#and then after the affliction passes away | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sillygoose067 · 24 days ago

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Home Is Where the Heart Is

Lewis Pullman x Reader

It had been twenty-four days since Lewis left for filming. Twenty-four days since mornings began with the shrill insistence of your alarm clock, instead of his sleep-warmed arms and a kiss pressed sleepily to your shoulder. Twenty-four days since laughter wove through the walls of your shared home, settling like sunlight in corners you hadn’t realized were cold.

You weren’t counting—at least not in the conventional sense. There were no red X’s slashed across calendar squares. Instead, you counted in smaller, stranger ways: the number of times you'd reheated the same mug of coffee before remembering to drink it. The number of evenings you fell asleep with the television still murmuring in the background, a poor substitute for the timbre of his voice.

The number of hours you stayed overtime at work. The number of breaths that stuttered unexpectedly, as if missing him had lodged itself somewhere just beneath your ribs—less emotion, more affliction.

And today… today, the silence was louder than usual. Thicker. Hungrier. You couldn’t afford to sit still. Stillness invited thoughts, and thoughts invited ache.

So you made a list.

Not because the chores mattered—most didn’t—but because action made the ache bearable. Movement diluted memory. Grocery store. Post office. Clean the guest bathroom. Buy light bulbs. Return the sweater you never wore but bought the day after he left because you needed something new to touch. You clung to motion like a shield.

The grocery store parking lot glinted under a tired sun, and as you pulled in, your breath caught. Someone stepped out of their car in a leather jacket—tall, broad-shouldered, head bowed as they scrolled through their phone. Your heart leapt before your mind could stop it. But it wasn’t him. Of course it wasn’t. You exhaled slowly, jaw clenched. Lewis would’ve come with you, taken forever choosing cereal, kissed your temple while you debated between Gala and Fuji apples. Your hand hovered over the Galas, frozen. Then you pulled away.

At the post office, you accidentally called the clerk “babe” when he handed you your receipt. The word slipped out too easily, and the rush of blood to your cheeks was instant and scorching. You apologized in a flurry. The clerk smiled awkwardly. Lewis always said it to you in passing, casual and warm, like it was just another part of your name.

By late afternoon, you were back home and unraveling quietly. You scrubbed the kitchen floor on your hands and knees, then the stovetop, then the baseboards. When the scent of lemon cleaner became too sharp, you moved to the spice rack and reorganized it alphabetically, top to bottom, your fingers trembling. It wasn’t until you saw the single, perfect teardrop land in the jar of cumin that you realized you were crying.

And then— ding. The sound cut through the stillness like a matchstrike in the dark.

Incoming FaceTime: Lew 💞

You wiped your eyes with the sleeve of your sweatshirt and answered with fingers that barely felt like your own.

And there he was. Grinning. Sweaty. Alive in the way that only he could be—bottle of water in one hand, curls damp with effort, eyes soft the moment they landed on you.

“There’s my girl,” he breathed, the smile in his voice wrapping around you like a coat you hadn’t realized you needed.

“There’s my movie star,” you murmured, and it came out softer than you’d intended. Like the words had curled inward, into your throat, before escaping.

He tilted his head. Studied you. “You okay?”

You forced a smile, the corners of your lips trembling with the weight of holding it all in. “Kept busy today. Ran errands, cleaned the house. You know… trying not to think too much.”

His silence was tender. Understanding. Heavy with the kind of love that didn’t need to be spoken to be felt.

“Set’s chaos,” he said, a little sheepish. “We just wrapped a night scene. Wanna say hi to some people?”

You nodded and shifted on the couch, curling your knees up beneath you like he used to.

The camera flipped, and you were suddenly staring into the glow of Florence Pugh’s grin.

“We miss you!” she chirped. “Lewis won’t shut up about you. Seriously. It’s almost annoying.”

David Harbour leaned into frame, brows raised in mock exasperation. “He’s getting unbearable. For the love of God, send help.”

Sebastian Stan’s voice came from somewhere off-camera, dry as ever. “He’s in love. What can you do?”

And just like that—you laughed. Real and unguarded. The sound startled you, sharp and unfamiliar in your own ears.

“I hope you’re all making fun of him relentlessly,” you managed, wiping at your eyes.

“Every damn day,” Florence grinned.

The camera swung back to Lewis, who rolled his eyes so hard you could practically hear it. “Don’t listen to them. I’m cool. Totally cool.”

“You’re an absolute mess,” you said fondly.

And then… it quieted.

Not the silence of absence. The silence of everything tender and unsaid.

“I miss you,” he said, almost inaudibly.

Your smile faltered. “I miss you too.”

There was a beat—a moment suspended in digital time, a thousand miles long and exactly four inches wide, between his screen and yours.

“I’ll call you before bed,” he promised. “Even if it’s late.”

“Okay.”

“Love you.”

“Love you more.”

And then the screen went dark.

You stared at the reflection of your own face in the black glass, thumb hovering just above the edge like maybe if you didn’t move, he’d still be there.

Eventually, you set the phone down. Gently. Reverently. Like it was something sacred.

The silence crashed over you, slow and certain. Not a void but a pressure, filling your ears, your chest, your limbs. It pressed in on the house. On you. It had weight, that quiet. It spoke—not in words, but in absence.

You sat there, motionless, for the first time all day. And you realized: the ache wasn’t only around you. It was you.

The house, once loud with the symphony of shared life—his laugh, the soft thud of his boots by the door, the whisper of his body beside yours in sleep—had gone still. Not peaceful. Just empty.

You tried to hold onto the call. The joy. The way he said your name like it meant something.

But when you finally turned off the lights and crawled into bed, it all slipped through your fingers.

The pillow beside you was cold. The sheets, undisturbed.

You reached for his hoodie, still draped over the back of the chair. Pulled it close, up to your chin. It smelled like him. Faintly. Enough to hurt.

Curled inward, small and silent, you whispered into the dark: “Come home soon.”

And then, with a heart still full of love and a body heavy with ache, you closed your eyes...

---

It began with your toothbrush. You dropped it one morning — sudden, sharp — the ceramic clattering in the sink like a cracked echo. And you stood there, frozen, chest rising and falling in ragged, uncontrollable waves. It wasn’t the toothbrush. It was everything. The empty half of the bed, sheets untouched and cold. The coffee mug he always used, still faintly stained, sitting lonely on the counter. The hollow stillness that draped the rooms like a shroud, turning your home into a shrine for when he was here.

You had held it together. You had tried. Endless lists scrawled with desperate purpose. Endless errands run with hurried feet, hands busy so your mind wouldn’t wander. FaceTime calls that always ended too soon—fingers reluctant to say goodbye, voices trembling with distance. But missing him had become something physical, raw—like your bones had hollowed out, leaving space only he could fill.

And then, in a moment you barely recognized as courage, you did the one thing you’d tried not to let yourself consider.

You unlocked your phone, findin Lewis' manager's contact, hands trembling so much the screen blurred. To: Aidan Hi! I hope you’re well. I know Lewis is busy with filming and I don’t want to disrupt, but… would it be possible for me to visit the set? I really miss him. I promise to stay out of the way and follow all protocols. I just… I need to see him.

You stared at those words for five endless minutes, heart hammering between hope and fear, before you pressed send. The rest of the day was a painful pendulum between regret and wild, tentative hope.

The next morning, the soft ding of a reply pulled you from a restless sleep.

Aidan: Hey! Absolutely. We’ve got a light schedule Friday through Sunday. I’ll get you cleared and send the details. Lewis has no idea—this’ll be a surprise. 😉

You barely finished reading before your suitcase was flying open. Jeans, your favorite worn-in top, the hoodie he loved to steal and bury his face in, the little travel perfume he always wore—your fingertips brushed each item as if they were talismans. The house seemed to exhale as you snapped the suitcase shut, like it finally sensed relief from the weight of your grief.

The flight was a haze of clouds and restless pacing, your fingers never letting go of your phone—rereading old texts, studying his blurry selfies from the set, clutching the fragile threads of anticipation.

---

Outside the studio lot, Aidan waited, eyes twinkling conspiratorially. “He’s filming a short scene. Give it ten minutes. Trailer 7.”

You thanked him a dozen times, maybe more, voice catching with disbelief and relief.

Your heart thundered as you approached the trailer door.

You raised your fist, knocked.

The knock sounded soft against the trailer door, but to you, it felt deafening. Your heart thundered in your chest, your palms damp, stomach tied in anxious, hopeful knots.

Inside, you could hear him moving. A faint thump. A zipper. A quiet hum—his voice, singing under his breath, the same way he did at home when he thought no one was listening. It made your throat tighten.

Then the door creaked open.

And there he was.

Lewis stood frozen, eyes wide like he’d seen a ghost, breath catching audibly in his throat. His damp curls clung to his forehead, shirt wrinkled from a costume change, and his jaw dropped just slightly. For a second, he didn’t speak—just stared at you like he was trying to convince himself you were real and not something his exhausted brain had conjured.

“Hey,” you said softly, your voice barely holding together.

He didn’t reply.

You barely had time to inhale before he was wrapping his arms around you and lifting you off the ground in one sweeping, desperate motion. Your breath left you in a soft gasp as you buried your face in his shoulder, arms locking around his neck like you’d never let go again. His scent hit you—sweat and laundry detergent and that faint, unmistakable trace of his cologne—and your eyes stung instantly.

His grip was crushing. Like he thought if he didn’t hold you hard enough, the moment would disappear. You could feel the way his chest shook against yours—ragged, uneven—and when you pulled back slightly to look at him, there were tears pooling in his eyes.

“You’re here,” he said, like a confession. Like a miracle. “You’re really—fuck, I missed you.”

“I couldn’t stay away anymore,” you whispered, brushing your fingers through the back of his hair. “I kept trying, Lewis, I really did. But everything felt wrong without you.”

He brought a hand to your face like it was instinct, like he needed to feel you under his fingers. His thumb traced your cheekbone, trembling slightly, his gaze roaming your features like he was relearning you.

“I was going out of my mind,” he said hoarsely. “I haven’t slept, I haven’t breathed right. I kept telling myself to hold it together but—God, seeing you right now—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You surged forward and kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle— anything but, really. It was messy and raw and breathless, lips crashing like waves breaking after too long at sea. He kissed you back with everything he had—both hands on your face now, thumbs brushing away tears that neither of you tried to stop. You gripped his shirt like a lifeline, desperate to close every inch of space between you.

There was nothing careful about it.

It was grief and relief and longing, pouring out of you in gasps against his mouth, all the nights apart colliding in the heat of that moment.

He exhaled shakily against your lips, forehead resting against yours. His nose brushed yours, and his voice dropped to something so quiet it barely existed.

“Don’t leave again,” he whispered.

“I won’t,” you breathed, voice cracking. “Not until you’re done. I was cleared by the staff.”

He closed his eyes, holding you like the world might split if he let go.

You smiled through the tears, kissed his jaw, his cheek, his temple.

And for the first time in weeks, the ache in your chest began to soften.

You were still wrapped in each other when someone knocked on the trailer door and called Lewis back to set.

He rested his forehead against yours and groaned. “Give me one good reason not to fake a broken ankle.”

You laughed, and the sound made his eyes close like a prayer.

“You’ll finish the scene,” you murmured, brushing your fingers over his lips, “and then you’ll come back to me.”

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lvmimis · 11 months ago

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cw: senku accidentally makes an aphrodisiac and fem!reader helps him out... minors dni! smut but no penetration. american colony au.

Senku rarely makes mistakes, ever, but as Gen has so often pointed out, luck is very often not on the young man’s side - in fact, luck seems to avoid him as though punishing him for refusing to leave his life up to fate.

Minutes after he’s taken the potion that had been designated by the village doctor as an analgesic, he realizes quickly he’s made a grave one. Sweat beads on his forehead as he breathes in, the very action of drawing in a breath serving to increase the deafening drumbeat in his ears. Thump, thump, thump. The heat clouding his mind right now as he tries to remember where exactly he went wrong, what could have possibly happened to have him in fetal position, tensed up everywhere but especially in the space in between his legs.

Top shelf, to the right. A small vial stopped up with a cork.

Cork. It shouldn’t be a cork, he remembers suddenly. She had said the bottle might be hard to twist open. He must have taken something else. What else could explain the fact that all the blood coursing through his body seems to have collected to one place only, giving him the hardest erection he’s ever had in his life?

The scientist can’t claim to never have thought about sex. After all, he’s young and healthy and as curious about his body as anyone else, even if he’s not so easily persuaded by the prospect of soft round breasts or plush thighs as others, and he prides himself in knowing the basic workings of everything including that particular type of recreation.

Now it’s all he can think about as he shivers and flushes, blood gorged cock throbbing and desperate to be touched in any way, shape or form.

He’s initially thankful that he was struck by this affliction while hiding away in the lookout tower in the middle of the night because of its privacy and the ability to rub one or ten out and hopefully turn into a logical human once again, but once he can hear the familiar soft pad of your footsteps approaching up the stairs, he’s repetitively cursing his rotten luck under his strangled breath.

Scrambling from his position sat in the corner, back against the wall, he quickly finds his way onto a chair, but stumbles, and when your eyes fall onto him, he’s practically face down.

“Senku?”

Your voice is soft as usual, not completely sure it’s him in the dim light. Moonlight illuminates part of the wide room, and when he finally rolls over to a cross-legged position, doing his best to hide the embarrassing bump in his clothes, you look at him quizzically.

“Fancy meeting you here!” Senku exclaims. There’s an uncharacteristic upturn to his voice that is a cause for concern.

“You mean, in the tower you supposedly made for me?” you ask. Senku pales, but you’re already sliding down to sit cross-legged next to him.

“Are you doing okay?” you ask. Leaning over to press a hand to his forehead, you frown at the dampness, while a shudder passes through Senku’s entire body the moment the back of your hand grazes him.

“I’m fine,” he says, coughing to cover up the strain in his voice. His body language is slightly turned away, and so is his face, because he can’t look at you, not like this. Desire pools in his chest heavily, so thick he can barely breathe, and your sweet voice is like water dripping onto an already overfilled cup.

“You don’t sound fine,” you muse. You think of yourself just weeks ago insisting on being left alone despite a raging pneumonia, and move in closer, a move that has him retreat like a trapped mouse. “Did you take the medicine for your headache like you were supposed to?”

Senku would roll his eyes if it weren’t for the fact that an accidental brush of your hand against his could make them roll into the back of his head.

“Your friend might be a quack,” he says, but then quickly adds in fairness, “...the truth is I think I might have picked up something I wasn’t supposed to.”

He laughs, and then feels his cock jump and scrambles to his feet to stand further away. You’re troubled by his anxiety and his refusal to look you in the eye and after a few more questions about his mental and physical state, you decide you’re tired of his dodging questions.

“Senku, what the hell is going on?”

“Nothing,” he lies. He’s thinking of a way to escape without you noticing, but you’ve moved now, and are standing right in front of him, far too close, and your upset look is simply too pretty, and he looks at you almost fearfully.

“I need to go,” he says, and tries to move past you, but you immediately block his path.

“Senku.”

It only takes one look at the knit in your eyebrows to realize he’s not going to make out of this without the truth. He’s still flushing intermittently, and can feel the tip of his dick more exquisitely than any other part of his body. It takes him a moment to decide, but eventually he realizes he can approach this embarrassing predicament in the best way he can think of.

Logically.

“Whatever I took… I think might be having aphrodisiacal effects on me.”

You blink, bright eyes wide with every bat of your lashes, and he feels the genuine pull of yearning in his loins.

“Oh.”

Senku blushes, the warmth spreading throughout his whole body this time as you finally look down then quickly avert your gaze. In a flash, he wonders for the first time how much you know about sex. Are you a virgin? When was your first time? With who? Would you do it again? With him?

The last thought he immediately banishes from his mind, telling himself that it’s likely the effects of whatever potent concoction is clouding his rationale. Not now. If ever, not this way.

“I… I can help, you know,” you offer. Your voice is quiet, gentle and steady, the same way you speak when you talk to the animals when they misbehave, when you want to reassure without controlling. “Platonically, of course,” you quickly add.

Platonically. Of course. It’s just an urge, and you understand those animalistic urges pretty well, given your breadth of experience in the natural sciences. Just a want. It wouldn’t be a crime if…

You move in close, your hand hovering over his crotch but not touching him. You then look at him, asking with your pupils, and he can swear he can feel his dilate. He nods, and you let your fingers slip beneath the layers of fabric until they reach the slightly coarse grain of his pubes. Your lips part slightly as you move slowly; he’s holding his breath but the moment your finger grazes the skin of his firm shaft, he lets out a moan, covering his mouth immediately to shut himself up.

“It’s fine,” you reassure him. He’s embarrassed, suppressing pants, but you press forward, letting your fingers close around his shaft, one by one. Grip still awkward, Senku shifts, pulling down his pants further, and you pull your lower lip before your teeth briefly before you tug smoothly for the first time. He gasps, and you press your thumb on the tip, right at the orifice of his urethra.

“Have you ever done this before?” you ask, wondering if you should have asked earlier. The small talk is meant to make it more casual, less intimate, but he’s quick to shake his head and say no, breathily.

“Not by anyone who mattered.”

Your heart flutters and you move just a bit faster. Senku moans, throwing his head back, and you keep your pace.

“Is that enough? Are you feeling good?” You slip. You mean better. You’re not trying to pleasure him, you’re trying to help him.

“Fuck, can you… more… can you-” he stops, then bites his lip. He’s breathing heavier now, the expansion of his chest much more noticeable. He glances at you for a moment, then quickly looks away. If he were to do what he wants to do, ask you for more, press his lips onto yours, would it be using you? Is he allowed to ask that of you? Is it just this… or something else?

Your hand has stopped but he’s whining now, bucking his hips into the base of your fist almost subconsciously. You grip tighter, then slide up and down his shaft again, pressing against the darkened tip more, now slippery with treacherous precum. It occurs to you for a moment that maybe, maybe just a bit more friction would help, and you take the initiative of spitting on your hand, then resuming and he moans, fingers pressed to the floor beside him tensing and tightening as he accepts your onslaught.

Straggled groans escaping his throat, his eyes close, and you watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows spit and desire. He’s thirsty, needy, unsure if this is making it better or worse.

And just at that moment, you ask, “Are you feeling better, Senku?”

Oh, the way you say his name, he practically spills into your hand.

“D-don’t talk…” he begs, and your face flinches with hurt, but you remember that you are only helping.

“Mm.”

Your hand keeps moving, and you watch his cock throb and twitch in its grasp. It’s a pretty thing, you let yourself consider for a moment, pretty like the rest of him, eager, greedy… it has been a while, you think, since you’ve been so intimate with someone.

Not intimate. That’s not what this is. You’re helping a friend.

Senku grits his teeth as you spit on your hand again and your moistened palm swirls around his cock.

There’s no reason for you to be so good at touching him like this. He exhales.

“I’d be a real piece of shit if I asked you for more, wouldn’t I right now?” he finally asks. He’s looking at the ceiling now, trying to contain himself, but how can he when you’re touching him like this and he feels better than he’s ever felt in his life. He’s only mildly coherent at this point, perhaps he should count backwards, perhaps…

“Tell me what you want, Senku, I’ll do my best.”

He turns, and you look at him in just that moment, but you don’t let go of him.

His hand goes to the back of your neck, pulling you closer and he stops quickly, inches apart.

You’ve closed your eyes, and you’ve puckered your lips just so. Senku swallows hard, wondering how he could have ever stopped but he knows why.

“It’s not the drugs,” he’s able to eke out. Your eyes open, gentle as they look into his, your lips still parted. Your hand shifts, palm rested on the edge of his warm length.

“It’s not the drugs,” you repeat.

“I’d feel like this anyway, in this moment,” Senku says. A moment passes. Your tongues passes over your dry lips.

“Do you mean it?”

Senku doesn’t hesitate, before saying yes.

You press your lips to his first, letting him press his way in and explore, letting him bite your lip and suck, and pass his tongue against your teeth, letting him tip your neck backwards and deepen the kiss. You kiss, and you move your hands and your lips part, and you dip lower, to make him feel pleasure like he’s never seen.

#senku x reader #senku ishigami x reader #senku smut #kenku #daydreams: dr. stone #mimi's notes

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allhopesforlove · 6 months ago

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Farewell, my love

Summary: In the midst of a battle, y/n realizes that their only way to victory would be through her sacrifice. Determined with her decision to lead an army of soldiers to the frontlines, there was nothing that could hold her back. Because she was sure that if she continued living on she wouldn’t survive any more of what was blooming between Elain and Azriel.

Pairing: Azriel x reader, Azriel x Elain

Word count: 2.2k

Warnings: Angst, self-hate (idk tbh pls forgive me)

part 2 part 3

———————

“Someone has to lead them to the frontline to allow an opening for us.”

Freezing, thats all she felt. Her blood stopped rushing and burning in her veins, no sound and no pounding. Just a serene calm washing over her as she let the wind breeze through her blood and mud smeared hair. Ah, she thought, this is it, this is where it all ends. She was aware. She thought all of them were aware of what would happen to the group taking responsibility to charge full on towards Hybern’s forces. Without a doubt, she decided, she would do it. No second thought. It had to be her.

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and opened her eyes to only see what made her take the decision of bringing an end to all of it herself.

There, in all of the chaos, in all of the war afflicted damage around them, in all the sorrow and pain, in all the helplessness and suffering, there, she only saw those hazel golden eyes. Those eyes she saw before sleeping and waking up when morning came. Those eyes she was mesmerized by, eyes that always managed to take away all the pain in mere seconds, eyes that made the pounding in her head stop, eyes that promised hope.

Though, they were the eyes that never seemed to look at her, lingering at the doe brown eyes of the one he was cradling to his chest.

In all her 458 years of living, only three times she saw his eyes filled with such worry. The first being when Mor was captured. The second being Rhys’ sacrifice to keep Velaris safe from Amarantha’s wrath. And the third, well the third time was the moment he realized that they actually might not be able to win this war. And that he possibly could lose her.

The ringing in her ears stopped and her vision became clear again, as the sight made her decision final, brought her back to the reality they all were facing now.

“Rhys.. are you aware of what you are suggesting right now.. this.. fuck.. this is a whole on suicide mission..”

silence passed through and then in an almost hushed but assertive voice

“I know, Cassian. I am .. god I am aware. However, this is the only way we could outmaneuver them. We are already outnumbered as it is.”

And the warlord knew. Hell, he might be the best strategist his court ever had. With all his experiences over the years as a general of the Night Court, with all his knowledge, he knew that what Rhys was saying may be their only shot at victory. But he was in denial, because it had to be someone amongst them as they barely stood in a circle. All of them carrying wounds of different degree.

He looked over towards Mor’s blood smeared face supporting Emerie with her left arm, as the latter took a deep blow on her right wing. He winced at that as he knew how sacred wings were to them. He felt for Emerie in that moment, but was brought back by a soft voice, he might have not heard if he didn’t focus just enough

“Its just as I have seen… it wasn’t this clear, but, but I think I saw how this will go, which is why I agree with what Rhysand is saying.”

Its not that she was the first person who spoke up after Rhys’s declaration or the thoughts everyone else was too scared of to voice besides Cassian, that surprised y/n. It also wasn’t that Elain saw a vision and didn’t tell a soul about it, well other than besides maybe the one at her side looking at her as if he already knew of this assertion.

No, what surprised y/n was the one second Elain blinked over at her, a mere glance that made y/n’s blood boil again. A second which confirmed that it was obviously her that Elain saw. And what more was that Azriel probably knew, he probably knew and didn’t care to tell her. The shadowsinger did all but not dare to look her in the eyes, strengthening his grip around Elains waist and kicking some imaginary stones on the ground.

It made y/n sure in her decision. It had to be her, with all that was left of her, she had to be the one to do it. She knew it, Elain knew it and, this she wasnt sure of, but Azriel too probably knew it.

Without dwelling too much on what consequences Elains silence on her vision brought to them, Rhys was determined that it had to be him. It was his duty as their High Lord, as the most powerful being in all of Prythian, as a father to his beautiful child, as a devoted man to his only High Lady and as a loyal brother and friend to his circle, to the people of Prythian. Maybe this way, he would finally be able to forgive himself for all that he has and has not done, maybe this way he could finally stop the storm that was still alive inside of him.

With one final decision he looked over his circle, the people who were closest to him, for whose happiness he would even sacrifice himself

“Cassian, you and Amren will go over to Summer’s side, I already informed Thesan. You will lead our men from the right side at my command, after I charge with all the men left at our side-“

“You will what?!” He felt Feyres fury burning through him, “Absolutely not Rhysand, you will do no such thing!”

“Feyre, darling, there is no other way, I love you and I love our son so much that I am willing to pay this price so that all of you can-“

“You can go to hell with all of that bullshit-“

“That was kinda the plan”

“Shut up, this is no time to joke! Tell Thesan we have a change of plan! No one is going to play the sacrificial lamb, we will find another way.”

But there was no other way, y/n was sure of that, as was Elain. As the pair still continued to bicker, y/n glanced over to the shadowsinger, just to, maybe, she didn’t know, but all she ever wanted was for him to see her. Maybe it was a too wishful thought, maybe she was too naive to believe that in her possibly last moments he would finally spare her a glance. Because deep down she already knew that she was undeserving of his attention, undeserving of all his affection and love.

He deserved someone like Elain, someone who even in her darkest moments didn’t break, someone strong like her, someone whose softness and calmness was serenity to his soul. Unlike her own pathetic self waddling around the Shadowsinger to get his attention for decades only to exchange mere friendly gazes and words that she decided she was content with. But still, even for all that she was, she was thankful of one thing.

Loving Azriel.

Even if it plagued her and drove her mad at times, she was thankfuk that she got to love him at least from a distance. That she got to experience all the perfection that is all Azriel. From his soft dimples that appeared when Cassian was being his silly self to his inspiring determination to win a brawl. Or, she remembered, his calming voice that still brought chills to her when thinking of it. She hadn’t really heard what he said to her because all that she was focused on was the way Azriels lips were moving, accompanied by that voice that made all of her being tremble. That made her heart flutter faster and her face a little redder.

Oh, how she loved these little moments she had with him, these few minutes she had him all to herself until someone else got his attention.

In those moments she allowed herself to dream, she made herself believe that Azriel too looked at her with a lovers gaze, lied to her heart that he too wanted her. But reality always hit, whenever it was that Mor, and in recent years, Elain walked into the room. Reality was brutally honest which is why she never dared to take the next step, she knew her place.

Or maybe she was just a coward, because y/n knew, she knew the shadowsinger rejecting her would hurt more than what she had with him now. She’d rather love him from a distance without his knowledge than make a fool of herself and risk never seeing him again.

With one final gaze towards her Shadowsinger, she sighed and finally spoke up:

“It wont be any good to just argue and waste our time. Someone clearly has to do it and to be frank I think it would be the wisest if it was me-“

“y/n no-“

“Please just listen to what I have to say Mor. I have trained for decades with Cassian and the shadowsinger, I know how to lead an army and I know my way with the soldiers. Sending Rhysand, Cassian or really any of you guys there would be the dumbest decision. We need you at the back, the people need you. And besides, we have to be honest with ourselves… all of you, well not all of you, but you have to understand that you all eventually would want to have your own families”

she glanced over at her friends, Emerie and Mor, Cassian, Feyre and Rhys

“a bright future I can see right before my eyes”

and finally at Azriels and Elains direction.

“It would be unfair for me to keep living on when you all have already found the person you want to spend the rest of your lives with and frankly-“

“That doesn’t make you any less deserving of living though.”

There goes her shadowsinger, mindful of others as always. He was scowling and panting as if he was holding off words that suffocated him. This bewildered look on his face made her heart clench but she had to step in before he could say anything more.

So she dared to look him in his eyes and with all her strength she mustered up her coldest stare she had

“You dont get to decide a thing on my life shadowsinger.”

Silence. And then

“You won’t get anywhere by trying to talk me out of it. We are already wasting so much time as it is and I have already made up my mind. I will lead them.”

Azriel wanted to say more, to tell her and convince her that it should not be her, that she still had so much left to do with her life. He remembered a time before the war, before everything, when they sat together after a training session and just talked about anything and everything. They weren’t the closest friends, no, but y/n was someone he trusted and whose company he enjoyed.

On that specific day she told him of how she dreamed of seeing the colbalt blue sea, how she wanted to just spend all day in flower fields and enjoy all the types of flowers Spring had to offer or see the enormous libraries that resided in the Day Court. She wanted to travel all of Prythian and beyond and she told him with such glee that the memory of it almost made him step forward and volunteer to take y/n’s place.

But a squeezing hand pulled him back from his thoughts. He looked down towards his hands and saw a mismatch of two clasping hands. His own scarred ones and Elain’s. His beautiful Elain.

And he remembered all the promises he made her just before this, how he would finally propose to her despite what opinions Rhysand had, how he would give her anything she asked of him.

He looked her in the eyes, although teary, she looked at him as if she was determined. She wouldn’t let him take that step forward, and frankly, he was flattered by her reaction. He finally had someone looking after him and caring for his wellbeing. Although he hadn’t dared to show all of him to her, he was content that Elain accepted him the way he was.

Elain loved him for who he was, well, for those parts she only knew of. But that was enough for him, because thats more than anyone has ever offered him.

He smiled at her and although he didn’t want to look, he turned his head back to y/n’s direction. He saw that she was arguing with the other’s, but a sudden ringing in his ears prevented him from hearing anything that was being said. The only thing he was aware of was his heart thumping faster and faster by the second and suddenly he heard another heartbeat.

It was like everything around him vanished, muffled voices and a blurry vision. And an intense smell of warm floral notes, but it wasn’t Elains, no.

Suddenly all he could feel was a deep rooted longing, similar to the one he had been feeling all those years, and fear. So much fear it nearly made him fall to the ground. He was confused. What was happening to him?

Unbeknownst to him he tightened his grip around Elain’s hand which made her wince

“Azriel are you okay?” Her voice brought him back and he tried to find the words for what has just transpired but Mor’s sudden cry made him look at y/n’s direction again

“Please dont do this y/n, please, I can’t lose you, I can’t lose my sister, someone… just someone please help.”

While Emerie , also with tears in her eyes, tried to calm her, something inside Azriel made him anxious and panic. It felt like those moments where he was on the brink of an anxiety attack, and his heart was racing so fast he felt like he was going to puke.

And this time, when he looked at y/n she was right looking back at him with wide eyes. And there, although small, he could see the first golden fibers of what seemed to be forming into one string connecting him with her.

———————

Part 2 Part 3

A/n: Ahh this was my first time writing ever 😭 I hope you guys enjoy it. Also, I would love some feedback :) Make sure to tell me if you’d like another part 🫶🏼

#azriel angst #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel #azriel x yn #acotar #acotar x reader #acotar x you #acotar angst #fated mates #azriel imagine #acotar imagine #farewellmylove

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snowluvvie · 5 months ago

Text

₊˚⊹ ♡ . EASILY CONVINCED.

₊˚⊹ ♡ . RED K!CLARK X READER

₊˚⊹ ♡ . you want to leave him, but there's one thing keeping you there

₊˚⊹ ♡ . MDNI 18+ | word count — 2.8k | warnings — established toxic relationship, Clark does not care about your feelings at any point at all, manipulation, crying, oral (m. recieving), finger sucking, unprotected p in v, name-calling, hair-pulling

When Clark strolled into your shared Metropolis apartment, it was already after dark. The moonlight streaming in through the window glinted off the smooth marble countertop and illuminated you, already waiting in the shared kitchen for him to arrive home. Your arms were folded over your chest, eyebrows furrowed lightly. You were finally going to have the conversation you’d been needing to have with him for the past few months.

You thought if you came to Metropolis with him, stayed by his side rather than letting him run off on his own, things would get better. That isolation wouldn’t be good for him, and your presence would sway him to take off the ring and return to Smallville. It hadn’t. Sometimes it seemed like it worsened with the passing days—the going out and staying out for hours, sometimes overnight, being mouthy and rude, or just downright insulting. And you saw the way he looked at women passing on the street sometimes. It felt like being stabbed, though you’d given up on reprimanding him a while back. Now, though?

You’d come to the long overdue conclusion that this simply wasn’t the same Clark anymore, wasn’t your Clark. He wasn’t the guy that insisted on fixing your car when it made him late for school that day, or the guy that practically ran to your parents’ house to fix their fence when it broke, or the guy that kissed you like your face was something precious between his hands and fucked you like you actually meant something to him.

As Clark closed the front door behind him, your eyes caught on the obnoxiously large crimson ring still nestled on his giant hand. That old Clark was gone. Maybe one day he’d come back on his own, but for now? You wanted to go home. You wanted your life back.

You cleared your throat, and Clark raised his eyebrows as he regarded you standing there, waiting for him. “It’s late.”

He gives a halfway nod, lips quirking up into a smile, “It gets busier the later it gets. I should’ve stayed, really.”

By it he means that stupid club on the corner downtown. All pulsing blue lights and girls in the tiniest skirts you’ve ever seen. You’ve always tried to push its very existence out of your brain, and an involuntary shiver wracks your arms as you’re afflicted by thoughts of what he gets up to there.

“Well, I ate already.” Your arms tightened around you, silently cursing yourself for always fumbling when it came to things like this.

Clark hums in response, barely paying attention as he tugs his jacket off and tosses it onto the back of the chair. His keys clatter against the counter with a metallic clang, and he’s visibly already thinking about something else entirely.

You take a deep breath, “I wanna talk to you.”

“Y'are talking to me. Right now.” He flashes his pearly teeth, the little points peeking over his perfect bottom lip.

You shake your head, your eyes flicking away from him and instead focusing on the wall, or maybe the fridge. That was always how he got you—it was the same smile, the same twinkle in those blue eyes. It took all your willpower to stay grounded and remind yourself that no matter how bad you wished he was, he wasn’t your Clark. Your resolve trembled every time you looked at him.

“No, I mean talk to you about us.”

He rolls his eyes, “Not this again.” There he was. Dismissive and careless, which was all he’d been the last few months when he wasn’t just being blatantly mean.

“Listen! Yes, this again, you never let me finish!”

“I let you finish plenty. Wasn’t it…three times, last weekend?” He wanders over to the fridge, tugging the door open placidly. He looks over to you for a few moments, only long enough to see the way your jaw tightens as your face warms despite yourself.

“That’s not—I was trying to—” You huff, throwing your hands half-heartedly in the air as you struggle to articulate yourself. Like you always did, which Clark knew. “You know what I meant.”

Just as the last word left your lips, he slammed the fridge door. So hard the wall behind it rattled. "Can't this wait til' after I get somethin' to eat? 'M starved after tonight." He huffed out a laugh cause he knew what he was doing, leaving your imagination to run wild about what he'd got up to.

Though your bottom lip quivered a little bit, you shook your head. "No, you're a selfish dick. If I waited for you to want to talk to me, I'd be waiting forever."

Clark was across the kitchen and in your personal space in less than half a second, making you gasp. You tried to back up as he towered over you, but you bumped into the corner—he had you caged up against it. You avoided his eyes, though you couldn't escape his smell with how close he was. Delicious despite his bad behavior—oak barrels and gentle shampoo and sunlight. Your head swam as you took it in, you couldn't fight it when he grabbed your face, forcing it upwards. He craned your neck back to look at him, and his gaze was amused, lips tilted slightly upwards.

"My dick is a lot of things. Selfish is not one. You'd know, huh? There's only one greedy bitch here."

You were shaking like a leaf, and the squeak you let out was pathetic. "You know how I feel about the b-word."

Clark laughed loudly. "How you feel, and how you feel," his tone of voice lilted suggestively as his hand dipped down to the front of your shorts. "Are two very different things."

He paused for a half second, so you'd have time to say no, but it was mocking—he knew you wouldn't stop him. That made the seconds that stretched between you taunting, a total mockery of what you'd been trying to do, the corpse of your dead resolve practically half-buried already as you stood with baited breath, waiting for him to slip his hand where you wanted it.

As his hand went between your thighs, he grinned. “You’re real predictable, y’know that?” His fingers slid through your folds easily from how drenched they were. When he pulled his fingers from your panties, a glistening strand of your arousal clung onto them, and he shoved it in your face. Raising his eyebrows, “and you keep trying to act like you want me to be different. Liar.”

Your lip quivered from the misconstrued truth in his words, the way he could always use that against you. It wasn’t your fucking fault your boyfriend’s voice got you all hot, he was literally the most perfect man in the world, even when he was like this—that didn’t mean you wanted him to stay this way. The late-night whispers between the two of you as you laid on his barn couch back in Smallville, about a house and a family, were more important to you than the sex you seemingly couldn’t stop having. But why couldn’t you stop having it?

Clark shoved his fingers in your mouth, making you clean your own wetness off of them, and he intentionally shoved them back far enough to make you gag lightly. You hated the disappointment that bloomed in your belly when you realized he wasn’t going to relieve you further with his hand, he was just making a point. Your eyes burned.

"You owe me! I was ready to have a perfectly nice night an' settle in—you're the one who had to start somethin'." He rolled his eyes. "You're always doing this, y'know. Not very fair to me, is it?"

Your eyes watered and, though you were fighting furiously to keep it in, a little sniffle escaped you. The sound made Clark's eyes snap to you, just in time to watch the first tear slip down your cheek. The grin that spread across his face was sickening.

"C'mon. On your knees."

You hesitated for a moment, just long enough to make him punctate it with, "now."

The last of your resolve was officially gone and buried as you sunk to your knees, which met the cold tile underneath you, and looked up at him. Clark raised his eyebrows, prompting you with a nod, and your fingers found his belt and began undoing it. You fumbled with it a little, hands shaky through your crying.

When you raised a hand to wipe the tears from your face, Clark swatted it away. “Makes it extra wet, y’know that.” He reasoned with a charming smile.

You ignored him and finally got his belt undone, and his cock sprung out of the confines of his boxers already stiff. That only rubbed it in more—every insult and mockery he threw your way only made him harder, and your tears were just the nail in the coffin.

No matter how upset you were, it was muscle memory to take him as far back into your throat as you could, though you struggled. You gagged around it, saliva bubbling from the corners of your mouth. He was right, and the longer you went, your tears from both Clark’s mocking and how harshly you were gagging mixed with your spit and left his cock slick, your mouth sliding around it too easily. Your hand wrapped around the base so you could cover more of it, and his head fell back a little as you twisted your fist around his shaft at the same time your tongue swirled over his tip. The sigh he let out was contented, and he ran his fingers through your hair at the nape of your neck.

For a half second, you pretended it was Clark—your Clark. The guy who had held your hair back for you and rubbed your scalp soothingly when you had his dick in your mouth, doing his best to reward you for every good feeling you ‘gifted’ him, which was how he saw it.

The illusion was shattered when the fingers in your hair tightened sharply, making you yelp at the sudden pain. Clark groaned as your pained sounds vibrated around his cock, and he held your head in place as he started sliding in and out quicker, fucking your face at a more demanding pace than you’d been able to handle yourself. You gagged every time his tip hit the back of your throat, and Clark was letting the grunts and moans fall from his lips freely as you gagged, whined, and swallowed desperately around him.

“I like your mouth so much better when I do this. Not all that other shit.” He groaned. “Ah, fuck, ‘m gonna—”

Before he could finish his sentence, or cum down your throat, Clark was yanking you off of him by your hair. You let out a surprised yelp, but he was already snatching you up and tossing you over his shoulder like you were weightless. His shiny, throbbing cock still hung out of his blue jeans as he carried you to the back of the apartment and to your shared bedroom. He bumped your head on the doorframe as he brought you inside and ignored the noise you made, before tossing you down on the bed.

You sat there numbly, defeated, face streaked with tears and drool and precum, as Clark shrugged off his clothes and bared his inhumanly defined body to you. The moonlight coming in through the massive bedroom window—which wasn’t covered by the curtains, so you were sure some news helicopter would get a real eyeful of the habit Clark had developed to avoid a break-up—hit his chest in a way that made his tanned skin glow. Your mouth watered a little at the sight of him, something you’d truly never get used to, as if you needed more spit on your fucking face.

Clark wordlessly snapped his fingers at you as he knelt on the bed, and you moved obediently to hook your fingers in the waistband of your shorts and tug them and your panties down in one motion. Clark finished the job when he got impatient and made quick work of your thin sleep shirt, leaving it in two pieces by the foot of the bed.

He moved you like a doll, on all fours in front of him, fingers digging into your skin as he positioned you the way he wanted. The scream you let out when he sheathed inside you in one smooth motion—too big to fully bottom out, instead abusing your cervix immediately and giving you zero time to adjust—was muffled by his giant hand shoving your face into his pillow. That scent invaded your nose again, familiar and musky and clean, and you focused on it to distract yourself from the sting, gritting your teeth as you waited to adjust. Whines and yelps fell from your lips and were swallowed by the plush cotton, Clark still palming the back of your head to keep it there.

His pace was selfish and unforgiving, and though he was sliding in and out of you with no rhythm and no regard for how you felt, that didn’t stop the way your body began going limp, your pained squeaks turning into desperate moans and whimpers. “Nghh—ah, ah,” and you were sure Clark could hear it, no matter how drowned out it was by the wet, explicit skin-on-skin noises that filled the room.

He let your face up for a minute, and you gasped for breath.

“Feelin’ better now that you’re all full? Y’know—you’re always goin’ on and on—y’say you’re ‘not happy’” he did a high-pitched voice, mocking you, and you keened in response as he kept pumping inside of you, “I think what you mean to say is empty. Cause you’re all smiles when you're like this—real happy, right?”

Your only response was a low whine, and he smacked your ass hard. You jolted and yelped from the pain, but couldn’t move away from the second loud slap he landed against your cheek. He was holding you too tightly in place.

“Answer me.” Clark prompted, though his amused tone concealed an underlying threat as his hand still hovered over the globe of your ass, which was already blooming with red.

“Nngh—yes.” You cried out, but he clucked his tongue at you, ramming into you particularly hard to punctuate it. Your eyes rolled back.

“Yes what?”

“H-happy—‘m happy, thank you.” Fresh tears rolled down your cheeks from the way he was punishing your cunt.

You could hear the smile in his voice when he said, “there ya go!” Though, of course, nothing nice. He never fucking said anything nice. Said you hadn’t earned it, no matter what you did.

“Aah, shit—” His hips stuttered a little bit, and he let out a breath through gritted teeth. You clenched around him harshly and he groaned in response, your own release was creeping up on you.

“I dunno if you—argh—deserve my cum. Not today. Y’just cause problems.”

The pleading whine you let out was high-pitched and pathetic, the pillow wet with your still-flowing tears and the idea of him pulling out right now was torturous to you. He could’ve threatened to kill you and it would’ve been a less horrific idea.

“Please… please, Clark, please.” You babbled like a broken record, borderline incoherent through the snot and tears and broken moans. He was drilling your pussy, which was still squeezing him like a vice, and he laughed at your begging.

“One day I’ll stop bein' so nice, y’know?” Was the last thing Clark said before he came inside of you with a low, delicious groan, hips slamming into yours harshly as he fucked you through his orgasm. Your whole body shook with the force of it, limp and spasming, though he held you up easily. Your own release washed over you, and you finally let out a desperate, ecstatic cry as you were rewarded with the white-hot pleasure. The two of you were one, actually together for a few moments as you both reveled in the pleasure, something you didn't get from him anymore. Something you desperately missed, and your face screwed up at the familiar feeling.

It was over as quickly as it happened.

After Clark pulled out, he had the decency to arrange your limbs into some semblance of a laying position for you, since you were far too gone to do it. Your whole body felt like syrup. He laid your head on your own pillow, which made you miss the familiar smell of his, and tugged the covers over you. You didn't think you could speak if you wanted to, or remember your own name—or think of anything but him.

Clark rolled back over, a satisfied smirk playing at the corners of his lips. He was perfectly composed, though your chest still heaved as you tried to catch your breath. Shakily, you took a few slow, deep ones. There was a fuzzy warmth tugging at the edges of your brain and your chest. Like there always was after he was done with you.

“I love you.” You mumbled as your eyes drifted shut.

Clark’s answer was matter-of-fact, so close to being neutral if it wasn’t for the smugness that crept in.

“I know.”

#thinking: clark kent ₊˚⊹♡#clark kent x you #clark kent x reader #clark kent smallville #clark kent #clark kent fic #clark kent drabble #clark kent x female reader #clark kent x y/n #clark kent x you smut #clark kent smut #clark kent imagine #red kryptonite clark kent #smallville fanfiction #clark kent x fem reader #superman smut #superman x reader

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chuluoyi · 2 years ago

Text

found you

- gojo satoru x reader

in a world in which he isn't the strongest and you're the high school's sweetheart, fate brought you to him once again

genre/warnings: reincarnation au, fluff/comfort

notes: a sequel to everything, but not anything

general masterlist

Everyone knows you. You hold most of the popular guys' hearts in your hand and either break them unknowingly or innocently, and despite that, they still don't have it in them to hate you.

And of course, the school's clown, Gojo Satoru, knows you too. He knows you by name and face, but never had the chance to really talk to you directly.

Why? First, he just simply didn't bother, and second, because there was already another girl plaguing him—the girl of his dreams.

And he didn't mean it figuratively... there's indeed a girl haunting him every once in a while in his dreams. A girl whose face was always obscured from his mind, whom he couldn't picture outside the realm of his slumber. Most of the time it was a happy dream, enough to bring a smile to his face every time he woke up.

But sometimes, it was the most disturbing nightmare.

There would be blood, the girl's empty eyes and still body, and him screaming out at her to not die. But then he couldn't do anything—or even see her open her eyes—as he fell into an abyss and awakened in pure terror.

Satoru was convinced someone held this massive grudge on him for pranking them that they resorted to curse him with voodoo or something. Why else would he keep having these dreams about the very same girl? It was clearly a work of something greater.

You were just not interested in romance. At least not with the guys who were after you up until now.

Or perhaps, because there was this guy in your dreams that captivated you so much that you chose to ditch those real guys for him. This imaginary person.

You were going insane. You were sure of it.

When you explained your affliction to your best friend Riko, she shot you a very bombastic side eye but tried to get you to describe the boy in your dreams regardless.

"He..." you faltered. His face was always blurry in your mind's eye. There were little things that you were sure of. "He has a really cute grin? Crinkling eyes? Like he just likes to smile?"

"Y/N, did you hear yourself?" Riko asked you incredulously. "Are you sure it isn't one of the guys in your anime shows? I'm telling you, watching them too much makes you delusional."

And so your girl talk with her ended up with her pushing you to try this hit dating app that guarantees you to go on at least one date due to its many fascinating features. You tried it on sheer whim and didn't even use your real name. You had been swiping right and left, before suddenly stopped when you saw whose profile popped up in your screen.

Gojo Satoru.

He was in your grade, and he was hard to miss. The school's biggest troublemaker who held the highest record of being sent to the disciplinary room. You never got to talk to him, and before today you were sure you wouldn't even look at him twice. So he plays these things too?

Your type definitely wasn't delinquents or attention-seekers. But why is it that the more you gaze at his profile picture—of him with this widest grin and that funny round glasses—the more you are intrigued?

In the end, you swiped right.

Just because he didn't bother to be in a serious relationship or had a girl who held onto him in his dreams, it didn't mean that he was shying away from real life girls. Satoru, as much of a headbanger as he was, was popular. Some girls were into him and he didn't exactly let his chances to fool around pass.

Girls with questionable virtues though. Suguru, whose popularity was as much as him just in the right way, would always say that his tastes were bad. Shoko would straight up mock him as a wimp, for not having the courage to go after the right girl, such as you.

And so when on one of his boring days that he played with a dating app he found a profile who swiped him right with a picture that was you but a name that wasn't, he was taken by surprise and twice as curious.

For one, he knew it was you. And hey, you were interested in him?

Satoru took up on that offer. Taking advantage of it as now he had the chance.

The two of you exchanged messages in the dating app. He'd tell you his thoughts or crack funny jokes, and you'd reply with these many laughing emojis and stickers.

Until one day, when your conversation went like this...

you: really? but girls must be lining up for you and you could've had your pick from them gojo: nah most of ‘em all boring you: what a red flag. after a while surely you'll find me boring too gojo: you? haha no. boring people don't do things you do you: ...what do you mean?

You and him had this texting thing going on for more than a month already, but you still weren't aware that he knew that it was you.

gojo: you're y/n

And he figured that it was time to go face-to-face. Because he wanted to get to know you beyond this phone screen because who knows what more you faked other than your name?

After he busted you not so gently, he demanded that you'd go on a date with him. You could only lament—you couldn't say that you hadn't seen this coming, with how poor your disguise was. Then again, did you even intend on hiding from him in the first place? Now that you thought about it, no. You were quite alright even when he knew who you were.

On the said day, just right after school ended, he went to the agreed place to take out out to a famous cafe in Shibuya. Only to find a guy from basketball team bowing his head before you.

"I really like you!" the guy declared with sincerity and steadfastly. He was tall, quite famous too. By all means, the two of you would've made a fine pair.

Satoru just frowned. Suddenly he didn't like the sight before him. This wasn't the first time he saw someone confessing their feelings for you—you were famous for that. And anyway, the two of you were just friends even though you've been texting for a long time now. He shouldn’t be upset.

"Ah," you let out a small sigh, your face lit with realization. Your voice was soft to Satoru's ears. Too soft. It resembled something someone had told him a long, long time ago.

"Don't ever leave me, okay?" "Of course."

That voice held the same softness as you did just now.

"I'm sorry," you proceeded to say, giving a look of sympathy to your admirer. "I'm very flattered, and I thank you for that. But I have no room for—"

"Y/N-chan!" Satoru didn't know where this immense impulse came from, he just went with it and it terribly spooked you. You jumped and whipped your head at him, eyes widened in total surprise.

But he merely sauntered towards you, only with his winning grin and nothing else, until he was right next to you, staring down the basketball guy with so much mirth in his blue eyes.

"Hello to you." Satoru addressed him, then put his arms on your shoulder, ignoring how you immediately stiffened. "Too bad, today she is going with me."

You couldn't believe what he just said and before you could rectify anything, the guy who just confessed to you bolted away in humiliation. You immediately untangled yourself from his arms, ready to be cross.

Or at least until you stared straight to his cerulean blue eyes.

And he too, saw his reflections in your orbs.

Suddenly everything didn't matter. You were lost into his eyes as he did yours. As the lines of dream and reality twisted and turned.

Suddenly, Satoru could put a face to the girl he'd been seeing on his nightly wonders. Her smile. Your smile.

And you could see the boy who loved you to death in him. The one who took your heart with him, and agreed to go with you for the second time.

All it took was gazing into these eyes of yours to make the connection. Everything seems right. So right.

As if the two of you are destined for this very moment. As if you’re given everything to understand why you should meet him now.

I found you.

As sudden as it came flowing to your brain—all these images that overlapped with your dreams—it ended. You came back to reality.

“You’re insufferable,” you hissed at Satoru, pushing away the fog in your mind.

“Am I?” a shit-eating grin formed at his glossy lips. “But it’s true, you’re on a date with me today.”

And so you went to your very first date. Satoru was every bit the same as the guy who messaged you on that dating app. He was outspoken, effortlessly funny, but still, a bit annoying here and there.

It was strange how comfortable you got around him, even though it was practically your first interaction.

Soon the number of dates increased. Two, three, four—and so on. Soon, everyone knows. Riko questioned you if you were sure to pick him out of all fishes you could’ve picked. In a way, you weren’t sure. It depends on this question: what are you to him anyway?

Meanwhile, on Satoru’s side, everyone either cheered for or envied him. Suguru patted him on his back, thinking he finally got the right senses. And he found himself to like you very much. He couldn’t go a day without thinking what you were doing or messing with you. You were kind, cute and pretty, and as he said it himself, he likes pretty things.

So it came as a surprise when you blurted out that burning question, sounding so unsure and overall out of your character, whereas you should already know how he put his heart on his sleeves for you to grab.

“Are you messing with me?” he gawked. But when he saw hurt crossed on your face, he was thrown into panic. “No—I mean…”

He exhaled sharply. He wasn’t used to this confessing thing at all because usually he didn’t need it.

“I really like you, okay? You do know that I like you, at the very least?”

With that, your relief was visibly palpable, like a sun that went out of its hiding. The hopeful gleam in your eyes—Gods, Satoru wanted to protect that forever.

“With that being said…” he wanted to look cool, he didn’t want to mess this up. And so he extended his hand to you, opening his palm.

“Would you go out with me?”

It was probably the first time you saw him so sincere. He was playful, flippant and overall just a menace, but when he asked you this, he looked as if he brought out his heart for you to see.

When you breathed out a “Yes”, and intertwined your fingers in his, he was over the moon, smothering you with kisses.

From that point onwards, your romance book was brimming with moments that sparkled, ranging from the sweet to the passionate. Each experience with him felt like a first, yet there was an inexplicable sense of familiarity, as if you had known him somewhere from a long time ago.

Those dreams of you and him from somewhere at another time brought the two of you together once again. With their purpose fulfilled, you no longer had to traverse the realm of dreams to be with the boy who had always provided you comfort with his presence. Likewise, he was no longer haunted by the recurring vision of you fading away before his eyes.

Because now, you and Gojo Satoru have a new life. A life where both of you can find happiness together.

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yesimwriting · 11 months ago

Text

An Act of Service

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x reader

Summary: Your father has loyally served the Iron Throne and royal family for many years. No one would ever assume the Grand Maester wanted more for his family's name until he has the opportunity to send his daughter to help treat the pain that's plagued Prince Aemond since the childhood injury that cost him his eye.

Warnings/info: canon deviations (maesters are vowed to celibacy and not allowed to have families bc of the exact political reasons this fic follows, but i really wanted to write this, so we're going to pretend that they can have kids), thinly veiled implications of reader's father wanting to "sell" his daughter out to a prince to aid his family's position

A/n I hate to be the part 2 girl but the ending set up a part 2 so well i may have to

----

It's systemic, the proportioning of herbs so familiar you barely need to glance away from the bronze mortar.

Your arm reaches forward, your eyes briefly darting away from the metal bowl and towards the neatly organized botanicals at your father's work station. You reach for dried petals, the remnants of a rose's remains crumbling slightly beneath your touch.

"Very well," the words are earnest, a rarity when it comes to your father's praise. "But do not get so comfortable you forget your measurements. These remedies may be creations that we feel, but they are also exact."

You nod once, allowing the petals to fall into the mortar before setting your hand against the work table. Your father's unofficial lessons are precarious, often based on his mood and defined by his meticulous nature. He did not achieve his position within the Red Keep through careless work.

Today, he seems content, his peace evident in the lightheartedness of his corrections. Days like this keep your world on its axis, the time with your father making you ever grateful for his position as well as your own. It is rare for a Maester's child to be allowed to stay near their father, let alone work within the same home as him. His place within the Red Keep allowed him the privilege of bringing you and your younger sister to work as royal maids after your mother's passing.

"Of course."

He plucks another petal from the jar, dropping it into the bowl with no sense of malice. You're glad for his patience, but in all honesty, you're grateful for his attention and lessons no matter his disposition.

As a woman, you may never be able to become a Maester or dedicate your life to the work that fascinates you, but his lessons still hold great value. You help your father heal others between your domestic labors within the Red Keep, and at times, you aid sick or injured members of the royal staff.

He nods approvingly, giving you the confidence to reach for the pestle. You begin to grind the combined herbs sitting inside the mortar.

Hurried footsteps echo from somewhere beyond your father's door. You hesitate, eyes darting towards the entrance. You are not barred from assisting your father with his labors, but many frown on the idea of a woman so close to such an important Maester's work.

The door is pushed open with a protesting groan from its tired hinges. The individual turns, revealing a too familiar uniform. A guard.

You blink, immediately turning your attention towards the unfinished herbal remedy in front of you.

"Grand Maester," the man's greeting is curt, uncertain as he glances in your direction. You busy yourself with blending your herbs. "It is the prince, once again pained by his missing eye."

That alone tells you all you need to know about the guard's hesitation to speak in front of you. You've never once spoken to Prince Aemond, but everyone knows of the childhood injury that cost him his eye. Some maids even claim that a great deal of current political turmoil stems from the mistake that occurred during youth driven roughhousing.

The recurring pain that has afflicted the prince since is a lesser known ailment. Over the years, your father has often been called to the prince's apartments at odd hours to clean and treat the prince's permanent injury, late at night or during the early hours of the morning, when the halls of the Red Keep are most empty.

Your father moves away from the work table and towards the shelf of prepared medications. "Did the prince describe the pain? An ache, soreness..."

"It is a burning pain," the guard begins, "The prince did not go into detail, but he did say his skin felt warm."

Your father stills. "That is not his usual ailment." He turns to face the guard. "I will need to cleanse the eye before the pain can be treated."

The guard is silent for such a long moment you find it in you to look away from the safety of the work table. "His highness...The prince has mandated that no Maesters be brought to him. He only wishes for me to bring him the salve you offered him last."

The Grand Maester begins to pace forward. "May I send his highness the girl?"

Your hand stalls too suddenly, the pestle striking the mortar's side. Surely, your father is referencing some--some other girl. A prince's maid that he is familiar with, or--

"My daughter has witnessed and aided me in my practices her entire life. She is well versed in the process of cleaning injuries and applying remedies in a way that avoids contamination." The guard is silent as his attention shifts onto you.

The guard finishes regarding you with no real flourish. He looks over at your father. "The prince's desires were clear, he does not want more people aware of the situation than necessary."

"You would have a prince of the realm apply a salve himself to an already agitated wound without first having it properly cleansed?" He begins to walk forward, approaching the guard with a confidence you've seen him wear before. "I am more than willing to serve him at a later hour, but his ailments do concern me, and time is a significant factor."

The guard says nothing as your father continues to take measured steps towards him. "She offers the prince the discretion of a maid and the skill of a Maester."

Warmth begins to burn its way up your neck. You had never been put into the position to work closely with the royal family, only ever seeing them from a distance. That does not mean you have not heard stories.

You're not a particularly shy or nervous maid, you understand your place and the importance of keeping silent. But the princes...gossip about them often permeates the maids' quarters. Prince Aegon and his entitlement, Prince Aemond and his anger. Why is your father attempting to throw you to the dragon's? Is he--is he that concerned about the prince's current state?

The guard's eyes briefly find yours. "She can't tell anyone."

Your lips part, unsure if the statement is meant for you or your father. Before you can think of anything to say, your father agrees on your behalf, "She is loyal to the crown and instruction. Rumors will not spread from my daughter's lips." There's a beat of silence, and then the guard's careful nod. "Very well. I will gather the necessary materials."

"I must return to my post, a maid will be sent to take her to the prince's apartments." With those final words, the guard begins to approach the door, glad to be done with his involvement on a change that may upset the prince.

Once the door shuts, and you are finally offered the privacy of your father's company alone, the dread you had been warding off burrows itself in your chest. "Father, why--why would you ask to send--"

"I have treated the prince for many years, more than other Maesters within the Red Keep because of his desire for privacy, discretion." Your father's attention returns to the already prepared remedies. He steals a small jar from its place, setting it on the work table. "You are well trained, and no one will assume you are there to treat the prince."

He opens a drawer of bandages. "You also have a kind disposition, and a patience with the injured that even the most experienced Maester would envy. The prince's exterior may be hardened, but I remember him as a sensitive child."

The reminder of his childhood wedges itself into your chest, distracting you from your own fears long enough for you to feel something akin to compassion. Forever suffering due to an injury inflicted by the brashness of childhood anger.

Your father sets the bandages next to the salve. He then reaches for a cleaning ointment you are familiar with, placing it on the work table as well. Now satisfied with his collected materials, his attention finally finds you.

He approaches you slowly, a fondness not often seen pooling in his eyes. If this is a way of bringing your father pride, perhaps this task will not be as dreadful as it seems. "You have matured before my very eyes, growing into your mother's heart and beauty."

Your father extends an arm, his palm coming to brush against your cheek. The gesture is easing, a display of affection he has rarely offered you since your mother's passing. His fingers settle against your hairline, his nails carefully combing a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

"If you are to walk through the halls of the Red Keep, your hair should not flow as freely as a child's." The comment digs at you in a way you do not comprehend. When no worthy reaction comes to mind, you nod.

He steps back, attention returning to the supplies laid out on the work table. "Be careful, take your time checking the prince for infection and other sources of irritation. See to his needs, you are a good, kind girl. I am sure you will find a way to offer the prince comfort."

You swallow, unease settling in your stomach once again. With that, your father turns away from you.

----

The residential halls of the red keep are vast, with never ending turns and stairwells that come together to form a sort of labyrinth. Despite your lack of familiarity with the prince's maid that came to find you, you are grateful for her guidance.

She eyed you and the laundry basket disguising your medical supplies skeptically, but made no attempts to question you as she led you through the castle. Maids that are tasked with the direct care of the royal family tend to be familiar with the other staff members that work closely with the nobles. This woman has already recognized you as an oddity, a stray in routine.

If she had seemed less hesitant to be around you, you would have liked to ask her for her name, and to perhaps find a sense of normalcy through common ground. Her rejection and pointed distance has forced you to try to find a sense of peace through your surroundings.

You've rarely found reasons to wander through this part of the castle, the beauty of it serving as a way of distracting your racing thoughts.

Your guide stalls in front of a large set of doors. "These are the prince's apartments." She pushes open the doors, allowing you to enter before her. "The prince is resting in the room behind the seating area."

Your eyes land on the wooden door behind the small couch. One misstep in that room and things could very well be over for you and your family.

"Will you be able to find your way back?" The question is small, almost hesitant. You're sure she was tasked with getting you to and from the prince's apartments, but there's something about her stance that feels flighty. She does not want to enter the room the prince is resting in.

You have no way of knowing how Aemond reacts to treatments or his own pain, but if he fears the court gossiping about ailments enough to refuse a visit from a Maester, you doubt he takes well to maids witnessing his vulnerability.

"Yes," an act of mercy for you both, "Thank you for bringing me here, but I am certain I can make it back on my own."

She lets out a breath, nodding once. "Then I will return to my usual duties."

Considering that her usual duties revolve around Aemond, there's a good chance she's simply accepting the opportunity to excuse herself. You don't mind, glad for the excuse to not draw attention to what you're here for. She leaves you without another word.

You approach the door pointed out to you, firmly rapping your knuckles against the wooden surface once. A flat, "enter" provides you the strength to push open the door.

The details of the room are more intriguing than you can afford them to be, the intricate patterns on his walls and the ornate carvings etched into his bed frame so enticing a part of you nearly forgets of the prince.

You blink, forcing yourself to focus in an attempt to project the maturity your father had seen in you when he recommended you for this task.

You step further into the room, your eyes landing on the bed. There he is, head resting against the pillow, majority of his body covered by plush bedding.

Your father has only ever felt honored to care for members of the royal family, no matter Prince Aemond's sentiments, you're sure you'll feel something similar. "My prince?"

His head turns, the movement sluggish. "You...Who are you?" The words are more labored than they are defensive. That is not enough to ease the dread in your chest.

You exhale carefully, "The Maester--the Grand Maester sent me." You remain near the doorway, your hold on the laundry basket tightening. "I have a salve for your ailments."

He lifts his head further, his forearm pressing into the mattress. This new angle allows you to see the entirety of his features, the sharp slope of his jaw, the set of his lips...the jagged scar that cuts across porcelain skin. He regards you with an openness that leaves you without words.

The scar that marks him does not dull the beauty of his well sculpted features. Seeing him like this, studying him and what the loss of his eye has taken from him leaves your face warm, as if you've been caught searching for something not meant for you. You've never heard of a maid that's seen him without his sapphire eye.

"Alright." The response feels significantly less hostile than he was a moment before. "Leave it at my bedside table."

You walk forward carefully, mind begging you to think of a way to bring up why your father sent you here. "My pri--"

"You did not answer my question." The authority in his statement doesn't feel like an accusation. When you remain silent, he continues. "You are not my usual maid, the one who is sent to retrieve items from the Maester."

"No," you agree, "The Maester suggested that I bring you your remedy because he found the description of your pain slightly worrisome. He wanted to abide by your wishes to not be visited by a Maester while also assuring that your injury was properly cleansed before being treated." After a beat of no response, unease burrows itself further into your chest. "I can leave you, if you'd pref--"

He turns his head to better look at you, strands of silver hair falling past his shoulder. "What could possibly qualify you to cleanse a wound?"

The question, though delivered sharply, is a fair one. "The Grand Maester, my father..." If the revelation intrigues him in any way, he gives no indication of it. "Has had me assist him with his duties nearly my entire life. I have been trained in basic care and am confident in my ability to properly cleanse a wound."

Prince Aemond is silent for a moment, watching you with an all consuming focus. You've heard stories of his intensity, of his seriousness. The prince pushes himself to sit up fully. "Very well. The maid before you left clean water and rags at my bedside."

Your attention shifts to his nightstand, a small bucket and wash cloth waiting on the hardwood surface. You nod, digging through the clean sheets of your basket until you find the remedies and bandages your father had picked out for you. You lay out your supplies before looking over at the prince.

He has always seemed tall to you, but with him sitting in his bed, you cannot think of a proper way to lean over him to reach his eye while standing. You turn your head, eyes landing on a small desk and chair tucked into a corner. "My lord, would you mind if I..." You gesture towards the chair.

"Do as you need."

You nod in acknowledgement of his permission before moving the chair to his bedside. You dip the soft rag into the water before sitting. The proximity of your new position is oddly disorientating. Small Folk may not be held to the same pious standards as noble born women, but your father has raised you with certain expectations and regulations. With the exception of family, you doubt you've ever been this close to a man.

You lift the rag, but you cannot bring yourself to press it against his skin. "May I?"

He straightens. "Yes."

Even with that, you cannot will yourself to begin the cleaning process. Your father has always been careful when it comes to treating others, following every rule no matter how minor the injury. "My father has taught me to feel the area bordering the wound before cleaning it to make sure the extent of the injury is understood. However, I know this is an older wound, so if you'd prefer for me to only clea--"

"You may do as your father instructed. I am accustomed to the prodding." Sympathy briefly jabs at you. This is something he's experienced for over half his life.

You nod before lifting your free hand, fingertips gently brushing against his cheek. His skin is warm, perhaps a little warmer than a person should be. Your fingers shift forward gingerly, following the path of his scar. The closer you get to his eye, the warmer his skin feels.

"You don't look like him."

The comment pulls you out of your analysis. "Pardon me?"

"Your father," he tries again, "You don't look like him."

If his tone had been any less soft, you might have interpreted the observation as an accusation. "Oh, no." Your touch continues its path across his features. "Actually, I've often been told I take after my mother."

The skin around his eyebrow feels different than the rest of his injury, puffier, as if beginning to swell. Odd. "Does she work in the Red Keep as well?"

His curiosity is jarring, but not unwelcome. Having an excuse to speak makes focusing on such a personal task seem less invasive. "She did..." You blink in an attempt to reduce the impact of thoughts of what happened to your mother. You're doing well, you cannot allow an old grief to ruin everything. "Before she passed."

Prince Aemond hums once, the sound giving no indication of anything. Pleased with your preliminary analysis, you let your hand fall away from him. You turn to once again dampen the cloth held between your fingers.

"What happened?" The question is void of both empathy and brutal curiosity.

You bring the cloth to the side of the Prince's face. "She died..." Your only defense against his gaze is to focus on the irritated skin near his eyelid. Such swelling on such an old wound cannot be typical. "Bringing my sister into the world."

He falls silent again, allowing you to concentrate on dabbing the washcloth against his cheek. "I'm sorry."

Heat begins to burn its way up your chest, the way it always does when your mind dwells on the loss of your mother for too long. "I appreciate your sympathies, my prince."

Water beads against his skin, a single droplet beginning to drip downwards. Your hand stretches forward on instinct, thumb dragging against the hollow of his cheek to wipe away the water.

You do not realize your error until it is much too late. While wiping away the excess water dripping down the skin of an equal is expected, to do so to a prince without so much as asking first implies a familiarness that you are not entitled to.

"My lord, I apologize--there was water--" You stumble through your explanation while pulling your hand back.

Aemond extends his arm, long fingers latching themselves onto your wrist. His touch, though sudden, is far from harsh. You cannot manage to take in a full breath. "There is no need for apologies." He does not release you until you nod.

You return to cleaning his wound, this time making sure to be aware of your instinctual movements. The flesh above what once was his eyelid is jarringly hot. What would your father do? He'd--he'd examine the irritated area.

You shift towards him, so close you can make out individual strands of his silver hair. Your mind works at keeping your breaths even. There is a small area of his skin that's more swollen than the rest. At the center of the swelling, there's a thin line that seems to extend beneath his brow bone and into the space once occupied by his eye. As gently as you can manage, you lift the cloth to the space above his eyelid. He winces.

"I'm sorry." You're immediately pulling back, your spine pressing against your seat. "Are you hurt?"

Aemond's eye flits away from the wall in front of him and onto you. His lips are pressed together, his expression incredibly stoic. "No." The lie is a fragile thing that cannot matter. You saw him flinch. "If anything, you have been more thoughtful than most."

There's a tentative softness laced through the syllables, a hesitance that does not suit him. His careful assurance feels heavy, the pressure of it grounding you. In certain contexts, you can see how the strength of his personality could be perceived as violence, but there's something else to this quality...an intensity that can also apply to good things.

"I'm glad you feel that way." The nail of your thumb digs into the wash cloth. "I--I think I know why your eye has been troubling you, my prince."

His eyebrows draw together, expression coming dangerously close to displaying curiosity. "Why?"

"The skin just above your eye is slightly swollen and more irritated than the rest of your injury. When I examined the swelling more closely, I noticed a scratch." You pause, thinking through your wording. "It's small, but seems to be irritating the scarring around your original injury. You should have an ointment applied with your usual salve to ward off infection for the next few days."

You can't interpret the silence that follows. His expression morphs into something heavy. "A scratch?"

"It is nothing to be concerned about, my prince." The source of his pain is small, if he is careful, there should be no risk of infection or long term consequence. "Truly, the scrape is no wider than..." You glance around the room, looking for something to estimate the size of his injury. Your eyes fall to the hand on your lap. You lift your arm, holding your palm out between the two of you. "The width of my smallest finger."

Aemond lifts his own hand, his fingers bending around around yours. You let him move your arm forward. He studies your pinky before dragging his thumb against your knuckles. The gesture is so comfortable you have to work at not pulling away. He lets out a quiet breath.

"My prince?"

Aemond's hold on you tightens. "Such a dismissible ailment, and I am left defenseless."

Oh--had he taken your attempts at easing him as an insult? His current wound may be small, but skin so marred is easily agitated, easily made sick. "I did not mean it that way." The earnestness of your own voice should startle you. "Your pain is no dismissible thing, the extent of your original injury is brutal enough, I cannot imagine how it feels for it to be agitated."

The words tumble past your lips so quickly, you are not given a chance to think through them. It is never a good idea to express opinions in front of the nobles. "I apologize for over stepping, my lord."

"I told you," his thumb moves against your knuckles once more, "There is no need to apologize."

You nod, still not feeling completely certain. "You should feel much better after the remedies take. The swelling will likely begin to go down before day's end."

His focus remains on your hand. Aemond releases you slowly, his fingers dragging against your skin as he lets go. A part of you is glad for the excuse to return to the familiarity of your tasks.

You open the ointment, fingers gathering a generous amount before returning to Aemond's wound. "Where do you usually work?"

"Often with my father, preparing remedies and organizing herbs and other supplies." You spread the product onto his skin carefully, your touch as light as you can manage. "When I'm not doing that, I assist the other maids, usually with the laundry and in the kitchen."

He nods absentmindedly. You straighten as you finish applying the salve. You wipe your hands onto the discarded washcloth before unscrewing the jar containing the salve.

Aemond is still as you apply the salve onto irritated skin. This time, as your fingers trail against his skin, you can feel Aemond's gaze focusing on you. You work quickly, focusing your distribution of the product onto the cut beneath his brow bone.

Finishing is more bittersweet than you expected it to be. You're glad to know that you've done what's been asked of you, to know that you've done nothing to offend the prince. However, some small part of you is reluctant to leave.

You reach for the cloth, dampening the fabric before wiping your hands clean once more. "The medications should begin to alleviate your pain soon." You twist the rag between your fingers. "Is there anything else you need, my prince?"

He watches you for a moment. "Only your name."

Unease lunges at your chest, nearly making your heart skin a beat. It is quite rare for a noble to ask for a servant's name, especially if the servant does not regularly see to their needs. When Aemond continues to watch you expectantly, you offer him your name.

He tries your name on his own lips, repeating it slowly. Unsure of what the proper response would be, you briefly dip your chin downwards in a subtle nod.

His lips part. You straighten, preparing for the appropriate dismissal. "Sit with me a little longer." The phrasing is gentle, but it feels far from a question. "Conversation would be a decent distraction."

You wring the washcloth further. Cautionary tales of low borns who found themselves overly comfortable spending time with the royal family have been recited to you as often as traditional bedtime stories. However, there is nothing inherently wrong with making polite conversation if it is asked of you. Either way, the dangers do not matter. It'd be a fool's error to directly deny the prince.

"Of course, my prince."

The immediate silence that follows tangles your stomach. Aemond has asked you for conversation as a way to distract himself from his pain and you have nothing worth saying to a prince. You lift your head, glancing around the room. Your observations are in vain, what common ground could you both possibly have?

Your eyes land on his desk. There are a few books stacked neatly on the wooden surface, one with a familiar title written on its spine. "Are you reading The History of the Conquerors?" The question feels too abrupt without a clarification, "I finished the final volume less than a fortnight ago, my lord."

Aemond studies you so openly you almost convince yourself you've misspoken. "You read?"

Despite the politeness of his tone, his true question is easy to assume. A majority of maids and other royal attendants can only read certain words, being taught just enough to get through their day to day lives. Your father had gone out of his way to teach you to read fully. He originally taught you to read to make it easier for you to understand texts detailing remedies and health conditions, but you quickly developed a passion for any text he could bring you.

"Yes, my father taught me." You smooth the washcloth over your lap. "Originally, he wanted me to be able to read about treatments and diseases, and now he is forever cursed to find me new reading material." As soon as the words are out, you're immediately mentally cursing yourself for your casualness. "I apologize, my prince, that was a...joke."

He shifts, his hands coming to rest on his lap. "I told you not to apologize." The correction leaves an uncomfortable heat clawing its way up your chest. Your nails dig into the rag. Aemond lets out a breath. "And you do not have to trouble yourself with proper addresses."

That's--You know for a fact that no maids in the Red Keep have ever spoken of a noble dismissing the need for formal addresses. If it happens, it's something kept secret. Not even your father, who has known and treated the prince since he was child, addresses him casually.

You squeeze the wash cloth, the fabric dampening your palm. "Alright." The word sits there, floating aimlessly without his title to guide it.

Aemond nods before allowing his attention to shift towards the books on his desk. "Did you enjoy the book?"

"Yes." At least this is a topic you feel capable of speaking on. "The descriptions of the seven kingdoms before they were united together were interesting, I haven't found many historical accounts that go that far back."

He takes a moment to digest your response. "It is a detailed account, but at times the writing seems to overly rely on the author's perspective."

"To me, that felt intentional." The excuse to debate narration is more welcomed than it should be. "The author is only taking the time to recount these events because of his personal investments in the conflict. The constant references to his own position felt like an attempt to get ahead of any accusations of bias."

Aemond sits up a little straighter, one of his hands coming to rest on the side of his bed. "That's a fair interpretation, though if that's the assumption we're reading under, it is a poor attempt at denoting political bias when compared to The Recounting of the Dornish Wars."

The Recounting of the Dornish Wars is a relatively popular account, your father had no trouble finding you the first and third volume. The second volume seems to be more of a rarity, something no one in your world has been able to track down yet.

"That's a good point, but the author of that account was in a completely different situation." You fold the towel in half. "It's one of my favorite accounts, even without the context of the second volume, the depiction of the conflict is so thorough one can still understand all the dynamics that came into play."

Aemond taps his fingers against the comforter, the rhythm slow but steady. "Without the second volume?"

"I've yet to track it down, but I've read the first and final installments." The admission feels small, almost uncertain. You move past it quickly, hands fidgeting with the wash cloth on your lap as you continue, "What did you think of the final act? I liked the sharpness of the ending, but I can also see how the suddenness could come off as inconclusive."

His hands move back to his lap. "I enjoyed it. I found the ending's sharpness an accurate depiction of a dragon's strength."

Right. To him, the historical accounts and enthralling tales are more than just stories. They're a part of him, familial legacies he is expected to continue.

A part of working within the Red Keep is dismissing any curiosities you may have regarding what is left of Old Valyria. The Small Folk may think of the dragons, may even discuss them in private, but they do not ask their riders about them.

This is the danger of losing certain formalities, lines begin to blur. You squeeze your hands together before asking, "Really?"

The corner of his mouth pulls itself upwards. Aemond presses the heel of his palm into the mattress as he shifts. "Even the smallest dragons are more fearsome than you can imagine." He angles himself towards you, morphing the remaining distance between the two of you into something inconsequential. "Each of them capable of a destruction that could devastate entire armies."

You're more drawn in than you should be. There's very little you can offer in return. To the Small Folk, the dragons are closer to an ideology than something to be known. Your curiosity combines uneasily with the acute awareness of his proximity. You rest your chin against your elbow. "Your dragon is...Vhagar? The same one from the History of the Conquerors?"

His chin dips forward, making the gentle curve of his mouth impossible to ignore. The prince's sole eye remains on you as it is dragged downwards, the pace of his analysis so unhurried you can feel each moment of it. Bearing the weight of Aemond's full focus is no small feat.

"Vhagar was once ridden by Queen Visenya, who used her size and strength to help unite Westeros." His voice is low, giving the reminder of what is connected to him through blood the reverence it deserves. He shifts even closer, the warmth of his breath now a tangible force against your skin. "And now she is mine."

Heat claws at your skin. You feel your lips part, but there is no waiting response. Before you can string together a coherent set of words, the familiar echoing of footsteps brings you back to the world outside of Prince Aemond.

Your spine straightens on its own accord, the entirety of your back pressing against the seat. Your fingers find the wash cloth again, nails digging into the fabric as if attempting to make up for the time the fabric spent abandoned on your lap.

There's a soft knock agaisnt his door, one Aemond only halfheartedly acknowledges with a blank "enter". He does not move until the door begins to creak open, and even then his new positioning is subtle, more of a turn of his head than an actual attempt to create distance between the two of you.

A maid, the same woman who first led you through the twisting halls of the Red Keep, is standing in the doorway. Her gaze briefly finds you before settling onto the prince. "My Prince, the Queen wishes to meet with you in the great hall before supper."

Aemond is quiet for a moment. You cannot will yourself to look away from the doorway to read his expression in an attempt to understand the silence. "Alright, tell my mother I will be there in a moment."

The maid nods. "Of course, my prince." Her eyes fall to you once more, the corners of her mouth tugging downwards before she shuts the door.

You maintain your posture as silence falls over the two of you. He studies you with the same openness that's characterized most of this interaction. An odd pang of some somber feeling you can't quite place strikes at somewhere deep inside your bones. "Do you need anything else before you meet with the queen?"

He presses his lips together before responding, "There is a book at the end of my desk that I've been meaning to return to the library."

You nod, a part of you relieved to be given such an understandable task. You stand, arms reaching for the abandoned laundry basket before you've fully straightened. "Of course." You adjust the basket onto your hip before letting your attention fall to the supplies still on his nightstand. "I'll leave the supplies here so that you can reapply the ointment and salve before bed."

You step back, eyes falling to the desk chair. One arm falls away from the basket, fingers coming to grasp the seat's wooden spine. "You may leave it."

The instruction is strange, but you don't think much about releasing the chair. "Of course." You move a few paces back before looking over at him again. Much to your dismay, the newfound distance does not rid your mind of the warmth of his breath against your skin. "If you'd like, I can tell my father that you'd like him to visit you tonight to check on your eye."

"No," his tone is decisive, "I trust your work." An unexpected pride swells in your chest at his certainty. Aemond sits fully, his legs moving out from under his bedding and onto the floor. "In fact, I'd like you to return tonight to check on my recovery."

Tonight. Your mind leaves you with no response. It is one thing to be sent to treat the prince when you are the only option for him to maintain the privacy he desires, but to come to his apartments at the hours you've heard of your father being called during, when the world is quiet and all the well behaved are already in bed.

You force those thoughts to stall. Aemond is a prince, and this is only an act of service. This is not a source of impropriety. "Of course, I'll be here when you call."

His acceptance of your compliance serves as a dismissal. You turn towards his desk, your eyes scanning the neatly organized items before finding the sole book waiting at the surface's edge. A copy of the second volume of The Recounting of the Dornish Wars.

This cannot be more than mere coincidence. You blink, throat a little drier than it was a moment ago. You're careful as you pick the novel, your hand supporting the book's spine. "This--"

"The library is not expecting it back for some time, but I believe it is best to keep things orderly." His voice remains neutral, but the set of his mouth, the upturn of his lips is much too knowing to not imply more.

He has directed you to a copy of the book you've been searching for that no one will think to look for for some time. The gesture settles against you, squeezing your chest in a way that makes it difficult to keep breathing. You allow yourself to grin openly as your gaze shifts between the prince and the book in your hand. "I agree, my prince."

The title falls from your lips before you can prevent it. You had been doing so well at disregarding titles...Perhaps it had been an act of fate, or some desperate attempt of your subconscious to remind you that any imaginary kinship your mind has created while treating him needs to be forever abandoned at his apartment's threshold.

His expression morphs into something unreadable. Instead of reminding you of what he had told you about titles, he says, "Aemond." The suddenness of his name throws you. "When we are alone, I'd prefer it if you called me Aemond."

Warmth burrows itself in your chest. If you thought any of the casualness the prince had shown you throughout your time here was dismissible, this is the opposite of that. A nail in a coffin you do not understand.

Still, you nod, fingers tightening around the book as you respond, "Then...I agree, Aemond."

A sharp nervousness digs into your chest, taking control of your limbs as you turn away. You leave his room without another word, a maid's basket on your hip and the prince's book in your hand.

----

a/n if you want to see the reader come back to aemond's room later pls lmk bc i think a part 2 would be fun :)

#hotd #hotd x reader #house of the dragon #house of the dragon x reader #aemond #aemond targareyn x you #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond one eye #aemond one eye x reader #game of thrones x reader #got #got x reader

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yanderes-galore · 3 months ago

Text

Another self indulgent fic! Yippee!!!

Pale Ailment

Yandere! Awakened! Dark Cacao Cookie Short

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Manipulation, Isolation, Overprotective behavior, Fear of loss, Pre-established relationship, Paranoia, Angst, Dubious relationship.

Your husband hadn't come back from Beast-Yeast the same since encountering the Beast there.

It all started when you had fallen ill. A white dust had coasted through the snow of the Dark Cacao Kingdom, afflicting many of its citizens. Unfortunately for the king, Dark Cacao...

His betrothed had also come down with the illness.

You had developed a nasty cough that Dark Cacao had noticed when you woke up one morning. Yet as the hours passed, it was said many other citizens had similar conditions. Except... They were quickly turning to flour.

It wasn't long after before you were transferred and isolated from Dark Cacao. The king was only allowed to see you from afar. Yet even at the distance he was at... your complexion was turning paler by the minute.

Around this time Dark Cacao had decided to set off to Beast-Yeast, suspecting one of the Beasts Pure Vanilla spoke of was the cause of the illness. It took a long time to tear himself away from your weakened form.... But he managed to pull away eventually.

Even when he explored Beast-Yeast and came across that Ivory Pagoda, Dark Cacao kept his beloved in mind. Even when he witnessed his soldiers turn to flour in front of him, he thought of you. He needed to get home to you...!

He refused to accept the fact you'd turn to flour, even when Mystic Flour herself tried to tell him flour was a better fate for you.

"Do you not see what your 'affections' will do to them?" The Beast asks coldly before him, seeing him fight her even now.

"You will constrict them, cage them even more than the dough that makes them up, I will set them free... Yet you will treat them like they are to be owned in your kingdom."

"You know nothing, Beast—!" Dark Cacao growls in response, the sword in his hands feeling heavy. "Do not speak of my beloved like you know them—!"

"You are an oblivious and pathetic cookie... Do you think they're happy by your side? Do you think keeping them behind your kingdom's walls will be good for them? You are a fool...."

Dark Cacao tried not to take the Beast's words to heart. He knew that she was saying this to hurt him. Why else would she give him such horrid visions of the world turning to flour...?

Yet... There was some truth to her words that he didn't seem to want to comprehend. Dark Cacao really did keep you in the kingdom since marrying you. He really did limit your freedom to within the snowy walls.

It's dangerous was always his reasoning.

At first it was just licorice monsters. Yet now Dark Cacao had to consider the Beasts that lurked in these unknown lands. Dark Cacao has always been obsessed with protection... with complete and utter security....

But he refuses to see the error of his thinking.

With enough determination and persistence, Dark Cacao managed to confront the Beast who craved his Soul Jam. He managed to awaken his powers, beat the Beast back, and meet with his companions once again. Which meant, if he could see them again...

You should be alive and well... His precious darling....

By the time you were awake and sat up in your bed, there was news that the king was back in the kingdom. It wasn't long before heavy footsteps entered the castle and approached your quarters. You almost didn't recognize him at first...

His appearance made him look like a different man...

His previous behaviors grew worse, however....

"My love... You know I can't lose you...."

His words are uncharacteristically vulnerable. Perhaps the Beast was right in a way. Dark Cacao can't look past his need to keep you out of harm's way...

Even if it makes you unhappy.

Since the day you caught the 'pale ailment', your husband has rarely left your side. He'd stay in your shared bedroom, dark purple eyes scanning your form as though you'd turn to flour before him. The Beast's words echo in his head... saying you'd be happier away from this place.

He clenches his gloved hands, despising the thought. This fortress of chocolate and snow was meant to be your sanctuary. A domain for you both to rule.

You must be happy with him....

You always look at him in concern. Despite him having more control over himself and his new outfit, he still holds onto old habits. If not worse than before.

The Beast's words really have gotten to him....

You always ask for him to take you out of the castle. You wish to greet your subjects, to wander the snowy plains. You want at least a little bit of freedom... The freedom Dark Cacao had given you before you were ill.

Your husband merely shakes his head, muttering about unforeseen threats. He tells you the Beast who made you sick was still out there. He told you he still needs to hunt her down....

Until then, you must be kept in his fortress of solitude. He apologizes, telling you that you'll see the snow of your home up close when the danger passes. He asks for your trust, even when he doesn't deserve it.

"I love you..." He says with a hint of desperation, a need for you to accept him...

"I know...." Is all you can bring yourself to say, knowing his fears are only getting worse.

You agree to his demands every time. He no longer knows if it's out of love or tolerance. He doesn't care right now, either.

When you quietly comply with him, your husband pulls you into his arms. He holds you to his chest as he murmurs promises to you. He promises he'll let you outside again soon... He promises you'll be free again when the Beast is either slain or sealed.

You have no clue when that will be... or if he'll even follow through with it.

Instead, you allow him to hold you close. You allow him to kiss your head and lips, to mutter to himself about how much he adores you. Part of you does love him... the other part yearns to see something other than these blackened halls.

Your freedom wasn't a sacrifice you wanted to make for the sake of your husband. Yet part of you guessed you had no choice when he gave you the offer of betrothal. You love him...

But ever since you got sick, he's gotten worse with his obsession over safety.

You didn't see what he went through... but you can't help your mind from thinking...

You wonder what matters more to him...

Your happiness and the integrity of your marriage...

Or getting revenge because the world threatens your safety and shatters his fantasies of your shared fortress of solitude.

#yandere cookie run #yandere cookie run kingdom #yandere cookie run x reader #yandere dark cacao cookie #yandere awakened dark cacao cookie

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chris-prank · 5 months ago

Note

Hello

I really like your Atlas and your Jacce

Can you tell me how they would react/take care of Reader if they woke up/showed up for service one day and Reader was sick and unable to play?

Hi to you fellow yandere enjoyers! 😆 I hope my answer was worth the wait!

The only thing I could think about for “service” was like servicing for spicy time? I’m really sorry if that’s not what you meant! (Sometimes my english is no englishing)

CW: Suggestive content and dubious consent

･*:.｡..｡.:*･*:.｡..｡.:*･

Jacce crawled under the covers, ready to put his mouth to good use. But as he was pulling on the rim of your underwear, his action was put on halt by a hoarse voice muffled by the piece of fabric over him. Then a light shined onto his face, making his eyes squint. Once his sight adjusted and you came into view, the man could clearly see the sickly color of your skin.

“I got sick overnight…” A well placed cough followed suit, proving your point.

Jacce gave you an apologetic frown, “I can still do it i-if you want! I don’t care about getting sick if it’s your germs.” As he said it he pressed a chaste kiss against your inner thighs and kept up eye contact.

You grimaced at his words and pushed his head away from between your legs. The man whined at the sudden physical rejection, giving you puppy eyes. How could he say something so cute yet disgusting at the same time?!

“You shouldn’t say stuff like that! Plus I’m not in the mood anymore.” You huffed.

“S-sorry!”

And so, for the rest of the day, you were doted on by your lover, from breakfast in bed to going out to buy all the medicines you needed. Despite your warnings earlier, it still didn’t stop Jacce from stealing you quick kisses every now and then.

Who could have guessed that he got sick three days later.

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

Atlas’s had everything prepared to a tee. Rose petals leading to your bedroom, a cute revealing outfit on his back, candles to set the mood, etc. Sure you didn’t ask for all of that, but he wanted to make it a memorable night for you. He was showing the extent of his love for you after all. Human courtship was supposed to be this extra… right?

Before the sound of a fist knocking at the door could be heard, the android was already set in position, his sensors having heard your footsteps already from an inhuman distance. He had knelt down, his pale hands resting on each of his exposed thighs. He could feel a slight glitch of anticipation pass through his vision as the door creaked open. Atlas readied himself for your surprise and excited reaction.

As you saw the display before you, you were indeed surprised at first, but it followed suit with a face full of guilt.

“Oh Atlas… ”

Your partner rose up in an instant, grabbing your wrist and bringing his other hand to your forehead. In truth, he didn’t have to do all that, since he had a functionality that allowed him to know the living organism’s body temperature. He still did it every time anyway because it made him feel closer to you. He swore that this morning your metabolism seemed fine and yet. He felt as if he should have been more efficient to prevent your health from ending up in this state. Human afflictions were such an unpredictable thing and he hated it.

“Don’t mind the setup, I’ll take down everything.” He swiftly said.

As he backed away, Atlas could feel a warm overheating feeling all over his face and chest, but paid it no mind, surely it was just a reaction from his program to the sudden change of objective. He blew out all the candles laying around and collected them in the process. The heat seemed to spread further across his cheeks as he glanced down at his skimpy clothes only to be met with your gaze once he lifted his head up.

“I’ll go change if I make you uncomfort—“

You grinned before he could finish.

“It’s not because I’m sick that I can’t enjoy a beautiful view. Come and relax with me, you can always clean up later, pretty boy.”

･*:.｡..｡.:*･*:.｡..｡.:*･

I really hope this was what you were expecting!

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withrafayel · 1 month ago

Text

waves.

pairing: zayne x reader genre/warnings: mild angst, hurt/comfort if you squint i guess?? word count: 0.6k note: yay my first lads piece after weeks of debating whether or not i should start posting for lads. pretty self-indulgent bc i am skraight up going through a shitty time lmao

as always, i’d appreciate any thoughts or comments you may have, and please drop a like and/or reblog if you enjoy reading ♡

MASTERLIST / KO-FI

Despite what Zayne does for a living, the most rewarding part of his day is always coming home to you.

Maybe it shouldn’t be, and maybe it’s not something he should admit out loud to anyone at the hospital, but he can’t lie. It’s the truth after all.

Today was a long day, such as most days are for him.

11:48PM, it’s not unusual for him to stroll into a quiet and darkened apartment, accompanied only by the gentle whirring of the refrigerator and the faraway sound of cars passing by the adjacent street. It’s peaceful and calm, and it’s exactly what he needs when he knows that just a few steps away, hidden by a closed bedroom door is you, the only safe haven he's ever known.

On most days, you’d either already be asleep by now, or sleepily watching videos on your phone while waiting for Zayne to come home so you could kiss him goodnight. It’s routine, it’s how he expects to find you.

But instead, tonight he finds himself frozen outside your shared bedroom, a hand hovering over the door handle when he hears you shuffling inside. Tissues being pulled from their designated box on your nightstand. Sniffles and choked out sobs, like it’s impossible for you to hold back anymore.

The ache blooms instantaneously, just listening to you on the other side of the door. Knowing that you’re crying all alone in the dead of night, that he’s part of the reason why it’s come to this — because you don’t want him to have to shoulder your burdens too.

So you hold onto them by yourself, bearing the weight alone until it becomes to colossal to hold.

Zayne supposes you’re similar in that way — both too stubborn to share your troubles with the other. It’s how he knows that if he were to walk in right now, you’d be embarrassed thinking you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t. Hastily wiping away your tears and pretending that everything is fine for his sake, only for the same affliction to come bubbling up to the surface another day.

He stays rooted to the spot, simply waiting. Sometimes, these are the motions that you have to go through, a cleanse of sorts so that you can start anew again.

But even then, it hurts him too, merely listening to how it hurts you. The sharp intakes of breath between uncontrollable sobs, the crumpling of tissues, some incoherent mumbles to yourself that he can’t quite make out.

A question strikes like lightning. How many nights have you been doing this? When he’s not around, how many times have you curled up into yourself, crushed by burdens you would never speak aloud? While the rest of the world is on pause and at peace, his love is here, unravelling all alone.

Zayne waits some more, until the sobs die down and the sniffles fade away and he’s sure that you’ve fallen asleep. The door opens with not so much as a creak. His heart twists again when he catches sight of you, with the duvet pulled up to your shoulders and tears staining your cheeks.

It’s a particular kind of heartbreak, bearing witness to this.

He makes quick work of freshening up for bed in the en suite bathroom, and when he finally slips under the covers with you, his moves are calculated. A careful arm sliding around your body to pull you closer, soft lips ghosting over your swollen eyelids so you wouldn’t wake, then gentle hands tucking your face into the crook of his neck. Like he’s trying to piece you back together. Like this is all he can do for now.

“Sleep well,” he whispers, barely audible at all, “my love.”

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #lads x reader #lads angst #lnds #lnds x reader #zayne x reader #zayne x you #zayne angst #lads zayne #zayne

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gay-dorito-dust · 10 months ago

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Heyy,love your headcanon stuff! Especially the Batboys things

Wondering if you could do a few headcanons with the Batboys where the reader gets injured from a sport,work or something like that and they hide it from the Batboys?

It's all good if you can't or already have written something similar to this :)

Dick

Thought everything was okay until he started to notice how you’d carefully and meticulously planned out how you should move your body, which almost made you look robotic in the process.

That was when he knew something was wrong when you refused to let him hold your afflicted side, strict that you weren’t in the mood for it, but it was obvious to dick that wasn’t the case.

He’d even notice your breath hitched in your throat when you moved a certain way too fast, pulling on your injured side in a way that caused you to stop and try to breathe through the pain that was coursing through your body before continuing on with your day as though nothing had happened.

‘Are you okay sweetheart?’ He’d ask softly as you held your side instinctively when you caught it on the edge of the counter, it was a brief bump but it was enough to have you fighting back tears from streaming down your face.

‘No.’ You’d whimper, ‘I’m not. I’m hurt dickie bird.’

With that dick immediately gets you to bed and assess the situation with your side, only to see a particularly nasty looking bruise blossoming across your side in hues of purple, yellow and more. ‘Oh why didn’t you say anything sooner?’ He says as he gingerly held a pack of ice against your bruises, holding your hand with the other as you squeezed it the moment the ice pack made content with your tender side.

‘I didn’t want you to worry about me and my stupid bruises.’ You admitted and dick couldn’t help but kiss your forehead.

‘I’ll always a worry about you sweetheart, no matter what I’ll always worry. So let me take care of you now.’ Dick told you as he then dedicated the rest of his spare time to making sure to ice your bruises while smothering you in kisses and words of affirmation into your skin to take your mind off of the ache in your side.

Damian

He just knows you’re hurt and it’s best not to act like you’re not because it’s not fooling him in the slightest.

Even if you tired to pass it off as something that’ll go away eventually, Damian would see through such an excuse with ease.

‘If that’s the case then why are you still struggling to pick up a kettle when making yourself a drink?’ He would ask and suddenly your mouth became dry and a mind blank of ideas on how to answer that.

Your silence was enough of an answer for Damian to know that you were full of shit and were only making things worse for yourself out of sheer stubbornness to not admit to him that you were hurt.

So Damian took it upon himself to make sure that your hand was properly bandaged, while telling you that you were not allowed to do anything that could cause you more discomfort or make things worse for yourself.

However he would personally over see your healing process himself when he wasn’t on missions, making sure that you were taking your medication, drinking enough fluids and eating enough food while doing the harder tasks for you without a single word uttered past his lips.

Damian was serious about your healing and didn’t want to see you further descend into pain if he could help it while with a look of perpetual annoyance upon his face.

‘If it bothered you so much to look after me then don’t bother-‘

‘No.’

‘No?’ You asked.

‘I don’t trust you to not hurt yourself even more, so let me do it until you can actually lift a kettle again.’ He said and you couldn’t help but smile at his way of saying that he didn’t want you to further hurt yourself out of fear, even if he did possess a unique way of saying it, but you wouldn’t have Damian any other way.

Jason

Had a suspicion that you were injured the moment you didn’t allow yourself to fully utilise your foot without groaning, grabbing on the nearest surface to steady yourself before trying to act like nothing ever happened.

Once Jason had enough of you pretending you were okay, when you clearly weren’t, He doesn’t hesitate to carry you off to your room with little struggle and put you down on your bed.

‘Jason what the-‘

‘You’re hurt and you didn’t think to tell me?’ Jason asked, a little hurt that you didn’t seemly guest him enough to admit to them you were injured, which only made him wonder about all the other times you had been hurt but didn’t say anything to him and instead suffered in silence until you were passed off as fine.

‘I didn’t want to worry you!’ You replied, seeing the hurt in his eyes and immediately feeling bad about your decision because you knew Jason valued honesty and respect in your relationship, and so you could only imagine what was going through his mind upon finding out that you were hiding something from him after having told him everything in your relationship thus far.

‘Of course I’m going to be worried when you’re hurt, you’re hurt and I don’t know how!’ Jason exclaimed but his hands remained gently when elevating your foot on the closest pillow he could find within reach. He then placed a soft, featherlight kiss to your ankle, leaving a pleasant tingle there as he looks at you tiredly. ‘I just want you to come home safe and not in bits, I just want to protect you and keep you happy.’

‘You already do that enough as it is jay birdie!’ You cried as you grabbed his hand and held it close to your chest, thumb rubbing at the pulse point on his wrist soothingly, while kissing each and every one of his fingers. ‘Besides I just tripped up on something when on my daily jog and it sprained my ankle, nothing more, nothing less.’ You explained to him as you pleased with your eyes for him to believe that you were telling the truth.

Jason, being the massive softy that he was towards you, sighed and squeezed your hand. ‘Okay chipmunk but I best not see you walking on your ankle until you’re better.’ He said sternly and you couldn’t help but chuckle.

‘As long as my jay birdie is the one taking care of me, then I’ll never step a toe out of this bed, it’s too comfy.’ You said and Jason visibly relaxed as he kissed your forehead. ‘That’s a shame, I like the aspect of having to carry you back to bed, I didn’t get my morning kiss before you left for your daily jog after all.’ He whispered against your skin.

You and Jason use your sprained ankle as an excuse just to cuddle and spend time together to make up for lost time between the two of you.

Bruce

Another one who’s sharp eyes immediately knows that your hiding your hurt from him.

The biggest give away was the fact that you didn’t put much weight on your afflicted foot and instead poorly attempted to hide your hobbling and facial expressions of intense discomfort you’re putting yourself through just to leave him unsuspecting.

You failed on all grounds when dating/married to a detective/vigilante.

Bruce knows you’re not okay and he’s not going to allow you to make things worse for yourself either, as soon enough he has Alfred help him set up a comfortable space for you to properly rest for the foreseeable future, making sure you had everything you could possibly need and more to make your healing journey more durable.

Even if you tried to deflect any and all notation that you were hurt. Bruce would look at you unimpressed because you were talking to someone who had once tried to fuck up thugs with a couple broken rips, fractured bones and more, only to be stopped by Alfred who walked him back to the manor like a disappointed and overtired father.

Bruce now understood what Alfred felt when he practically had to carry you to your shared room where you were to remain bed bound, not until Alfred said you were cleared to walk the manor without flaring up your injury.

‘This isn’t fair! It’s just a sprain!’ You cried as Bruce made sure that your pillows were fluffed and that your comforting blankets were even fluffier.

‘A sprain that could’ve worsened with how you treated it.’ Bruce replied as he put aside the ibuprofen gel and paracetamol tablets on the nightstand along with a glass of water before gently but quickly elevating your bandaged foot with a pillow.

‘Still i could’ve handled it myself.’ You muttered under your breath.

‘If by better you mean make it worse and prolonging the healing process, then yes I’d say you had it handled well.’ Bruce said sarcastically that you couldn’t help but notice the irony in the statement.

‘You’re just as worse!’ You pointed out, ‘how many times has Alfred has to stop you from going out at night while severely hurt?’

‘Too many to count.’ Bruce said under his breath but he only smiled at you and kissed your forehead before getting up from the bed and moved to the door of your shared room, but just as he was about to leave he gave you a pointed look. ‘You.stay.here.’ He gestured to the bed before leaving you to look up at the ceiling, knowing that if Bruce was going to be looking after you, there’s was little to no chance that he would let you step even a toe out of bed without looking at you like a overtired husband.

Bonus: baby dick and Jason are your ‘bodyguards.’ Who will tell Bruce if you even tried to leave bed before you were fully healed.

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denim-devil · 6 months ago

Text

✫ Emerging Adulthood | R.G ✫

Summary - Whilst learning how to drive, Rick has other plans once his temptations kick in…

| DBF!Rick / Blowjob / Facefucking / Swallowing |

Nervous wasn’t the only way to describe how you felt.

The van, cold yet lacked space, you were crammed shoulder to shoulder with Rick, the neighbour who became close friends with your dad, not just for any reason though.

It was going smoothly although you could hear the slightly creak of the dark van’s metal exterior every time you began to break, it was new to you but travelling hours on end from college to home, back and forth got exhausting from time to time, this way you could see your father…and Rick.

“Thank you for this Rick, it’s gonna make my life so much easier…”

Smiling to himself, he shoots a glance your way, his arms resting against his meaty, spread thighs.

“It’s nothin’ kid, trust me, ya dad seemed pretty happy about it, atleast we can spend some time together, feel like ya’ve grown to quickly…”

Shuffling lead to him leaning over directly into your space, mouth level with your ear, a helping hand slowly monitoring your steering, looming over your own.

It wasn’t something new to you, it had been years, ever since the day you were introduced there had always been a click, with it recently growing into something more, Rick hated to admit how much you had an affect on him, yet that was secreted…for now.

Heat began to rise up from your strained neck, blossoming into your cheeks. Rick could see it, being this close, feeling his skin on yours, he could feel the van wobbly slightly, knowing that your focus was elsewhere.

“C’mon sweetheart, you got it, look at ya go”

His whispers had you actively clutching the wheel, southern accents had a charm and you were certainly afflicted by it, his hand now removing itself from your own and down to your thigh, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

He kept it there for a few seconds, testing the waters, you could both feel the tension, thick as a block of butter, head fuzzy with the thought of something happening, something you had been longing for.

He pulls back for leverage, allowing you to make a left turning, flicking the indicator on just before, you could hear the light chuckle and the low, short and huffy “good boy”.

“You really are gettin’ good at this ain’t ya?”

You nod with confidence, evidently ignoring the boner that began to ache between your pressed thighs, how could you possibly escape this situation without embarrassing yourself?

With space to breathe, you begin to get comfortable again, slightly slouching back with a newly perpetuated confidence, with a teacher as good as Rick, which was no surprise, Carl was a big part of his life, even after his divorce with Lori.

He was the biggest distraction on earth, to you, he was everything and more. “Hey…kid? See that over there? Why don’cha pull in for me, give yer legs a rest…”

It was a desolate patch of road, away from the car’s passing by, away from the world, secret and quiet, your heart pounded, thumping in your ears, loud.

Nodding was your only answer as you follow his words, pulling in slowly, turning the car until you came to a stop.

“Good job kid, ya really gonna smash it” He ruffles your locks, now messy and out of place, it catches Rick of guard, nothing out of the unusual yet his cock twitched, the sight of you alone was intoxicating and it took everything within him the sight of you alone was intoxicating and it took everything within him to sit and just pretend he was okay, the look unknowingly had you creeping back in on yourself, a shyness only he was able to bring out.

You twiddle with your thumbs, anything to take your mind off of him, to just escape for those five seconds before he scoffed.

“What’s wrong kid?” His words were the catalyst, looking up into his ocean blue eyes which looked glazed, comforting yet bright and curious.

“Nothing…just, this-“ He shuffled, backing up his seat a little before resting an elbow on the window and spreading his meaty legs wider practically giving you an invitation. “What about it? Somethin distracting ya?” You nod timidly. “I can help with that…”

His southern drawl was thick, soothing to the brain. You turn to look at him, eyes immediately drinking the view in, lowering, settling on the bulge between his legs, you tried stifling the small gasp of air that managed to escape you, it was to late.

“I can explain-“ He tutted, his thumb slowly tracing the outline of his throbbing cock, glued to the way you shuffled in your seat like you had ants in your pants. “Ya don’t hav’ to, I’ve been tryin’ fer so long with ya, waitin’ till I had you all to myself…”

As if time stood still itself you were so focused on him, the way he looked, the way he sat, the way his thumbed at his cock, palm fondling the front of his dark wash jeans, it was alluring, you wanted more.

You yearned for this day more then you would like to say, patience was waning thin on your side, every inch of you on fire just at the single thought of becoming more, the judgment and broken connections that would likely follow had you stilled and confused, it wasn’t enough to withhold you from desire.

“All ya have ta do is nod, then ya can have it and some more sweetheart.”

It felt like a punch to the stomach, like the air in your lungs evaporated within seconds. The heat in your cheeks scorching the skin successfully, succumbing to Rick’s charm.

Your palms were damp, almost sticky as you shakily reached towards his crotch with a wanting hand, nodding in the process, swallowing the spit that had collected in the back of your mouth from salivating just at the thought of seeing it, seeing him.

“Atta boy-“ Reaching for the back of your head sweetly, he slowly lowers it, watching you wiggle into a comfortable position before your nose, now squished up against his crotch, huffs, breathing him in.

Relishing in the smell, musky, thick with masculinity, sweet with temptation. Eager hands search his thighs before you face the ultimatum, looking up into his darkened eyes, lust filled.

Rick knew exactly what you wanted and happily complied, pushing you further into his aching bulge, stuffing your nose deeper.

“That’s it, ya so fuckin’ hungry for ain’t ya”

Hot pants litter the front of his trousers, tongue darting out to lap at the freshly made wet patch. The taste heavy with want scorned the tip of your tongue, fingers avidly searching for the zipper to unleash your dirty fantasy.

Rick watched. His tongue dangerously flicking against his lips as he silently watched, the soft moans that fell from the pits of your chest once you successfully managed the opening, pulling the zipper down, releasing the beast.

Eager finger tips dig into the waist band of his underwear, his bulge nothing short of chunky and big, filling the entire space within the material.

His length flops out against his stomach with a heavy thud. You couldn’t help but look in awe, the tip angry and red, multiple veins, thick and pumping with desire, he was big, scarily big but you expected nothing less from an ex-deputy.

A searching hand wraps around him, engulfing the head with the extra skin that sat there, watching in anticipation once it flicked over the tip, jerking him slowly back and forth.

Rick groaned, head lulling back into his car seat, legs widening even further for you slot deeper into, making space for the casual onslaught that was now set in stone.

This was nothing short of both risky and dangerous, you had no self control, not when it came to Rick, you allow yourself to indulge, inspecting the jizzy head before your mouth wraps around his bulbous tip, wide and wanting.

His hands, full of warmth and protection slowly search the back of your neck, raking up into your locks before grabbing a handle, he tugs you back catching you off guard but it’s not for nothing.

“Been thinkin’ about these pretty little lips wrapped around my cock, ya think ya can take it?” Without a warning your pushed back into him, mouth engulfing what he gave you, a strong hand settling at the back of your neck, warm yet eager to push you downward, watching each inch of him get lost within your wet cavern.

It gave you no time to think, how could you think? His cock reaching the depths of your throat, the tip glued to the back of your mouth once your nose buried itself in the thin layer of hair that framed the beauty and beast.

“Fuck, ya been practicing with them boys in college? Who knew ya were a good cock sucker-“

He holds you down once you start to gag, eyes rolled back into your head, balls pressed heavy against your brow line, you couldn’t do anything yet submit to the man.

Rick wouldn’t ever admit it but watching you struggle to breathe, slapping at his thighs for air was something he’d think about every damn day from now.

You choke before being allowed to pull off with a pop, coughing into the material of his trousers. Once again your back on with a newly found love, tongue flicking over the tip once you sink your throat down again, taking his cock completely, back and forth with the direction of his hand.

That’s when his mobile began to buzz, throwing you both off guard, it wasn’t enough to make you stop though, your other hand coming to cup the base of his balls, rolling both between your fingers.

“Gotta be quiet sweetheart, it’s ya daddy. Keep suckin’ that dick like a good boy”

In which you did, following his lead once he pressed accept, taking the risk. It felt dirty once the conversation started, knowing any slip up could cost you both, yet it had you going faster and deeper, stuffing your mouth full of him.

“Yeah he’s doin a pretty good job, think I outta give him a few more for good measure, gotta give it to him though, he’s very…good” Ricl bit into the centre of his bottom lip, keeping his heavy groans back which were seated deep in his chest, urging to come out.

His hand kept it’s presence known, bouncing his hips upward into your skull, balls freely slapping into your cheek. Dirty. Wet. A small puddle of saliva formed at his base, strings of it latching onto the base of your chin, it would be a miracle if your dad never heard any of it, how you worked him over.

“He can’t talk right now, he’s just parking up, yeah that’s right—“ It was quick yet everything you were searching for, nothing short of filthy. Nothing mattered to Rick more then watching your growing affliction for his cock flourish into neediness, hearing just how much you wanted it by the relentless gags and the hollowing of your cheeks.

Nobody really understood the burning hunger that sat heavy in his gut, only you, the constant lapping at the tip, the frequent squeeze of his balls, he couldn’t hold on for much longer, not when you had every incline of how to make him crumble.

“I gotta go, need to finish up with him, I’m sure he’ll tell ya all about it when we get back…”Your eyes started to well with tears as he fucked into your throat, using your mouth like he would toy, chasing after his orgasm.

Ending the call was the gateway to your freedom, his pace faster then before, delivering harsh blows, his hand holding you down, forcing you to take it.

“Gonna cum boy- can you take it? You taking it?” Nodding with anticipation is all it took for Rick to sink every single inch into your throat, he sat heavy on your tongue, feeling him pulse and twitch, hand keeping you in place once you feel each thick shot land in different places in your mouth, pooling behind your lips.

“Shit— shit” Swallowing every drop you couldn’t let any go to waste, tasting him fully, slightly salty but over-all sweet and tantalising, it lingered behind even after swallowing every drop, tongue cleaning his cock before you pull of with a pop, watching it fall and lay, half hard.

“C’mere sweetheart” His eyelids were hooded, his mouth turned out into a coy smile, he looked faded, lost in his pleasure. Darting forward into him, his tongue flicks into your mouth, over your own, hungrily, learning just how damn good he tasted on you, his beard grazing the skin surrounding your now abused mouth.

“Think ya could try that again?”

#RE-WRITE

#male reader #x male reader #twd #rick grimes #rick grimes x male reader #the walking dead #re-write

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aventurineswife · 2 months ago

Note

Thought of something silly but also angsty:

Any Xianzhou character of your choosing and Sleeping Beauty!Reader.

Well, to be more specific, Reader’s stuck in their own house not because they’re on house arrest, but because they became marastruck and the mara manifested in a rather odd way by literally sprouting a tree from Reader’s body. (It’s a good thing their house is in an area with wide open space around.)

It started when Reader’s coworkers reported them not showing up to work, and Reader had to call in sick; but eventually the neighbors reported Reader not leaving their house for days.

The Realm-Keeping Commission officer and a Cloud Knight were sent to check on Reader and, after receiving no response, kicked open the door to search the house.

They found Reader, comatose in their bed, bodily functions completely halted yet they’re still breathing — and they also have plants and a small tree growing from their body.

And it’s not like Reader can just be moved to the Shackling Prison when they’re quite literally rooted in place. 🫠

It’s only after several years until the Xianzhou character finally acts on their love for Reader that Reader finally wakes up.

(Note that the story just says “true love’s first kiss,” so it doesn’t have to be on the mouth, nor does it even have to be romantic — unless you want it to be~! 😁)

“I will wait for you, even when time stands still”

Tags: Jing Yuan x Reader, Feixiao x Reader, Jiaoqiu x Reader, Sleeping Beauty AU, Mara Affliction, Slow Burn, Hurt/Comfort, Unrequited Love (early stages), Angst, True Love’s Kiss, Longing, Coma, Emotional Growth.

Warnings: Violence/war-related themes, Self-inflicted harm (brief reference to Jiaoqiu’s past) (?), Trauma/Heartbreak, Comatose Reader (Mara-based affliction leading to physical immobility), Slow Burn Romance, Mental Struggles (Jiaoqiu's emotional turmoil), Emotional Healing, Hurt/Comfort themes, Uncertainty about the future.

It had been years since the incident, the strange affliction that had taken you away from the world. The people had grown used to you being out of sight, but Jing Yuan never quite managed to. From his quiet perch in the Cloud Knights’ command center, he would often find his gaze drifting to the horizon, as though waiting, hoping for something he couldn’t explain.

When you had first fallen victim to the mara, his only thought had been of your safety. The doctors had said you would be fine, but then the reports started—strange growths appearing, creeping vines sprouting from your body, a small tree rising where no tree had been before. Your neighbors were concerned, but no one could do anything. You were rooted in place, unable to move or speak, but still breathing, still there, in the quiet of your house, where time seemed to pass so slowly.

The Realm-Keeping Commission officer who came with him that fateful day had kicked the door in, only to find you lying motionless, a strange, surreal beauty about you as the tree grew from your chest. His heart had tightened in his chest. He couldn't leave you to fade, no matter how difficult it seemed to understand the strange magic at play here.

Years passed in silence. Jing Yuan, despite his usual calm exterior, had begun to wear thin from worry. He had served as the leader of the Cloud Knights for what felt like an eternity, his wisdom and patience always keeping his people safe. But not you. You were an exception, a puzzle that remained unsolved. And it was his fault for not having the courage to help you sooner. He had kept his distance, allowing the years to pile up like the dust on your doorstep, his heart aching with guilt every time he thought of you.

Today, however, something was different. He had a plan, one that had been building for years, unspoken but felt in every beat of his heart. No more waiting. No more idle silence.

With determination, he entered your house once more, the space eerily still. The tree still stood, twisting its roots into the floorboards, but now it was more vibrant, more alive than before. And there, beneath the boughs, was you. Still as ever, yet the quiet hum of life surrounded you.

He approached slowly, feeling his heart thud louder in his chest with each step. His fingers hovered over your hand, gently brushing away the leaves that had started to gather on your body. His breath faltered. This was it—the moment he had waited for, the moment he could not let slip away.

Without hesitation, he leaned in and pressed his lips to the back of your hand, the touch of his kiss lingering longer than he had intended. He pulled back slowly, heart pounding as he waited.

For a moment, nothing happened. But then, something shifted.

The tree trembled, its branches quivering, and you—you—stirred. A breath, a subtle movement as if you were waking from a long, peaceful sleep.

Jing Yuan held his breath, hope and relief flooding him in equal measure. "Welcome back," he whispered, a rare smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I've been waiting."

Feixiao had always been a warrior, but she was also human, with her own heart, her own fears, her own struggles. The day she was called to investigate your house, she never imagined what she would find.

You had been a good friend, someone who always brought a bit of light into her otherwise bleak world of battle. But then you disappeared, and no one could get ahold of you. The reports of strange happenings—vines growing from your windows, trees sprouting from the soil of your home—sent chills down her spine. No one knew what had happened to you, not even the greatest healers or mystics on the Luofu.

She arrived, stoic, determined to find you and bring you back. But when the door was kicked open and she saw you lying there, surrounded by the unnatural beauty of the tree growing from your body, she froze. It was like something out of a dream, too surreal to be real, yet there you were, unmoving but still breathing. The light from the windows cast strange shadows across your body, the tree that had grown from your chest twisting upward toward the ceiling.

She knelt beside you, her hand trembling as she reached out to touch your cheek. "You’re still here," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

Feixiao had never been one for patience, but for you, she would wait. She stayed by your side, day after day, watching the tree, tending to it as though it were the only thing that could tether her to reality. It was in this solitude, this quiet time, that her thoughts began to shift. She had always been a warrior, but she had never felt so helpless.

It was years before she understood. There was no cure for what you had suffered, not one anyone could explain. But there was something else—a feeling she had long buried deep within her heart. She had fought against it for years, believing that her destiny lay only in battle. But now, staring at you in your comatose state, she realized how much she had come to care for you, how much she longed to see you wake.

She leaned forward, her lips brushing the skin of your forehead, the kiss gentle yet full of purpose. Her heart hammered in her chest as she pulled away, her breath shallow with the emotion she had held in for so long.

"Wake up," she murmured, voice cracking. "Please."

Jiaoqiu had never seen anything like it before. He had heard whispers of strange occurrences around the Xianzhou, but nothing quite as bizarre as this.

When the news reached him, his heart had sunk. You had been a quiet presence in his life, always there with a smile, a kind word, someone who seemed to understand the weariness of his heart. But now you were... trapped, rooted in place by something far beyond his comprehension.

When he arrived at your house, he couldn't bring himself to look at the tree that had grown from your body. It was too much—a symbol of the destruction of what you had once been. You were still alive, but barely. No one had been able to help you, not even the most powerful healers.

Jiaoqiu couldn't stand it. He had tried to move on from his past, from the heartbreak that had once driven him away from his craft. But seeing you like this, seeing you so helpless, reminded him of why he had become a healer in the first place: to help, to fix what was broken.

But what could he do now? Your body was like a tree, and the Mara that had overtaken you made it impossible to break free. He could only stay by your side, silent and broken.

Years passed, and Jiaoqiu found himself coming to your house every day, whispering soft words of comfort. He had no idea if you could hear him, if you even remembered who he was. But he stayed. And every day, a small piece of his heart healed as he saw you still breathing, still fighting.

One day, as he sat by your side, he found himself resting his forehead against yours, his hand clasped around yours. It was then that he realized: healing wasn't just about mending the body, but the heart. His kiss, tender and soft, was a promise—one that he had never been able to make before.

"I’m sorry it took me so long," he whispered. "I’ll be here. Always."

And in that moment, something shifted. The tree trembled, the roots in the ground twisting as if they, too, understood. And maybe, just maybe, you were coming back to him.

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acidsquirtt · 3 months ago

Text

Silent Petals

Description: Suffering from Hanahaki disease your husband sasuke uchiha doesn’t realize how amazing his wife is until after her death.

Context Warnings: Blood, death, angst, cheating ?? etc

Ravens note: Not double checked… Sasuke Uchiha Masterlist

The first petal was a surprise, a delicate crimson fleck against the pale porcelain of the sink. you stared at it, a knot of unease tightening in your stomach. You coughed again, a dry, hacking sound that echoed in the sterile silence of your home. Another petal, then another, each a perfect miniature of a rose.

You knew what it was. Hanahaki Disease. A cruel, romantic affliction that bloomed in the lungs of those who loved unrequitedly. The irony was a bitter taste on your tongue. You, married to Sasuke Uchiha, the stoic hero of Konoha, was dying of unrequited love.

Their marriage had been… complicated. Born of duty, respect, and a shared understanding of loss, it had never been a fiery romance.

Youhad loved Sasuke with a quiet devotion, understanding his need for distance, his lingering shadows. You had built a life around him, a haven of peace and understanding, hoping that one day, your love would be enough to thaw the ice around his heart.

But lately, the ice had seemed to thicken. Sasuke was gone more often, on missions that stretched for weeks, sometimes months. When he was home, he was distant, his eyes clouded with thoughts you couldn’t decipher. He was always polite, always respectful, but the warmth had faded, replaced by a chilling formality.

And then there was Sakura.

Sakura Haruno, Sasuke’s former teammate, his closest confidante. She was a brilliant medical ninja, and Sasuke often sought her expertise on his missions.

You understood the necessity, the professional relationship. But you couldn’t ignore the way Sasuke’s eyes softened when he spoke to Sakura, the easy camaraderie they shared, the unspoken understanding that passed between them.

The petals multiplied. They filled your lungs, stealing your breath, painting your world in shades of crimson and despair. You tried to hide it, to cough into your sleeve, to dispose of the evidence before Sasuke returned home. But the disease was relentless, a constant reminder of your failing heart.

She visited a doctor, a kind, elderly woman who had treated your family for generations. The diagnosis was swift and certain.

“[Name], I’m so sorry,” the doctor said, her voice filled with sympathy. “It’s Hanahaki Disease. The only cure is reciprocation, or surgical removal of the feelings.”

You shook her head, tears welling up in your eyes. “Surgery is not an option,” your whispered. “I can’t… I can’t imagine a life without loving him.”

The doctor sighed, her gaze filled with concern. “Then you must tell him, [Name]. You must confess your feelings and hope that he returns them. Otherwise…”

The unspoken words hung heavy in the air. Otherwise, you would die.

But how could you tell him? How could you confess your love when he was so clearly drifting away? How could you burden him with your dying wish, knowing that he might not feel the same way?

You tried to talk to him, to bridge the growing chasm between them. You asked about his missions, about his well-being, about his thoughts. But he remained closed off, his answers brief and impersonal.

“Sasuke,” you said one evening, your voice trembling. “Are you… are you happy?”

He looked at your, his eyes devoid of emotion. “I am fulfilling my duty to Konoha,” he said. “That is all that matters.”

His words were a dagger to your heart. Duty. That was all you were to him, a duty, a responsibility. Not a lover, not a companion, not a wife.

The coughing fits grew more frequent, more violent. You started coughing up entire blossoms, their crimson petals stained with blood.

You were losing weight, your face pale and gaunt. You were fading away, slowly but surely.

Naruto noticed. He had always been perceptive, despite his boisterous nature. He saw the shadows under your eyes, the way you struggled to breathe, the forced smile that never quite reached your eyes.

“Hey, [Name]-chan,” he said one day, catching you in the village. “You okay? You look kinda pale.”

You forced a smile. “I’m fine, Naruto,” you said. “Just a little tired.”

Naruto frowned. “You sure? You should get some rest. And tell that teme of yours to take care of you!”

You laughed, a weak, breathless sound. “I will,” you said.

Naruto watched you walk away, his brow furrowed with concern. He knew Sasuke was often distant, but he had always assumed that you understood him, that you were happy.

Now, he wasn’t so sure.

He decided to talk to Sasuke. He found him training in the forest, his movements precise and deadly.

“Sasuke,” Naruto said, his voice serious. “I need to talk to you about [Name].”

Sasuke stopped training, his expression unreadable. “What about her?”

“She’s not doing well, teme,” Naruto said. “She’s sick. You need to pay attention to her, to be there for her.”

Sasuke frowned. “She hasn’t said anything to me.”

“That’s because she’s trying to protect you, you idiot!” Naruto exclaimed. “She loves you, Sasuke. Don’t you see that? Don’t you realize what you’re losing?”

Sasuke remained silent, his eyes fixed on the ground. He knew Naruto was right. He had been neglecting you, focusing on his missions, on his duty, on everything but you. He had convinced himself that you understood, that you didn’t need his attention, his affection.

But now, hearing Naruto’s words, seeing the concern in his eyes, he realized how wrong he had been. He had been so focused on the past, on his own demons, that he had failed to see the woman who loved him, the woman who was slowly dying because of him.

He decided to go home, to talk to you, to tell you how much he appreciated you, how much he cared for you.

But when he arrived, the house was silent. He found you in your bedroom, lying on the bed, surrounded by crimson petals. Your eyes were closed, your face pale and peaceful.

He rushed to your side, his heart pounding in his chest. “[Name]!” he cried, shaking you gently. “[Name], wake up!”

But you didn’t respond. He checked your pulse, his hands trembling. There was nothing. You are gone.

He stared at your lifeless body, his mind reeling. He had been too late. He had waited too long. He had lost you.

He sank to his knees, his body wracked with sobs. He had never cried before, not even when he had lost his family. But now, the tears flowed freely, a torrent of grief and regret.

He had failed you. He had failed your marriage. He had failed to see the love that you had offered him, the love that had sustained you, the love that had ultimately killed you.

He noticed a small, folded piece of paper clutched in your hand. He carefully unfolded it, his hands shaking. It was a letter, written in your delicate handwriting.

My dearest Sasuke,

If you are reading this, then I am gone. I am sorry to leave you, but I can no longer bear the pain. I have Hanahaki Disease, a cruel affliction that blooms in the lungs of those who love unrequitedly. I have loved you with all my heart, Sasuke, but I know that my love is not returned.

I don’t blame you. I understand your need for distance, your lingering shadows. I only wish that I could have been enough to thaw the ice around your heart.

Please, don’t grieve for me. Remember the good times we shared, the moments of peace and understanding. And please, find happiness, Sasuke. Find someone who can truly love you, someone who can fill the void in your heart.

With all my love,

[Name]

Sasuke clutched the letter to his chest, his heart breaking anew. He had been so blind, so foolish. He had allowed his own pain to blind him to the love that had been right in front of him.

He spent the next few days in a daze, numb with grief. He arranged for your funeral, a small, private affair attended only by your closest friends and family.

Sakura attended the funeral, her face etched with sorrow. She had known that you were sick, but she hadn’t realized how serious it was. She had seen the way Sasuke had been neglecting you, the way he had been spending more time with her, Sakura, on missions. She had felt a pang of guilt, knowing that she was inadvertently contributing to your suffering.

After the funeral, Sakura approached Sasuke, her eyes filled with sympathy.

“Sasuke,” she said, her voice gentle. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Sasuke looked at her, his eyes devoid of emotion. “It’s my fault,” he said. “I killed her.”

Sakura shook her head. “Don’t say that, Sasuke. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Yes, it was,” Sasuke said. “I didn’t see her, I didn’t appreciate her, I didn’t love her the way she deserved to be loved. I was too focused on myself, on my own pain. I let her die.”

Sakura reached out and took his hand, her touch gentle and comforting. “You can’t change the past, Sasuke,” she said. “But you can learn from it. You can honor her memory by living a life that is worthy of her love.”

Sasuke looked at her, his eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know how,” he said.

Sakura squeezed his hand. “I’ll help you,” she said. “We’ll get through this together.”

Sasuke spent the next few years trying to honor your memory. He dedicated himself to his duties as a shinobi, protecting Konoha and its people. He tried to be more open, more compassionate, more understanding. He tried to be the man that you had always believed he could be.

He never forgot you. He kept your letter close to his heart, a constant reminder of his mistakes, of his regrets. He visited your grave every day, bringing you flowers, telling you about his day, sharing his thoughts and feelings.

He never remarried. He couldn’t imagine loving anyone else the way he had loved you, even though he hadn’t realized it until it was too late.

He lived a long and fulfilling life, but he always carried the weight of his regret, the knowledge that he had failed the woman who had loved him unconditionally.

He had learned too late that love is not a duty, not a responsibility, but a precious gift that must be cherished and nurtured. He had learned too late that silence can be deadly, that unspoken words can bloom into thorns that choke the life out of a heart.

And so, Sasuke Uchiha, the stoic hero of Konoha, lived out his days haunted by the silent petals and unspoken regrets of a love lost too soon. He finally understood the depth of your love, but only after you were gone, leaving him with nothing but the bitter taste of regret and the haunting memory of the woman who had died loving him. The crimson roses in his memory would forever serve as a painful reminder of his failure.

Alternate Ending

#sasuke uchiha #sasuke uchiha x reader #sasuke x reader #uchiha clan #uchiha sasuke #uchiha sasuke x reader #naruto shippuden x reader #naruto x reader #silentpetal

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