feel the familiar tingle of Idia’s teleportation working

When you are able to open your eyes again you find Azul expertly drifting in clouded water filled with ink

Barely able to make anything out you can begin to recognize the familiar office to the one in the Monstro Lounge

“To think he’d put you in such restraints when he’s bold enough to use his words. He just can’t stand being civil like us, right (Y/n).”

Azul easily slips a slither of his tentacle past your binds

getting ahold of the metal before he parts bending and then breaking it

In no time at all of your metal cuffs are on the floor bent and torn threw floating near your feet

It makes you especially vigilant when you feel the stray but exploring touches of the suctions on his tentacles

“Now that we’re alone, the subject of your contract is well over due.”

“But I haven’t signed anything with you.”

“I took the liberty of doing everything for you, I just need a bit more confirmation.”

You begin to struggle when you feel your arms bein pulled in the direction of a golden contract that’s still being written by a quill that writes on it’s own

“All that’s left to seal our union will be these special pearls of mine. Something I’ve crafted from the moment you sent me to this dystopian wasteland.”

Shivers go down your back at the further distortion in his voice

Only able to cowe away as his tentacles bring you closer to his string of pearls that have a similar golden glow

Looking at the contract in the corner you can’t help but tremble in fear

it’s much longer than a simple paper and the quill is writing even faster now 

Nonetheless you are coming close to the smiling overblot of Azul with no signs of stopping

Until he wheezes and falls over

His tentacles loosen allowing you to wiggle free

The golden contract stops crumpling in on itself and the quill blips away

You also begin to cough as something dark wisps in the water-like-space around you 

You fall over as well attempting to keep your eyes open as long as you can before seeing a silhouette reaching out to you

“You have been a thorn in my side for far too long.”

Hearing the twisted voice above you almost doesn’t make you want to open your eyes

But the nudging of something at your lips makes you snap your eyes open

It’s an overblotted Vil glaring regally at you as he continues to urge some inky substance into your mouth 

Turning your head you find it weighs so much heavier than your used to 

The same could be said for your for your arms 

Looking down finding jewels tied around the arms of a chair

More accurately a throne

Looking confused at the overblotted Vil silently asking the question you had

“Do not be so cold. Your queen only wishes to ease the pain.”

“W-what pain?”

“Do not mumble. Those meant for the mirror should never mumble.”

You only tilted your head in confusion as he backed a bit away from you

Motioning his hand toward a silver mirror similar to the one back home

Holding his hand out a black and purple shine made the mirror’s black center begin to twist and turn like ink being dipped into

Before it can do anything overblotted Vil’s hands hold your face 

Tensing as if decided to prick his metal claws into your skin and caressing them with fondness

Your own eyes meeting stormy purples before your lips are captured by black lips

The kiss is incredibly deep and purposeful

As though it was practiced a thousand times before

When he did pull away you faintly taste something unknown down your throat and the strength leaving your body like oxygen

“We both will have to wait until after the battle. Any good Queen knows their King is their most valuable asset.”

Gaining your bearings you try to speak only to feel your voice die in your throat as something cools over your skin

Looking down the ink crawling up your skin is reaching from the mirror 

The ink is cool and you can feel it pulling you from the throne you were on the binds snapping 

You begin to scream as you feel an uncomfortable tug at your heart 

You barely register the hands cupping the back of your head and the pinprick of another kiss on your forehead 

“Hush hush. Your time in the mirror will be short, your Queen plans to make quick work of all those…pests.”

Relentinig to the pull you stopped fighting the pulling ink 

Curling up in the somehow not so wet expanse of the mirror you barely caught the possessive smile of the over blotted Vil as he adjusted the mirror to stand in some unknown room. 

“Sleep well.”

You do

It feels nice to release your body of the tense feeling of constantly being alert

You blame whatever Vil had given you

Dreaming vaguely of what his plans would be when he returned

The crown still on your head might have been the beginning of what they were

No matter 

All that you could do was rest

And sleep….

And stay….

“Do not tell me? This is where you have been hiding?”

“I told you he’d do something like this.”

“Well Viper. A deals a deal. Shall we take them home?”

Part 3?

[igotanidea]

The little bean: Anthony Bridgerton x pregnant!wife!reader

A/N: So..... After my "Too much" series I've been asked to do something with Antony and pregnancy trope. And since 1) I got baby fever and 2) Bridgertons are back, there is no better time than now.

***

“Y/N, my love, what are you doing?”

“I’m holding a book…?”

Ever since Y/N found out she was pregnant with the heir (which she would rather address as her precious little baby, instead of giving him titles before he or she was even born) Anthony entered right into an overprotective mood. If anything he would just keep her home, away from any prying eyes, that – in his opinion – might somehow take a look inside, at his baby and perhaps, see the little one before it came into the view of a proud viscount father.

Y/N could barely walk around the Bridgerton household, let alone the garden, without her husband chasing after her with a very concerned look, ready to carry her wherever she wished, just so that her feet wouldn’t touch the ground.

There were so many dangers on the way after all.

Wild animals. (i.e. bees, dogs and strays cats)

Speeding carriages.

Stones on which she might trip and fall.

Too much sun.

Too little sun.

And worst of all-

Members of the ton.

It was merely the first trimester and viscountess was torn between calming Anthony down (tactfully avoiding the information that the next months will be much more challenging) or just rushing away to her mother-in-law (yet, again) to seek aid in keeping him in check.

And just when she thought the oldest Bridgerton could not get any more obsessive, he took the lecture she was reading out of her hands.

“My dear, you cannot carry such weights. It’s straining and I am to protect you from threats.”

“It’s a book…” she frowned a little, but not without a hint of amusement in her voice

“It’s heavy.”  

“It's a 200 page novel…”

“It’s heavy.” Anthony’s voice was gentle, but firm. Both demanding and pleading.

“Anthony…”

“Y/N.”

“I can hold my own book.”

“We got servants for that.  In fact – let me call upon your maid and –“ he started walking towards the door in sheer purpose to liberate his dearest wife from the unnecessary burden.

Nonetheless his dearest wife had quite a different plan, reaching to grab his hand and stopping him in his tracks.

“My love. Please, come. Let us sit.” She guided him to the ottoman, still keeping the soft touch that was grounding to him.

Much to her surprise Anthony rushed to the furniture first, fixing pillows and blankets so Y/N could sit comfortably. And apparently that word, in his language, meant sitting half a meter in the air, covered from head to toe, regardless of the perfect spring weather outside.

“Here. Perfect.” He flashed a perfect smile, content with the spot he made for her.

“Anthony…”

“Yes, my love?” as he spun around meeting with her desperate look, the smile slowly disappeared from his face. “Y/N? Are you not feeling well?” Anthony grabbed both her hands in his, searching her face for any symptoms of malaise, dizziness, nausea. “Do you need some water? Or-“

“No, no, Anthony, please just listen to me for a moment-“

“Perhaps I should call upon Daphne, she already had a child of her own and she would be of help. Or maybe my mother could-“

“Anthony!” she laughed whole-heartedly at his  feverishness “I am not going to give birth in the fourth month of pregnancy! Please just calm down.”

“Just say a word and I’ll call for a medic immediately. Do not fret my dearest, I will take the best care of you. I swear on my life that-“

At that moment Y/N used the most effective way to stop his blubbering in the form of putting his hand on her slightly rounded belly in which their baby was healthily growing.

“Shh.” She whispered, putting her own palm on top of Anthony's, calming him down, letting him caress the stomach in hope to make him calm down. “It’s okay. Everything’s okay. I don’t need medic. Nor your mother. And certainly not your younger sister. I am feeling good and the only thing that concerns me is my husband's distress over nothing.”

“Nothing? You are carrying our baby!”

“And our baby needs his father to stop fretting.”

“But-“

“Here!” her eyes grew wide as she guided his hand to another place “did you feel it?”

“Was it--?” Anthony’s face expression mirrored the one of his wife.

“It kicked…” she whispered as their gazes met and for a second that extended into eternity, they just kept looking into each other’s eyes expressing so many feelings.

And then, almost as if in a dream, Anthony fell to his knees in front of Y/N, pressing his head into her belly.

“Our baby.” He whispered, kissing her body through the material of the dress. “our little baby.” He wrapped arms around her midsection with his ear pressed to the home of the child, almost hoping to hear him or her inside.

“Our baby…” she repeated with tears in her eyes. Despite knowing and obviously – feeling the imminent arrival of the new family member it was the first time she actually felt and knew. And it was beautiful. Her little bean was really there. Growing and waiting for the right moment to appear in the world, landing right into the waiting, safe arms of loving mother and father.      

“Do you think it can hear us?” Anthony pressed one ear to her stomach, his entire face lighting up at the possibility.

“Depends.” She chuckled

“On what?” his eyes travelled up to meet hers.

“If I say yes, will that mean you start talking to my insides?”

Anthony smirked.

“I will do that, even if you say no.”

“Then why the question?”

“Testing your knowledge.”

“I am not a doctor, Anthony. My expertise in the area might be a little limited.”

“Very well. Then give me an answer as a mother, not a medic.”

“Yes. Yes, I think it can hear us.” She cupped Anthony’s cheek in the affectionate gesture. There was something utterly heartening in seeing him like this. Holding her (and/or the baby) like she was the most precious thing in the world, needing the assurance that his child was already reaching to him.

That it could hear him, even if it wasn’t even born yet. Hoping for the love of the Lord that it was truly happening. That in a few months, that were going to pass by with extraordinary speed, the little one, a girl or a boy, would take a corporal form. That the viscount would not only be a noble and a husband but would also take on the new role – a father. A protector. Caregiver. A teacher, guardian and a guide. That somehow – his life would be complete. He’ll have his own little family. Something that was nearly impossible to him a few years prior.

And now-

“Anthony…” Y/N whispered, wiping a single tear from his eyes. “Sweetheart, what is wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing is wrong, love. It’s all perfect.”

“Then why are you-?”

“I’m not.” He cleared his throat and gathered himself.

“Of course not.” She laughed softly brushing his hair. “But if you’d want to actually talk to the baby, that would stay in this little circle.”

Anthony smiled lovingly, grateful for having his miracle of a woman in his life. She understood him so perfectly well.

“We’re waiting for you, little one.” He whispered against her attire, with a little muffled voice, be it from emotions or closeness of his lips on her body. “You are already loved by two people, with more to come.”

‘You can say it Anthony…” Y/N whispered, knowing what he was holding back.

“I love you my little one.” The viscount whispered with the softest voice, caressing the place where the kick was previously felt.

And they stood like that for a while longer, enjoying that moment of joy and thinking about the future that looked quite bright. 

[mrs-weasley-reid]

TEN'S A GOOD NUMBER

Aaron Hotchner x psychiatrist!reader

Sypnosis: After Aaron's traumatizing encounter with Peter Lewis, he's sent to you, but who knew a profiler is the worst patient you'll ever have? Warning: enemies to lovers— ish(?) angst. a dash of fluff. light mentions of death and trauma. a few curses. went ballistic— it's lengthy, so pace yourself. A/N: loosely follows Mr. Scratch timeline for three seasons.

Monday, May 4, 8:34 AM

Aaron Hotchner sits across from you.

He studies you in every detail like he's about to take an exam, and you're the topic.

The weight of your scribbles—light, almost featherlike. Ink leaves a soft trail of words, a map of your thoughts, your perception of him.

The speed of your hand. Swift and elegant. Each movement portrays a scene in a movie. As if they're telling a quiet story, your story he is yet to unravel.

The way you deprive him of eye contact.

What are you hiding?

Why can't you look him in the eye?

The occasional nod to remind him that you're listening—not like anything's coming out from his end.

In conclusion, just about everything you do, really.

To Aaron, you're a cheat sheet. His way back to the field, to work—the part of his life that cannot be halted despite the need for a break.

"Your hand is heavier," Aaron vaguely goads.

You silently stare at him, waiting for the rest of his thoughts to spill out of his mouth.

"Usually, you write like you're afraid to puncture the paper, but just right now, your strikes are deeper. Your grip on your pen is also tighter. Am I annoying you?"

Creative.

You think to yourself as he rakes his eyes down the canvas of your face, blank and land of nothing but mirroring eyes.

Although you prefer Aaron's comment about your new lipstick and how it makes your skin glow—something about your prospect of finding a lover—fifteen minutes into your session. You didn't peg him as a man who knows his lipstick shades, but you stand corrected as he says coral with the utmost confidence for a man who wears his tie like a choker.

Aaron does it all the time. Every five minutes, he says one thing he's noticed about you and then proceeds to zip his mouth, denying you details about him like you're some hired criminal paid to torture the King's hidden fortune out of him.

And as per your entertainment, you'd do something out of your character to throw him off. If you can laugh at his gullibility, you would.

His goal is to intimidate you. Pressure you. Make you tick like every other serial killer he's encountered. Because he'd really rather be across an unsub than you. Aaron would rather be the one to ask questions and not you. In his eyes, you're no better than a small-town detective ignorantly interrogating a serial killer for a cheap gas station robbery, unaware of the skeletons in his closet.

At this moment, Aaron ponders why he agreed to meet with you once a week only to sit in almost absolute silence for about an hour, then go about his day like he hadn't just wasted minutes of his—and your—life.

It's always the same.

He arrives, flaunts his profiling skills for an accumulated total of twelve minutes, and then sits across you like a rock for the remaining forty minutes.

Aaron could've talked more, but...

He despises you.

Well, not you, per se. He despises the profession, and you just happen to choose it as your career. Nonetheless, Aaron generalizes and includes you on his list.

He finds it unnecessary and a waste of one's valuable time. Presenting a series of well-thought-out facts that he's sure Spencer Reid will enjoy. A list of reasons why talking to a psychiatrist isn't as helpful as people perceive it to be.

Aaron spits the words 'family' and 'friends' for the sake of ease and comfort as if he doesn't flinch at the words 'your father' and his face hasn't been frozen into a permanent stern. Because why talk to someone who doesn't know you when there are people who know you best? He lies through his teeth. He lies to himself.

Then, there's you.

You don't know him enough to trust his lies.

"Profiling me won't get you cleared," you state out of the blue. "This is our seventh session, and you haven't said anything." You add, finally lifting your gaze.

Aaron feels taken aback. He'd never encountered a shrink with such pride at their job—they managed to infuriate him. You infuriate him.

Now that you've granted him the wish—your eyes meeting his—it's having an effect on him instead. One that he wishes he didn't feel creep under his skin, stimulating the anxiety he's worked hard to ignore.

Still, Aaron squares his shoulder, "Nothing is wrong with me," He claims like he's not feeling the pit of his stomach churn with every word. "I'm only here for the formalities." He says.

"Ahh," You deadpan, pulling your eyes down on your clipboard. Hushed scribbles echo in the room. "Is that what you told, Dr. Briar? Or Dr. McCormick? Stiles doesn't seem to remember you at all—"

"They deemed me fit to go back to work, which you don't seem to realize." Aaron cuts you off. He doesn't notice the slight lilt of his voice. How a vein peeked on his forehead as he furrows his brows.

You have an effect on him, and Aaron's in strong denial.

"How?" You lean a bit, propping against your lap. It's the first time he's ever let himself tear out of his 'I don't break' shell. You consider it a crumb of a breakthrough and a laughable stain on your pride.

Challenging his stability—you raise your brows—makes him tick.

A faux frown draws on your face—patronizing, "Did you play a staring contest, and they lost against you?" You notice the little twitch of his eye masked as a blink.

It's a little unprofessional to provoke your patient, but you do, anyway.

This one's been particularly adamant about manipulating you into permitting him back to work like you were born yesterday. You think it hilarious how smug he's been for the past six sessions. It is as if you didn't spend almost half of your life devoted to the study of behavior. Like you hadn't figured out his plans from the get-go.

Profilers. They catch a criminal out of idea of sorts, and they think they can read everyone. It makes you want to laugh while pointing at him.

Aaron stares at you with his usual stoic expression, intimidating eyes filled with unforeseen horrors, and a straight mouth that's no use in your four walls.

He decides then that he hates you with a passion.

You feel a vibration on your wrist, "Would you look at that? Your time's up, Hotchner." You withdraw, straightening your back as you scribble yet another word Aaron is curious to know.

If he only knew you're not really writing anything new about the nature of his mental state or anything legible at all, you imagine Aaron exploding like a stack of case files blown by harsh wind.

But can he blame you when he's given you nothing to write?

"Agent Hotchner," He corrects with gritted teeth. Aaron's jaw clenches as he pierces his gaze through you. His hands intertwined with each other as if he's preventing himself from clawing at you.

You smile at him, "In this room, you're just Aaron Hotchner. A patient. A case." You know the specific word will piss him off, much less the motherly tone you paired it with.

A tactic. Unlike him, you don't need a team of agents to get a rise out of a culprit. The bare idea of you, a stranger who has access to his life on a piece of paper, is enough a stimuli to get an individual aiming at your neck.

"So, between you and me, I think you should start talking if you ever want to fly to wherever city your team wanders in. The longer you take, the less progress we make, and the less progress you make, the more possible that the bureau will assign a new psychiatrist for you." You say nonchalantly, letting his anger lead him right into your trap.

The words float like small fire specks of dust, both dazzling and dangerous to the eyes. Getting assigned to a new psychiatrist is like getting an easy case directly handed to Aaron. However, it also means he'll have to restart his psych evaluation process, and he knows firsthand how time-consuming that is.

"But, then again, who knows? Maybe the next fella will let you slide like the others did. Or you'll have to attend a series of sessions again for a lengthy psych evaluation. I've got friends too, you know? They might do me a favor and make your life more… difficult." You're bluffing. In no way, shape, or form will you jeopardize his health, even if Aaron's the most stubborn patient you have ever met in your lifetime.

His nose flares as he stands up. You know that he's done and murdered you in his mind at the way he's glaring at you with invisible daggers, but you play it well and act blameless.

Aaron marches out of your office with blazing hatred. You watch as he dulls every vicinity he's stepped into like death taking a stroll. A part of you is apologetic to his colleagues. They'll be having one hell of a day.

Retreating back inside your office, you plop on your chair behind your desk as a heavy sigh escapes your lips.

You stare at Aaron Hotchner's patient chart.

"What am I going to do with you?" You ask rhetorically in the air.

Aaron Hotchner is—for you at least—a special case. A case so intricate you had to be careful how you'd tread the water, wary of its fragile ripples.

When Aaron's chart landed on your desk, you immediately knew that he'd be toilsome. He'd make it his goal to skip the talk and jump back onto another case. The same routine he did with his old therapists and psychologist, anyone that was able to write a note and say he's fine when he's really not—never have been for a long time.

You already had enough patients on your plate, but you just couldn't say no to your favorite Italian patient; you only had one. You're the best bureau-mandated psychiatrist. His words, not yours.

Then, again, you never fail to mentally brag about how easily you read Aaron just from his chart, his image, and the first step he took to get inside your office. You read him like an open toddler's book, a piece of cake.

During the first session, you learn how badly Aaron's last case had affected him. The intonation of his voice. The way he'd shake his hand, your hand. His scorn. His fiddling fingers.

It's amazing how he's managed to divert his anger towards you instead of the man who traumatized him.

Melodic ringing snaps you out of your trance.

Aaron Hotchner might just get what he wants.

Sunday, May 10, 11:51 PM

A sniffle tickles your nose as you lay flat on the carpet floor of your apartment.

Your face stings from tear stains, and you muse how horrid you must look after your makeup runs dry. Your chunky heels were still on. In a minute or two, you expect one of your feet to cramp.

The day has been hostile towards you.

The mind, which used to be an oasis of positive thoughts, has gone draught. Sleep begins to blur your vision, and you don't hesitate to let it take over.

Until a bombarding knock jolts you up.

"I'm here! I'm here! Calm down!" You shout as you swing the door open. A familiar man stands in front of you with a dour face. Your eyebrows narrow tightly, "Mr. Hotchner—"

"What did you write?!" Aaron badgers as he storms inside your apartment like he owns the place. He pivots on the balls of his feet once he's reached your living room, glowering at you with scalding fury. "I was relieved to know that you released me from your care and looked forward to my clearance. So, tell me why a random therapist called me this morning to confirm an appointment I didn't even know I had. What did you write on my report that I have to go through this again for the second time? Is dealing with your sick games not enough? I'm fine. I know I'm fine. I'm straight in the head to go back in the field. I aced the psych evaluation questions. Your sessions are the problem. You're the problem." His ears, face, and neck are burning red. If he's a cartoon character, you imagine he'd be steaming with smoke by now.

Quite surprised; you're standing speechless. You're watching Aaron like he's a crazy old hag yapping about the Revolutionary War and how she hates not having the power to shoot every redcoat for the sake of rage.

You head towards your sofa, taking a seat.

Aaron examines you in confusion, furrowing his brows.

After a moment, you look at him expectantly. "Don't be shy, Mr. Hotchner. By any means—" you nod towards the armchair across you, glancing back and forth between him and the empty space "—continue with your thoughts. You already started. Might as well let it all out."

He only clenches his hands inside his pockets as he bores holes into your head.

What a sad little man.

You scoff in your mind.

You lean against the back of the sofa, tilting your head to meet dagger-like brown eyes aiming at you. "No? Suit yourself, then." You shrug, feeling the soft cushions under your palms.

"Let me remind you that I'm a federal agent, and I can make your life a living hell if I want to." He threatens, glaring at you as if the twitch of his eye is enough to make you combust into thin air.

But all you see is a child on a tantrum, deprived of getting what he wants.

"Answer my question. What. Did. You. Write?" He growls.

Silence coats the two of you.

His heavy breathing fills the deafening air. Your nonchalance fuels his hatred more than ever and the sentiment is beginning to emit from both ends. It takes a lot out of you to think of multiple ways to sprinkle some salty sense onto him without stinging his wounds.

One thing you learned well enough in time is how good Aaron is when pushing someone's buttons. A perk of his prosecutor days and seasoned by his bureau career.

He's just troubled.

He's just in denial of his own pain.

You chant the words in your head—uncertain of its purpose. Detachment ironically detaches from your senses like old velcro.

"You're not the first agent in my office, Mr. Hotchner. And frankly, you should be thanking me for taking you in. Unlike your old therapists, I actually read through your chart and took the time to understand you to the best of my ability. I cared—" Shocked as he is, your eyes subtly widen.

Before you can continue Aaron speaks over you, "I do not care about your pity. What I wanted was for you to do your damn job and clear me back to work. But that's just little to no pay for a shrink, isn't it? You need messed up people to stay messed up so they can continue knocking on your door." A clear hint of a demeaning smirk flashes across his face.

The sheer irreverence makes you dizzy. The calm snaps, banishing kindness and composure out the window. And rage knocks on your door.

"That's the problem. You don't care. You don't care about yourself." Your tone is sharp—stern.

You knew. You knew from the moment his file thudded on your wooden desk. The moment SSA David Rossi charmed his way to get your favor. You know that Aaron Hotchner does what he believes is right. Not because the unit chief title has gotten in his head. No. Not the slightest. But because he only cares about his values and people.

And you're neither.

It's not you to hold grudges. So, you had it down and set before you accepted Rossi's request. You had it tattooed in your mind that no matter how sharp-tongued and insensitive the man before you might be, he's still just a man under the weight of the world's greatest horrors.

You cannot break. You're not allowed to break.

Pieces of you shatter at the realization that some patients under your care inevitably slip away from your fingers. How your promised oath to do no harm did nothing—not enough to stop the monsters that haunt the world. Not enough to stop you, Aaron's psychiatrist, from dumping your own frustration onto him the same way he's currently doing to you.

But you're not Aaron's psychiatrist today. You're not anything today. You're not on the clock. And no one except Aaron—to your demise—will ever witness such an ugly sight. If ever he shuts up about his dilemma, that is.

"I did my job exactly as I should." You declare, licking the bottom of your lips. Damned the Hippocratic Oath. You wonder if the healing gods will forgive you.

You really shouldn't say the words that are about to leave your mouth, but you've been taking whatever hostility he's got for the last two months; the capacity has reached its limit. A little bit of harshness wouldn't hurt, would it?

"When are you going to admit that the reason you can't sleep at night is not because of all the serial killers you claim I prevent you from catching?" You finally stand. You are a few inches shorter, yet you have never felt taller than you do right now.

You grit your teeth as you move closer to Aaron, almost a breath away, tiptoeing. "When will you admit that the mighty SSA Aaron Hotchner, unit chief, doesn't blink, not once, because he's afraid he'd become the very thing he promised to put away." You raise your brows, challenging him.

Aaron's face morphs into bewilderment and perturbation. His brows are sewn shut. His jawline pops out as he grinds his teeth.

Resentment. Fury. Vexation. Chagrin.

All Aaron felt was anger.

Antagonized.

A walking tower of pure acrimony, finger-pointing towards the innocent.

"Don't you dare compare me to those— I'm anything but." He towers over you, losing his words through the stream of lividity flooding all over his senses.

"Do you really believe that?"

Aaron studies your face. It's different. It's raw and maimed. A squeeze of guilt whispers, but he shoves it quickly.

"What did you write?" He asks once more, earning a scoff out of you.

You step back, staring straight into his glare. Crossed arms tight against your chest. Brows rest over your deadpan eyes.

"While SSA Aaron Hotchner is proficient at his skills and rather placid in physically and mentally challenging situations, I strongly recommend further evaluation in psychotherapy as his emotional capacity is at its limits. The stress accumulated from the job itself has given him little to no time to allow himself the indulgence to properly process certain impacts of the stimulus he encounters on the job. Will update after further observation. Is what I wrote… so far."

You pause.

"Aaron Hotchner is an insufferable, pompous idiot who's afraid of nothing but himself. He is incapable of stepping off his pedestal and refuses to cooperate while complaining about the consequences he himself caused. He has been through enormous trauma. It will be torture to try and help him cope properly. I do not want him in my care as he is a danger to his own progress, and I don't want any part of it. Is what I wanted to write."

Silence.

For him to reflect.

For you to breathe.

Aaron's frozen before you. A pale statue bleached under the moon's harsh reality. Words that used to be superficial insecurities float in the wind of truth, forming into a cage he's sentenced for life.

Your fuse still runs—a long time coming from two months of his deliberate disrespect. The silence annoys you, so you break it. "Excuse my hostility. No one's invaded my privacy and barged into my household at such an unreasonable hour before." The impassive smile on your lips can haunt anyone.

Maybe you've gone too far.

Maybe it's evil to say such blunt things to someone fragile.

But Aaron started the countdown. He lit the fuse. Now, you're exploding right before his eyes, reaping what he sowed. And he's forced to eat up all the debris.

His eyes twitch, scanning your face for any sign of bluff, any sign of fallacy. Any sign that he successfully pissed you off and your words were nothing but overwhelmed impulse.

"I—" he closes his mouth, then agape. Any sign. Aaron will take anything besides the forthright expression on your face. He inhales, "I'm sorry." The sound dies before it can roll off his tongue.

It's like watching a bully shrink into the tiniest man who's ever lived.

Okay, maybe you were a little bit brutal.

You gulp as guilt creeps along your veins, wishing that someone out there would just do you both a favor and snipe you out before the embarrassment settles.

Drawing in a gentle breath, you take another step back from Aaron with a delicate voice, "You're not starting a new evaluation, but you're not done either. I transferred you under someone else's care because of personal reasons. My life doesn't revolve around you, Mr. Hotchner. So, if you have nothing else to say, go home." Your eyes drift to the vast selection of objects in your living room to diffuse the growing pity you can't help but harbor.

Only then does Aaron discern his impulsivity. Internally arguing with himself as he allows himself to look at you. One thing he's never done since the moment he met you with screwed brows and unwavering bias. His gaze instantly softens like a thick fog around him finally dissipates. Like he's achieved a clearer vision.

The first thing he notices is the state of your face. The dry mascara that drew faded stripes down your cheeks. Your puffy eyes are now faint pink, but he recalls them being red when he arrived.

Then Aaron brings his attention to your black dress. It's a simple formal, mesh midi dress, but he admits how it elegantly fits you. But he doesn't say it aloud because there's only one reason why you'd wear such an article of depressing clothing.

As if your words and his own realizations aren't enough, he gets a glimpse of the clock on your wall that reads 12:03 AM.

His blood suddenly stops flowing—skin clammy and pale. Aaron's lightheaded from guilt and penitence.

Without another word, you lead him towards the door, swinging it open. The past 24 hours already drained you, and Aaron just about made it fifty times worse. All you wanted was to get a shuteye.

Aaron swallows the shame and makes his way out. Before he leaves, though, he turns to face you once more. Genuine curiosity pinches his brows.

"Why didn't you just clear me out like the others did if I was such a difficult case?" The word tastes bitter in his mouth. What used to be a desired flavor turned rotten on his palette.

He asks with utter softness, leaving you skeptical to respond.

"Same reason why you kept attending my sessions even though you clearly hated it." You slightly close the door, only leaving enough space for the two of you to see each other.

He looks at you like the answer's all over your face but written in some foreign language he's not familiar with. Aaron barely opens his mouth when you answer the question in his mind.

"You needed a place where you can just be."

The door shuts.

Friday, June 19, 11:02 PM

"I didn't know where to go."

You pore at Aaron Hotchner with nothing but a flimsy robe to prevent his imagination from going rampant—and dirty.

It's eleven in the evening. It's been one month since you last saw him. It's been a month since he barged into your apartment like an entitled brat. It's been a month since you let your emotions take over. It's been a month since the two of you revealed parts of yourselves either of you don't dare think of.

A month and no contact.

You didn't wonder; just hoped and prayed that Aaron finally finds it in him to let go of the emotional turmoil that's torturing the soul out of his body.

Sighing, you step aside and let him in, closing the door behind you like it's normal to stop by one's ex-psychiatrist's apartment in the middle of the night without prior notice and, most importantly, without meter to run the minutes he's inconveniencing you.

Aaron walks in, and the heavy humidity of arousal immediately hits him.

Oh.

Well...

If he had something to say, Aaron kept his mouth shut. He is at fault for driving straight to your place like he's your bestest friend. So, he doesn't mention it, ignoring the fact that you're barely clothed.

Besides, after your last interaction with him, Aaron's certain he didn't have any prerogative in how you'd like to spend your Friday evening.

"Take a seat. I'll be with you in a minute." Your steps are light behind him—feet nimbly grazing the wooden floor.

He turns to face you but quickly averts his gaze to avoid the glistening sight of your thighs. "Thank you..." He does his best to sound normal, choking in between syllables.

Aaron begins to regret his decision. Though, not enough to leave your place.

You disappear in the corner of the hallway. Allowing Aaron to finally release the breath he didn't know he was holding.

With you out of sight, his mind deliberately wanders...

What were you doing?

Aaron shakes his head vigorously like a worm under a storm of salt. The thought is undiscovered—untouched territory, forbidden to be exact. Should he form such thoughts, he'll do it somewhere else or rather about someone else.

Just as he caters to the sudden dizziness caused by his action, a man, half-dressed, walks past him, cursing under his breath and buttoning his shirt. Aaron's eyes widen a little, keeping his stoic face.

Oh, that's what you were doing.

Ick—as Aaron would like to call your visitor—had brown and curly, unruly hair. He was tall and definitely had a face, which, Aaron assumes, is nothing like the one he envisioned you're attracted to.

Somehow not a pleasant discovery compared to what he attempted to imagine—you, alone.

Ick looks at Aaron with a scoff echoing out of his throat, "Oh, what a surprise! She's a slut." He states smugly.

"Or she just wants someone better." The words spill out without hesitation, fired on sight. Aaron doesn't know where the boldness came from as he leans against the seat with a cocky smirk on his face. Definitely no more perplexed than the uncertainty of anger boiling inside of him. He glares at the man either way.

The man scoffs again before leaving with a couple more insults that Aaron thinks he's lucky to whisper, or your visitor would've left your apartment in an ambulance.

Ick slams the door, shaking the vase on the accent chest by the entrance.

Where did that come from?

He's questionably not as big of a hater as he was before, but Aaron can't determine the motivation that made him act the way he just did with a person who has business with you, which he should have no interest in.

Moments later, you come back, fully clothed, in an oversized hoodie and a pair of wide-leg linen pants. Comfy and a 180 contrast on how you dress at work, plus the garments you had on minutes ago.

You make a beeline to your kitchen, "Water or scotch?" You holler out, opening cabinets with a creek on their hinges.

The question is rhetorical. You place a glass with brown liquid glinting under the warm ambient light on the coffee table in front of Aaron, then plop on the armchair across from him, catering your own glass.

He stares between you and the glass while you kiss yours, never breaking your gaze. You hum in delight, making a popping sound with your lips.

Aaron opens his mouth and then closes it, falling into a cycle like a fish underwater. How should he explain himself? How does one explain why they're bothering their ex-psychiatrist past working hours? After making a scene a month ago? He swallows the thick void in his throat.

"Don't talk, just drink. Sit here for an hour. Then, go home." You say, opening up a book that's been sitting on the table since he arrived.

Aaron feels a surge of relief. He reaches for the drink and lets the smoky taste trail down his throat without hesitation. He wouldn't have guessed you as a fan of scotch—or anything not clear or fruity. This is the first he's seen you without some sort of filter he can't read through, and the observation prints you under a new light.

The silence comforts him. The occasional scrape of paper against paper with each flip of a page provides him reassurance. The company he finds within your presence gives him solace.

You let him be. Asked no questions, reading in peace like he was just any other friend who needed company.

He does as you said. Indulging in the hour of tranquility and stillness. His nerves tame. And he forgets why he went to you in the first place.

Why did he go to you?

Of all people. Of all the friends he brags about. The family he cherishes. His feet dragged—drove him to you.

The onerous unit chief chose to wander to your front door, sipping scotch as he enjoyed the silence and absence of others' guilting worry and constant craving to make him feel better when all he wanted was peace and letting the ache pass in gradual acceptance.

By the end of the hour, you call him a cab with the instructions for him to pick up his car the next day.

Aaron slept effortlessly that night.

Saturday, October 24, 9:24 PM

Aaron expected some sort of rejection or for you to slam the door close, or worse, ignore him as soon as you see his face through the peephole.

One can only tolerate a couple of unannounced visits from an insufferable ex-patient, right? He's surprised you haven't called the cops on him.

He skims your face for any sign of irritation or annoyance as soon as you reveal yourself behind your door, standing next to it to give him way. Aaron saw nothing but impatience.

You knit your brows, slightly tilting your head at his frozen build outside the frame of your door. "Well? Are you stuck or something? Get in, Hotchner—" You turn before you can even finish talking, disappearing down the small entryway.

He turns deaf for a moment. Your voice rings in his ears as if a bomb had just popped the only working drum he had left.

Hotchner.

Agent.

Mister—

Just Hotchner.

One simple change, and the light above your head suddenly looks brighter.

Like he's found something good. Something he can say he knows. Something he can trust(?)

"Don't forget to take your shoes off and shut the door!" You holler from the living room—unfazed.

Aaron flinches, snapping out of his trance. He wonders where you'd gone to, furrowing his brows, and yet enters your apartment with the permission you'd given him. He closes the door, pivoting on the soles of his dress shoes as he tentatively takes them off per your instructions.

He emerges back in your peripheral while you stare at the screen on your laptop, blue-filtered glasses back on. Your fingers hammer on the keys, soft sighs slipping past your lips every once in a while.

You glance at Aaron when his figure stays at the corner of your eye, cupping a coffee mug between your hands. "There's fresh coffee if you'd like. Are you hungry? I don't usually eat dinner, so I have nothing ready to eat, but I can whip something up." You blow over the surface of caffeine, and steam wafts on the tip of your nose.

"No—" He shakes his head, scoffing in confusion, "I'm sorry—"

"Apology accepted," You muffle into the mug.

Aaron's brows connect tighter, and his forehead creases. He looks at you like he's under an illusion, a hypnotic dream he can't quite distinguish.

"Hold on," He hoists his hand up as if to pause a scene in the movie. "I'm very confused. What is going on? Why are you being… casual and nice?"

"You say it like I'm incapable of human decency." Your back makes contact with the cushion of your sofa, pulling your legs close to your chest while one hand holds the handle of your mug. You roll your eyes when Aaron only stares at you, "Are you uncomfortable? Do you want to leave?"

Aaron shakes his head.

"Problem solved, then?" Confusion is still fresh on his blank face. You mentally smack your forehead. "There are patients who lack temporal sense, but turning them away when they clearly need immediate tending to would be a form of negligence on my part. So, feel at home." You theatrically stretch your arms, offering every corner of your space as his own.

"But I'm not your patient anymore. I've been back on duty for weeks." Aaron informs. Although he finds a place for his go bag on your floor.

If you didn't know any better, you'd assume he's about to stay for a sleepover—coming to your apartment late at night.

You wrinkle your nose, "Okay?" You look around as if someone else is in the room with you two. "Is that why you went here? You wanted to brag?"

Three months.

Aaron's been back to his usual routine for the past three months. And it's been four since he drank scotch on the very couch you're comfortably in.

A chuckle.

The sound tickles your ears, filling you with unexpected pride.

"No," Aaron shakes his head as the chuckle resonates through his chest. "I… I don't really know why I came here, if I'm being honest." He swallows air.

You nod, setting your laptop back on your lap. "Like I said, you're free to feel at home. Scotch is in the third cupboard. Coffee's in the pot. I've got some stuff to take care of, so help yourself." Your eyes are already fixed on the screen, hands jumping from one key to the other.

With your permission, Aaron ventures into your kitchen. Neat. Clean. Cozy. He somehow imagines you cooking as a hobby.

He settles for coffee. Asking you from the kitchen island if you'd like a refill—which you took without a thought, hoisting your cup up—and taking out a couple of his files to get a head start on his paperwork. He wasn't allowed to bring them outside the bureau's building, but it didn't matter at the moment.

Your apartment becomes a haven.

Aaron, for the first time in years, feels comfortable to slouch. He had no collection of when and how, but turns out he'd changed into a quarter-zip and one of his pajamas tucked in his go bag through the hours.

The two of you silently took care of your own thing until 1 AM strikes, and a yawn pulls you back into the earth.

You turn your head towards the kitchen to find Aaron scribbling over your kitchen island. He's sipping coffee—a fresh batch he made not long ago.

Stretching, you make your way past him. After placing the mug into the sink, you lean against it, crossing your arms as you stare at him. "Ten."

"What's that?" Aaron halts on his seat, lifting his head to look at you.

"I'm granting you ten visits," You announce.

"And that means?.."

Your face deadpans, and he does well at stifling a smile. "You can come here whenever you want—need, but only for ten free visits. It doesn't matter if it's late, too early, or unreasonable. I'm allowing you to knock on my door whenever you need. Any more than that, you have to attend my sessions in my office, where I get paid."

"What's the catch?" Aaron entwines his eyebrows, straightening his back as he props on the edge of the counter.

"No catch. Just one condition," You shift your weight on your other leg, "Don't come empty-handed. Food, drink, things, a person, anything. Bring something." Your brows hang on your forehead, anticipating any type of response.

Aaron weighs his choices. Calculated every possible outcome and benefit. He meets your eyes again. Index and thumb rubbing the growing stubble on his chin.

"Ten's a good number," He says as he nods.

Wednesday, March 2, 7:31 PM

Eleven months pass by in the blink of an eye.

It's the seventh time Aaron showed up without warning, and by this point in whatever acquaintance you two had, you aren't fazed or surprised anymore.

The fourth time he knocked on your door, he was carrying a hefty price of whiskey. An odd reason for a psychiatrist and a former patient to bond with, but you had no qualms about sipping neat whiskey that night.

At first, he stayed for an hour. Then, an hour turned into three. One time, a case hit too deep, and three became seven, but that only happened once—all you remember was a Wednesday night.

"Are you okay?"

Gentle sighs escape shivering lips. Tears pooling deep inside sockets.

One sharp sniff breaks it all.

You sob under Aaron's worried eyes as your grip on the knob almost snaps it off the door.

His brows twists and he reflexively yanks you by the back of your head into his chest, bringing you out of your apartment and into the complex's hallway.

"What happened?" He carefully inquires while he rests his chin atop your head.

You're a mess in his arms. Uncontrollable whimpers muffled in his soaked chest.

Aaron suggested that you two step inside for more privacy and heat, but he didn't complain when you two stayed frozen in the end of winter evening.

When it stops. The suffocating ache. You lightly push yourself off him, wiping the leftover tears off your cheeks—half of it already dampened his shirt.

Fifty-three minutes and seventeen seconds.

You cried to the point of dehydration.

"Sorry," you mutter, eyes down. "We should go inside if we don't want to catch hypothermia." You sniffle.

"Oh, we don't want that," Aaron attempts to joke, closely observing whether you'd react to it.

You didn't.

He closes the door behind him, following your figure as you practically drag yourself to your unofficial designated spot on the sofa.

"I know I'm the last person you'd want to hear this from, but would you like to talk about it?" He bites his inner cheek.

Nothing.

You only mold yourself into a ball.

Aaron hesitates whether to stay or leave you alone. It's true that you said he's welcome anytime, but you're definitely in no condition to entertain his own problems when you can't even look him in the eye the way you would, no matter how insufferable he is.

But he can't just leave you by yourself either. Nothing is stopping him, but he's not cold-blooded enough.

"It's not easy," Aaron fractures out of his trance at the sound of your small voice. You look at him with a tight-lipped smile. "This job, I mean."

You inhale a sharp breath, tucking your lower lip between your teeth. "I can be hopeful, positive, supportive… Everything to prove that a better life is possible, but at the end of the day, it's not my choice." You wryly chuckle. "It's the patient's. It's your decision to want to feel better. To want to change. To want to live—" You choke, and the tears flow once more.

"It's not about me, but I can't help feeling like a failure." Sobs spill off your lips, gasping for air. "I was supposed to make everything better. I was supposed to heal everyone and save everyone from whatever monster was hurting them. She said she's never felt so much better. She said it's the first time she felt so peaceful for years, Hotchner. She said she was looking forward to our next session. But she just… I didn't—" You gulp—struggling. "I didn't catch it. I didn't catch her lie. And hours later, I get a call from her mother telling me she— she died." Your hands shakily clasp your mouth to push the sobs back, but you fail.

Aaron doesn't know what to say.

But he knows what to feel.

He knows it well.

The guilt. The shame of never living up to your own promise. The pain of losing someone you swore to keep safe.

Then, it hits him like a wrecking ball.

How difficult of a patient was he before?

Has he ever made you cry before?

It's a stretch that you'd ever shed a tear over his stubbornness, but Aaron hopes you never did.

Because he's never seen anyone care so much despite getting all the hate. Despite taking all the blame. You stood your ground and became other people's foundation. You became their comfort.

You became the only thing that gave him serenity.

With the little time he's known you—a total of 43 genuine friendly hours—Aaron can testify in heaven that they had mistakenly dropped you into the earth. And he's never felt blessed to have someone like you. Never felt lucky enough to find someone with who he could feel broken as much as he could but never needed to save face.

So, he's heartbroken for you. And guilty that more than half of the time you'd known him, he made your passion a miserable experience.

And also guilty of developing feelings for you.

Saturday, August 13, 4:16 PM

"I'm not playing favorites, but your tech analyst definitely deserves better than being cooped up in the bureau's building." You say, plopping on the sofa with a soft bounce and a squeak from the coil spring.

Aaron hands you a glass of bourbon while sipping his own. Eyes fixated on the board on your coffee table. "I have no other choice. It's the only way to keep her safe. Unless you're willing to adopt her, I don't want to hear it." He chuckles, connecting his brows at the sight of your winning streak.

You two are playing Scrabble. It was Monopoly twenty minutes ago, but along the lines, you learned how butt-hurt a six-foot and two-inch man can get. Not an enlightening experience. It would have been two stars if you had to rate it.

So, you switched to Scrabble.

And Aaron is losing again.

Boy, were you so entertained.

He just came back from a fairly short case from Los Angeles. The case is not heavy or mentally draining—according to Aaron, but Jack's at a two-day sleepover, and Aaron has no idea how to spend the rest of his day—turning down Derek Morgan's and David Rossi's invitation to grab a drink at O'Keefe's with you in mind.

Aaron leans on the back of his seat. You don't know when your reclining armchair became his designated seat, but you noticed how lax he is in it and didn't question it further.

Months and months of relaxing stillness in your home—only ever full of bizarre surprises and irresistible joy whenever Aaron knocks at your door. With no means of communication or ever seeing each other at either workplace, Aaron's visits are welcomed but never fully anticipated. Thrilling.

Spelling the word 'loser' on the board with triple points, you bite the tissue inside your lower lip. "Maybe you can play Scrabble with her. Who knows, maybe you'll get lucky and win." You grin smugly at him.

Aaron gapes at you with a mixture of disbelief and merriment. He looks down on the flat entertainment, then back to you as he blinks. "You're cheating." He declares, pointing an accusatory finger at you.

A hearty laugh Aaron's never heard before roars out of you, and it's melodic to his ears. The meringue light spills through the forgotten open blinds of your window, painting your face with a dreamy filter. Aaron feels dizzy at the sight.

Your smile is contagious, and out of nowhere, his heart starts to pick up as if he'd caught whatever illness your radiant lips had by only staring at it. The loose hair over your forehead frames your face differently—different good. Like you'd been glowing, and the watts in your core mysteriously increased, so you're as bright as the sun and as warm as its light.

"You're just a sore loser. Suck it up, Hotchner." You shake with mirth, casually running dainty fingers along the curve of your ear.

"Aaron," He blurts too fast, too soon—too late to take back.

With a nonchalant shrug, you rephrase, "Suck. It. Up. Aaron." Much more emphasis and friskiness.

You tease him more about his lack of greatness in board games compared to his undeniable talent in every case the BAU encountered. But Aaron's already dazed by your lips calling his name.

Without either of you realizing it, 4 PM became AM.

Talk about abusing one's privileges. Aaron's moderately good at that. You conclude he's simply a strutting opportunist.

After the longest winning streak you've ever had in your life, you and Aaron decided to take a much-needed break and fell into silent reading—or, in your case, grooming your schedule for the next five months.

Midnight strikes along the grumble of Aaron's stomach. You two were too quiet. It echoed all over your apartment. Both of you fell into an obstreperous fit of laughter for another hour, stopping for a minute in between only to laugh some more as soon as you met each other's eyes.

Now, it's four in the morning. You're busy munching on Chinese takeout from a 24-hour restaurant Aaron called in. He claims he has handsome privilege courtesy of the owner, which you mockingly laughed at, to his dismay.

"I'm still terrified." He blurts.

The case must've been very difficult, then. He lied yesterday. However, at this point in your friendship, you expect him to do so, even if it's obvious.

You'd long given up on coaxing Aaron to talk about the case that brought him to your office. Or any other cases that got him knocking on your door at the most unreasonable hour. You thought that the best you could offer him was the comfort that no matter how beaten up he looked, you'd ask no questions and let him sort his boggled mind until he was ready to talk about it.

Looks like tonight's the moment. It only took more than a year, so it is not a big deal—to either of you, at least.

He looks at you when you remain quiet, silently asking for your permission. You nod, and he continues, "What Peter Lewis did to me was terrorizing. I always wonder whether I'm making the right decision or sending my agents straight to their deaths. I second guess. I'm scared that a part of him is still in my head, driving me to make a fatal mistake." Aaron starts playing with his food, poking an orange chicken with his chopsticks.

The memory brings a tangy taste to his tongue, and Aaron can't help but cringe. It's the first time he's ever talked about Peter Lewis. Granted, Aaron spoke about the event numerous times but never about how it made him feel. Never how it broke him.

Is it weird to say you're a little proud of Aaron?

Of course, you don't tell him that. Not out loud. You know he knows you're proud of him. And that's enough said.

With a few audible chews—caused by a carrot bit stuck between your teeth—that somehow doesn't piss Aaron off, you swallow the food and draw your lips into a thin line. You place the chopsticks on the side, wiping the rim of your mouth.

You know he's watching you. Anticipatingly waiting for a response for anything other than the silence he's accustomed to.

"Breathe," You gently instruct, clear enough for him to hear but not too loud for Aaron to jump in shock.

And he does.

His shoulder blades rise and fall into a soft rhythm. Aaron was holding his breath, and you knew. Of course, you knew.

"Do you know the purpose of defense mechanisms?" You quiz him, earning a nod from Aaron, and yet no following answer. "You were already mad at me even before we met. And for what? Nothing concrete, I'm sure."

Aaron was about to object, but you raised your hand to stop him, "I'm not trying to attack you. All I'm saying is that rather than being in denial, you displaced your frustration on someone else less threatening—me."

Silence.

"I'm sorry—"

"I'm not done, shush!" You close your fist to mute him, cutting him off.

Aaron subtly rolls his eyes. He started doing so on his fifth visit when Aaron brought Jack and a few video games.

He told you that Jack's heard about your interest in a couple of games and wanted to play with you, but you know damn well Aaron bought the game for himself. Nonetheless, you entertained them by teaming up with Jack and obliterating Aaron. He vowed never to play against you ever again, at least not to your face.

"I would never know the pain and suffering that you went through. And somehow, even with that fact, a part of your life was in the palm of my hand. You had no control, but I did. So, instead of understanding the why, you hated the wrong who. And it's okay."

You take a sip from your straw, and a bubbly sensation fills you. Your tongue glides over your lips as you lean against the counter. "In short, for a man who's been through a lot, you know how to cope." A shrug ends your sentence, grabbing another bite of chow mein on your plate.

"Yeah, right," Aaron scoffs. The sincerity in your voice sparks something in him. It's giddy and tempting. But he can't possibly show the smile that's itching to spread his lips.

But his nonchalance may have triggered something in you because Aaron doesn't expect your next move. His neck felt like a snapped glow stick after you manually turned his head to face you—grabbing him by the space between his neck and chin. Aaron widens his eyes in the process.

"Listen here, you stubborn poopy head." You start, forehead creasing.

Aaron badly wanted to poke fun at your poor, intimidating skills, but he realized you didn't need any pointers just by the glare in your eyes.

"Peter Lewis got to your head, but that doesn't mean you were weak to let him. Yes, you fought through the influence of the drug heroically. Yes, you saved your agents and, most importantly, yourself. But it's still okay to be scared. It's okay that you feel broken. Who says broken things aren't great?"

It might be the sleep deprivation that's hitting Aaron, but he's very much enjoying your little fuse. How your words meant nothing like how you sound.

"That silver watch of yours—" you glance at his wrist "—has been broken for years, but I bet if you pawn it, it'll be more valuable than me. Antiques are expensive because they have unique histories. They survived beaten up, scratched, damaged, but still as beautiful as ever."

You're rambling, explaining more than you need to. Felt obligated to drill in his mind that despite the bad things, Aaron remains good. You're uncertain—clueless—as to why you felt the need to prove his praiseworthy, almost as if you're trying to convince yourself rather than him.

"From my observation, you're a sharper profiler despite all the things you went through. A part of you suffered and died in that house and many houses before. Of course, you'll be broken. You're a human being, Aaron. Act like one for Pete's sake!"

"I don't know whether you're being nice or mean." He chuckles with a mischievous grin, marveling at the way your eyes narrow as you look at him.

"I liked you better when you didn't talk." You tut, rolling your eyes.

For a moment, your senses heighten, and the simple brush of his hand against the skin over your wrist, as he takes your hold off him, sends billions of electricity throughout your body.

Aaron smiles—genuinely. "Thank you," He says softly, clearing his throat. His hand is still tight around your wrist. "You simply could've slammed the door the first time I knocked, but you always let me in. I appreciate you tolerating me."

You laugh, retracting your hands off his skin before you melt in his grasp. "I did not let you in the first time. You barged in like I'm some fugitive." You fix your posture on the stool beneath you, looking away.

His chuckle wakes the butterflies in your stomach, and you shove them right back down by stuffing your mouth with food.

Your eyes catch a glimpse of the time, "Y-you better go home and change before your son wonders why his father smells like Chinese food for Sunday brunch. Jack's a big fan of good 'ole syrupy pancakes, there's a good one by the bureau's building. Better hurry up and pick him up." It's amazing how much you almost choked and stuttered as you spoke, hoping that Aaron wouldn't question the way your demeanor changed.

Aaron takes one last bite before towering next to you, "Let me clean up. It's the least I can do for imposing half of your weekend." He insists, swiping the styrofoam off your hands.

"Glad you got manners," You nod approvingly, earning another chuckle from him, making sure you gave him enough space to move around without brushing any part of your body, or you wouldn't know what the brewing feeling in your chest would make you do.

You mindlessly peer at Aaron's broad shoulders and dark hair that looks so soft you wonder if it'll melt with your touch. You blink, catching yourself mid-swoon.

After a few minutes, Aaron bids you goodbye and you wish him well, asking to relay a short message to Jack.

"I think you're only nice to me because of Jack," He jokes, pivoting on the heel of his shoes to get one last glimpse of you.

You give him a tight smile, raising your brows as you shrug.

One visit left.

Thursday, May 5, 12:51 PM

The news said Mr. Scratch escaped prison. Peter Lewis is out and about, no doubt, planning serious harm against Aaron. You turn the TV off. The image shrinks into a small diamond spark 'til it leaves a dark screen.

Ninety-eight beats per minute are your normal, but you surmise it's about a hundred and twelve at the moment as your mind anxiously ruminates your not-so-favorite-unofficial patient's well-being.

You glance at your phone, debating whether to give him a call, but even if you gain the guts to do so, you don't have his number. Who knew that refusing personal contacts would backfire? Aaron can knock anytime, you said. It doesn't matter whether he texts or calls before, you said.

Now, you have no means of contacting him, and you refuse to resort to his ways—going through his file like he went through yours.

It's a shitty feeling.

You keep your fingers as far away from your mouth as possible, afraid you'll bite your nails to its quick. If Aaron was with you, he'd say something annoyingly witty about how your anxiety's too easy to read, and you'd be bantering back a remark about his tells that not many notice but sure slightly pisses him off that you know him like the back of your hand.

Eyes dart in the direction of your entryway, waiting for any distinctive sound only Aaron makes whenever he closes the door like a teenager coming home past curfew.

"This is driving me crazy!" You ruffle your own hair, rubbing your face in frustration.

Tempted to wait outside your door for Aaron to arrive, in need of a company. A once-in-a-lifetime bone-crushing hug, given by yours truly. Or open up the 1997 Old Forester bourbon on top of your shelf that Aaron's been eyeing for a year.

You need to know if he's okay. You need to see that he's okay. Physically, mentally, and emotionally okay.

No one ever knocked.

Friday, November 18, 2:33 PM

"Aren't you curious?"

You look at Rossi, "About?" Your eyebrows pinch together. You backtrack the entire session in your mind, trying to remember if there is anything you are supposed to be curious about.

There's none.

Rossi turns to face you, a hand emerging out of his pocket. "You're not curious where he's been? I've known him for years, and I've never been more curious about his whereabouts 'til now." The hand waves around as each syllable flows, and slices the air every emphasis he makes like a conductor of his emotions.

He usually talks with his hand whenever he's emotionally troubled, attempting to make a point to himself, justifying that his feelings are reasonable.

David Rossi has been your patient for years; you can write any and everything about him into a best-selling book.

"You said it yourself, Dave," You shrugged with your arms. "You've known him for years. He and I saw each other a couple of times during our physician-patient interaction. Any interaction we had after is just the two of us drowning in silence."

Aaron never knocked that day.

He hasn't redeemed his last visit for the past five months. While it isn't the longest time he's never stopped by, you're bitter about it.

You couldn't sleep for a week after Peter Lewis escaped prison. You were afraid that Aaron's name would flash across any type of screen or mark a headline on every article and newspaper. You had to take anxiety medication to stop your body from trembling whenever the thought of him crossed your mind.

It was hell.

The utter hopelessness and lack of courage teared you apart. The strangeness. The nonexistence. You don't reckon a conversation with Aaron that involves you and him. Only you or him or whatever depressing topic comes up. You're not even sure if you had actual conversations. Always wallowing in silence while sipping either scotch or coffee.

But you two had a deal. No catch. Not even feelings. Developing one for Aaron did not cross your mind when you granted him the power to bother you at any running time.

All of it is to say you wish you had known Aaron's last visit was, in fact, the last.

Rossi squints, "You're telling me the quietness you shared didn't matter? That his company didn't benefit you the same way it did for him?" He stands tall, pleased with his words.

It did.

Of course, it did.

And you loved every second of it.

Even if you realize it too late.

But you won't say that to Rossi. Or to anyone ever.

A sigh drops your shoulders. You give him a blank stare, letting his question hover for a moment. "What do you want me to say?" You continue packing up your things on your desk, breaking eye contact.

If you knew David Rossi like the back of your hand, David Rossi knew you like every family of the victims he managed to save.

Worried.

Heartbroken.

Hurt.

Aaron never told Rossi about any interactions with you after he was released from your care. It's information Rossi's only ever heard a confirmation from you. But he knew it from the moment Aaron came to work after his first session with you and couldn't seem to get the specific idea of you out of his head.

"We're doing everything we can to catch Peter Lewis. Aaron will be back, I promise."

Pause.

You fight your every single sense to remain composed. Hearing Aaron's name instantly made you crumble. The sound of it hitting your chest with such force you had to bite the tissue behind your closed lip. You badly wanted—needed to cry and throw a tantrum.

The inner ends of your brows lift up as you nod, "Good for you... and for him. I'll see you in two weeks, Dave." You dismiss, walking around your desk to push him out of your office.

"Wait, wait! Just listen!" You retract your hands off his back and let him face you. "He's okay. He and Jack are safe somewhere I, unfortunately, don't know." He tries to meet your gaze—successful. "But! But that's a good thing. Not knowing where he is while in protective custody is good. Safe. I just thought you'd want to know."

You nod, "Certainly a good information, Dave. But not really necessary." Your tongue subtly swipes the bottom of your lips. "Aa—Agent Hotchner was a patient. Anything outside of that is not my business." Liar.

Rossi tucks his mouth into a thin line, nodding. "See you in two weeks, kid."

Tuesday, March 27, 6:12 PM

It's a nice Spring.

Your hair dances like the breeze is music as you trudge back to your apartment against the rush hour sidewalk traffic.

A year and a half.

You moved to a different place since then.

Moved on— from something that never existed, but really, your old complex just ran out of business.

You couldn't possibly move on, even if you wanted to.

"Good evening, Mrs. Willows," You smile at the old lady as she steps on the base of the stairs.

Mrs. Willows was old, close to ninety. And she's the best landlady you've ever met.

She smiles back, "Oh, just in time!" She waddles towards you, scraping the soles of her flats against the creaky floorboards.

"Did you need anything, Mrs—"

The old lady doesn't let you finish when she yanks you back up the stairs. Confusion fills you, but if you are being honest, you're more amazed by her speed. You didn't know it was possible for her to have that much energy.

"There's this handsome boy knocking at your door earlier. So, I let him in."

You dig your feet on one of the steps, halting her. "Mrs. Willows, you let a stranger in my house?" Your brows knit.

She looks at you, "Well, I figured it's one of your patients." She shrugs.

"I wasn't expecting any home visit today." You announce, peeking at the top of the stairs. "And I would've been home if there was…"

You excuse yourself, cautiously walking towards your door. The floor plan is different from your old apartment. But everything still felt the same.

The anxiety of a random stranger going through your place left you rushing to the living room. You don't exactly let any random patient inside your home. It's usually the profilers that seem to have a liking to you that lucked the privilege to visit your home at any given time.

"I'm sorry, but you're gonna have to set an appointment at the clinic—" you abruptly stop, blinking.

Aaron Hotchner.

He's sat on the armchair, only lifting his gaze after he'd closed the book you were reading before you decided to step out to run some errands.

He is wearing a navy blue quarter zip sweater and a white shirt, peeking from under. It's paired with loose-fitting gray casual pants. Like his closet had an upset stomach and threw up all over him.

The bags under his eyes are almost invisible. It used to be a tint of greenish purple. A proof of his late nights and stressful days. He's caught up with sleep for a while now.

His hair, a little longer than you're accustomed to, somehow made him look young and boyish. Probably why Mrs. Willows referred to him as a boy.

It's quite an image. Not one you'd expect to see upon opening your front door, but you mentally admit liking it.

He looks refreshing and well-rested.

"I heard you started your own practice?" He didn't mean to form it as a question, tongue-tied by nervousness. He flashes an awkward, subtle smile, dipping his hands into his pockets.

Your lashes flutter like butterflies gliding through the soft wind of Spring, except you're struggling to go against the breeze, winded by the city pollution.

"H-have you eaten?" You ask, snapping out of your trance as you head to the kitchen. Great. A question for a question. You're as nervous as he is, and you don't feel the need to hide it, though you aren't inclined to admit it.

He chuckles, and it still makes you melt after a year of trying to remember how it sounds, "That's your first question? Not 'What are you doing here?' or 'How did you find me?'" He follows you to the kitchen, it's a lot smaller than the one at your old place but you had a dinner table now, which still feels like an upgrade.

You turn and face him, leaning against the counter, "I'll just charge the entire team on their next visit. But I have a feeling David's the culprit." You blurt, earning raised brows from Aaron. "Oh? They didn't tell you? Your team unofficially designated me as their psychiatrist. I guess they also kept an important information from you." You twist on your feet to focus on the produce you carefully picked in hopes someone would join you for dinner.

But you didn't expect Aaron to be that person.

"Are you mad at me?"

"No!" You almost stumble as you spin back to face him. "I'm in no position to be mad. If a patient doesn't need my services, then I have no say." You lick the lower of your lip, biting it as soon as your tongue glides past. Heat pooling in the back of your eyes.

Aaron steps closer, "I didn't mean to—"

"I told you I'm not mad."

"You're really going to lie to an FBI profiler?"

"Former," You correct him, sniffing as you fight the tears from rolling down your cheeks. Your head's tilted up, almost facing the ceiling. Anger and frustration hammer into your chest.

He rolls his eyes, trying to catch yours. "Former, right." He parrots with a little more sarcasm. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you anything... I needed to make sure Jack's safe." He softly speaks, making sure you understand every syllable.

It's your turn to roll your eyes, blinking and letting a tear fall in the process. "You don't have to apologize for protecting your son. I'm not evil, Hotchner. I'll do the same thing for my family. I'm completely indifferent about your disappearance, and i-it's allergy season. I'm fine." You wipe the tear stain off your face.

"I missed hearing you say my name like it's a foul word." Aaron smiles so brightly you thought you were dead and some divine was just using his image to guide you across.

"Seriously? That's what you took from it?" You shake your head, turning your back to him once more. "I feel bad for Jack now that you're a full-time father."

Aaron laughs, and by definition. "Oh, he's had enough of me." His eyebrows jump on his forehead, drifting his eyes aside as if he's replaying every instance Jack's complained to him.

You laugh, too. A full hearty laugh that seems to source from the casualty between the two of you despite the irritation you felt.

It's still the same. The ease. The effortless flow and connection despite anxious nerves. It felt like talking to an old friend you've known longer than you are alive.

You nibble on your lips, "So? You're off protective custody, or do I have to call you Brad?" You quiz airily, back still facing him to hide any form of amusement that's forming on your facial features.

"Brad?" He scoffs, crossing his arms and knitting his brows. He sounds about offended as if you'd disrespected his entire bloodline.

"Yeah, you look like a Brad to me." You remember a story from the women in the BAU. One that they happily shared one evening at Rossi's before they all begged to be added to your list of patients once you start your private practice.

Aaron lets out another scoff. "No, I'm just Aaron. Aaron to everyone. Aaron to you." He grumbles something under his breath that you don't hear, but a clear indication of his disapproval regarding the name.

You stifle a giggle, "Well, just Aaron. Consider yourself lucky that I got a free slot. I would've been with a patient by now." You state.

"Am I really just a patient to you?" Aaron inquires from behind you. He attentively observes for any subtle movement or expression in your voice. There's a longing look in his eyes that you aren't aware of. A frown drops his lips as he adds, "I at least thought we were friends."

"Mm," You hum a chuckle, "More like my stalker. But sure, we'll go with yours... friends—"

He spins you by the waist, and you're not sure if your initial thought of dreaming is ending anytime soon as your body tenses under his hold.

A small yelp squeaks out of you, hands flying behind you on the counter as if to hold yourself up from your wobbly feet. And you're certain both of you can hear the loud pulse on your carotid.

"Hotchner, what the hell?!" You chastise, pulling back, but to no avail. Caged and pinned by his strength, and you're too baffled to react accordingly.

"I'd like to redeem my tenth visit." Aaron smiles from ear to ear. You never thought it possible for a stern-faced man to ever grin this wide. To ever be this bright and bubbly.

Aaron keeps the two of you that way for a few minutes. His face is a few inches from yours. You can hear him calculating in his head.

Only the busy street outside and one of your neighbor's loud TV fills the silence.

"Your pupils are dilated." Aaron grins mischievously. He further scans your face, the same way he did when he used to be your patient, reading you like it's his job to know every micro-movement and expression you make.

Your eyes widen, "Stop—" Your voice barely comes out, breath hitching halfway through your throat. "—profiling me." The space between you and his body feels suffocatingly good. It's making you dizzy.

"Usually, you're composed, but you can barely look me in the eyes." His hands remain on your hips, and every twitch of it makes you stiff like a statue. "Am I making you nervous?" He quips wittily.

Like a switch, your heart rate steadies, and his image becomes clear.

It's Aaron Hotchner.

Just Aaron, he said.

Warmth surges through your veins. You stare at the grin on his face.

Your head tilts, and you blink excruciatingly slow. "Are you trying to ask me out, Hotchner?" You mirror the trail of his eyes like a map.

Aaron beams like he'd won the lottery. Sending you impulsive thoughts such as kissing the smile off his face.

It's tempting and nauseating.

And if he doesn't stop, you just might.

"Ten."

Your eyebrows merge in confusion, "What?"

"Ten dates," He breathes as he looks you in the eye. "Let me take you out on ten dates. Then you can decide if I'm just one of your many stubborn patients or if I can be more. Let me make it up to you in ten dates. Please." He implores, hopeful, or rather knowing that you'd say yes.

And he'd be right.

All you want at that moment is to say yes.

But teasing him won't hurt, at least not you.

"And what's in it for me?" You try your best not to smile as you taunt him.

Aaron rolls his eyes, but his grin tugs the corner of his lips up. "You get unlimited access to me?"

"Wow, that's... very compelling." And you burst out laughing, folding on your stomach as you lean against his chest. You inhale, "Sorry, I expected better negotiation. Uh, any catch?" You say between chuckles.

He shakes his head, "Just one condition," He's chuckling now, too. Not immune from your contagious giggles. "I spend most of my days with you. Even if it's just sitting in silence. I want it to be with you." He lets go of one of your hips and tucks a strand behind your ear.

The giggles die down a bit, gazing at him with reverie. You nod after a few seconds, squeezing his arms. You lift yourself, tiptoeing, closing the gap.

You leave a quick, soft peck on his lips, smiling as you get back on your feet.

Aaron smiles, and you're as ecstatic as he is.

Another nod fills your chest with utter joy as you breathe in euphoria.

"Ten's a good number."

[hollandsangel]

2:15 am | c. sturniolo

HI yes im alive who’s surprised (me, i am)

self proclaimed mayor of the ‘chris can’t sleep alone’ club (doing gods work, you’re welcome)

summary: chris cant sleep & you’re the perfect remedy

wc: 834

gif by @hotelstares !

you haven’t been asleep very long. maybe twenty minutes or half an hour.

you’re in the midst of a fuzzy dream when your phone starts to vibrate on your dresser next to your bed. the sound is difficult to recognize at first, getting all mixed up with your dream in your mind. eventually it wakes you up, tugging you away from the soft haze you’d been emersed in.

groggily, you reach over for the device, squinting your eyes to try and read the contact. your eyes are bleary, but you’re able to make out your boyfriends name and contact photo after a brief seceond.

“chris?” you wonder through the line upon answering, voice thick with sleep and hardly above a whisper.

“hey ma,” his voice is smooth, like he hasn’t been asleep yet.

“hi…i think i was dreaming about you,” you say as you let your head fall back against the pillow, rubbing gently at your eyes with your other hand.

“yeah?” he says through a deep breath. the smile your confession elicits from him is audible and contagious.

“yeah, either that or i just spent the last four days with you and my brain hasn’t realized we’re apart yet,” you think he must be able to hear your smile as well.

“my brain hasn’t really realized it either,” he mumbles, getting a little bit shy.

you close your eyes, content being soothed by his voice.

“what time is it?” you ask him, even if you could easily look at your phone screen for the answer. opening your eyes feels like too much work.

chris answers of course, without hesitation, “2:15,”

“it’s pretty late, you okay, bub?” you ask him before answering your own question, “can’t sleep?” you know how he gets, always needing someone close by when he drifts off.

you can imagine it’s a bit difficult tonight, considering you spent the last few nights sharing his bed. you’d found it a little harder than normal too, having gotten used to his arms tucked around you, his face pressed against your shoulder blade.

“i miss you,” he mutters and it makes you blush, “and i don’t wanna crawl into bed with matt or nick, i know it won’t help,” he admits, letting out a long breath.

“you wanna come over?”

“would that be okay?” he seems a little bit embarrassed, like he might be inconveniencing you.

“of course, chris,” you open your eyes now, reaching over to turn on your bedside lamp, “i want cuddles now,” you say sheepishly, face still half pressed against your pillow, muffling the words.

“mmk, i’ll get an uber, be there soon,”

“kay, love you,” you sigh, waiting for him to hang up.

“love you too,” he says first, making you smile even if you’ve heard it a thousand times.

in the twenty minutes it takes for chris to show up, you’re drifting in and out of sleep, trying your hardest to keep the lull of exhaustion at bay as you wait, no matter the difficulty.

soon enough, the sound of a key in the lock sends a small jolt of wakefulness through you, and you anticipate the subtle push of the door as he comes through to your bedroom.

“nick or matt’s bed wasn’t good a enough?” you tease, watching him turn a little red as he shuffles into your room.

“i wanted to sleep in your bed,” he mumbles, beanie hanging low and covering his eyebrows, pajama pants hanging lower. he lifts the duvet and crawls in with you, immediately wrapping you in his arms, “nd’ i wanted to sleep with you, not my stinky brothers.”

you laugh, stifling it against the blankets “m glad you’d rather snug with me,”

“you kidding? you’re the best snugger around.”

“i’d say,” you hum, tugging his beanie off and tossing it somewhere on your floor.

he gives you a squeeze before reaching over to turn you so you’re facing him, “thanks for letting me come over,” he mutters, beaming in the low light. he looks so pretty like this, grinning down at you, illuminated by the soft glow of your lamp. he reaches up slightly and brushes your hair from your face.

you have a small moment of realization; he’s admiring you the same way you’re admiring him. you think your heart grows in size, gratitude making it swell up.

“thanks for comin’,” you whisper back, leaning up so your noses touch.

chris closes the gap, giving you a gentle kiss before pulling back and kissing your forehead too.

“night,” he tucks you against him, keeping you close, “i love you,” it’s sweet, how his tone changes. it’s tired now, chalked full of sleep and you can’t help but think it’s because he’s with you now, and that’s what puts him at ease enough to finally relax.

“i love you too,” you whisper into the barely-there space between you, watching as his eyes close and his lashes kiss the tops of his cheeks.

you can’t help yourself, leaning forward just enough to kiss him there too.

.

.

.

.

tags ! @st4rswrld @urfavvev3lyn @mattsturnioloarchive @averysbestyears @its-jennarose @strnilolo @grimholic @tworosesblackthorn @mattscoquette @dazednmatthews @pinkishpearls

[makrustic]

I want to start drawing landscape. Do you have any tips?

Took me a while to answer this (sorry anon)! Drawing landscapes for me are mostly just a matter of doing a few 'art studies' and a bit of imitating life. Here's a brief rundown of my process. I find that I learn best when I see a picture or a reference that really tickles my fancy, like these ones! First image for it's colors, and the second for it's composition.

And then I pull up the dreaded white canvas on start on a rough idea or just start dribbling out the basics: composition, a bit of color, general shapes, etc. If you have a hard time doing general landscapes, don't worry! Imagine breaking it down like this: You layer on some general colors and shapes; don't be afraid to make mistakes, you can always go back to it! Be loose and organic with it at first, we're not striving for detail yet, and just let that brush move freely. And once you got the shapes down, you can go back and forth in the canvas to start detailing. I find that it's best if you really look into how some things are "made". Like for example, how that patch of grass in your reference is made: 'is it layered? does it have some shiny bits in it that I wanna highlight? are the blades of grass sharp enough to individually detail or more clumped up together to just put in a sorta grassy blob?'. Also, don't be afraid to experiment a bit. Try putting some highlights around the edges to make it pop out more, or try putting small changes in the color you're working with; something that's close but still different, so that it compliments each other! Then it's just a matter of going forward with it; see what you like and what you wanna keep and imitate, see what you want to change or maybe just leave out on. Keep on detailing and going until you're happy with it!

This is a really brief rundown and explanation of a process that can be entire unique to each and everyone of us, and takes a bit of time and practice to pull off. But I believe in you! We all start from somewhere, sometime down the line; and that can start right now if you want it to! Goodluck to any artists out there who wanna try out landscapes. It's a fun and comforting process of organic and loose art that breathes in a lot of life in some people, especially me. Twitter | Prints | Ko-Fi | Patreon

[suashii]

— 𝒶𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝓀 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒸𝒶𝓁𝓁 ౨ৎ

boothill x f!reader. 2k wc. ﾉ sfw ﾉ fluff ﾉ non-canon compliant ﾉ farmhand!boothill ﾉ injuries ﾉ pet names ( darlin', sweetheart, doll :3 ) ﾉ mentions of food

so i wrote about horse riding but. . . know very little about horse riding! i did my best to research but there may be some details i got wrong so apologies in advance!

previous part ౨ৎ masterlist ౨ৎ next part

“that’s it, pretty girl, nice and easy.”

the horse beneath you sighs and you do the same, relaxation and contentment in the breath you let go of. it’s been a while since you’ve gone riding, a few years at least, but being sat on a saddle with reins in your hands feels as natural as it used to when you’d ride nearly every day of the summer. you’re lucky that your favorite mare—clover—is still healthy enough to take out.

you gently squeeze your legs into clover’s sides in a silent signal for her to move from a trot to a canter. the sequence of her hoof beats effortlessly switches from the two-beat gait to one of three beats and her pace quickens. the wind against your face is stronger now but you welcome the sensation, a small smile making its way to your face.

as a kid, riding was fun and exciting more than anything else but as you’ve grown into an adult, the activity has become something more cathartic—a release of sorts. your stress slips away when you’re on the saddle, lost in the summery breeze. you don’t allow a second for the thoughts that constantly nag at you to linger. all of your focus is granted to clover and the field ahead, to how you feel here and now and how you wish you could feel like this all the time.

unfortunately for you, nothing lasts forever.

you hear the dog before you see her, barking discernible in the distance. clover must, too, her ears pointing back to listen more closely to the sound approaching from behind. as the barking grows louder, the horse’s neck tenses, and it only takes a second more for her to decide that the noise is worth investigating. you’re in alert mode now, too—no, it’s probably closer to panic mode. it’s been a while since you’ve had to worry about the horse getting spooked and even then you had your grandpa or parents to rely on to make sure nothing got out of hand.

you don’t have time to even think about what the right thing to do in this situation is before clover spots the dog bounding towards the both of you.

“clove—!” you try to calm her down, to let her know that the dog isn’t a threat that she should be scared of, but it’s far too late. before you can comprehend what’s happening, clover is rearing. the motion combined with your loose hold on the reins is enough to send you flying off the horse’s saddle. a scream is ripped from your throat and you squeeze your eyes shut at being in the air, destined to fall.

you hit the ground with an audible thud.

pain courses through your body—your back, your shoulders, your head. everything hurts and hot tears spring to the corners of your eyes but they pool there, refusing to stream down your cheeks. despite all the pain, the growing soreness, you find your mind wandering. where did clover run off to? what was the dog doing out here alone? she rarely leaves the house by herself. someone is yelling, they’re calling your name. is it boothill?

“shit, little lady,” he shakily breathes, “you okay?”

relief washes over you and for a short second, you think that you’ve never been happier to hear the farmhand’s voice. it’s tinged with concern, a characteristic you have yet to see him display—especially for you. it doesn’t stop in his voice either, you can feel it in how he takes a hold of your shoulders, his grip firm but not tight enough to cause you any unnecessary pain.

you take the risk of finally opening your eyes and instead of being met with the sun’s blinding rays, boothill’s face crowds your vision. his eyebrows are pulled together and for once, there’s no smirk or grin playing at his lips. upon seeing that you’re conscious, the tension in boothill’s forehead lessens. “there she is.”

his voice is soft, like if he speaks too loud he’ll break you. though it’s unlike him to be so mindful, you appreciate what you imagine is the temporary change. he opens his mouth to continue but before he can get another word out, the border collie, missy, nudges between the two of you as if she senses something is wrong. boothill shoos her away before turning his attention back to you. “you okay? what happened?”

you think back on the moments that led to this—you laid out on your back in the grass. “missy… i think she scared clover. she threw me off.”

that’s right, you have no idea where she went after being so startled or if she’s okay, at that.

“where is clover?” you dart up into a sitting position, palms against the grass. it’s a bad idea and you face the consequences of it immediately, head throbbing and the dull pain throughout your limbs becoming all the more noticeable. you suck in a sharp breath in response to the discomfort but realize that the pain you’re in doesn’t top your concern for the horse. “is she still around here? i need to go find her.”

“woah, woah, woah, hold your horses.” boothill frowns. he stands up and holds both of his hands out to help you do the same. for once, you don’t think about the underlying meaning of having your hands touch his, you just grab a hold and let him pull you up. you turn your head in every direction you can in search of clover, readying to pick any of them to start walking in. though, you can’t, not with the way boothill is holding your hands hostage. his gray eyes bore into yours. “you aren’t going anywhere but to the hospital.”

“what? no.” you shake your head and try to pull away but boothill doesn’t budge. the longer he holds onto you, the more aware you become of his touch—how warm his hands are and how, even though they’re rough and calloused, his palms are more comforting than you care to admit. “i don’t need a hospital. i’m fine.”

“listen darlin’, people who have just been thrown off horses ain’t known for their good judgment.” he squeezes your hands but then seems to think better of it, loosening his grip but continuing to hold them. he gets his message across though, with the hand squeeze and the almost desperate look in his eyes. you’ve never seen him so uneasy, heard him speak so seriously. his new demeanor has your feet glued to their spot on the ground and your gaze glued to his. “you’re going to the hospital.”

you’re rarely one to jump at the opportunity to agree with boothill but maybe he’s right. you’re running on adrenaline right now and your mind isn’t in the best place—you’re worried about the wrong things. and if the topic is important enough to have boothill practically pleading with you, you should take it just as seriously as he is.

“fine, i’ll go, but you need to find clover before we do.” that came off a little more demanding than you meant it to. you add, “please.”

he clicks his tongue and groans before telling you, “alright, i’ll find your damn horse.”

● ● ●

boothill is a man of his word and tracks down clover, putting her back in the stable before whisking you away to the hospital. the ride there feels like a visit to the doctor itself with the way the farmhand practically interrogates you about your symptoms. he’s concerned but can’t help but laugh when you tell him that he’s exacerbating any head trauma you may have sustained by making you think so hard.

despite your initial resistance to boothill’s insistence on going to the hospital, you’re thankful for his urging. turns out he was right to be worried—you got a concussion.

your helmet helped soften the blow but the physician who explained your diagnosis still recommended a few days off work to rest and recover. it’s not the best news to receive but considering things could have been much worse, you’re grateful to walk away with a relatively minor injury.

and if your doctor had any anxiety about you ignoring his advice, it was misplaced. because boothill has personally made it his responsibility to be sure you get better.

as soon as the two of you arrived back at the house, he steered you into the living room, sat you on the couch, and disappeared into the kitchen with a demand for you to stay put. you’re tempted to argue but your head hurts too much so you cross your arms instead, closing your eyes and resting your head on the couch cushion.

it doesn’t take long for him to return and his hands are full when he does—a glass of water in one, an orange precariously rolling on a plate in the other, and a bottle of pain medication tucked under one of his arms. he sets the drink and pills on the coffee table before plopping down on the couch beside you, the dip in the cushion enough to make you open your eyes.

upon grabbing your attention, boothill jerks his head in that direction. “take a couple of those.”

you sit up and unscrew the bottle, shaking out two of the pills and popping them in your mouth before taking a few sips of the water he grabbed for you. a beat of silence passes before you speak up. “you know, i could have done all this myself.”

“i’m sure you could have,” he tells you with a grin, hands busy peeling the skin from the orange. it’s still all in one piece. impressive, you think, but you aren’t surprised. it seems like boothill is good at everything he does. “just thought you might enjoy having me at your beck and call.”

you frown. what does he think you are? some princess who needs a servant? “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“nothin’, darlin’.” he slides the plate of peeled orange slices across the coffee table so you can eat them when you’re ready. he wipes his hands on his jeans before standing up and stuffing them in his pockets.

the farmhand is on his way to the door when he says, “i’m off, but holler for me if you need anything, sweetheart.” 

you never thought you’d see the day you would stop boothill from leaving.

“wait, before you go…” he stops and turns around, eyebrows slightly raised in silent question, urging you to go on. you had more courage to say what was on your mind when he wasn’t looking at you. though, you know it’s only right to let him know that you appreciate all he’s done for you today. so, you turn your gaze to the floor and let it spill out. “thank you for finding clover. and for taking me to the hospital. and for this.” you gesture to the fruit.

there’s a flash of sincerity that passes over his features before that annoying smile makes its way back to his lips. “so you can say thank you.”

you don’t know what kind of response you were expecting, but you should have seen this coming. it’s like he’s hardwired to tease you, even when you’re being genuine. “you can leave now, boothill.”

“yeah, yeah, i’ll get out of your hair.” in contradiction to his words, he stays put. and you can’t find it in you to be upset that he does because the humor has left his face, replaced by earnestness. “but you’re welcome, doll. it was really no trouble.”

he finally takes his leave and when you hear the door close, you let out a frustrated groan and lay your head back on the cushion. that nasty fall must have done more damage than you thought. why else would your heart be working overtime over a simple change of expression?

you shake your head to get rid of the unwelcome thoughts—thoughts of how generous and caring he actually might be—before you think better of the motion. it hurts your head and makes you wonder how long it’ll take before the pain pills kick in. they’ll probably work better if you have something on your stomach.

your eyes fall to the plate boothill left for you.

orange slices should do.

thank u for giving this a read! reblogs and comments are appreciated -`♡´-

[estrellogy]

Astro Notes Pt. 4

Thank you to everyone who participated in the poll!

- Both water and air signs, especially risings here, are good at mirroring others. But they often evoke different responses. Water signs are often projected on because like water, they reflect directly what energy others are giving out. Water deals more with subconscious emotions and energies that others may not even be aware of themselves. Air signs, on the other hand, mimic and adapt. They are social chameleons who know what’s expected from them. That’s why they are often well-liked.

- Scorpio placements, especially sun and rising, if underdeveloped, can pride themselves on their manipulation skills and how good they are at lying. They are extremely emotionally intelligent, observant, and aware of their environment. These are the keys to be a good manipulator. However, when they mature, they’ll use these natural abilities in much more productive ways. They grow to value truth and integrity above all else because they’ve experienced the other side of it.

- Personal experience: I have Moon in 9th house and traveling is so intertwined with my life. Two out of three siblings on my dad’s side (my dad and his sister) work in the airline industry, so they travel all the time as part of their jobs. My mom is a Sagittarius moon and she loves traveling. She would let me skip school sometimes to travel. It’s so interesting to see how astrology is not only reflected in an individual’s chart but is connected through generations.

- Speaking of 9th house. I have a theory that if you want to improve your social skills and charisma, work with your 9th house energy. People usually focus on their 1st, 7th, and 10th house because they are social/relationship houses. Maybe 3rd house since it focuses directly on communication. But 9th house is the house of higher learning, philosophy, and hope. I think we often connect best with others when we discuss about our own life philosophies, our live experiences and lessons, and our hopes and dreams. 9th house represents such an interesting and expansive part of us that’s often overlooked. I think 9th house is where our human spirit is stored.

When you’re deeply connected to this well of positivity, wouldn’t you naturally become charismatic and interesting and fun? That’s why Sagittarius is such a charming sign. Even though it’s not ruled by the beautiful Venus or glamorous Neptune, it radiates light. Work with your 9th house to unlock your own charm. It is that which attracts people.

- Sun sextile Pluto women have a very subtle way of getting people to do what they want. They don’t try to dominate or force, but they play into their natural strengths. For example, if they notice that people respond well whenever they come across as innocent/childlike, they’ll play more into it. They don’t alter their authentic self but more like, they add spice to it. Sun trine Pluto does this more naturally, sometimes without even realizing. But sextile is much more intentional.

They’re usually quite playful and flirty individuals. They gain power without people noticing. Sometimes, they even give up a little bit of power, become intentionally vulnerable, while gaining the upper hand without the other person knowing. They truly understand power = influence, not control. Fascinating people to observe.

- Taurus will take their time. That’s why they’re master seducers. They don’t make their suitors wait simply to play games. They are genuinely picky and know their worth. Like any earth sign, they know the value of time, especially theirs. So they would rather wait to see if the other person is worth it than jump blindly into it and have their time wasted. It also helps that they are so sensual and tempting, which comes from being deeply connected to their physical senses and body. They radiate feminine power. Venus in 2nd house also applies.

[woso-dreamzzz]

Cookies III

Laura Coombs x Reader

Summary: Laura comes home to something she doesn't like

Meeting you had been the greatest accident of Laura's life.

Something that she mused about all the time when she drove home from practice.

It had been snowing earlier in the day, the whole city covered in a soft, white fleece of snow that had Laura's toes freezing in her football boots all practice.

That snow had turned to hail on the one day of the year that Laura had to walk home from training because her car was getting serviced. Originally, she thought that it was snowing and she'd always enjoyed snow even if it made her toes so cold that it was like they were about to freeze off.

Then the hail hit and she was left without an umbrella and freezing cold toes. The hail got harder and harder and Laura was forced to take refuge in whatever the first shop she came across was to wait it out.

You called it a coincidence. She called it fate.

She'd stumbled into the bakery you owned and fell in love on the spot. You were behind the counter, boxing up the pastries that hadn't sold that day when she came sliding in.

You'd welcomed her in, guided her to the back and turned on the oven for her to prop her cold toes in front of to warm up.

You'd baked her a cake at that moment, a big one that tied her over until the hail was done and she could make it home for dinner.

Although she never exactly made it home for dinner. She took you to a restaurant instead, somewhere halfway between cosy and fancy where you spoke about everything that came to mind and earned her your number in return.

She returned to the bakery almost every day to help you lock up and walk home.

Now, you had nearly four years of marriage under your belt and a dog going through the teenage years.

"Hey, Butterscotch," Laura greeted the dog as she stepped through the door.

She hung up her coat and slipped off her shoes, freezing suddenly when she noticed the amount of shoes lined up next to yours. She wildly looked up at the coat rack where coats she recognised hung up over your own.

The voices coming from the kitchen were also recognisable and she stormed into the room.

Her teammates were scattered around.

Lauren and Esme were both sitting at the table while Sandy and Jill were actually sitting on the table, each of them munching on warm cookies with half-melted chocolate chips inside.

Leila and Laia were stroking Butterscotch (the traitor), who had happily trotted straight up to them and flopped onto her back for belly scratches.

Kerstin, Bunny and Jess were sitting up on the counters while Alex and Kelly were both standing by the mixing bowls, listening closely to your instructions.

"How," Laura said through gritted teeth," Did you all get here before me?!"

"Must've taken a detour," Alex said dismissively," Why, Coombsy, unhappy to see us?"

"I see you all for hours at training," Laura replied, arms crossed over her chest," I don't need to see you at my house. What are you doing here?!"

"Baking," Chloe said," What does it look like?"

Laura grumbled something unintelligible under her breath before swiping a hand over her face. "Obviously. But why? None of you are bakers."

"Chloe had an idea," Kerstin admitted, swiping a finger through the batter and sucking it off with a pop," About selling cookies and cakes and stuff at the games to raise money for charity."

"It's not really special if they're store bought," Chloe carried on," So Alex called the best baker we know and here we are."

"Don't worry, baby," You told your wife, pealing away from supervising the mixing to pull her into a hug," They're all going to be put to work eventually. Maybe you can make some of them help you clear out the backyard shed while everything bakes."

Most of the team go wide eyed.

You'd be complaining about the messy shed for nearly two years now and Laura kept putting off sorting it out until she had help and, with her whole team here, it look like she had all the help she needed.

"Excellent," She said, eyes alight with the idea of getting revenge for the invasion of her house. "Esme, Lauren, there's boxes in the garage. Kerstin, Leila-"

"You can't take Leila," You cut in," I've got her down for making my filling. And you can't have Laia either because she's meant to be making my cupcake frosting."

Laura nodded. "Okay, Jess, then. You guys can get the shovels out. Move it girls. Let's go!"

Alexa and Chloe snickered and Laura whirled on them.

"Don't start laughing now," She said," Because I'm coming back for you two as soon as you're done."

[barcaatthemoon]

can you write an alessia x reader fluffy blurb for 23. "This sounds like an interogation." and 68. "When did you become an expert in this”, please? where reader is a guest on the tooney & russo podcast? thank you!

special guest || alessia russo x reader ||

"alright, now it is time to introduce our guest for today's podcast," vic said as all three girls glanced over towards you. you had been sitting in a chair next to alessia, who had been struggling to keep her eyes off of you. the internet knew that you were friends, but not anything more than that. most of her teammates didn't even know how serious the two of you were getting. to them, you were just a fan at emirates who came to see arsenal play a few times.

"ah yes, we have a very special guest today. some of you may have heard about her team being promoted into the wsl, and we wish her the best of luck. more importantly, you have been dubbed the internet's top expert on fish and chips in london, what do you have to say about that?" ella asked. alessia looked so proud of you when your team's promotion was brought up that you had to look away.

"when did you become an expert in this?" alessia asked with a laugh.

"well, my mum and da' do run manchester's best fish and chips stop," you said. alessia fought a losing battle against rolling her eyes. ella smiled as she watched the two of you, being one of the only people who knew how much alessia loved you. "we aren't here to talk about that though, are we?"

"no, i was just curious," alessia teased. you sat back in your seat and crossed your arms over your chest. ella and vic asked you a lot more questions than you had expected. you had sort of hoped to sit there quietly and occasionally chime in whenever alessia asked you to.

"there are several rumors of other wsl teams looking to sign you. are there any that you've been looking towards?" ella asked. this was the last place you wanted to tell alessia your news, so you were quick to divert.

"this sounds like an interrogation, and if so, i'd like my lawyer present," you told her. ella put her hands up at the pointed glare from alessia. "that's not the sort of thing i'm at liberty to talk about, but if my club wants to sell me, i guess i've just got to see who wants me. i'm not much special really, but i'm flattered."

"mate, i've got it on good authority that barca's been knocking your door since the everton days," ella said. she wasn't wrong, but you had your eyes set on a specific club. they had yet to make an offer, and you really didn't want to have to wear blue just to stay in london with alessia.

"tooney, drop it," alessia warned. that was the last of the transfer talk until the cameras had cut and alessia was the one to bring it up to you instead. "you've heard something, haven't you?"

"arsenal is being stubborn and the club won't accept the offer, so it looks like i'll be in blue," you told her. alessia bled red for arsenal, not unlike her england captain, leah, and you could see her face fall immediately. "i can go somewhere else, but the distance..."

"no, you go where you want to. if chelsea is what you want, then i'll support you. just not where anybody else can see." there was a bit of a jovial tone to alessia's voice, one that you appreciated greatly. signing for chelsea had been beating you up for weeks, but it felt like your only chance to stay with alessia and in the wsl.

[blackthunder137]

Enamored by Envy (Rafe Cameron x reader)

Pairing- Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

Summary- when all you wanted was your boyfriend’s attention and while he had other plans, you decided to take matters into your own hands. 

Warnings- smut, unprotected sex, oral sex (f receiving), nickname-princess (but in a derogatory sense), fingering, jealous!rafe, brat!reader.

Author’s note- i am back and i promise i will provide you with fics as much as possible. enjoy reading <3. also, this fic ends in a cliffhanger.

navigation rafe cameron masterlist

He wasn’t looking at you, and that pissed you off. You wore your favourite red satin silk midi dress which hugged every inch of your body just so Rafe could ogle at you and later fuck your brains out but now, that seemed impossible because here you were sitting on those bar stools with a Martini in your hand and Rafe was sitting across from you making a business deal. You understood that he had work to do and you let him but it was already past an hour and he did not so much as even look in your direction, this only made you grow impatient and annoyed. 

You looked at him, in hopes that at least now he would look back at you but you found no such luck. God, you were growing annoyed and agitated, so you did what you always do best. Make him learn his lesson. You scanned the dance floor which was filled with people who were either too drunk or they were on top of each other, quite literally and dancing like there was no tomorrow. 

So you walked your way to the dance floor and started dancing. For the first few minutes that you were dancing, you kept looking at Rafe to see if he was looking at you. Nada. He didn’t even bat an eye in your direction and as the music grew louder and touched every atom in your body, you forgot about him. Your hip swayed sensually and your hands touched your entire body as you felt every bass and the melody of the music. 

You didn’t even notice the guy behind you who had his hands on your waist and swaying with you. He moved his hands with you, his breath hitting your neck as he lowered his head down to inhale your scent.

Your music-induced haze snapped and you looked over at the counter to see him, jaw clenched and his eyes shooting daggers at the guy you were dancing with.His gaze not leaving yours even for a second as he strode towards you like a panther ready to hunt its prey.

Rafe lowered his head down and whispered in your ear, “Go back to the car, princess.” his breath hit your neck which elicited goosebumps. It happened every damn time. His voice, his touch and his words always made you feel something, like your whole skin was on fire. You hated him for doing these things to you, you hated that he ignored you and he dared to come here and tell you what to do. It was all so messed up. You looked up at him and spat, “Fuck.You.” and left.

You knew he would probably punch the guy that was dancing with you but you couldn’t stay there any longer than necessary and honestly, you couldn’t care less about the guy. You made your way towards the parking lot. If Rafe wanted to come home he can use a fucking cab for himself. 

When you were about to get into the car, a hand caught your wrist and turned you around. Your back slammed into the car as a looming Rafe stood in front of you with his entire body leaning on you. You tried to break free from his hold but that asshole had a steady grip on you. He lowered his face, only inches away from yours and spoke, “And where do you think you’re going?” 

His face was so close that if you moved even a little bit you’d probably kiss him. Your eyes trailed from his face to his lips and back to his eyes. His eyes were already undressing you and it took all your willpower not to give in to his games. “Away from you,” you said through gritted teeth. You somehow broke free from his grasp and managed to open the car door, got inside and drove away. 

All you could see was red, maybe you were overreacting but he needed to be reminded that you are not just anyone and that you are your own person and if anybody wanted you, they had to work for it. 

As you pulled over in your parking lot you saw a silhouette of a person, no, Rafe. How the hell did he reach faster than you? Ignoring that you made your way towards the door, he stood tall and strong and opened the door for you and said, “After you, princess.” 

What was up with him? Why was he saying stuff like this? You had no fucking idea. You entered your hall after which Rafe closed the door behind him. You made your way towards the dining table when his hand gripped your waist and slammed you against the dining table, the wood dug into your hips as you let out a harsh breath. 

“Now what was all the attitude about, princess?” he whispered as his hand held your waist in an almost bruising hold. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” you spat out as you tried pushing him away but he didn’t budge. “You didn’t even look at me! I tried calling your name but you wouldn’t respond. It was as if you were fucking ignoring my whole existence!” 

He brought his head down to your ears, hot breath hitting your ears and spoke through gritted teeth, “If I so much as looked at you, I would’ve lost all my senses and control and fucked you right then and there. You see I had a deal which needed to be looked into but you had other plans of going out there and dancing with that worthless fucker-” he moved your hair from your neck slowly and torturously that you had to close your eyes and bit your lips to tamp down the unwanted thoughts that were building up. He bit your neck hard causing you to cry out as you held his arms on either side. “You know what happens to a bad girl don’t you princess?” he whispered, making you clench your thighs together.

You had gotten to him alright and now you had to face consequences for it which you happily will. He got back up from your neck and looked straight into your eyes when his hand covered your neck pressing it firmly yet surely. “Now, you know what happens to girls like you don’t you, princess.” and with that, he kissed you hard causing you to sink deeper into the dining table wood. His tongue entered your mouth without permission, assaulting you in ways that sent a wave of pleasure right to your core. His hold on your neck tightened as he sunk deeper into your mouth, pressing his hard length right against your already wet cunt. 

A moan escaped from your mouth as he continued to kiss you, messily and eagerly. He broke apart the kiss as your chest heaved from the impact. In one swift movement, he lifts your dress, throwing your panties away and laying you down on the dining table. “Spread your legs, princess,” he croaked, licking his lips as his eyes practically devoured your entire being. 

“No,” you replied, challenging him and pressing your thighs together to avoid him from doing anything to you . He turned his head to the side, the corner of his lips lifting into a half-smile and with one shift of his strong hands your legs were pulled apart. He lowered his head and licked your bare pussy. That single action made you close your eyes and throw your head back. 

He made a grunting sound before he put his thumb on your clit massaging and palming it. Your breaths became quicker and your eyelids started to get heavy. “Eyes on me,” Rafe’s firm voice floated through your haze and made you quickly snap your eyes open and look at him. You would usually put up more of a fight but you were too into the sensation that even if you tried  saying anything it would come out as gibberish. 

His mouth mapped every bit of your inner thigh, marking and branding you his. His mouth then moved onto your clit, sucking and biting it. While he was busy assaulting your clit, two of his fingers thrust, hard, inside your cunt. His fingers worked professionally as if you were a canvas and he were the artist, painting a masterpiece for the world to see. 

He was continually hitting the right spot, again and again. Your hips jerked from the force building in your core just one more stroke, lick and bite and you would come undone. As soon as you were close to the edge, so close, he withdrew his fingers and mouth. You made the most guttural noise known to mankind and glared at him for denying you an orgasm. 

He simply smirked and removed his pants and boxers, freeing his big cock. His pre-cum dripped from his tip and he was hard. You looked at him to find him already looking at you, his dick positioned right in front of your pussy. One hard thrust got you screaming his name. He held you by the throat and brought you closer to him so now your face was closer to his chest. He leaned down, his voice breathless, “Look at us princess, our bodies were made for each other. You are mine to fuck, mine to see and mine to taste. No one gets to touch what’s mine.” As he said the last words, his grip on your throat tightened. His words made your skin heat with lust. You grabbed his hair in your hands and crashed your lips to his. This encouraged him to pick his pace up and he fucked you raw. The only sound that echoed the room was your skin slapping against his. His thumb massaged your clit and his cock hit the right spot that made your eyes roll to the back of your head. 

“Ra-rafe…ah!” you screamed out as you came apart. Your eyes shut taking in the feeling of total bliss. He came right after you with a grunt and you could practically feel his warm cum leaking out and dripping down your thigh. You let out a sigh and laid back down the dining table. You were exhausted from the night's activities and as soon as you were coming down your high Rafe lifted you up and hauled you over his shoulder. You yelped in surprise. 

“Rafe put me the fuck down!” you exclaimed. He took up the stairs and set you down on the bed. His eyes roaming all around your body, from your hair to your legs. You were sure you were a mess with your hair strands falling all over the place and your cheeks flushed. 

His eyes came back to yours and he replied, “I’m not done yet.” His hoarse and commanding voice set a jolt of electricity straight to your core

[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

jorrāeliarzus (beloved) │ Chapter 4: Liberty

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5  (In Progress!)

Synopsis: Daemon guides you on a journey of healing and self-discovery as you learn to raise your children and build a family of your own. You give comfort.

Hello, my little creachers! Welcome back to a new chappie! I was intending for Baby #3 to make its entry this time around, but plot got in the way. Much apologies. Another time jump here that is kept vague, but Reader is on the verge of giving birth, pretty much. Make of that what you will! This one moves away from smut and focuses a little more on the background stuff, which I hope makes a welcome shift. It was time to address this thread, after all! ESSENTIAL REVISION: if you are confused who the minor character in this chap is (you'll see what I mean), go back to ilibītsos (little slut) Chapter 8, 'Deal'.

Thank you to @ewanmitchellcrumbs for betaing this chapter for me!

Triggers: only the general. Incest, age gap, purity culture.

Though your skin is clammy beneath your woollen gown and your heart is pounding, you are at least faring better than Lord Olyvar. The Dornish man, so unused to the chill of waning spring upon the isle, is audibly shivering, his golden chain rattling with the shaking of his body. The sound forms a sort of harmony with the sharp thump of wooden swords.

“Hm. Your prince lacks skill,” he says. The words ought to carry with it a degree of disdain, you assume, if it were not for his vain attempt to stifle his reaction to the weather. “Though he is determined.”

You eye the scene below. In the courtyard, Jace is occupied running through drills under Ser Harwin’s tutelage. Even from here, you can see the look of concentration on his face. He knows he is being watched, and that he must do his best to perform this morning. The boy he is up against—the son of the master at arms, and rather solid for one so young—swings his makeshift weapon down hard, and Jace ducks and spins away, out of reach.

“I am but a woman, my lord,” you say dryly, “and perhaps my understanding is as lacking as my nephew is by your estimation—but I am not aware of a man alive nor dead who had mastered the blade in only thirteen summers.”

Lord Olyvar chuckles. “I do not intend to pay insult, Your Highness. Only to observe.”

You sigh. Conversing with this man is a battle in and of itself. If only Prince Qoren had sent Lord Uller instead. Intemperate as he may be, there would be much less of this feigned civility. You have little patience for it in your present state.

Jace strikes a blow on the other lad’s shin, causing him to cry out. A rumble of approval can be heard from Ser Harwin as he circles the warring pair, keenly watching his teachings being put to use. You hum approvingly.

“He is match for any his age.” Glancing toward your companion, you cannot help but add, “And it is my observation that kings are not known for their prowess on the battlefield. They are known for their rule. That is what Dorne is negotiating this union for, is it not?”

Lord Olyvar holds his spread hands up, amusement twisting his thin lips.

“Peace, Your Highness,” he insists. “I am ill-equipped to clash with an opponent as formidable as you have become.”

“I hardly need pandering to, even if it is appreciated.”

You wince as the child in your belly delivers a firm kick upward, temporarily robbing you of breath. He or she squirms within you, pangs of discomfort radiating as their head settles low. Patting them through your skin is the only thing that quietens them down when they are like this, and so you set up a soothing rhythm along the expanse of your middle. Agreeable as the babe is, it is not long before they will greet the earth, and room is sorely lacking.

You pointedly ignore the lord’s stare, gesturing casually to the focus of this outing. “Are you satisfied with your findings thus far?”

“I should like to speak to the boy,” Olyvar says, turning away. It is not the first time he has needed to pretend he had not been looking at your belly. “My niece is most interested to hear of her betrothed’s disposition. And of her future goodmother and… goodfather.”

The latter part of his statement arouses your suspicion. When you follow his line of sight, it is easy enough to understand his meaning—he no longer peers down at Jace, but instead at Ser Harwin, another sly smirk playing upon his face.

Your response is sharp.

“The Princess of Dragonstone and her consort, Ser Laenor”—you take care to emphasise his name just as much as is necessary, for it would not do to let him think this is a point of weakness—“are indisposed. But I am sure you will have occasion to meet my nephew properly later.”

“Ah.”

Sufficiently rebuked, his expression flattens to neutrality once more. You release the stone parapet and step back, wordlessly signalling your intent to depart. There is no need to await his notice, for he moves beside you almost instantly, a half-step behind so that you may lead him. Further back come the heavy footsteps of Ser Lorent, ever vigilant but hardly obtrusive as he tails you both through the halls of your home.

You walk in silence, mostly to preserve your own strength. Your back aches with the weight of the child, but this meeting had been a necessary one—and with the state of things as they are, you had been the only one able to deliver upon it.

“Perhaps I will encounter them later, also,” Lord Olyvar says, somewhat abrupt. You search your mind, trying to recall the context of such a comment. Your confusion must show, for he clarifies. “My esteemed hosts.”

Rhaenyra and Laenor.

You tip your chin. “Perhaps.”

A lie. The likelihood of seeing the pair in the same room together is doubtful, not since the almighty row that had reached its boiling point during supper the other night. You have never seen either quite so wroth with one another.

“… and you must be sure to show off all your exemplary qualities when he arrives,” Rhaenyra says firmly.

Jace nods, trying and failing to conceal the apprehension from his eyes. “Yes, Mother.”

It is mayhaps not the best occasion for your sister to prepare her son for the Dornish party’s upcoming visit. Neither is it the worst, you suppose. With Baela and Luke engaged in spirited conversation at the other end of the table, and with Rhaena and Daeron listening intently, there is enough diversion that the other children are not paying attention.

How startling, you think, then. Jace no longer is a child, is he? He is near full-grown.

Your nephew is earnest and thoughtful, ‘tis true, but his recalcitrance this evening is uncharacteristic. Previous delegations had been of minor consequence, mere messengers dispatched to discuss the finer points of the contract initiated moons ago. This time, they come for one purpose and one purpose alone: to decide once and for all if he will make a suitable husband for their beloved Princess. Now that she has flowered by all reports, preparations must begin, and they will only do so if Jace is deemed worthy. No wonder he is afraid.

“Do not let your thoughts trouble you, Jacaerys.” Your uncle’s voice is resolute, warm and reassuring. He does not smile, but there is a confidence in his regard that even you feel heartened by. “Jordayne is cunning, but he wants his niece to be your queen. You have as much right to take your measure of him as he does of you.”

“Yes, nuncle,” is Jace’s reply. He takes a deep breath, placing his cutlery down. The pallor of his cheeks and the compulsive manner in which he swallows is telling.

From beside Laenor, Harwin grunts. “You’ll do well, lad. You’re a… fine young man.”

It seems all the adults have taken it upon themselves to impart some kindness to your nephew. You have no wish to exclude yourself from proceedings.

“Just be yourself,” you say gently. “That is enough to make any one of us proud.”

Jace’s answering smile is wan, and you note the reflexive clench and release of his fist as it rests on the table. Words cannot ease the tension, no matter how much anyone present might wish it.

Rhaenyra lifts her cup to sip her wine. When she places it back down, her lips are red. “Laenor?”

The man in the seat next her does not acknowledge the utterance of his name, staring steadfastly at his empty plate, his eyes glazed over. If not for the fact his own cup has been left untouched, you might presume he is drunk.

“Do you have any words of wisdom for your son?” your sister asks, an edge to her tone.

She does not look at him. Not once. You have noticed the mutual refusal of husband and wife to take so much as a single glimpse of one another, but prudence has stayed your tongue thus far. It has been like this all evening.

Laenor scoffs, a subtle sound.

“Of course.” Then, he schools his expression, turning to Jace with a familiarly encouraging disposition. “You are the captain of your own ship. Do not let anyone else take the wheel.”

You frown, perplexed. From across the table, you can see Rhaenyra twist her rings over and over again. Her posture is stiff, shoulders back in a pantomime of courtesy. Still, she does not turn to him.

“Unless the captain’s judgement has lapsed,” she says, “in which case it is wise to stand aside and let another steer.”

Unease roils within you. Something tells you this is not a conversation that ought to take place here and now. “I don’t think—”

“And who decides if the captain’s judgement has lapsed?” Laenor asks. “One might call that mutiny.”

Civility has been near wholly cast away, it would seem. There is no mistaking his indignation. Before you can even attempt to discern the meaning of this strange double-speak, your sister fires back.

“Mutiny? Is it not mutiny for a captain to abandon his crew before the journey has ende—”

“It is not up to you to decide my doings, Rhaenyra!”

You still have no idea what is going on. Neither do the other occupants of the table, all of whom have fallen silent. Rhaena and Baela vacillate between watching the calamity taking place and glancing at each other; Luke openly ogles, an expression of great alarm on his face; Daeron has shrunk himself to nothing in his seat. Harwin and Jace appear to be pretending to find some minute detail on the wall interesting. The only person with no reaction of note is Daemon, who seems quite content in nursing the contents of his own cup, brow raised and mouth curled in wry entertainment.

Whatever is the matter, you know it is serious enough that it warrants considerable hostility from your goodbrother. Finally, he has given up all pretence, staring incredulously at his wife. But Rhaenyra is not one to yield.

“Who else will temper your folly if not me?” she demands.

“Oh! It is folly now to come to another’s aid, is it?”

“When it means deserting your family, then yes!”

“He is my family, too!”

“Do you not think I wish to be in King’s Landing right now? But I have duties here, I understand that there are sacrifices to be—”

“You may believe it acceptable to forsake your father,” he snarls, “but I will not forsake mine!”

With a rattle and a screech, Laenor all but shoves himself from his chair, rising so quickly it is almost as though he bypassed action entirely. He seems to freeze as he takes in the occupants of the room—the children, wide-eyed and silent; the servants shrinking into the walls; the remaining occupants of the table, avoiding eye contact as best they can—and then, without a word, nudges the seat out of the way and storms off, the door banging behind him.

Rhaenyra had followed swiftly, their shouts loud enough to be heard even from an entirely new floor of the Keep. It had been up to those remaining to shepherd the children to bed, for no evening well-wishes would come from the Princess of Dragonstone or her husband that night. And, ever since, there had always been one or the other absent from convivial gatherings.

Thoughts of this—the fight, your sister, how angry she had been—fuel you to seek her out once you have delivered your farewells to the visiting lord. He returns to his chambers and the company of his retinue while you take the familiar path to the nursery, where Rhaenyra has been spending her spare time as of late.

The room is filled with sunlight. Dust whorls like dragons in flight, spiralling down to blanket Corwyn and Joff’s heads as they bend together over their model of the Keep. There is something synchronous about their interactions, reminding you starkly that, despite appearances, they share a father. They move in harmony, waving about wooden figurines in facsimile of whatever battle they have conjured up.

Your sister murmurs to them, laughing at whatever it is that Corwyn replies with, though her smile is weak. It is not often that she looks so disconsolate, so beaten. A part of you wishes to scold Laenor, to defend her, but you know he too is unhappy with the present state of things. He too has cause for melancholy.

She is startled when she notices you.

“Sister!” she exclaims, standing. “You ought to be resting!”

“I have too much to do,” you say, grumbling good-naturedly as she ushers you to the lone settee beside the rug on which the boys play. You grunt as you adjust yourself, obligingly accepting Rhaenyra’s fussing over the pillows supporting your neck and shoulders. “And if I lay about for too long, this babe sits on my bladder.”

“I remember that all too well.” Her hand touches her middle, quickly and away, memories held in the cradle of her palm.

Motioning vaguely toward her, you say, “Soon it shall be recollection no longer, but reality. How are you feeling?”

“Whomever this is to be”—once more her fingers glide to her belly, and she looks down at herself—“they are far less agreeable than their brothers were. I spent much of my morning bent over a basin.” The words themselves are remonstrative, but the tenor soft, pleased. Her ease in hardship is enviable. “And then I was positively ravenous.”

You grin. ���A girl this time?”

“Possibly. Visenya or…” She hesitates. “Or Viserys.”

Papa.

No.

You do not think of him. You cannot think of him.

Instead, you test the flavour of the name upon your tongue, the name of the child-to-be and not the man lost to you. “Viserys Velaryon.”

“It has a ring to it, does it not?” she asks.

“Hm.”

Truthfully, it sounds a little bizarre to you. Then again, her youngest son is named Joffrey. Perhaps she simply wishes to return to tradition with a tried-and-true Valyrian name. There is battle enough in persuading the lords of the Realm that her boys are her husband’s ilk. Bestowing another common moniker may be tantamount to a declaration in the wake of that night on Driftmark.

Speaking of Velaryons… Days have passed, and you are no closer to learning of Corlys’s affairs in the Stepstones.

For moons after Laena’s passing, there had been no word from the Lord of the Tides. Communiques to and from the Velaryon seat were either ignored or would bear the seal and signature of Rhaenys in his stead. He would brood, silent and sorrowful, whenever his lady wife deigned to force him from his desk in his chambers and away to Dragonstone to see his grandchildren. Baela and Rhaena had always seemed to pain him, for he would turn away at the merest sight of them. He bore the loss of his daughter hard, and none could blame him for his behaviour. Then, abruptly—or so you have heard, for your association with Laenor’s father has thus far been mostly limited to tourneys or feasts—those days at his chair were revealed not to have been mere musings over quill and parchment but active plans to set out to sea once more, to recapture the territory your uncle had been victorious over many years ago, the same territory that had not long stood free before the forces opposing the Seven Kingdoms had regained control of it. Rhaenys had barely been afforded the opportunity to row with him before he had taken the fleet entire and sailed off, away, gone.

And that is how it had been for close to a year, the occasional letter tracking the progress of his war efforts with nary a sign of triumph nor defeat. At least, until recently. Until word had come to High Tide—to Rhaenys, and by extension her son, your goodbrother—that the tide has turned against the Sea Snake.

You see no reason to vacillate. Turning properly to your sister and loading your words with weight, you ask, “How bad is it?”

For a second, she appears not to have heard you. She watches Joff and Corwyn, unblinking, expression carefully neutral, the pads of her fingers twisting at her rings again and again. Then, she opens her mouth, prepared to speak.

 Interruption comes in the form of her son, who stands and presses the wooden figure in his hand into her grasp as his free fist winds tightly into the skirts over her knee.

“Tyrakee,” he says with all the seriousness a child of near three years can muster. The pronunciation is unfamiliar, wrong. Whatever he means by it, you know not.

“Yes, my love,” his mother coos, moving the miniature dragon about in the air as though it is flying. He stares, transfixed, deep brown eyes gleaming. “It looks just like Tyraxes, doesn’t it?”

Of course—it is the very same shade of red as his mount. At her words, your little nephew nods enthusiastically, inciting a chuckle from Rhaenyra. She hands the toy back.

“We shall go see him later. How about that?” she asks.

“Fost!” Corwyn shouts from the floor, smacking his own carved dragon into the topmost tower of the replica fortress before him. It collides with a sharp thwack, emphasised by his imitation of a roar. There is such glee in it that you cannot help but be roused to jollity, yourself. “Fost, too!”

“Yes, sweet boy. Skyfrost, too. We will go see them both.”

“Yeah!”

With what can only be described as a mad cackle, little Joff patters away with unexpected speed, and Corwyn hoists himself up to follow. The nursemaid rises, pursuing her charges with a pleading entreaty to slow down, to stop, to return. Lost in their shared fantasy of some great quest, neither child heeds her demands, instead leading her on a merry gallivant throughout the room as they split off in separate directions. If it were not for the great encumbrance of your babe nestled in your womb, you may well be tempted to assist in herding them back to some semblance of quiet.

“The situation is… grave.”

You snap back to attention. Your sister’s gaze remains fixated upon a point past you, her lips curled into a slight scowl. She looks tired—if not in appearance, in disposition.

“The Triarchy’s forces have withstood siege for longer than Corlys anticipated,” she continues quietly, mindful of the small eavesdroppers in the room. “Munitions are low. Rations, even poorer. If he flees, the enemy’s fleet will pursue him, and he is more like to perish than not. Neither can he remain without aid.”

Your heart sinks. She is apt at downplaying things. The situation must truly be grave.

“What will you do?” you ask. “Will you let Laenor go?”

She shakes her head, sighing. “His sons need him. I need him.”

It is not a ‘no’. Indeed, it is true that she has always relied on him far more than he had ever relied on her. Their marriage had brought Rhaenyra security in her tenuous position as heir and solidified the support of one of the most powerful Houses in the Realm. Their arrangement had ensured she could produce sons that would be recognised as legitimate, their true parentage irrelevant in the face of her husband’s assertion that they were his by blood. Their friendship had provided her with a steadfast ally through the summers of rising tension between the factions at court, a source of succour when she had thought all the world against her. Even you. In contrast—what gain is brought to Laenor’s feet? Without her, he would still inherit his father’s titles. He would remain prominent and powerful by virtue of his Valyrian ancestry, his own Targaryen claim. He would arguably be freer to act according to his whims, uncaring of plots and schemes that seek to destroy his influence and destabilise his proximity to the Iron Throne.

You have long considered your goodbrother to be an exemplary sort of man, an invaluable source of humour and conviviality and affection. Of family. But his loyalty has not yet been paid for, not in a way that truly counts. Perhaps it is time he receives what he is owed.

“He wants me to give him leave to fly off to battle. How can I?” she whispers, more to herself than to you. “But how can I not?”

You wish you could reach out and take her hand, but doing so would rob you of more effort than you possess. She sounds afraid, more afraid than you recall her being in a long time. It is different than any other occasion in which she has rightfully found distress, for even the most fraught moments had seen her carry on with admirable fortitude in the face of danger. She has always been a warrior in spirit and in deed, rising to every challenge with her head held high. But this? She shrinks upon herself like a beaten youth, or a hare trapped and waiting for the wolf’s jaw to close over its neck. It is as though the walls are closing in on her and she is helpless to stop it happening.

“Laenor has lost a great deal,” you tell her gently, thinking of Lonmouth and Laena. Even his liberty.“He is not ready to lose his father. Not yet.”

Her chin bobs absently, a far-off look in her eyes. “I worry.”

Such a simple turn of phrase, though her meaning is not lost on you. She worries for herself and her status should she birth a child he is not present to once again claim as his own. She worries for her sons, absent of the man they call their father, no matter the truth. She worries for Rhaena and Baela to be without their beloved uncle, the last truly tangible link to their mother left to them. And, mayhaps greatest of all, she worries for Laenor himself, someone who has become her dearest and closest companion. A soulmate, of sorts.

“We all will,” is what you finally say, just barely audible over the squeals of the boys in the background. “But we cannot despair what has not come to pass.”

Not yet, anyway, you cannot help but think.

When you return from the privy, you find quite a sight to take in.

Aelys has pulled herself up to stand using the cabinet beside the bed and rifles greedily through the plate upon which her father’s rings lay. You note dourly that Valnissar appears poised to assist, his body extended from where he sits on Daemon’s pillow and his neck craned to inspect their shared prize. Naturally. Where one falls into mischief, the other is sure to be following. Meanwhile, Rhaenar is crawling about the room in naught but his underthings, laughing hysterically as his father trips up after him while attempting to pry Azorion off his leg.

“Fucking thing,” Daemon mutters to himself, hissing in pain as he is nipped on his prying fingers. He bops the creature on the head with a snap of, “Rȳbās!” Obey!

“What—what is going on?” you ask, torn between amusement and bewilderment. You think he might have better luck commanding his son, who sits and waits eagerly for the chase to resume. “Where’s Freda?”

In a thoroughly vexed tone, he says, “She fed the twins pudding. It’s all over them, so she’s gone to get fresh clothing. I undressed him and tried to put him in the cradle”—he makes a noise of triumph as he finally extricates the dragon from his skin, holding it aloft by the base of its tail—“but this little shit sabotaged me.”

Azorion screeches and bares his teeth when he is released back to the floor, skittering across the stone to return to his future rider’s side. You find it exceedingly difficult to fear him, however much he wishes for it.

“Ah.” Nodding, you bite your lip and glance back to Aelys. She is utterly absorbed in the sound of rattling metal that comes from each flex of her pudgy fingers. “You… do know what your daughter is doing, yes?”

“In a moment. I’ll deal with these two”—he stares down at the pair immediately before him—“first.”

Unfortunately for your boy, he has allowed himself to be distracted by your arrival, mumbling “mama mama-ma-ma” while flexing his fists towards you in a plea to be lifted into your embrace. You wish you could give him what he wants, but your belly prevents you from such things now—and you do not wish for another occurrence in which your elder two spar with your youngest through the layers of skin that separate them. You wince at the memory of it, of the bruises that had blossomed afterward.

Rhaenar does not see it coming when Daemon snatches him up, growling and pretending to bite at his cheeks. His father’s mock-menacing voice chides him through his squeals, saying, “Kōz taoba iksā.” You are a wicked boy.

That familiar ache in your chest grows stronger as you watch the display, so wholly untethered from the notions of propriety and distance you had been raised with. Here is a father and son who love one another, who know one another. You never truly could say the same of your own.

“Mama?” Aelys grabs your attention, face alight with inquisitiveness.

“Issa, dōnītsos?” Yes, sweetling? you ask her, twisting inside as you look upon her dear little features, innocent and pure.

She does not make further attempts to babble or elucidate, simply stares and continues to clutch at items that do not belong to her. You clear your throat, staring pointedly at her and her mischievous companion.

“Bonyz renigon avy sytilības?” Should you be touching those?

She does not understand you, but that is not the point. Your unsmiling expression and the deepening of your voice are enough to ensure that she glances uncertainly between you and her hand, almost as if pondering upon what the best course of action is.

“Daor,” you emphasise. No.

Her hand withdraws, demeanour decidedly put out from being scolded. Valnissar chitters, neck craning even closer until you click your tongue warningly. No doubt he had been intending to steal something for himself, the naughty beast. Having lost his chance, he slinks from the mattress to the floor in a tangle of limbs and wings, bowling full-bodied to knock against Aelys’s legs. She giggles when he growls, untwisting himself and shaking himself out like a waterlogged cat. With a soft thunk, she plops onto her bottom beside him, gumming at the scales on his head as he twines himself around her.

“And you—”

Daemon’s solid frame enters your line of vision as he strides forth to hoist her off the ground, tickling her belly to make her squirm. “Ñuhor līr renigon daor, turgītsos,” he says, a poorly concealed quirk to his lips. Don’t touch what is mine, little worm.

It is straightforward enough for him to divest her of her soiled dress. He casts the offending item upon the table carelessly on his path, placing her down beside her brother and nudging Azorion out of the way to make extra room. Not one to be left out so easily, Aelys’s dragon scales up your uncle’s leg and into the cradle in a flurry of movement, heedless of the pained grunts it elicits from the individual he had climbed. Azorion screeches as Valnissar lands on him, wings flapping in his outrage. Before the creature can scrabble over the side and away from all those expertly entrapped within their wooden enclosure, Daemon pushes him back in.

“Ah-ah. Umbās.” Stay, he commands, lowering a finger to Aelys so that she might take hold of it. With his free hand, he taps Rhaenar’s nose. “You two are fortunate that I’m your father—otherwise, I would throw your lizards off the balcony.”

You roll your eyes. Nudging one of the chairs into place with your hip, you pick up your daughter’s discarded outfit and drop it into the nearby basket for the maids to take care of later. “No, you would not. Dragons are sacred, and there are far too few of them for you to risk such a thing.”

Almost instantly, your twins have quietened down, and with them their winged beasts. You would not be surprised to venture over and find them yawning and tilting to the side, starting to ready themselves for an afternoon nap.

Meanwhile, Daemon ambles over to you, a weary smirk on his face. “Yes, yes—but the little fuckers need to think I’m a threat, do they not? How else will they learn?”

“You are incorrigible,” you say with a shake of your head, nudging him playfully when you feel a wandering touch ghost along your rear. “Our children will have the very worst manners, and it will be all your fault.”

He levels you with a hooded stare, the curve of his mouth relaxing. “You flatter me, niece.”

A warm palm settles on your middle, and he glances down to follow the path of tiny ripples along firm flesh. The babe has awoken at the sound of their father’s voice, it would seem.

Impossibly softly, he asks, “How are you both?”

You try to conceal your wince at a particularly hard kick from within your womb. “This one seems to have developed a particular fondness for playing about with my insides. I cannot go an hour without needing to make water.”

His nostrils flare, lips twitching. “Not long now,” he says.

“Hm.”

You study him, abruptly noticing streaks of filth accumulated in the lines on his forehead, ash darkening his hair and mouth. Come to think of it, there is dirt all over him—spattered on his jerkin, blackening his nail beds, smearing on your gown.

“Why… why are you so filthy?” you ask, frowning. “What in the heavens have you been doing?”

He grins widely, demeanour shifting to one of almost childish excitement. ‘Tis animation you have not seen in him in an age, if ever. He does not even have the wherewithal to look apologetic for the mess he has no doubt trekked in.

“I’ve brought you something,” he tells you. “Come.”

No question, no prompting—he takes you by the hip and by the arm and steers you to the hearth, and you find yourself reliving a scene from moons ago. But this time, you are the one to be led to the brazier in which a dragon egg is kept safe and warm, awaiting the arrival of its intended Targaryen.

Beside you, Daemon looks unbearably proud of himself. “Syrax has laid a fresh clutch. All good, by the looks of them… though this one caught my eye.”

It is not difficult to see why. Though the scaled pattern is always iridescent in some fashion, the colouration of each egg is usually distinct and uniform. Red, blue, green, yellow, purple, white, black. This egg does not seem to know which hue to choose. In fact, it appears to fluctuate so much so that you could not possibly tell what underlying colour it is meant to be. Perhaps it is all the colours of the rainbow, or maybe none of them.

Even so, its mere presence is confusing—not that he has deigned to select one for your child, but that he has gone to such effort unnecessarily.

“The hatchery already has eggs to choose from, though,” you murmur, fingers itching to reach forth and trace the shimmer flickering upon the hard shell. You refrain. Your uncle likely would not appreciate any reminder of that unnatural trait of yours. “And the Keepers usually retrieve them from the nests.”

A noncommittal sound reverberates through his chest. It seems a little too casual. “There’s nothing wrong with a little adventure.”

There it is.

You had been waiting for a sign, an inkling. Something to suggest that all the talk of battle and glory about the Keep as of late might have left its mark upon his thoughts. Might have started to settle in the back of his mind like rust, tainting the fulfilment has found with the allure of bloodshed, of power—of freedom.

Growing up, you remember hearing that your uncle was a creature of violence, a monster, a rabid dog frothing at the mouth for the chance to revel in carnage and slaughter. Though knowing him as you know him now has dispelled many of the tall tales told at court, it does not fully exculpate you from the lingering notion that, for all his many qualities that you admire and cherish, he is not exactly made for peace.

He loves you, yes. He loves your children, yes. He loves the life he has built, yes. But is all this enough for him? And will it be enough for him forever? These are questions that trouble you fleetingly from time to time.

At this moment, however, Daemon does not allow you to linger upon such things.

“Do you like it?” he asks, full of restrained eagerness.

You do what you do best and imagine your worries as trinkets you can lock away in a chest, out of view, to be confined in the dark until you forget they exist—or until they fight so fiercely that they are released in an explosion of uncontrolled emotion. On the surface, you smile to hide your discomfort, praying that he does not notice the beads of sweat collecting on your temples or the frenetic pace of your pulse racing to an unknown finish.

“Of course I do,” you say, because you really do, even if any gladness is secretly marred by what he cannot see. Taking a silent breath to steady yourself, you turn away from the brazier, from the egg, from the reminder that it serves as.

“Now”—your brow arches as you look upon your husband critically—“go take a bath. I cannot believe you touched my children with those hands.”

He snorts. “I suppose I won’t convince you to let me touch you, then? Alas.”

You know exactly what he means by that, and it has little to do with tickling or innocence of any kind. Thank the gods that the room is silent, which means the babes are asleep. One day, they are sure to overhear something thoroughly untoward.

Pointing toward the door, you level him with your best attempt at a command. “Go!” you exclaim.

He heads to the door to call for a servant who will help him do your bidding, chucking all the while. The ash from his lips is bitter on your tongue.

Days later, you find yourself in the Great Hall, doing your best to stand tall and unaffected as the Dornish delegation makes their official farewells. In truth, you wish you had pleaded illness so that you would not need to stand so long. This child within you is pressing so heavily upon the mouth to your womb that you are concerned they will birth themselves onto this very floor. Sharp twinges spread throughout your lower body, and you just barely master the temptation to reach beneath your belly and lift to seek some relief from the pressure forcing down and down. It is most difficult to pay attention to proceedings, though you are by no means the only one paying little heed to the careful conversation taking place between Olyvar and Rhaenyra, and Jace by extension.

Daemon shifts on the balls of his feet, angling his head to the side so that you may see his mouth as it shapes his words. His eyes wander aimlessly, but you know his primary focus has been you.

“Yne gūrogon dēmavos jaelā?” he whispers, gaze meeting yours fleetingly. Do you want me to get you a chair?

You shake your head minutely. Even now, you cannot afford to look weak. The alliance that has been built is still tenuous at best, and Sunspear must believe that the price they pay for a tie to the Throne is worthwhile. You must be as stone. You have no choice.

“… pleased.” The Jordayne lord dips his chin, bending forward at the waist just enough to pay the barest of respects to his hosts. “Prince Jacaerys is a sensible and solicitous young man. You have… much to be proud of, Your Highness.”

To you, the praise seems forced. You wonder if it curdles his stomach to admit it aloud.

Rhaenyra is disinclined to give him quarter. Her response is positively haughty, spine as straight and proud as ever. “I agree. He will make for a fine husband, and even finer king.”

You can almost hear Olyvar grinding his teeth, his eyes narrowing. Your sister carries on, unaffected.

“I presume I will be looking forward to my gooddaughter’s arrival in due course?” she asks.

“As agreed,” he says, and then, much louder, proclaims, “When Princess Alliandra reaches her majority, she will make the journey to Dragonstone, where she will be wedded and bedded, and our pact sealed.”

The nobles who have deigned to take temporary residence on the isle—now congregating as an audience in this echoing space—applaud, though you do see several tense faces among the crowd. Distrust runs deep in Westeros, and enmity is not soon forgotten. Still, what has occurred here is a great achievement, one that had taken many meetings and countless compromises to arrange and concur to. Negotiating the terms of the treaty had been largely out of your hands, but you were the one to have initiated it. The thought brings you great pride.

 Lord Olyvar steps closer with a funny twist to his lips. It is only your relative proximity that allows you to hear him say to your sister, “For the first time in our shared histories, the blood of the Rhoynar and Old Valyria will unite as one. Curious, how the winds change.”

A single nod of acknowledgement. “Then it is done?” she asks.

“It is done.” He glances at Ser Harwin in the far corner of the room, something you feel certain only you notice. “Barring any… complications, of course.”

“Naturally.”

Rhaenyra steps back. You admire how she takes her space without it seeming like a retreat. On the contrary—it is nonchalant, an act of consideration, almost, like she is doing the other some great favour by releasing them from the spell of her immediate nearness.

“Safe journeys, my Lord,” she says, smiling pleasantly. It does not reach her eyes.

Finally, he bows, forced by common courtesy. She outranks him, after all. “Until we meet again.”

And, with a final flourish of spears and the fading sounds of accented voices barking orders from the shore, the Dornish depart once and for all.

The collective atmosphere in the Keep automatically improves. For days, it seemed that every move you had all made was assessed and somehow found wanting. Nothing had been good enough; not the climate, not the accommodations, not the food, not the entertainment. Certainly not the people. It had taken all your courage to forge on ahead with every sneer, every whisper, every calculated remark that your visitors had levied as a weapon against you. But all you had to do was outlast the contempt. Now, you are free of them. You already feel it is easier to breathe without the shadow of old enemies darkening the doorstep.

What better time to finally begin your lying in?

It is a relief, in truth, to close yourself up in your chambers, to know that you need not mind anything except ensuring you are well-rested and strong enough for the labours ahead. You sink into the familiarity of it almost instantly: the heat of the air around you, the constant readiness of the baths you sink into, the frenetic burst of energy that compels you to arrange your haven just so before you sink once more into fatigue, curled around yourself with a possessive hand on your belly, waiting, waiting. Others surround you—Ūlla, the maester, your ladies—but they seem unimportant compared to what is happening within you. Even Daemon, always present, always watching, full of anticipation, fades from the forefront of your thoughts as your mind and your body prepare to shift to that strange realm where life and death hang in the balance.

Less than a sennight passes—at least, you think so, though time has begun to melt together in your confinement—when Laenor arrives to your rooms, shoulders stiff and arms behind his back. While not out of the realm of possibility, it is certainly unusual to see him venture in search of you without the company of at least one of his sons.

“Can I join you?” he asks at the door, hesitant.

You think it is a moot point, for he has already let himself in. Still, you smile from where you lay, gesturing at him to enter properly.

He sits himself on the mattress beside you, scrutinising the room. You allow the silence that lingers. Sometimes, there is no need to force words from the mouth of one who clearly has something to say. It is merely a matter of patience. And, with Daemon in the nursery with the twins, you have as much latitude as you wish in exercising it.

After further prevarication, he murmurs your name. He stops. His mouth opens and closes. He will not look at you.

You make it easier for him. You had known this was coming.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” you ask quietly.

“Yes.” Laenor exhales in a shudder, wilting as he hunches over. Then, he schools himself, turning his head to stare down at you from the edge of the bed. “Take care of your sister, won’t you? She is rather cross with me at present.”

An understatement.

“She loves you.” It seems inadequate, but it is the best way you can describe how she feels for him. “She does not wish to see you harmed.”

He closes his eyes. “I know.”

A hush falls upon you both once more.

“Are you angry?” he asks.

‘Are you angry that I am abandoning you all?’ is what you hear.

“I am… disappointed,” you say carefully, trying your best to convey the tumult in your head. “Not in you, or anyone. More so that you must go at all. But I understand it.”

Of course you do. If it were your family in danger, would you not muster every ounce of courage and vigour to strike down the ones who threatened them? If it were Rhaenar or Aelys or Daemon or Rhaenyra or Daeron, would you not seek to remedy any wrong done unto them? Or, if your own father faced death—even now, when you and he are so at odds and there seems to be no recourse to bridge the gaping maw that has grown between you—would you not rally to his aid?

You would. You would, and so too would Laenor. To you, there is no choice, not really, not when it comes to what one does for love.

“If I die…”

You shake your head, tensing full-formed at the mere thought of it. “Don’t.”

“I must,” he insists. “If I die, Rhaenyra will be in danger. The boys… my boys. They will be in danger, too.” He trembles as though his words will bring the gods’ wrath down upon your nephews. His jaw tightens in resolve, demeanour suddenly as steel and begging with his eyes. “You and Daemon—you need to protect them. Promise me you will.”

It reminds you of a time long ago when he was just a lord’s son and you a little girl, side by side in a hall in a Keep you have since effectively been barred from. How ironic that so many years have passed, and you still find the hurt in a simple ‘goodbye’.

“I trust that you’ll set me right, should I behave in a manner less than what she deserves,” he had said that night, full of hope and a desperate desire for the approval of his bride’s sister.

“I will,” you had told him then.

“I will,” you tell him now. Reaching across the mattress, your hand finds his. You hold onto the warmth of him, committing his face to memory. “I promise.”

Eventually, he departs as he must, a gentle farewell accompanied by an even gentler embrace. You try to temper your despair with the knowledge that Seasmoke is sure to protect him as hotly as any dragon protects his rider. This does not stop the river of tears from falling when the door closes. It feels like an ending.

 As you listen for the faint sounds of his convoy sailing further and further out to sea, you wonder if you will ever see him again.

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