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asumofwords · 9 months

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Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death, forced marriage, and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: Hello angels! Here is the next chappy hehe, goodness me, I am so glad that we all enjoyed the last chapter haha! What a ride this has been honestly, you all crack me up ahaha <3 Enjoy!

Chapter 99: To Set The Future Sway

Aemond Targaryen had been ten years old when he lost his eye.

That year he had been gifted new tomes from his grandfather Otto, and his mother had lemon tarts freshly made for him as a treat, the boy too shy to tell her that they were not in fact his favourite, but yours.

He had snuck down to the dragon pit that day with you to eat them, watching as Syrax’s golden scales glimmered in the flames of the pit, large glimmering dragon purring and growling in the darkness.

It had been a great challenge for a child so young to be put through such a horrific and traumatic experience as having ones eye taken. What was more, the actions of his family afterwards, and the dealings of their response thereafter did naught but rub salt in the proverbial wound.

Neither adult had reacted in a way that helped Aemond. In fact, it only served to prove as a further detriment to him, and his view of the world.

But more than that, watching you, his only companion at such a formative age, stand alongside his attackers, bastards, and declare for them instead of him had hardened something inside of the young Prince. Made it curdle and fester, calcifying rapidly as the spite that had grown within him became malignant.

You had protected them. Them. They who had mocked and teased him for years, them and his brother; who stood idly beside him, having not come to his defence out of the fear and wrath of their father.

His view of the world, of people, of his family and what little friends he had, had been inexplicably scarred that evening, much like his face. He walked with more careful steps, more angry movements, and had grown into a bitter and spiteful man, only aided by his mothers disdain and words of encouragement in his ears.

But Aemond had not let his disability strike him down, he had simply grown himself around it. He trained harder, for longer, making a promise to himself that he would never be bested like that again, never be struck down without striking first.

And to never hold back.

Where others would look at him in fear, he would play to it, own it, make himself a man to not be trifled with. A man his brother even feared at times, not that he could fear him any longer. A man that women would whisper about in court, and the men would avert their eyes from.

He needed it that way.

To feel safe.

After the many years of your separation, being dragged to Dragonstone without even a chance to say goodbye, seeing Aemond again in the Red Keep had struck many chords within your chest.

Grief. Sorrow. Anger. Rage. Remorse. Guilt.

Fear.

But as you looked into his seeing, and unseeing eye in this moment, you felt none of those things.

Instead, you felt something entirely different.

Shock. Disbelief. Pride. Adoration.

Love.

The Conquerors Crown that sat snugly against Aemond’s head, did not look at all heavy where it had on Aegon’s. It seemed as though it was an extension of Aemond. An extension of his every being, a manifestation of the man he had built himself to be.

The smooth Valyrian steel did not make his long silver locks stick up in different ways, his tendrils were still held in place, held by the braids you had encouraged him to wear.

Aemond’s violet and sapphire gaze had not left your face once since seating himself upon the Iron Throne, nor when you had placed the Conquerors Crown atop his head. The King’s fingertips had brushed the skin of your cheek, smearing the wetness that had landed there.

The blood that had landed there.

But Aemond was not unmarred by the killing of his brother. He too wore the red substance on his face and robes, the lightest of arterial spray that has streaked up his face diagonally, in the motion that his sword had cut through the flesh and bone of Aegon’s neck.

The small specks of blood on his cheeks were drying rapidly from the heat of his face, oxidising and growing darker, small cracks and flakes appearing in the smattering.

And yet despite this, despite the fact that you most certainly should have felt some sort of horror and disgust towards him, you could not, and your heart had fluttered in your chest as you looked at your husband in triumph.

In hunger.

He had done this for you.

A final show of his devotion and love.

Your head turned to look down the steps of the Iron Throne, gaze skimming over a distressed Alicent Hightower, who sat hunched over her eldest son crying, whilst Otto and Ser Cole stood nearby. And then your gaze shifted, over to the Lords and Maester who looked at both scenes before them with uncertainty. Fear.

Turning back to face your husband, you called out loudly into the chambers.

“King Aemond Targaryen, First of His Name, Son of King Viserys the First, King of the Stormland’s, Westerland’s and the Reach, Ruler of Oldtown, The Andals, Rhoynar and the First Men, King of the People of Kings Landing, and Protector of His Realms.”

The Small Council muttered amongst themselves as you looked out at the room beside him. All Lords, guards and knights bent the knee, bowing their head down towards their new crowned King. Even Ser Otto Hightower bowed, but Alicent looked up at her son in disbelief.

You turned back to your husband, hungrily watching him, a wave of warmth flooding you.

He had done this for you.

He had killed Aegon for you.

Aemond was King.

Your husband.

“My King.” You breathed quietly, eyes roaming his face hungrily.

Sensing your intentions, Aemond’s voice boomed into the chambers.

"Clear the room.” He commanded, voice crisp and clear, and all men obeyed.

Alicent however, did not, and had to be dragged from the corpse of her eldest, sobbing into her fathers arms as she muttered prayers to the Seven through hiccups, and curses at the two of you.

The chambers were emptied, bar you and Aemond, and the corpse of the once King that still lay, untouched on the stone floors before the throne. Your eyes cast backwards to look at the body, a sick smile spreading across your lips, before you looked back at your husband, who devoured you with his lone eye.

Your core clenched, watching him intensely as heat settled into your gut.

He had killed Aegon for you. Before everyone. Before his mother.

His last sibling.

And for you.

All for you.

Your Aemond.

Aemond pulled you forward with his hand, and you climbed up onto the throne in his lap, knees pressed against the leather of his cloak below you. Your fingers raced to untie his breeches, neither of you daring to break the eye contact you held.

His length was hard and heavy in your palm as you pulled it out of its confines, tip already leaking heavily with precum.

Killing his brother had aroused him.

Being crowned had aroused him.

The violence of it all, the triumph, the ending of years of suffering and mocking making way to a new time of power and strength. Autonomy. Each aspect of it had made him throb in his breeches before he had even sat on the throne.

You pumped him in your hand quickly, a breathy sigh falling from his lips as his large palms skated up your thighs warmly, calluses scratching your soft skin, before they dived beneath your skirts, feeling your already drenched folds.

It had aroused you too.

Aemond smirked up at you, cheek twitching as two digits rubbed through your folds slickly, “All this for killing my brother?”

You sighed, squirming in his lap, pleasure sparking up through your gut, "All for you.” You breathed.

A finger pushed through your folds and into your core, hooking upwards to rub against the spongey spot Aemond could find within seconds, “So wet for your King.” He purred, shifting his hips upwards as you gave him a particularly hard squeeze.

The words caused a shiver to race down your spine, your hips lifting, Aemond pulling his finger from inside of you as you lined him up with your sopping entrance. Your uncle watched your face, a hand coming to bush against your cheek, the blood upon it drying and beginning to flake as you sunk down onto his length with a sigh.

Aemond groaned loudly in the chambers as pleasure shot through you, Aemond’s cock reaching deeper with the angle, brushing against your fluttering walls, the stretch of him sparking delicious pain through you.

Slowly but surely you began to ride him, hands atop his shoulders as you looked at him. Despite him sitting and you on his lap, he was still taller than you, but your faces were levelled as you ground down on his length, his head dipping, feeling your wetness begin to pool in his lap.

The throne room was filled with the sound of your wet heat and the moans and groans that came from the both of you as you fucked yourself atop him. Rewarding him for his actions. Rewarding yourself for getting him to do so. Desperate to reach your peak as adrenaline still coursed through you.

“My King.” You whined, eyes closing momentarily as you threw your head back, sensitive bud brushing against the soaked material of his breeches.

Aemond groaned loudly, hands coming to grab the flesh of your ass as he guide you down onto him harder and faster, “Say it again.” He groaned, eye on your face.

“My King.” The head of his cock bullied the deepest part of you, every single inch of him brushing against your most sensitive places as you felt him in your stomach, your release beginning to climb within you rapidly.

Aemond fucked up into you harder, feeling your walls begin to tighten, hips lifting slightly on the seat of the Iron Throne, your fingers digging into his shoulder for purchase.

“My sweet, Lady wife.” He purred, rushing forward to capture your lips with his.

It was messy, and rushed, full of passion, and devotion and love. He nipped your lips and you whimpered into his mouth, one hand skating up to brush against the skin of his neck, pulling him closer.

The change in angle shifted, and Aemond’s length beat into the spongey spot within you, the pressure rippling up through your body as you reached your peak suddenly.

You cried out loudly, writhing atop his lap as he fucked you through it, hips clapping up into yours.

“My Queen.” He grunted, rutting into you viciously and prolonging your release. Aemond thrusted a few times more before he tumbled over the edge with you, hot ropes of his seed filling your walls as you clenched around him.

“Fuck.”

You breathed heavily, warmth flooding your limbs as you slumped against him, his fingers digging into the meat of your ass as he gently rocked you back and forth atop him, riding out his peak for as long as possible.

As you stilled atop him, core still gripping his length tightly, you felt the adrenaline begin to simmer, your body and mind rapidly tiring from the weight of it all.

You pulled your face away from his chest and looked up at your husband.

Your King.

King.

Your fingers brushed against his pale cheek, where the lightest dusting of freckles that had faded with time were still there, only now, they were covered with a dusting of blood. Your eyes raised higher, and you looked to the crown that sat as it was meant to be atop his head.

He was so handsome. So beautiful. And yours.

Always yours.

From the training yard, to the passageways, to the library, and the kitchen, and the garden, Aemond Targaryen had always been yours. And would be yours forever more.

Fire and blood, as the Gods had made it so.

You would burn together.

Your chest swelled with warmth, looking at the deeper flecks of lilac that sat in his iris whilst his mouth was slightly parted, breathing shallowly as he watched you. You leant forward, pressing a kiss to each cheek, feather light as it were, his body shivering beneath you, and then atop his seeing eyelid, feeling the long white lashes tickle your lips.

Then, to his scar, kissing a pathway to travel up the length of it gently, careful to not hurt him. You had felt him tense beneath you when you did it, but the more you pressed a kiss to the length of the healed wound, the more and more he relaxed.

Finally, you pressed your lips to his own.

“You were made to be King.” You purred as you kissed him, hand cupping the side of his cheek as he leant into it. He hummed deeply, chest vibrating against yours as his fingers dug into the flesh of your ass.

Desperate to show him the warmth that you felt for him, you kissed sweetly at his mouth, soft quick ones that left him chasing after you for more, “I love you.” You cooed, hoping that he felt your thanks.

Your praise.

Your adoration.

His lips parted against yours as he smiled, and you pulled back, bare inches to see it, warmth creeping back into your core.

The King leant forward to kiss you, his lips breaking the tenderness for a moment to breath into your own, “And you, my Queen.”

Your walls tightened around him, arousal sparking back inside of you. Aemond tilted his hips up slowly, grinding into you with purpose, and you felt him begin to harden again.

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

Tag List:

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vilevenom · 27 days

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One more quick little thing before I head to bed for the night! This one is for @em-doods, because we got to chatting about some sweet, sweet JD and Clay sadness ❤️ If you haven't gone to check out her adorable trolls art, I highly recommend it! I especially recommend checking out this post here, as well as this one, since those are the versions of BroZone's parents referenced in this ficlet~

It's relatively short, but I hope you enjoy it, anyway!

One of the last things John Dory had expected when he'd settled himself on the beach outside Bruce's resort was Clay plopping himself down next to him. Truthfully, they'd been getting along much better in the few months that had passed since Floyd had been rescued, but there was still plenty of tension between the middle and eldest brother. They'd talked through a small handful of issues, such as Clay's bitterness about John taking all the fun out of him being the 'Fun Boy', and John's incessant need for their past performances to be 'perfect'. However, the two still did not tend to purposefully seek out each others company.

"Uh…hello?" John chuckled rather awkwardly, offering Clay a lopsided smile, "What's up?"

Clay simply stared out at the ocean for a moment, before turning his gaze to John Dory. "Tell me about Mom and Dad."

John blinked, a bit taken aback by the sudden demand without preamble. "Sorry, what?"

Clay rolled his eyes, but didn't seem particularly annoyed by John's confusion. "Tell me about Mom and Dad. I don't really remember a whole lot, and I know you've got a memory like a steel trap."

"Oh. I suppose you were only about nine when they were taken, weren't you?" John mostly muttered to himself, rubbing at his chin. "Okay, sure. Uh, is there anything in particular you wanna know?"

With a short shrug Clay leaned back on his hands, turning to stare back out at the ocean. "I dunno…Got any fun stories from when we were kids?"

John thought about that for a moment, before snapping his fingers, a grin spreading across his face. "Yeah! When we were little, Mom used to make up all sorts of fun little dances while she was doing chores and things around the pod. She liked singing well enough, but she loved dancing. One of my personal favorites of hers was her laundry dance. When you were old enough to walk on your own, you started trying to mimic her dance moves. You usually wound up falling over and tugging whatever laundry Mom had just hung up down, and getting all tangled up." John let out a fond laugh, shifting to sit forward a bit. "She'd laugh and help you get untangled, all while you cried about messing up the dance."

"Is that why you got me doing the choreo for BroZone?" Clay sniffed, a small frown on his face.

John sighed, his joy at recalling his mother quickly dampened by Clay's apparent need to constantly remind John Dory of what a horrible brother he'd been. "Maybe a bit, yeah," he admitted quietly, letting out a little puff of air. "You loved dancing. With Mom, especially. I guess, maybe…maybe it was a bit to keep her spirit alive with us. With the band." He sighed, rubbing at his face, "That sounds selfish."

Clay snorted, shooting John a wry smile. "It totally does, man."

"Shut up," John laughed, shoving his brother gently in the shoulder. Clay swayed slightly, but made no move to retaliate. John chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment, before blurting, "You look like her."

Clay startled slightly, turning wide eyes on John. "Excuse me, what?"

"Sorry, I-ugh," John raked his fingers though his hair in mild irritation at himself. "You look like Mom. You take after her. A lot. The rest of us sort of take mostly after Dad, but you look so much like Mom. And it's way more apparent, now that you're older."

"Do I?" Clay sat up and glanced at his hands, flexing his fingers.

"Yeah, bro. Mom was super into books, and she had all these amazing ideas," John sighed wistfully, watching the waves roll into the sandy shore, "She was super smart, and really kind. And she was just ridiculous. Any time one of us would go to her with some stupid little kid idea, she'd do her best to help us achieve whatever it was, even if it was practically impossible." He laughed, before he began to rummage around int the pockets of his vest, finally pulling out a well worn photo. "Here! I almost forgot I had this on me."

Clay accepted the photo reverently, eyes wide as he took in the still frame from so long ago in their past. A very young John Dory was stood next to a tall, lean looking troll with voluminous teal hair. Clay barely recognized himself in the photo, a trolling no older than perhaps five, propped on her hip, shyly waving at the camera. "Is that…?"

"That's you and Mom, yeah. I think this picture is right around your fourth or fifth hatchday. You were starting to get a bit too big to be carried around, but you kept getting jealous of Floyd, so Mom would make a point of carrying you around as much as she could."

"Oh," Clay murmured, startling a bit as a wet drop hit the corner of the picture. He tipped his head back to find the sky devoid of clouds, only to quickly touch his face and realize he'd begun to cry.

"Even despite being in that cage, she always did her best to make sure everyone always had a smile on their face," John continued quietly, not noticing his brothers plight. "After Mom and Dad got taken, you started trying to do that. Fill that void that Mom left behind, trying to make everyone laugh or smile…" Finally, he looked up to find Clay with silent tears pouring down his ruddy cheeks. He looked alarmed for a moment, reaching out hesitantly, not quite sure if his touch was welcome, only to jerk in surprise as Clay fell into his side with a sniffle. With mild trepidation he gently settled his arm around Clay's shoulders, giving him a little squeeze.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the soft crashing of the waves on the beach, and Clay's quiet, hiccupping sobs.

"I forgot what she looked like," Clay admitted after a time, not moving from his brother's hold.

"Sometimes I forget, too," John sighed, rubbing Clay's shoulder, "It's why I'm so glad I managed to get hold of our old photo albums when I went back to the tree. You can keep that one, if you want."

"Can I?"

"Of course. I've got plenty more, back in Rhonda."

"Thanks, JD."

"Anytime."

#trolls #dreamworks trolls #trolls john dory #trolls clay #things that i wrote #trolls fanfic

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tteokdoroki · 1 year

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𑊡˚+₊🍼✦ — yakuza!bakugou + katsuki bakugou.

૮ ͈>◡< ͈ა warnings — angst, fluff, sfw. bakugou leaves the yakuza for you and it hurts for him to realise how much he loves you. gn!reader.

katsuki bakugou never grovels. he never cries.

he can’t remember the last time he felt tears in his eyes. it must’ve been back when he was a kid, when his parents kicked him out and put him on the street— when the adults in his life failed him time and time again or when he’d gone so long without food he could barely lift a finger let alone keep his eyes open.

“i need an out, boss.” bakugou fights back a sob, head bowed so low that his chest feels tight and blood rushes to the top of his skull. his blood red eyes sting like they’ve been doused with acid rain, his lips quiver faster than he can keep up with— katsuki can’t remember the last time he cried and begged for mercy like this. “can’t go on like this.”

he feels pathetic, more than he ever has in his entire life. much worse than when his boss had taken him into the family, beaten some sense into him and taken a chance on a ruthless kid that ruled the streets with nothing but murder on his mind.

“and why’s that, first lieutenant?” jeanist, the head of the family and the closest thing the blonde has to an old man, asks— seated across from him on the tatami flooring, swaddled in his robes.

katsuki hates this feeling of pain that lodges itself in his chest and blossoms like the sakura trees representing his yakuza family crest. the pain of having to choose what he knows and loves and the love that the future holds for him. he’s not felt pain like this in a long time— emotional, mental pain. physically…he’s been through a lot worse, taken had metal pipes to the head and ribs, stab wounds and bullet wounds galore too. heck, even the yakuza tattoos bound to his wrists ( that seem more like shackles more and more each day ) hurt a fuck tonne.

but nothing is more agonising than seeing the emotional pain katsuki’s inflicted on you.

his knuckles turn white as he grips the fabric covering his knees— grinding his teeth, holding his breath, willing himself not to fucking cry. “i finally got somethin’— someone— damn worth livin’ for,” katsuki spits out, shifting the words around underneath his tongue. bitter and thick as if he’s swallowed a cap full of bleach. “they need me. beg me to come home in one piece. cry when ‘m cut up and bruised, harder when my knuckles bleed.”

“you’re in love,” the old man whispers from in front of him, wistful and wise. katsuki doesn’t speak for a while, he doesn’t have the strength to deny it.

because it’s true, he loves you more than he loves the thrill— the rush of being alive, being a part of this family where no tomorrow is guaranteed. he loves you more and hates the part of him that came home to you beaten and bruised, a bloody pulp so selfishly asking for your help because your hands were soft and you spoke to him softer. katsuki hadn’t seen the tears in your eyes back then, he hadn’t known how much he was hurting you. but when you ask him to make a choice between his family, the yakuza and yourself…

well, the answer is simple. the answer is always you.

“i’m in love,” katsuki repeats, admitting the truth. to his boss and to himself. he’s always known that he loved you, as clear as day, as true as fact— you make cherry blossoms bloom in his chest when his heart stops just from seeing you. you make his world come to a stop just by looking at him— is if you’ve stopped it’s rotation just so he could spend a little extra time with you. katsuki would die for you, but you’d want him to live for you instead.

and he wants to live for you too, wants to live to see you smile.

“i need an out, boss, please just give me a way out,” bakugou sucks back a sob, breathing uneven and shaky. “i need ya to let me go so i can protect ‘em better, be there for them. put a ring on their finger and keep them safe.”

best jeanist let’s a hand fall to straw blonde locks, patting the lieutenant on the head affectionately. “you’ve done a lot for this family, katsuki. i can’t ask you to stay when all you’ve done is put your life on the line for us.” he says, fond of the boy he raised and the man that he’s become. “be free, look after them. they’re your family now.”

katsuki lets out a relieved, strangled breath of thanks and best jeanist hums.

katsuki bakugou never grovels, he never cries but tonight he does. because when it comes to you his emotions are uncontrollable, strewn all about the place.

even the strongest, most dangerous men fall— and it just so happens that katsuki bakugou, a member of the yakuza, had fallen for you.

#bakugou x reader #bakugou x you #bakugou fluff #bakugou imagine #bakugou drabble #mha x reader #bnha x reader #bakugo x reader #bnha fluff #bnha imagines #✧ ₊˚੭ — writing #tteokdoroki #✧ ₊˚💭੭ — aali just posted

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kneelingshadowsalome · 4 months

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Double trouble: fun little au about hot sex and cute spats between König and his younger self

My terrible diseased brain: I wonder how young König felt when he realized his older self has a wife. Did he feel relief? That there is a light at the end of the tunnel, that there is someone who will love him, flaws and scars and all? Did he feel bitter that he doesn’t get that love until he’s older, more tired? Did Colonel König ever think about the fact that his wife would even have loved him as the young, stupid asshole he used to be? Do you think that the recuit and the colonel ever have a quiet moment of just existing next to each other, having a mutual realization that he was worthy of love all along?

Me: good grief

Bucca my sister in crime!! Ily 🩷🩷🩷

I'm sorry that you had to wait so long and on top of everything, all I have for you is angst 😭❤️‍🩹❤️

Young König is surprised (to say the least) when he sees his older self as a married man. He’s stunned to see he’s even alive. He thought he would die before reaching his 30s, in a way he had aspired to be dead before growing too old: that was the goal goddammit.

Who would want to live long enough to see how they turn even more lonely, fucked up and cold?

So his whole worldview is in turmoil now. This is what happens instead? He grows old and happy and gets to marry this hot chick? He gets to be a colonel?? He gets to be loved???

Young König is in love with reader too before even a month has passed, he’s torn between wanting her all to himself and settling for the bone he’s given. Even if he’s a horny menace full of red flags, he adores her. In a way I think he’s the most tragic character in this love triangle/polycule because he seems to be ok with it and has this nonchalant ‘no strings attached’ attitude while clearly, he’s madly in love (and needs therapy).

The attempted mating procedure of young König goes something like this: he sees a hot girl -> he opens his mouth -> she leaves. So now that he is the one who was approached, the dynamic is a bit different. The presence of Colonel means that his bad behaviour flares up like a bad old wound that’s poked. The saddest thing is that the older version has learned to love himself, he loves his wife boundlessly, he even loves his silly young self.

I mean what else can he do but love this beaten dog who’s trying his best and is still a mess?

Colonel’s secret hope is that he could somehow help the young pup to reach destination self-acceptance a little faster through this experiment. But like all of König’s tries to help himself and others, it backfires a bit…

Because young König doesn’t fool himself for one second with daydreams of love. He knows reader doesn’t love him like she loves the Colonel: he’s just a fucktoy in this sick scenario. So no, he isn’t mature enough to co-exist with his older self without bringing good old competition in. Reader can tell him she loves him all she wants, he’s not going to fall for that. Her and Colonel’s love life and marriage only remind him of what he doesn't have, what he can’t get. It’s just scraps for him, like always.

(When will it be his turn???)

#double trouble au #2 königs 1 reader #könig angst #character study stuff

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rynwritesreid · 3 months

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Mind games~Spencer Reid

Chapter three~ nothing’s new

Chapter summary: The FBI gives you time off, allowing you time to heal after what happened to you. But after news spreads, someone from your past contacts you, making old wounds resurface, making you turn to none other than Spencer Reid.

Chapter warnings: Talks about the BDSM community and BDSM dynamics. Talks of fainting. Submissive reader and dominant Spencer. Alcohol consumption. Mentions of what happened to you in the previous chapter but nothing serious. Reader cries but Spencer comforts her. Mentions of emotional wounds from previous relationships.

A/N: I might start releasing these every week instead of every other week, but I am not sure. I also hope this is a good description of what BDSM and specifically D/S relationships are like, I know that community gets a lot of really bad stories written about them.

~mind game’s masterlist~

~join the mind games taglist~

Everyone on the team had been looking after you, making sure you were okay. Spencer, however, had been a godsend. He would send you texts throughout the day, even though the man hated technology. He had opened up to you about what he had been through, maybe in hopes of you opening up, or maybe he just wanted to show you he knew how you were feeling. But you didn’t really care, you were just happy that he was no longer horrible towards you.

You did want to open to Spencer, to everyone, and let them know what you had seen, but you just couldn’t. And the fact that people from academy had been texting you, telling you they had heard what happened and that they couldn’t imagine how you felt, just made it worse.

It had also made it back to your ex-boyfriend, who after 1 and a half years of ignoring your texts, had decided to call you. Part of you wanted to ignore the call, to push away any connection to the past. But another part of you was curious about what he had to say after all this time.

Taking a deep breath, you answered the call. His voice sounded distant and strained as he spoke, "Hey... I heard about what happened. I'm so sorry."

The sincerity in his tone surprised you, and for a moment, you were reminded of why you had loved him in the first place. But then reality set in, reminding you of the pain and heartbreak he had caused.

"I appreciate your sympathy," you replied coolly, trying to maintain a sense of composure. "But I'm doing my best to move forward."

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and you could almost hear him searching for the right words.

"I understand if you don't want to hear from me anymore," he finally said, his voice filled with regret. "I just wanted you to know that I've changed. I've done a lot of soul-searching and therapy since we broke up. I wish I could have been there for you when you needed me."

Your grip on the phone tightened as his words struck a chord within you. The longing for closure and understanding warred with the pain and bitterness that still lingered from your past.

"It's too late now," you replied, your voice laced with a mixture of anger and sadness. "You had your chance, and you blew it."

There was silence on the other end, and you could almost picture him taking in a deep breath before speaking again.

"You're right," he said quietly. "I don't deserve your forgiveness. But I hope that someday, maybe, you can find it in your heart to let go of the hurt I caused."

Tears welled up in your eyes as his words hit you like a wave crashing onto the shore. The pain of his betrayal resurfaced, threatening to engulf you once again. Part of you wanted to believe in his sincerity, to believe that people could change. But another part of you feared being hurt all over again.

"I don't know if I can ever forgive you," you managed to say, your voice trembling with emotion. You didn’t care what he had to say anymore, so you just hung up.

You couldn’t hold back any more and you just began to sob. You picked up your phone and decided to call Spencer, it probably would have been smarter to call one of the girls, Spencer wasn’t the only one who understood what you had gone through, but Spencer was the only one who could truly understand you.

As the phone rang, your tears continued to flow, blurring your vision and making it difficult to see. The weight of your emotions felt like an anchor dragging you down into a sea of despair. Each ring seemed to echo in the cavernous void of loneliness that had enveloped you.

Finally, Spencer's voice broke through the haze of your anguish. "Hey, are you okay?" he asked, his tone filled with concern.

You tried to steady your voice, but it came out choked with sobs. "Spencer," you managed to utter between gasps for air. "I... I need you."

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line, and then Spencer's voice softened with understanding. "I'm here for you," he said gently. "Take all the time you need, and when you're ready, I'll be right by your side."

“I’m ready now Spencer, please.” In that moment, you could hear the urgency in your own voice, the desperation for comfort and solace. The pain of your past relationship had resurfaced, triggering a deep yearning for someone who truly understood you. And Spencer, with his unwavering support and compassion, was the only person who could provide that.

Silence lingered on the other end of the line, and you wondered if perhaps you had overwhelmed him with your sudden vulnerability. But just as doubt began to creep in, Spencer's voice filled the void once again.

"I'm on my way," he said firmly, his words laced with determination. "Stay where you are. I'll be there as soon as I can."

Relief washed over you like a gentle tide, easing some of the turmoil in your heart. You trusted Spencer implicitly; his presence was a balm to your wounded soul.

Spencer rushed into Hotch’s office, telling him that you needed someone with you right now, and that he will be back to work as soon as he can be.

And Spencer, a man who was always true to his word, was at your door within 20 minutes.

You opened the door, your tear-streaked face betraying the pain you had been holding inside. Spencer took one look at you and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a comforting embrace. The warmth of his touch, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest, brought a sense of security that you hadn't felt in a long time.

"I'm here," he whispered softly into your ear, his voice filled with genuine concern. "You're not alone anymore."

You clung to him, seeking solace in his presence, as he led you to the couch and sat down beside you. “You don't have to face this pain by yourself”, his voice was calming, “everyone on the team loves you, they all would be here in a heartbeat for you. I mean they are discussing what to get you for when you come back to work.”

You let out a weak laugh, the first sign of a smile since the whole ordeal began. It was comforting to know that you had a support system, a group of people who truly cared about you.

"Thank you," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "I don't know where I would be without all of you."

Spencer's grip on your hand tightened, his eyes filled with genuine compassion. "You're stronger than you think," he assured you softly. "And we'll be right here with you every step of the way."

In that moment, as you sat there with Spencer by your side, you felt a glimmer of hope. The pain and heartache were still present, but now they were tempered by the love and support surrounding you.

“Would you like to talk about what happened, or is there something else on your mind?”

You hesitated for a moment, unsure if you were ready to relive the details of the past, but then you realized that Spencer was right. It was time to face what had happened and start the healing process.

Taking a deep breath, you began to share your story. The words tumbled out, sometimes in a rush, other times choked with emotion. Spencer listened attentively, never interrupting or judging. He offered gentle words of encouragement, his presence a constant reminder that you were not alone.

As you recounted the painful memories, it felt like a weight was being lifted off your shoulders. Each word spoken was an act of defiance against the pain that had consumed you for so long. And with each passing minute, you felt a little bit stronger.

When you finally finished, there was a silence that hung in the air, as if the weight of your story needed a moment to settle in. Spencer broke the stillness with a soft sigh.

"I'm so sorry," he said sincerely, “you should never have had to have gone through that. He will rot in prison. And that ex of yours, he did not deserve you.”

You nodded, grateful for Spencer's unwavering support and understanding. His words were like a soothing balm to your wounded soul, validating the pain you had endured. Your heart ached with the realization that you had been in a toxic relationship, but knowing that you were no longer alone gave you the strength to move forward.

"Thank you, Spencer," you whispered, tears brimming in your eyes once again. "I don't know how I would have made it through this without you."

Spencer's gaze softened, his hand gently wiping away your tears. "You don't have to thank me," he said softly. "Being there for you is what friends do. We look out for each other."

The word "friends" lingered in the air, and you couldn't help but wonder if there was something more between you and Spencer. The connection you shared felt deeper than mere friendship, but you were both still healing from past wounds. It was too soon to explore those feelings, and not long ago, Spencer had shown his dislike for you.

After about two weeks, you were back in the bullpen. Garcia had decorated your desk, telling you that this always make her feel better and she thought it would do the same to you, JJ and Emily informed you on all the gossip you had missed, Hotch had gone full dad mode on you, making sure you were okay, Rossi had invited you over to his for a private cooking lesson, Morgan had told you all the pranks he had pulled on Spencer. Spencer on the other hand seemed to keep his distance, he had smiled at you, but ever since that day he had come over something seemed to have changed.

You couldn't put your finger on it, but there was a palpable shift in the dynamics between you and Spencer. He was still kind and supportive, but there was a subtle hesitancy in his interactions with you. It was as if he was holding back, as if there were unresolved emotions swirling beneath the surface.

You desperately wanted to address it, to talk to Spencer about what had transpired between you, but you feared that doing so might jeopardize the fragile bond you had built. What if he didn't feel the same way? What if he saw you as nothing more than a friend and confidant?

You pushed those thoughts aside, focusing on the work at hand. The team had a new case, one that required their full attention. As you discussed the details with your teammates, you noticed Spencer's gaze linger on you for a moment longer than necessary. It was a fleeting look, but enough to make your heart skip a beat.

Throughout the day, you found yourself stealing glances at Spencer whenever you could. There was an undeniable chemistry between the two of you, a connection that had grown stronger during your time of need. But you both had been through so much already, and neither of you wanted to rush into anything without being sure.

As the case progressed, Spencer's presence beside you became more prominent. He would stand just a little too close, his hand brushing against yours as he passed you a file or offered his insights. It was subtle, but it spoke volumes about what he was feeling.

Even JJ had commented on it, asking if something was going on between the two of you, but you assured her nothing was going on. But the truth was, you weren't quite sure how to define whatever it was that was happening between you and Spencer.

After the case was over, the team decided to go out for celebratory drinks. This was the first time you had gone out since what had happened to you. You were sat in-between JJ and Garcia, they were both talking about their funniest sex stories and you couldn't help but laugh along with them, grateful for the distraction from your own thoughts. Across the table, Spencer was engaged in a lively conversation with Rossi and Morgan, his laughter ringing out in the crowded bar.

You don’t know what compelled you, but you decided to share yours, and you were almost certain Spencer couldn’t hear you.

“If you want to mine”, you paused, allowing the girls to give you their full attention, “I told my ex that I was into BDSM and he thought that just meant me calling him daddy. So, when I told him what I was really into, he nearly fainted. It was definitely an interesting and eye-opening experience." The girls burst into laughter, their faces turning red from the combination of alcohol and amusement.

The sound caught Spencer's attention, his ears perking up as he turned his head towards you. His eyes locked with yours, and you could've sworn there was a flicker of interest in them.

"Wait, what did I miss?" he asked, leaning closer to catch the tail end of the conversation.

You felt a blush rise to your cheeks as you glanced at the girls. JJ nudged you playfully, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

"Oh, Y/N's just regaling us with her kinky adventures," Garcia chimed in with a teasing smirk.

Spencer raised an eyebrow, a mix of curiosity and surprise evident on his face. "Is that so?" he asked, trying to hide a smile.

You shifted in your seat, feeling a mix of embarrassment and anticipation. The playful conversation seemed to have opened a door, allowing for a light-hearted connection between you and Spencer. You took a deep breath, deciding to seize the moment.

"Yeah, well, it was definitely an experience," you replied, matching his playful tone. "But let's just say, I've learned my lesson about dating vanilla guys."

Spencer chuckled, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Well, I can assure you, I'm far from vanilla," he said, a hint of mischief in his voice.

JJ and Garcia exchanged knowing glances, silently urging you to take the plunge. They had seen the connection between you and Spencer long before either of you had acknowledged it, and they were more than ready to play matchmakers.

"So," Garcia interjected with a sly grin, "are we going to sit here and talk about kinks all night, or are you two going to finally address the elephant in the room?"

“I-erm what elephant?” you asked, there was hint of confusion in your voice.

“Oh, come on.” JJ stated “Even when Spencer hated you, he couldn’t take his eyes of you.”

Spencer's cheeks flushed slightly, his gaze shifting nervously between you and JJ. You could see the internal battle raging within him, the fear of rejection warring with his desire for something more.

Finally, Spencer took a deep breath and mustered up the courage to speak. "I... I have to admit," he began, his voice barely above a whisper. "Even when I claimed to dislike you, I couldn't deny the pull I felt towards you. You're intelligent, compassionate, and..." He trailed off, his eyes searching yours for any sign of reciprocation.

A warm smile spread across your face as you reached across the table, gently placing your hand on top of Spencer's. "And what?" you prompted softly.

He let out a shaky laugh, his fingers intertwining with yours. "And beautiful," he finished, his voice filled with sincerity.

JJ and Garcia exchanged triumphant glances as their matchmaking efforts paid off.

“You know, I think it’s time you two go home, so you can discuss this somewhere Hotch can’t hear you.” Emily said in a hushed tone.

You and Spencer laughed, realizing that your friends were right. It was time to have a more private conversation about the growing feelings between you. As the night came to an end, you and Spencer found yourselves outside the bar, away from prying ears.

The air was crisp, a gentle breeze rustling through the trees. You leaned against the side of the building, facing Spencer who stood only a few feet away. There was a comfortable silence between you as you both took a moment to collect your thoughts.

Finally, Spencer spoke up, his voice filled with vulnerability. "I never meant to push you away before. I was scared...scared of opening myself up to someone, scared of getting hurt. But seeing what you went through, how strong you were...it made me realize how much I care about you."

Your heart swelled at his words, grateful for his honesty. "Spencer, I understand why you acted the way you did. We've all been hurt before, and we all have our own ways of protecting ourselves," you replied softly. "But I want you to know that I care about you too, and I'm willing to take the risk if it means we can be together."

Spencer's eyes met yours, filled with a mix of relief and hope. "You would really give us a chance?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

A gentle smile tugged at your lips as you stepped closer to him. "Yes, Spencer, I would. I would give us a chance," you confirmed, your voice filled with certainty. "Because the truth is, Spencer, I've been falling for you ever since the first case I worked.”

Spencer's eyes widened, surprise mingling with joy. "Really? Even when I was being an insufferable jerk?"

You chuckled softly. "Especially then," you admitted. “But I do have to know what you mean when you say your far from vanilla.”

Spencer blushed, his cheeks turning a shade of crimson. "Well," he stammered, "I've always had a... deep fascination with role-playing scenarios and exploring different power dynamics." He paused, his gaze searching yours for any sign of judgment or discomfort. “And I can say I enjoy being the dominant one more.”

“Is that so? What have been your favourite scene you’ve done so far?”

Spencer cleared his throat, a bashful smile playing on his lips. "Well, one of my favourite scenes involved a classic teacher-student dynamic," he confessed, his voice laced with excitement. "I got to play the strict professor, and she was my eager and naughty student."

Your eyebrows raised in surprise and curiosity. "Oh? And how did that play out?"

He chuckled softly, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "Let's just say there were some detentions and extra credit assignments involved," he replied coyly. "It was all about the power play and the thrill of breaking the rules within the safety of our consensual role-playing."

He then once again looked to see if you were unconformable. “What about you? What do you enjoy.” He asked.

“I, erm- well I enjoy being the submissive one. I was in a dynamic relationship with someone, and they gave me a necklace to wear, to show I belonged to them. They used to tell me what outfits I could wear when going out.”

Spencer's eyebrows furrowed, his expression a mix of concern and curiosity. "Did you enjoy the feeling of submission, or was it more about the trust and surrender that came with it?" he asked gently, his voice filled with genuine interest.

You took a moment to consider his question before answering honestly. "It was a combination of both," you replied, your voice soft but unwavering. "There was something incredibly liberating about giving up control and trusting someone else to take care of me. It allowed me to let go of my responsibilities and just be in the moment."

Spencer nodded, a thoughtful look on his face as he took in your words. "I understand," he said quietly. "The power dynamics in BDSM can be incredibly nuanced and fulfilling when both parties are open and communicative about their desires and boundaries."

"Would you ever consider exploring that dynamic with me?" you asked cautiously, searching his face for any sign of hesitation. “I mean, I would still be the submissive one.”

Spencer’s eyes softened, filled with warmth and reassurance. He reached out to gently cup your cheek, his touch sending a shiver of anticipation down your spine. "I would be honoured to explore that dynamic with you," he replied softly. "But only if we establish clear boundaries, practice open communication, and ensure that both of our needs are met."

You smiled, relieved by his understanding and respect for the importance of consent and communication in such exploration. "I couldn't agree more," you murmured, leaning into his touch. "We'll take it slow, step by step, and create a safe space for both of us to express ourselves."

~taglist~

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cooki3face · 6 months

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wounded feminine energy vs wounded masculine energy:

Wounded feminine will struggle primarily with feelings of unworthiness that will present itself in a lot of different ways but wounded feminine energy may include things like:

issues with control and manipulation : stepping outside of her feminine energy and her home energy of recieving and trying to push and pull things into fruition or to go in the direction she sees fit and often for personal gain. This may present in her relationships with others, manipulating her friends, manipulating her partners, manipulating strangers. May be dishonest, deceitful, or deceptive.

low self worth & self esteem: she’s unable to make good decisions on who she chooses to be around and what she allows, may fall into a habit of people pleasing, may struggle with internalized misogyny, may be boy crazy or blow her entire life up for male validation or male presence, may constantly speak negatively upon herself and upon others. May victimize herself often or be prone to feeling “sorry” for herself, may also be heavily emotionally unstable or consumed by her emotions to the point where she’s constantly at high points of emotional distress. She has no boundaries, she’s desperate for love, she’s obsessive in a way where it comes from a place of lack or a void.

Vindictive,bitter, and jealous: falls right in hand with low self worth and self esteem, projecting all her fears and jealousy onto others especially other women. Always out to get someone, always picking on someone, always attempting to humiliate or tear someone apart.

over-giving: falls right into people pleasing but a feminine who may be over giving may not know how to or be unable to protect her energy, her power, her divinity and her “soft feminine”, she may become over-giving, over nurturing, overly empathetic to the point where she pours too much of herself (from a raw and authentic pool of her energy) into others. this comes hand in hand with my post about a feminine needing a divine counterpart who is conducive to her energy and is safe and giving so that when she’s in her most vulnerable state her energy won’t go to waste.

Shame and guilt: ashamed of her body, ashamed of her sensuality, ashamed of her femininity, ashamed of what it takes to protect herself from others, guilty for putting herself first, guilty for being in her power, guilty for recieving what she rightfully deserves, etc. etc. falls hand in hand with what I spoke about briefly about how purity culture and certain aspects of culture and life may supress one’s feminine nature and identity and ability to connect with self.

Intuitive and expressive: she’s in touch with her intuition, she’s strong and in tune, truth is clear and she lives in her truth. She lives an honest life, is honest with herself and with honors, shows up as an authentic version of herself in spirit. She’s creative, she inspires others instead of picking them apart or leading them astray.

Consumed by emotions: she’s angry, she’s aggressive, she’s emotionally consumed or disturbed, she’s violent, always fighting people, doesn’t have effective problem solving or communication skills outside of violence or conflict. Is always involved in conflict, is always involved in drama, befriends people with the intention of constantly being in the center of an issue or being aware of an issue, nosy and cunning. If she’s jealous and bitter she expresses it heavily.

***

Wounded masculine will struggle primarily with how he sees himself, honoring his heart space, and what it means to be masculine or a man. This is not a new issue, it’s as old as time, wounded masculine may exude behaviors like:

overly competitive and combative: masculine may have a tendency to try to out compete others, regardless of sex or gender. He competes with women, he competes with men. He used envy and insecurity to fuel these urges to compete with others. He wants to be the biggest all the time, he wants to be the most successful, the most important, the most looked at, etc. etc. there’s nothing wrong with these desires when they come from a place of self love and growth, there is an issue when they come from the ego and his desire is to push others out of their rightful place or consume the energy of others to make himself larger. Or he needs to be right and he’s argumentative. He may be prone to having narcissistic traits or a narcissistic personality type, he may have an inflated ego or sense of importance. Constant inner and outer conflict, he’s displeased with himself, he’s displeased with what there’s, he’s always fighting, always arguing, always involved in some sort of altercation.

Abusive and angry: he has a tendency to communicate with physical violence or is unable to solve problems effectively. He has a desire to hurt others to make himself feel stronger or more powerful or feel validated and respected. Constant inner and outer conflict, he’s displeased with himself, he’s displeased with what there’s, he’s always fighting, always arguing, always involved in some sort of altercation.

controlling and/or possessive: controlling in plenty of areas, in his relationships, in career, in life. Reflects a masculine whose not confident in his ability to be loved and admired, not confident in his ability to make a difference or take action that will push things forward or into fruition in a genuine and meaningful manner. A possessive masculine is a masculine who has a strong desire to consume things rather than enjoy them and allow them to flourish. Especially in his relationships, he may attempt to “squash” his partner, keep them from stepping into their power, keep them from doing well, he may have a tendency to view his partners and counterparts as objects to be had or to be owned rather than to be appreciated or as an energy that is complimentary and adds to his value or divinity. This goes hand and hand with what I spoke about briefly about men in relationships with successful women who try to trap them with pregnancy at the height of their careers or try to minimize their success. He’s overly critical of others and overly critical of himself on an internal level. May be prone to picking up misogynistic tendencies and views, he picks on women, he degrades them, he feels the need to tell them what to do and what’s acceptable.

Manipulative: again. A masculine who doesn’t think he’s truly capable of making an impact, a masculine who doesn’t believe he’s capable of truly being loved or doesn’t believe he has enough value to be stayed with in his relationships. A masculine who may have a tendency to see others as below him or as pawns.

over-preforming or overcompensating: am i man enough? Am I doing enough? Will they look at me or admire me enough? He tries too hard to be “masculine”, is afraid to stray away from masculine stereotypes, bullies and takes out aggression towards men who don’t fit the mold that he’s been conditioned to believe is what masculinity or being a real man looks like. Leads him to being controlling, resentful, aggressive and violent in a lot of cases. Resents others who live in their truth and live authentically despite judgment and rejection, tries to squash or push down others who go against what he’s been conditioned to believe is right or wrong, ends up pushing people away or ruining a lot of his relationships and his connections because he’s unable to find the courage to be who he is from an authentic stand point and he’s angry because he always feels like he has to preform and conform. And bro is definitely the lgbtq police and the “that’s gay asf” guy in the back who nobody asked an opinion from. He’s overly critical of others and overly critical of himself on an internal level. May be prone to picking up misogynistic tendencies and views, he picks on women, he degrades them, he feels the need to tell them what to do and what’s acceptable.

Unable to feel emotions/disconnected from self: unable to communicate and communicate effectively, he doesn’t understand himself and therefore can’t understand others, has a tendency to resort to anger or shutting down or running from things when he’s feeling triggered or being coaxed out of his shelf or is required to open up and be vulnerable. He’s guarded and closed off, he’s defensive, he struggles with an avoidant attatchment style, he’s afraid of being seen, he’s afraid of true intimacy, he’s afraid of being perceived in general and perceived as being soft or emotional. He doesn’t want to talk about his feelings because he’s conditioned not to and it’s difficult. He’s stagnant, he’s unable to grow, he’s unable to learn hard emotional lessons. Repressed his feminine energy or actively represses it and this goes hand and hand with overcompensating and over preforming.

Unstable: unstable, unsupportive, unsafe physically and emotionally. He can’t create a safe space for you, for others, or himself emotionally or physically and he will not.

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lilacsinjuly · 1 year

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withering tree, grief lasts.

gojo x reader

summary:

after a particulary long and challenging battle, you're left with a fatal injury and decide to die peacefully at the place you realised you loved satoru.

cw: angst, you die bro, lots of hurt, grab tissues.

word count: 1.1k

likes, comments and reposts are deeply appreciated! <3 enjoy.

-`♡´-

You watched from a distance. The relieved sighs, smiling faces, conversations with ease laced into them. You watched and smiled as you realised this would be the last time you'd be filled with such comfort. You didn't want to partake in the celebrations, so you leaned against an old tree, under the creeping shadows and watched from a distance.

There was no hope, no chance of life after the injury you had sustained; you made peace with that fact with tears in your eyes and a reluctant smile for solace. You knew of no other way to spend your final few moments than on this hill, under the same tree where you realised your feelings for him.

A bitter smile crept up on your face. Him. The man you yearned for, for so long. The one who had always felt the same. All of that wasted time pining, waiting desperately for one another when the feelings had always been requited. If you had known then, how it would've ended, how you didn't make nearly enough memories together, you would've confessed much earlier, despite your doubts and anxieties.

Now, you’re back where you started, rotting away, alone on this hill, as he enjoyed himself without your presence needed.

The idea that he was happy was enough to grant you peace when you died.

Atleast, that's what you believed. You couldn't see the frantic white hair running from person to person asking if they had seen you. He could feel a piece of his heart breaking with each 'no' he had heard.

Everything felt like one big joke. There was no way you didn’t make it out alive, he did everything he could to ensure your protection. But his sanity started to deteriorate as everyone has claimed they hadn’t seen you, leaving few possibilities to your location.

You had always taken it upon yourself to check on everyone you cared for, so it made no sense as to why no one had spoken to you.

His head ached as a single question thrummed against it. Were you dead?

The thought made Gojo's whole body tremble, his breath quicken and his mind hammer.

Without you, he felt like an open wound, weakened and useless. What is the strongest without a will? Without a reason. You were his reason, and he'd tear the world apart looking for you before he accepted your death.

Taking a moment to breathe and look around, when he finally saw it and realised. Memories rushing back and bringing a pained smile to his face.

"I was here when I realised, 'toru." you had told him when you first got together. You told him how, every so often after you realised you had fallen in love with him, you'd come to this hill to empty your thoughts. Seeing the sky and the stars at night and thinking of him, seeing the world below and realising that, whilst there are countless people who had the potential to make you happy below this tiny hill, there was only one person that would ever complete you as well as he did.

"I thought you'd be here." he said, standing behind you, causing you to flinch at his sudden voice amongst the quiet you had got used to. “I couldn't celebrate without knowing where you were, because I knew you’d be miserable without my company.” he said jokingly and dramatically before noticing your lack of a response.

You sat with your hand over your injury, trying to cover the damage, refusing to ruin his mood yet your efforts of protecting him were futile.

He called out your name. "Are you hurt? Talk to me please." Satoru begged, as he rushed down to where you sat, leaning on the same old, withering tree he recognised from your confession. He kneeled down in front of you, your eyes lacking life as his own were full of despair.

He noticed your wound and his eyes widened, panicking, he tried to help but both of you knew nothing could be done.

"I always knew I’d die here-"

"You are not dying, do you hear me?" he said in disbelief, trying to convince himself more than you. But most of all, he tried to convince nature to spare you from such a fate when you had years to come by his side.

"'Toru, look at me! I'm not leaving this hill alive, okay? I love you so, so much it hurts and- and I need you to understand-" you tried to reason but he cut you off once more.

"Don't you fucking dare try and say goodbye. You can't leave me alone, I-" he tripped and stuttered over his words frustratedly as he continued to convince himself this wasn't the end. "I can't do this without you." he mumbled, voice laced with despair.

You lifted your hand up to caress his face and brush hair out of his eyes. You never liked seeing him cry. There was no feeling in the world that could compare to the one in which you saw the one you loved the most in pain because it feels like there is nothing you could do. Watching him, feeling useless knowing that if you could take all the pain away from him and endure it yourself, you would without half a second of hesitation. But you couldn't, and that feeling felt like poison.

"Please let me talk, Satoru. no interuptions, just let me talk to you." you spluttered out weakly, your face, movements and voice were losing life with each passing second and deep down, Satoru knew this, so he nodded, his face leaning into the touch of your hand as he gently cupped it, trying to drag out this last few moments. "Each and every second with you has been more than what I have ever deserved. You're too fucking good for this Satoru and you don't deserve it at all but I will always be here with you when you need me, when you're sick of me and when you feel alone because even through death you wont lose me. I can't tell you how much I have appreciated loving you and being able to love you." you smiled, going silent, though your eyes still looked into his own.

He leaned towards you, forehead against yours, pressing a gentle kiss against your lips as your tears mixed with his own for the final time. Your eyes fluttered shut, your breaths becoming fainter and fainter with each second.

Gojo pleaded you to keep yours eyes open, cradling your body closer to his own that shook as broken sobs were elicited from him as he lost yet another piece of himself.

He looked up at the darkened sky, thinking of you. Thinking of everything he should’ve done differently. Blaming himself for your final breath.

He’d come back to this same hill everyday, though he’d never look at the same sentimental tree as he did before.

No longer would it be associated with love, but grief of the one he lost.

note: cant proofread through the tears

#jjk angst #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen angst #fanfic #jjk x reader #jjk fanfic #gojo satoru x you #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo angst #gojo satoru angst #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #gojo fanfic #angst #no happy ending

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scientia-rex · 20 days

Text

I got home from work today sneezing my head off with a right eye that won’t stop watering, took a hot shower, climbed into bed, and I haven’t climbed out since. I’m grumpy and I have a headache and if I’m not testing positive for COVID or debilitated by symptoms tomorrow I’ll still need to go to work because that’s twenty patient visits that would need to be rescheduled, usually with someone else, and that’s twenty people I’m letting down. Today I did one of my patented 45-second Pap smears (if it takes longer than that, your doctor needs to get better!) for someone with vaginal atrophy from menopause (it is both very common and very treatable) and she was in disbelief. (This time it was more like 30 seconds.) I saw a suicidally depressed patient who’s clinging to life with both hands and I changed their meds last week and I am not making them wait to see me. I cleaned a wound no one else gave a shit about and I saw a bitter pissy Republican Party bigwig who has terrible anxiety and depression she doesn’t tell anyone about, who’s alienated everyone but who I can still convince to try treatment.

I do my job on hard mode on purpose. I like being important—who doesn’t? I like being legendary, I like that when people move to town and ask for doctor recommendations on Facebook so many people mention me that other patients feel compelled to tell me about it. I got nominated for best doctor in our local region last year. (I didn’t win, out of 5 nominees.) But when I’m sick, when I’m the kind of sick that can be hidden easily, the kind of sick I was always expected to go to school and rotations and residency with, it’s so hard. I hate exposing patients, even to a cold, but the benefits of receiving care are probably enough to outweigh the chance of transmission. I wrestle with myself: if I call in, it starts a ripple effect. Can they get a per diem from their “pool” (of three) to come in? Can they reschedule my patients with me? I don’t have any open spots for five weeks. Can they open same days? None available for three weeks. Can they open blocked spots? That’s going to make my life hell when I come back from being sick. That’s clinic staff calling twenty patients, trying to reach them. That’s twenty patients who feel abandoned. They can know intellectually that doctors get sick too, but they don’t believe it. They take it personally. I have seen this over and over again, until I had to believe it.

It is so EASY for people who don’t do this job to tell me how I’m doing it wrong. “Just stay home!” Oh, okay, you want to tell the person whose chronic opioids I’m supposed to write for that I can’t? You want to put the nurses through getting the on-call to write a bridge prescription? I write more ADHD meds than most of my peers—usually a lot more. You want to tell my colleagues to write meds they’re uncomfortable with? How about tell my suicidal patients (which is a lot of them!) that the provider they know and trust after months or years will be replaced today by a 70-year-old white man who still thinks they should pull themselves up by their bootstraps? Tell my queer patients that they have to wait until I’m better and back to get their hormones and their STI screenings, reschedule a Pap someone was dreading. Every day is a kaleidoscope of opportunities to make a real connection with “difficult” patients. I’m good at it. I may be the best at it at my clinic.

I don’t hate calling in sick just because the clinic manager is a judgy bitch, though that doesn’t help. I hate it because of what it does to my patients. And it’s not simple. Pretending it is does all of us a disservice. I am not a widget. I am not easily replaceable. You can’t plug any of our per diems (all men, 2/3 white, 2/3 old, 1/3 a Bitcoin bro) into my place and call it an equivalent, and my schedule is already so packed that if I call in sick, patients will be guilt-tripping me about it for months. I’m not kidding. That happens every single time.

Christ alive, I wish it was true that doctors never got sick.

#the attending dr. kristophine

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spacebarbarianweird · 4 months

Note

Hi! Would you write Astarion x Rogue!Tav ? I always liked the idea of two rogues together, getting up to a bunch of mischief.

Inspired by my friend @psychicdreamlandpizza whose Tav is Tiefling Rogue

Thanks @rachelle-on-the-run @leomonae @glassphinixfor the ideas! NSWF version is coming later!

Astarion x Rogue!Tav

Masterlist

Headcanons

You are a street urchin, abandoned as a child.

You can only rely on yourself and no one else.

However, such a life didn't make you bitter.

You are a sarcastic rogue with a heart of gold.

You know lockpicking, deception, and many illegal stuff.

Of course, you knew stories of vampires using, the streets as their hunting spot.

You met them twice.

A tiefling woman. who tried to offer you a profitable job.

And an elf. who was selling his body.

You knew who they were and escaped.

Gods, why isn't there a vampire hunter when you need one?

You recognize the said elf at the shipwreck.

Before he manages to jump on you, you knock him down and put a dagger to his throat.

"Just tell me the reason why I shouldn't tell everyone you are a vampire?"

Now it's his dagger against your throat.

"Tell me the reason why I shouldn't tell everyone you are a thief and a criminal?"

Fair enough. It's not like you manage to keep secrets from the party, but you have an arrangement for a while.

You have a lot in common.

Basically, two feral cats, who try to gauge each other's eyes.

You have lockpicking races trying to open a door or a chest.

"I saw it first!", "I got to it first!", "I've been picking locks since before you were born, you little wretch!", "Exactly! Move, old man!"

Sometimes, failing perception checks and having to face a mimic.

You have charisma 20 and can make people love you without putting too much effort.

You can overdrink anyone and anything, but Astarion has to carry you away because you never know when to stop.

You always can get better deals and contracts, but your desire to help people (even for money) often goes sideways.

And it's Astarion's turn to get you out of trouble.

The intimacy of your partner helping you disarm a trap, knowing that a misstep could kill you both but also knowing that you've nothing to worry about because both of you trust the other's skills and steadiness.

And stitching wounds if one of you fucks up.

Sometimes it's you both.

Post-game, you stay together in Baldur's Gate, working as mercenaries and dreaming of earning a fortune.

You have a thing about luxury too, though, you've never had a chance to experience it.

You are two stray cats, finally having home.

The idea of sleeping comfortably in your bed feels weird.

Wearing clothes which are beautiful but not practical, too.

And you know when Astarion brings you something he hasn't bought it.

And you are more than fine with it.

You steal things for him, too.

Mostly, pieces of clothing. Sometimes jewelry. Often - books.

Date nights? How about breaking into someone's mansion whose owner has hoarded pieces of art and hidden them from people?

Goine through private galleries with Astarion giving you a lecture about art?

Or maybe swimming in someone's private pool?

And having sex in the rich people's luxury beds?

There are a lot of ways to have fun if you are two rogues!

Tag list

@tugoslovenka @marcynomercy @wintersire @vixstarria @not-so-lost-after-all @ashiro20 @theearthsfinalconfession @herstxrgirl @starlight-ipomoea @micropoe10 @astarion-imagine-archive @veillsar @elora-the-slutty-songstress @fayeriess @lumienyx @astarion-beloved @tallymonster @caitlincat-95 @tragedybunny @valeprati @lynnlovesthestars

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ellieslittleburrow · 15 days

Text

Requested by : @mymelodymia 🪷🪷

Summary : Reader has POTS, she faints and Ellie and Joel are there to help(after almost shooting her)

Pairings : Joel x adoptive daughter!reader/ Ellie w adoptive sister!reader

Warnings : Pots, fainting, Joel's rifle and fluff...boo

A/N : I had to read the request like, 5 times everytime i wrote something and everytime i read this i just burst into laughter because "tess expired" i'm sorry i can't it's so funny to say it like that 😂

-----

It's been a few hours since the....incident with Tess. Your feet are sore and you feel like a cloud of fog is starting to envelop your brain. You...you're not feeling very good.

"Can we stop?"

"No." The words come out of Joel's lips bitter. Too bitter for you to argue with.

But you...you're not feeling so well..Your heart...You can't breathe and....You feel like you've lost control of your body and it's too heavy for you to l...l...

Figures turn into silhouettes...and your body follows as your backpack hits the ground, and just like that, the world fades into darkness...

----

"Oh shit-"

Joel and Ellie both spin around at the loud thump behind them, Joel's rifle being lifted to rest against his cheek.

"Wh...Lily!" Ellie's initial reaction is to make her way over to her friend, but Joel pulls her back, the force of the pull sending her staggering back.

"Hey-Sh'es unconsciou-"

"She might be infected." Joel argues, stepping forward, slow as he prepares himself to shoot.

Ellie being Ellie doesn't listen. She sprints towards your unconscious body, "she's still breathing." She remarks, noticing the very subtle heaving of your chest. "It's not the first time she acts this way. She's not infected." Your friend speaks, kneeling before you as she pulls up your shirt, sleeves, pants...checking for any injuries.

"And you couldn't have said that earlier, Ellie?" The old man grunts and the girl sighs, considering. "I didn't-i didn't-"

"Whatever, just loosen her boots and her belt." He instructs and Ellie complies, but stops when he taps her shoulder.

She twists her head, looking back to meet the butt of Joel's rifle. "Hold this and prepare yourself." He nudges her, motioning for her to step back. And as she does...She realizes the advantage she's just gained...she giggles.

"You know that i could shoot you right now?"

Joel slowly looks back, annoyance apparent in the pursed corners of his lips. "Good luck finding yourself back to the fireflies, then."

Ellie chuckles, readying herself as she watches Joel check your pulse, tapping your cheeks gently but firmly in the process and just then....

------

Your eyes fall open and....the trees are passing by in a neverending cycle....you...you feel awful...

"You look awful."

Your eyes follow the voice, only to meet a pair of worried eyes. "Joel..?" You manage to whimper...and he nods.

"What happened? How often does this happen?"

Huh...You try to sit up but your body is unresponsive...Maybe just...lay there for a while.

"I...i'm not s-s-sure i just..." You go quiet when Joel stars pulling up your clothes. "What are you doing?" You'd move but you can't-

"I have to check for wounds-stop squirming."

"Joel-i'm not infected. This happens to me from time to time i just faint-stop-" You groan when the realisation hit you that he will simply not listen to you. You just sit back and wait, supressing the grin you're fighting off as Joel unconsciously rubs your leg, his face turned away as he plans for the next move.

But you've already caused enough trouble, so you just abruptly sit up, readying yourself to talk when Joel gently pushes you back.

"No, you have to lay down for a little while longer, your head must be banging right now."

You groan at Joel's remark, rubbing your forehead in response.

"She could take a nap!" Ellie suggests, ignoring your eyes as she recognizes your head shakes, meaning absolute refusal. Which is exactly what happens next, as you groan and wave your hands no. "No no no i-i don't need that, i don't-really." You argue back, causing Ellie to roll her eyes before she makes her way over, dropping to her knees as she takes ahold of your hand.

"It's okay...it's no bother." Her tone melts into a sweet one, one that is soft enough to put you to sleep. "You need to rest, just a little nap and then we'll get going." She twists her head back, looking for Joel's approval.

And as her back is faces you, you turn to Joel for comfort, watching as his eyes converse with hers. "Not a bad idea, a little nap and then we're back on our feet." His eyes seem empathetic enough for you to believe. And relief slowly travels all the way around your body, loosening the tightness around your muscles.

And so for the next few hours, you find yourself forcefully and gently pushed to the ground as Ellie convinces you it's time for you to rest again. It's...stressful, feeling like a burden but the constant comfort and reassurance sure are making up for it!!!

-----

I hated writing that middle part omg!!!! Like, you're unconscious, how can you know wtf is happening in the meantime?????? Anyway, I hope this was a bit comfortiiing 🥀🥀🥀❤️❤️❤️

#daughter!reader #father figure fic #adoptive father troop #daughter x father #joel miller x daughter!reader #joel miller x platonic reader #joel miller x daughter #joel miller!father #father fic #father figure #sister x brothers #sister!reader #sibling fic #daddy issues but it's serious #adoptive family #ellie tlou #ellie x fem reader #ellie x platonic reader

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clarks-letterman · 1 month

Text

a stab at it | johnny slaughter x gn!reader

a/n — I had the writing itch and this came to me, started as a vague fic before turning into a Johnny one, so the plot is probably crappy. making up for my April fools fic!!!! (accept this as an apology)

summary — Johnny comes into the diner you work at late at night.

words — 1.4k

warnings — mentions of blood, possibly out of character!Johnny, swearing

~~~

The diner with no name. A pit stop on the way to bigger, brighter places like Austin or Dallas. No one cared about Newt besides the people who lived in it, and the diner was so far out of the way for anyone who lived in between the spaced-out houses for anyone from up that way to come around. It became the sweet spot for foreigners because it was closer to them than it was to where, legally, this place could be held in contempt.

The customers without faces. They stuff everything into little pockets of life that are designed to be unremarkable. Their outlines don't leave a lasting impact. The red, cushioned seating of each booth and stool doesn't leave an indent of their presence, of their scent. It wears off when the next dull-faced person comes in and orders the special to feel special, but in reality, they're like everyone else. The money they pay with is monopoly; kiddish, fast-change for a faster leave. Everyone accepts it but you need to be a special kind of person to work here. Their silhouettes as they leave are untraceable beyond the set of glass doors at the entrance. Vibrant purple lighting casts down on them and is usually diffracted by the soft yellow headlights of rusted and muddied trucks.

Another pulled up, casting light into the tall windows looking out into total darkness. You could've seen him coming from a good mile away—that’s how obvious the light would have been against the night, nothing else around to compete with his headlights—but paid no mind as he pulled into a vacant spot in front of the diner.

His figure was different, the way he walked left dirty bootprints on the floor. Each step seemed to shake off something: dirt, sweat, fleas—if he was rabid. He looked fresh out of a street fight, claw-like scrapes along his arms that were lazily cared for in some areas and ignored in others like he couldn’t even feel it. You couldn’t even imagine what was festering over his soiled handkerchief, the concoction of what you assumed to be blood—probably his, tending to the wounds that drew blood—and dirt and the firm press his strong hands must have had on it while he lathered it in such a dirty blend must have aided in it’s deforming. It hung off his person, but it wasn’t swinging freely. It was stiff and dried and only molded to his stand when he took a seat at one of the red stools. The blood on his white rag wasn’t the vibrant red of the stool, some of the spots were browning—likely a week old—and the newer spots were a darker shade.

“You here all by yourself?” He asked, looking at you. You didn’t realize that the rest of the diner was empty—including the skeleton crew of staff. In fact, it was just you working tonight. The other server on duty left over an hour ago to deal with a family emergency, something about a family member that had gone missing. You couldn’t really say much without looking like an asshole, so here you were: stood on the inside of the U-shaped counter, facing a man whose appearance was unusually cold as he sat on the outside of it.

“No, Bob’s in the kitchen.” You lied, the taste bitter like the bacon you burnt this morning during whatever it is a dying business can experience that is closest to a ‘rush.’ Bob quit weeks ago when the business was slow and the money coming in was slower. “You’re stuck with me up here, sugar.”

It might have been a lie, but you couldn’t care. Whatever made him think he couldn’t get a jump on you. But he seemed unamused, and that’s when you noticed the knife. It was on the other side of his hips, fastened between one of the belt loops on his jeans. The blade of it looked longer as you pushed open the waist-high swinging door to collect the dishes of the last family that ate. It gave you an excuse to look him up and down, and he didn’t have anything hiding under the counter that should make you nervous. He wasn’t even positioned to grab his knife quickly—his shoulder relaxed and his hands resting on top of the pale yellow counter.

After taking the dishes to the back, making a mental note to wash them before you left, you went back to the front. Johnny spoke up as he watched you strut back into the room with unknown purpose, his voice giving it a guide. “Could I… have a menu? You said someone’s still in the kitchen, so it’s open, right?"

“Yeah, sorry about that.” You said, reaching under the counter to get a paper menu for him. You slid it across, keeping your eyes trained on your hand and then his face came into the picture.

“It’s okay.” His voice was meek, softer and lighter than when he asked if you were alone. Was he playing for pity points—trying to get sympathy like it was free to hand out these days? “I just haven’t done this in a while. I don’t get out much.”

“Then why are you here?” It was something about him that made you say that—the rudeness, the imposition his mere presence emitted in a place like this. The way he smelled, the way he sounded. You looked away from him, out the window and into the nothingness only to return to his eyes. They were dark, seeing the hidden horrors of the night but there was something deeper in them that faded at your comment. His eyes went from doe-like to predatorily pouncing on your figure. From the apron tied around your waist, pens and notepads and straws and silverware stuffed in the various pockets of it, to the misshapen yellow cloth covering your upper body and then finally to your face. His voice shifted, too, going from the soft sounds of the wind to being as fiery as his truck’s engine.

“Because I’m not some bitch. I cut up—” he paused, before continuing, “—cattle all the time. It’s nice to eat a meal that isn’t something I have to work my ass off for.”

He continued his tangent, “In fact, I’ll make this easy for you so you quit your bitchin’. I don’t want anything savory, just get me a slice of pie. That should be easy enough for ya, right?”

You nodded and told him that it was coming up. You pushed the door open to the kitchen and pulled his pie out of the fridge. The oven was already heated, so you cut a slice bigger than what you would normally serve for him and put it on a pan and slid it into the oven. He shouted from the front, his accent like and voice losing its projection as he yelled, “Christ, and a cold one too! If you have it…”

Most people probably would’ve left. A diner in the middle of Nowhere, Texas with one person manning the kitchen and dining area is one big red flag for the quality of service. It took almost four minutes to heat up his requested pie—blueberry with crumbles of sugary clumps on top mixed with some crushed graham crackers. You didn’t know if he wanted whipped cream or not, so you kept it to the side when you brought it out to him. But this man was different, he looked like he hadn’t seen real food at all in his lifetime. You set it down in front of him, taking the opportunity to use your position on the inside of the counter to pull silverware from your apron like magic.

Setting the fork down next to his plate on the counter, he seemed to be in a lighter mood. He pulled his knife out, placing it on the opposite side of his plate. “Trade ya?”

“Only if you can’t pay. But this is on the house.”

Not only did he look happy when you said that, but when he took the first bite, his expression changed for the better. A smile formed around the fork, still in his mouth at the first taste of sweetness. His upturned lips crinkled his cheeks, and in turn, wrinkled the scar running down his face. You set yourself down on the counter, holding your face in your hands and letting your elbows rest on the counter. He smiled like a child and you admired him for it. "How is it? Good?"

He nodded. The man with no name, but an irascible personality. Unforgettable and strong. He was different because he liked this diner’s crappy food more than most. He liked the people in it, too. If only it could last that long...

#johnny slaughter #x male reader #x reader #johnny slaughter x reader #johnny slaughter x you #fanfic #johnny sawyer #the texas chainsaw massacre x reader #texas chainsaw game #texas chainsaw massacre game #the texas chainsaw massacre #texas chainsaw massacre #Johnny tcm #johnny slaughter x male reader #johnny slaughter x gender neutral reader #x gender neutral reader #x gn reader #johnny slaughter x y/n #x y/n

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peterman-spideyparker · 2 months

Text

my tears ricochet (Matt Murdock x fem!Reader) 5/5

Author’s Note: Hi! I've put these two through enough. It's still sad, but the ending makes up for it, I hope! Enjoy!

Summary: Out of the hospital and on the mend, you finally make your way to Clinton Church to try and make sense of the grief for the man you loved who has been out of your life for ten years.

Warnings: Angst, grief, PTSD, unresolved feelings, canon-typical violence, wound recovery (reference to pain from wound/surgery, reader is using a cane in recovery), recounting of the end of The Defenders/Season 3 DD, emotional damage, absent parents/friends, mentions of death, fear of loss, reconnection, fluff, hopeful ending

Other Characters: Father Lantom, Sister Maggie

Word Count: 3,162

You hum in pain as you sit down in the pew, the short walk taking a lot out of you. It smells like incense and old wood, and you can hear everything both in and out of the church from where you sit, the echos loud and all-consuming. You wonder if this is what Matt felt like all the time—hearing sounds reverberate and echo like church bells in the mountains, never finding a moment of quiet or solitude, condemned to listen to everything all the time. Never knowing peace.

“I don’t know what to do anymore,” you breathe into the empty church after a few minutes. “I hoped you’d give me a nudge in the right direction if I came here. I know what this place meant to you. I . . . I’d like a sign.” You look up to the ceiling, looking at the images staring unblinking down on you before closing your eyes and hanging you head. Why are you even trying? What does it even matter? Matt’s gone—he was long gone a decade ago.

“New to the city?” a new, older voice says. You look over, seeing a man in all black approach you down the aisle. “Or in need of some guidance?”

“I needed somewhere quiet,” you admit with a sigh as the elderly priest sits down next to you. “I needed a way to try and find peace. The last few months . . . they have been too much to bear.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. If it helps, I’m a friendly ear that’s willing to listen. At least you’ll be able to get it off your chest. Sometimes, that’s half of the battle, just letting it out,” the priest says. Father Lantom. You remember him from when you came with Matt to a service one Christmas and a few other times.

You dip your head and let out a sigh. “About a year ago, my husband passed away. It was . . . fast. Unexpected. He didn’t suffer.”

“I’m sorry.”

“The worst part was, I didn’t feel sad like someone should when their spouse passes away. I was sad, but . . .” You let out a long sigh and tilt your head back. “He was good to me. Kind. He cared. But it wasn’t love, at least not the kind of love that should lead two people to get married. But I got through it. And then a few months ago—.” You wipe away your tears and sniffle. “This was his church. I went with him a few times when we were in college together.”

“Who? Your husband?”

“No, an old friend.”

“I’ve been here for a long time. I’m pretty good with names and faces. I think it’s because I’ve got a connection upstairs.”

You give a small smile at his joke. “His name was Matt. Matt Murdock.” You wipe away a tear. “I was in an accident, and I was in the hospital when he died.”

The priest lets out a long, low sigh. “Do you mind me asking how he passed?”

“That building that went down, Midland Circle? I guess he was around it, got crushed under the debris. Matt and I, um . . . We lost touch for about ten years, and then by chance he came back shortly before my accident and before he . . .” You can’t bring yourself to finish the sentence. It doesn’t sound right saying that he’s dead—it coats your mouth with a bitter taste. But why? You shouldn’t feel like this. He left, he completely cut you out. You tried to get in touch, but he still walked out of your life like everyone else. But yet you still have this feeling. “I didn’t think I’d ever see him again, when he ghosted me in law school. I guess that some part of me always held out hope that he’d come back. At some point, I made peace with it—that our lives took us down separate roads, that it was probably the best for the both of us. But seeing him a few months ago dredged up feelings and reminded me of how happy I was with him, having him in my life, and how unhappy I am right now. How unhappy I’ve been for a long time. And now he’s not even around to help me sort through all these feelings—he’s the reason they’re all swirling around now, it’s only fair he help settle them. And he had the gall to die.”

You don’t realize that you’re crying with your voice raised and body shaking until the old priest hands you a bag of to-go Kleenex. You open them, wiping away your tears, desperately trying to collect yourself. You’re not supposed to behave this way, your parents taught you better, but you just can’t help it; you’ve never been able to act rationally or control your emotions how you were taught to when it came to Matt. And that’s how you know you really, truly loved him.

“I don’t know where to go from here,” you croak. “I’ve already lost my husband. And now I’ve lost the first man I’ve ever loved. None of it makes sense. None of it feels right. There wasn’t even a funeral. A-A-And now I’m here feeling hurt and abandoned by the only person who I felt saw me for who I was, not who he wanted, begging for there to be a way to bring him back. To take me instead. For me to feel something . . . because now I feel like the same lost girl finishing law school.”

“Grief and loss . . .” Father Lantom lets out a sigh. “There’s no easy way to go about it. Saying that everything happens for a reason or that it’s all part of God’s plan doesn’t always help, either. Sometimes, things just happen. And it really sucks sometimes. But every time we go through it, we become stronger. That doesn’t mean we can’t feel sad at everything that could have been, though. How things could have turned out differently if not for one thing.”

“Your connection with the Big Guy upstairs can’t give me insight when this hurt will stop, can it?”

“Unfortunately, no,” he sighs.

“I figured I’d at least try.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I caught your name.”

“(Y/N),” you say, extending your hand for him to shake.

“(Y/N), do you have a moment to spare? I think there’s something that you should see. It might help with this grief you’re feeling.”

“Oh, I—.”

“Please.”

The sincerity in his voice gets to you, and you give him a gentle nod. He helps you stand with your cane, holding onto you to keep you upright and steady as he can tell walking is still a rather tender movement. You both slowly make your way down the basement steps, the sound of your shoes echoing against the stone.

“Stay here for just a moment, please,” he whispers with a gently hand on your shoulder. “I need to confirm that what I want to show you is actually still here.”

“O-Okay,” you say, confused and concerned. How could something in this basement leave? It doesn’t exactly seem like a lively place; it’s cold, dark, and frankly, a little spooky. But from what you remember about Father Lantom, he only ever wants to help, so, whatever is down here must be worth it. Matt trusted him, put his faith in him. That’s enough for you.

“(Y/N)?” he calls after you softly as he come back to your side. “May I?”

He takes your hand and slowly leads you into the large, open room, light streaming in through small street level and stained-glass windows. There is nothing in the open space, and you turn to give the elderly priest a questioning look as he starts to move out of the basement.

“F-Father, I—,” you start, but he raises a gentle hand. You turn back to facing front and you’re startled when you see someone step out from the shadows. You take a half step back, afraid of what is emerging, but a voice in your head tells you to relax. Despite what popular culture has told you about spooky basements, you listen to the voice in your head. He wouldn’t have brought you down here if it wasn’t safe. Walking closer to what looks like a makeshift bedroom, you carefully look around to see what is moving. It’s probably just a rat— you don’t think churches are exempt from New York City rats. But the next movement you see is decidedly larger than a rat.

“Matt?” you say, barely audible. It can’t be him. Foggy said he died. Foggy wouldn’t have lied about that—the pain on his face was too real, too raw. A building—a full-on skyscraper—went down on him. But he’s here, right in front of you, real as ever. When Matt’s lifts his head, your heart nearly stops. It’s him. Beaten, bruised, and a scraped up, but it’s him. It’s Matty. “No . . . What?”

“(Y/N/N),” he breathes, groaning in pain as he stands and walks toward you. The silence is deafening as your heart races in your chest, and it just doesn’t feel real. “It’s so good to . . . Are you okay?”

“N-No,” you whimper, your voice trembling as you drop your cane. “I-I . . . You’re alive. I thought you weren’t. Nobody does. I . . . I don’t know what to think or do.”

His hand reaches for yours, his calloused fingers brushing against the palm of your hand, his thumbs running against your knuckles. You want to yank them away— you don’t want to give him the luxury of holding onto you, but you just can’t pull back. Not when he’s here, not when he’s alive. “I . . . I thought I was going to die. I don’t know how I didn’t. I should have. I deserve to be dead.”

“How could you say that?” you murmur.

“It’s how I feel. People would be better off that way. No one needs me. You don’t need me. You were better off without me, both in Columbia and a few months ago. I’m the one that brought you pain.”

“Matt, I do need you. No one understands what happened on the roof. They tell me it’s going to take time, it’ll get better, but it doesn’t. I keep having these nightmares. They’re all from that night. Sometimes it’s just me reliving the memory, other times, our roles were reversed—me standing on the other side of the roof, you kneeling on the ground with a sword to you . . . watching a blade cutting through your stomach, hearing you cry out in pain, holding you in my arms . . .” You sniffle and wipe away tears. “Why’d you disappear?” you whine. “Why’d you leave me?”

“I almost got you killed,” he breathes, his voice low and gravely with emotion. “I had to.”

“No, Matt. Why’d you leave me in law school?” His face is one that looks similar to a scared child, fragile and anxious. “We were so close. And then one day you were just gone. I know you were with her, but, why couldn’t you keep me in your life? A call, a note, something. Anything. Why’d you have to leave?”

“I . . . It just happened. A door opened to a life I never thought of, one where it all seemed easier. It was a chance to forget all the baggage, all the pain and trauma from my past. After everything, it sounded nice. And it was, for a while.”

“Matt . . .”

“She died that night on the roof,” he swallows. “I mean, I thought she did. But s-she actually is now, and . . . She was so involved in everything that happened months ago, and you almost died because they grabbed you just because they saw us talking. I felt like I was poison. I am poison.”

You hold back tears, running your fingers through his hair. “You were the air in my lungs at Columbia,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. “It was so much harder to breathe when you weren’t around.”

“But you survived.“

“I was unhappy.

“You survived.”

“Surviving isn’t the same as living.”

“You weren’t hurt. You didn’t have a sword sticking through you. You were safe far away from me.”

“I wasn’t me. I only ever felt like me when I was with you and Foggy. Without that in my life . . . I was a pawn in a game of the wealthy. Foggy, you . . . you only ever wanted me.”

“I did. But I’m not what you deserve. I’m damaged goods.”

“No you are not,” you say sternly. “Yes, you’ve been through things, but you are not damaged, Matty.”

He closes his eyes, letting out a long breath while tears roll down his cheeks. “You were the first and last person to call me Matty after my dad died. It always made me so happy to hear you say it.”

You're crying with him now, and you don’t care that it hurts your wound. “You were the first person to call me (Y/N/N)—you’re the only person to call me (Y/N/N). I mean, besides Foggy, but . . . It makes me feel like myself. Just me. No expectations to live up to, no labels attached.” You sniffle, swallowing hard to keep it all together. “My husband didn’t even call me (Y/N/N). It was always my full name or the abbreviated version my parents use for me, and I couldn’t stand it. The formality, the rules, the masks—it made me feel like I was a child again getting told what to do at a function, getting scolded for not behaving how an Upper East Side daughter should.”

Matt lets out a wet chuckle as he rests his forehead against yours. “Do you remember when that happened in Intro to Constitutional Law? I thought you were going to jump up from your desk and deck the professor when they called you that.”

You both laugh at the memory, holding onto one another closely, basking in a touch neither of you ever thought you’d get to have again.

“I don’t want to lose you again,” you breathe. “I’m not strong enough.”

“I don’t want to lose you either. But I don’t think your parents will care for you hanging with good-doing hooligans from Hell’s Kitchen. And if it’s not them that’ll pull us apart, it’ll be something else.”

“I honestly don’t care what my parents think anymore, or what anyone in their sphere thinks of me. They already had me. I’d like it if you had me now. If I could stay. The life I dreamed about, the one that we talked about at school, that’s the life I know I can have with you. I want that, and I want you.”

“(Y/N/N).” He lets out a sigh as he swallows hard, the muscle feathering in his jaw. "I hear your scream every night. It’s terrifying. It haunts me—it kills me. It’s the only thing I can hear, it’s louder than anything in the city.”

You wipe a tear from your own cheek. “Every time I close my eyes, I see the look on your face when you held me in your arms. I’ll never forget it.”

“My life is dangerous. What I do—.”

“I’m not looking for easy, I’m just looking for you. I just want you, Matt. I didn’t know how badly I did until I saw you at that event. I want to be in your life again. Any way you’ll let me, I want to be there.”

“I’d like that,” he breathes. “I can’t tell you how much, angel.”

“Then let me in, please.”

Tears stream down his face as he does his best to control his breathing.

“I’m afraid,” he breaks.

You give his hands a firm, reassuring squeeze. “I am, too. But if we have each other, we don’t have to be. Or, at least we don’t have to be afraid alone.”

“There’s this man, (Y/N/N).” He pinches his eyes shut and shakes his head. “Until he’s taken care of, I can’t be close with anyone. If I am, they’ll be targets, they’ll get hurt. You’d get hurt, again, because of me. And I couldn’t live with that. I’d never forgive myself. Not that I forgave myself for letting you get hurt in the first place.”

“It’s not always on you. You don’t have to shoulder any of this alone.”

“I can’t lose you again.”

“Matty . . .”

He lets out a sigh, resting his forehead on yours.

“It’s dangerous,” he repeats softly.

“I know.” He nuzzled his nose against yours, desperate for more of your touch. “But I promise that everything will be alright. I’m not going anywhere. Okay? We can start back slow, but I’m not leaving you alone. It’ll take a lot more than dying—real or fake—to shake me.”

He nods lightly. “I promise I will do absolutely everything I can to keep you safe, and I swear there won’t be a day that I let pass without letting you know how much I care about you. I-I know that I messed up. I know. Leaving you, that was the biggest mistake of my life. But—.”

“When are you gonna stop apologizing and just kiss me? I think we’ve both waited long enough.”

He just smiles, closing the space between you so your lips finally meet in a soft kiss. You hum happily, sliding your hands around his waist, accidentally irritating an injury under his shirt. You gasp and pull back, just enough to look at his face.

“Sorry,” you breathe.

“It’s okay,” he hums. “Occupational hazard.”

“Well, maybe I can help make it better.”

He smiles dreamily, giving you a gentle nod before leaning back in, only for the clearing of a throat to interrupt your embrace. Looking over, you see one of the nuns standing by the steps, and you're quick to create some space between yourself and Matt.

“Looks like things are starting to look up,” she hums. “I think that’s the first time he’s smiled since he got here. Can you get him to dress like he’s ready to rejoin the land of the living instead of skulking down here?”

“Well, I can only do so much,” you respond, blushing deeply, taking your hands off Matt’s torso. “Lead a horse to water, and all.”

“You don’t need to tell me twice—especially with this one. Stubborn as a mule.”

You turn back to Matt. “I’m glad you’re not dead, but don’t you dare disappear on me again.”

“I won’t. I promise. When all of this is over, the first place I’m going is into your arms. And this time, I’m not leaving.”

You press a kiss to his cheek, giving him a small smile. “You better.”

Matt leans in for one more kiss on your lips. “It’s a guarantee, sweetheart.”

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parkersbliss · 2 years

Note

can you do 31 33 and 50 with five?

Bitter Half | F. Hargreeves

pairing: five hargreeves x fem!reader

wc; 800ish

warnings: blood?

synopsis: five couldn’t be selfish even for the sake of his own life

requests: CLOSED

prompts: 031: “Just shut up and kiss me.”

033: “How much did you hear?”

050: “Need cuddles.”

Masterlist | Taglist | Prompt list

—

Fear.

That’s all you could feel.

“Somebody help him!” You shouted, dropping down to his side. You pull back his shirt to find blood staining his skin and his face an unnatural pale color.

“Five!” You shout, cupping his face with your hands. “Why wouldn’t you say something? Are you insane?”

“Sorry, pretty girl, but you have to keep going… so close,” He whispers before passing out.

“Five!” You continue to shout. “We need to get help!” You said, spinning to face Allison and Diego. They both nod, helping to pick him up and take him back to the car.

You lay his head on your lap as the other two get in the front and begin to drive. You run your anxious hands through his hair, feeling them shake as he gets paler by the second. Stupid Five and his god complex, his need to save the world. For once, he could just put himself first. You swear Five stresses you out more than any other person you’ve met. And yet, in that stress, you found comfort in him. He was the one person you felt safe with, the person you trusted with your life.

He was like your better (maybe bitter) half.

“You’re gonna be okay, Five,” You whisper, though you’re not sure who you’re trying to convince more, him or yourself.

When you get back to the Academy, Allison and Diego carry him in as you look for Grace.

“We should’ve taken him to the hospital,” Allison said.

“A kid with a shrapnel wound might raise some questions.”

“Yeah, well, so does the shrine in Harold Jenkins's attic,” Allison quips back.

“Guys!” You scream, waving at the boy. “Five?”

“Grace!” Diego calls out, searching for his mom. She rounds a corner smiling at Diego, who points towards Five, she nods, taking him from Allison, and you follow her upstairs.

Grace sets the boy down on the bed softly as you grab a chair and sit in the corner, trying not to disturb her work. The whole time your knee bounces with fear as you stare at him.

He actually looks peaceful when he sleeps.

When Grace finishes up, she smiles at you, squeezing your shoulder and reassuring you before stepping out and offering you some privacy.

You’re grateful for that because you had a lot to say to the unconscious boy.

You pull your seat closer to him, grabbing his hand and softly kissing it. “You’re an idiot, you know,” You start. “Would it kill you to be selfish just once? You’re just so… annoying! You run around trying to save everyone but yourself. What happens if that gets you killed? Then what? And I don’t want to hear that ‘I’ve lived a long life’ bullshit. I think… I think we deserve a long life together. I deserve to get to wake up with you every morning and make fun of your coffee addiction and… and love you.”

You sigh, squeezing his hand and blinking away the tears. It was weird admitting how you felt towards the bitter old man. You were sure the only person he loved was Delores anyway. Which was why it’s good he passed out.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is if I’m going to keep having these stupid feelings for you, you gotta stop getting yourself shot at. Or I’ll shoot you myself.”

“You go on about me not dying and then threaten to kill me?” A voice chuckles. “Kind of thrown for a loop here. Which one do you want?”

Your breath hitches in your throat when you see a pair of green eyes set on yours. “You’re awake!”

You wrap your arms around the boy, careful of his wound, while also trying to pull him as close to you as possible. He responds just the same, wrapping an arm around you.

But then you pull back with wide eyes. “How much did you hear?”

Five just shrugs with a mischievous grin. “Oh, I don’t know. I really liked the part about living a long life together and coffee addiction, oh, and—”

You cut him off with a flushed face. “I get it! Just… shut up and kiss me.”

Five’s hand is quick to find the back of your neck, pulling you closer as your lips meet in a tender kiss. Your hands cup his cheek as you press against him. He tastes like coffee, which you expected, but you could grow to like coffee if it’s like this.

He pulls back before going in for one more sweet peck and then lays back on the bed. His green eyes trace your face, and you feel embarrassed under his gaze.

“What?” You ask with a light scoff.

“Nothing,” He says. “Need cuddles.”

His hand finds yours, bringing you back towards him, and you let him pull you into his chest. His arm wraps around your shoulder as you lean your head on him with a content sigh.

“I promise to stop almost getting shot at,” Five says.

“Go—”

“After the apocalypse.”

You don’t bother arguing with him, considering you’d be dead whether he did this or not. Instead, you press a kiss to his neck. “Okay.”

He hums, pressing his own kiss to your forehead. “And then you can shoot at me all you want.”

“Even better deal.”

“Yeah, I figured you’d like that one, pretty girl.”

“Only when it comes to you, pretty boy.”

— END —

#five hargreeves x you #five hargreaves x reader #five hargreeves #five hargreeves x reader #tua five x reader #tua five #tua fic #five x reader #five x you #five x y/n #tua #the unbrella academy #tua s2 #tua s3 #aidan gallagher #five headcanons

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cornyonmains · 9 months

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I'm still trying to figure out how I feel about season 3 of The Witcher, but one thing is for certain, I'm loving Jaskier's progression as a character.

I think it goes without saying that a huge turning point for Jaskier was his falling out with Geralt on the mountain in season 1. As I read his character at that point, he was quite in love with Geralt, and very much suffering from the belief that he wasn't enough for Geralt in any sense of the word, not as a lover, a friend, or a traveling partner. You see this insecurity ramp up throughout the entirety of the season 1 finale, and to think Geralt hadn't noticed that was lunacy. He did, which was part of the problem. Geralt needed to lash out, he needed someone to lash out at, and there Jaskier was, already wounded, the easiest of targets, and Geralt goes full savanna apex predator on his ass. Then he left him, on a mountain, that he knew Jaskier didn't know how to traverse safely. He said fuck off, and also die.

Jaskier could have crumbled, and for awhile, he probably did. But this led to a key moment of character development, because it caused Jaskier to take himself out of Geralt's shoes and get back into his own. To introspect. And Jaskier realized that he was enough, that he'd done a lot for Geralt, and that Geralt's refusal to embrace his own humanity while still wanting Jaskier as a friend resulted in him becoming an emotional punching bag. And Jaskier, rightfully pissed off after reaching these conclusions, channeled that anger into the post-break-up banger of the century, Burn Witcher Burn. But at the core of what ultimately makes Jaskier one of the most sympathetic and relatable characters in this show, is that he didn't do it so much as he was angry, but because he wanted Geralt to hear it. Because his songs are how he expresses what can't be spoken. The tragedy of Jaskier's character is that he was always going to forgive Geralt. That he was always going to drop what he was doing to trail this man with an affection even Yennefer doesn't easily mock, because it would be entirely too cruel. He wrote that song so Geralt would come and say he was sorry and Jaskier could go back to settling for scraps of his time.

So then we come to season 3, and enter Radovid. Enter the first person Jaskier's met in 30 long years that intrigues him as much as Geralt, and he's absolutely taken off his guard by that sentiment being returned after he's spent over half his life accepting something like that could never happen for him. He's 50 years old. Jaskier has accepted his fate of endless pining at this point. So when Radovid asks him to sing a song about his white-haired witcher, Jaskier slips up. He reveals too much, and it gives Radovid the chance to say exactly what Jaskier needed to hear.

"Does the witcher know how lucky he is to have you?"

I imagine it's rare for Jaskier, who spends his life finding the right words for others, that someone would find the right words for him. It's little wonder he was so immediately fascinated by Radovid, and so immediately heartbroken.

For 3 seasons and multiple decades, we see Jaskier's entire character formed by the hurt he endures being part of Geralt, Yennefer, and Cirri's life. And despite all that hurt, all the rejection, the betrayal, the torture, harassment, manipulations, and political intrigue we see Jaskier progressively becoming a better and better person. He helps Geralt, Yennefer, he helps the elves as the Sandpiper, and watches Cirri without a word of complaint. He throws himself into any dangerous situation asked of him, and helps Yarpen's men. He doesn't let the pain make him bitter. He still thinks love is beautiful, even when it hurts. He drinks, he fucks, he makes merry. He writes sad songs about Geralt.

Jaskier's development, his portrayal as a character, has been a true highlight of this series.

I sometimes think the djinn, in some cruel last jab at Jaskier and Yenn, used them both in Geralt's wish as a form of punishment. For Jaskier, his punishment for wanting so much, so quickly, was to spend his life wanting the one thing he couldn't have. That thing being Geralt, because to punish Yen, who so badly wanted control of her own destiny, he tied it to Geralt's. It's like a magical ouroboros of misery. And for Geralt, who tried to put a stop to the madness, the djinn rewarded him with the thing he wanted most. A family. A wife, a daughter, and a best friend who would never leave. It's some dark and complicated shit, and I think it rings true to the tone of the story itself.

Never has any character in this history of everything deserved to bone a hot Redanian prince more.

#The Witcher #Geraskier #Radovid #Jaskier #Geralt #Yennefer #Joey Batey #Henry Cavill #anya chalotra #freya allan

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ittodori · 1 year

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IN YOUR ARMS, I AM HOME.

aww i wish childe comes home to me! *sobs*

recently, you learned that if you hug ajax long enough, he’ll start to cry.

you remember the first time you met him: opening your door to this sweaty and bloodied man with ginger-colored hair who appeared as if he was about to pass out on your porch on a typical afternoon. he looked like the type of guy your parents had warned you about throughout your teenage years, like the guy who starts a fight with bigger men for the fun of it, like the guy who would give you nothing but trouble if you’re somehow involved with him. you would have shut the door the moment you laid your eyes on the boy, but the way he looked at you?

it affected you a little too much — how he reminded you of a lost child as he apologized so genuinely for disturbing your peace, trying so desperately not to reveal the wince on his face.

he looked like trouble, certainly. but the way he rubbed the back of his neck, flashing you a boyish smile that fits him perfectly when you asked if he needed help, didn’t look like trouble at all.

thus began your unspoken tradition with this so-called ajax. he would knock on your door (sometimes at ridiculous hours of the night, most times when people could easily catch him through the windows) and immediately slump against your body with a hand over his arm, so the first thing you see is the goofy grin that almost never left his face, not the blood dripping from his wound. you would scold him for a second or two, before ushering him inside, allowing him to lie on the couch he's laid on more times than you ever had as you fret and fret and tend to the marks on his skin. you even let him stay for the night; even though he’s gone by the morning, leaving only the old bandages you wrapped around his torso as a reminder of him.

albeit a bit infuriating at times — when he spews some odd excuses as to why he’s here for the nth time this week and bleeding on your carpet but you should see the other guy! — you can’t lie that he’s charmed his way into your home more often than not. he told you he’s a toy salesman from snezhnaya, to which you only raised your brow, because how could he obtain countless injuries in that line of work?

when his fifth visit came, you didn’t push further. it might be better to not let it disturb whatever’s blossoming between you two, and you know ajax thinks the same whenever the atmosphere becomes too quiet as you touch his skin in thought.

then he stopped appearing, as if he never existed in your life. as if he was gone. never to be seen again. thinking about it puts a dreadful feeling in the pit of your stomach. you never thought you would be this ridiculously attached to trouble.

a week passed by, followed by two, and eventually a month, and you realized you’ve grown so endeared by this man that his growing absence on your couch breaks your heart every time you spare it a glance. it’s gotten so painfully lonely that you find yourself sleeping on it every night with a glimmer of hope every time you hear a rustle outside. you rise from the couch every hour, walking past the first aid kit strewn on the floor to stay by the window with a bitter feeling in your chest. what would he think when he finds out you lose sleep waiting like he’s set off for war?

but can he blame you? when he’s made himself a constant in your home?

it’s been two months then since he last appeared. two whole months of silence that you used to be so fond of until you started to spend your day with the shared laughter and the teasing, your scolding and his whining, and those unspoken promises that he wouldn't worry you again when he notices your hands trembling near his wounds. he broke them every time, but at least he was always on your doorstep no matter what happened.

you had gotten so used to the domesticity of it all, that you weren't quite sure how you could go back to the loneliness he left you with.

but after two months, three knocks, soft and quiet you almost don’t hear, snaps you out of a daze. he's the only one who knocks on your door that way so he doesn’t frighten you. to tell you he's here. he's here like he promised. when you register the sound of it, you almost cry.

you’re greeted by the sight of him — that sight of him with the cuts and bruises and the blood a little more than usual. it used to startle you every time, but now he’s standing before you and you believe it’s a miracle. he almost seems the same as the last time you saw him, but as you stare into his weary eyes, you notice that he looks like he’s about to crumble a lot more than usual.

right there, he almost feels like an illusion. you blink. once. twice. your knees nearly buckle beneath you when he doesn’t fade away.

ajax and his smile that quiver when you run to him. ajax and the breathy “hi” from his bruised lips as you pull him down toward you. ajax and the soft laugh in your ear as you wrap your arms around his neck. ajax and the mass of bones that collapse against you when you tell him he’s home. ajax, strong and reckless and tired, who starts to shake when you don’t let go.

and there, you learn something about him other than his name.

“i’m home,” he chokes out, pressing his hands on your back as he digs his head further into the crook of your neck. “i’m home.”

#genshin #genshin x reader #childe #childe x reader #childe fluff #genshin impact #childe angst #tartaglia #genshin fluff #childe x you #genshin angst #tartaglia x reader #ajax x reader

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