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sunfl0werlevi · 1 year

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ʚ✩ɞ ratings: sfw, angst to fluff, comfort

ʚ✩ɞ cw/tw: jjk manga chapter 221 spoilers! slight angst and depressive tones. slight sexual tones hehe.

ʚ✩ɞ wc: 10.5k

ʚ✩ɞ tags: gojo satoru x fem!reader, husband gojo and wife reader are teachers

ʚ✩ɞ an: hi! yes, this is the first time ill be sharing one of the many works i have in my drafts (that im confidently not sharing ever). idek how it got this long. gojo being unsealed triggered something in me so i hope u enjoy. ( ˘ ³˘)♥

italicized texts are past dialogues! FEEDBACKS are highly appreciated.

you stared at the golden band around your ring finger, toying it around. your bed seemed to stretch twice its size and grow colder every morning that you wake up.

every morning, you trace the outline of the dips on his side of the bed. you left it dismantled the way he did, since 19 days ago. you could still see a few strands of silver hair on his pillow glowing under the daylight.

"satoru, please."

"you know there's a lot of souvenir shops in shibuya! maybe i'll take you to some if you're a good little wifey."

"you told me we're working together on this. just let me fight alongside with you-" you pouted and so he gives you a wet smack on the cheek and booped your nose.

"babe, my honey, sweetiepie, you're on children duties!"

"no fair!"

"don't worry, ijichi will take you there. toodles!" and then he warped out.

fools. you didn't even know half of the shit that was about to set loose.

the wooden sliding door of your shared room slammed open, startling you out of your thoughts. there stood an out of breath yuuji with both his hands clinging on to either side of the door frame.

"sensei," he looked at you with determination, a sense of sparkle behind his eyes.

no. no.

you can't have this right now. not right now. you were not ready--not when what you've been preparing yourself for was the worst. but this? this wasn't in your plan.

any indication of hope from him has all been but failure. you were under the high of false hope but now...now, you don't even know how to respond with this pressing matter in front of you.

what kind of wife are you to even think that way? will he even understand if you feel this way?

but you are here now and he is here now.

his frame stood patiently behind your student, waiting for you to say anything. but only the sound of your shallow, shuddering breaths filled the room.

the pink-haired boy staggered backwards to leave, as to give room to your man.

doors were always never tall enough for satoru so he has to duck down in order to grace the room with his presence. his presence that is so invigorating, with his own hint of charisma.

and there he is. he is still so beautiful. his alabaster hair unreasonably still glimmering. your eyes were met with the color of the sky--lustrous and comforting, anticipating you.

but beneath this façade, they were chagrin and desolated, designed with heavy lids and undereye bags that loitered his skin.

the man that came to face you is not your satoru. although indulging with the fact that he looks bigger, more rugged, with his toned arms filling up the sleeves of his shirt--this satoru is only the shell of the man that you used to know.

he scratched his neck, his eyes crinkling into a smile as he gave you a small assuring grin. he opened his arms, wide and warm, welcoming you into a zone you knew all too well.

"c'mere."

though against your will, your body seemed to have a mind of its own--lunging forward to the sense of familiarity that is in front of you. amidst the unconvinced and confused face you held, your body knew how much you ached for this moment and alas your feet brought you towards him.

he gripped your waist so tightly, so much that he could break you in half like--like there were no tomorrow.

words could not even begin to detail this feeling. missing him is an understatement. no--you yearned for him--for his touch, for his smell, for his warmth. for this moment.

you sank deeper into his broad chest. the feeling and the sound of his heartbeat confirming that this is all true and not just a pigment of your imagination, or not you going insane.

he stuck his nose on top of your head, breathing in your smell. god, he could cry. he missed you so much and he was going insane because he was beginning to forget what his favorite shampoo you use smells like.

the silence was both so comforting yet so delicate. there are both no words yet too many words to tell. one pin drop could make or break the atmosphere. a paradox in the flesh. just in character for your husband.

but just in time, he spoke up, breaking the tension. you had imagined this moment, him apologizing or saying i love you, over and over. but no, he yet again breaks the record.

"thank you."

the last thing you wanted was to ever forget him. so, you listened to every voice messages, voice mails, and videos that he sent you every day like it was a routine and a lullaby before you sleep.

you would not forgive yourself if you forgot what he sounds like.

with the sound of his voice triggering the turmoil in you, your chin quivered and your throat burned in an agonizing pain. all of the weeping and mourning you've suppressed poured out onto his shirt.

he brushed your hair and cooed you into silent hushes.

"i'm sorry."

"satoru, she never cried," shoko said.

gojo sat silently on shoko's loveseat chair with both his arms resting on its armrest. he is finally relaxed which unfortunately meant that he has the time to think.

all of the guilt is finally blossoming inside of him.

for the longest time, he wished that he'd be rid of all the burdens that are pushed onto his shoulders. he wanted to run away. with you.

but he knew that his being makes everything complicated and you'd be in greater danger beside him than staying with everybody else.

so, him being in that damned box? his wish came true. was he selfish to somehow feel relieved while being isolated, knowing everything he left behind and all the chaos that ensued?

his colleague and good friend, nanami, who all but strayed away from jujutsu, was pushed towards it again by gojo. and now he's gone.

his teacher and a parent that he considered, principal yaga, lost his life fighting for everyone--especially for the children that gojo was supposed to protect.

his students--tiny but fighter nobara, with half of her head barely even of any shape and unresponsive on a pale hospital bed. yuuji who always graced a smile, now looked like he aged a dozen. and megumi--his son, who always quietly rooted and stood for everyone, lost his hope and is now a vessel to sukuna.

and you. he could not even begin to think how much of a toll it took on you.

"she kept everyone glued together, you know. when everything was falling apart after you...you were gone, she held all of their hands."

shoko blew a smoke out of her office window then tapped her cigarette onto an ashtray. "every day, she cleans nobara's body with a wet towel. when the students would come back with all unimaginable injuries, she tended to them with all of her reversal."

"satoru, i had to clinically force her, just so i could tend to her own injuries for a day. she did not want to stop working as if..."

"as if she will lose it, if she stopped," he finished the sentence, holding a firm gaze with shoko.

she and him knew what it was like to grieve for someone but still having all the responsibilities demanded at every second.

gojo, whether everybody admits or not, was their source of hope. the students gravitated towards him, and even curses do not fail to see the light that he shines--attracting them like moths to a flame.

he tended to everyone's troubles, to the bullshit of the higher-ups that even led to him killing his own bestfriend.

but you-you are the damned closest thing to him. you were his half. you are his half. and everybody knew you are a gojo too.

so they all went to you. for 19 whole days, you shared, albeit, owned his responsibilities. and you had to keep it together.

you should not fall apart. you cannot fall apart. the children relied on you for their strength and you kept them all stuck together like a little patched-up family of your own.

you became him. a true gojo. although it sounds gratifying, it was the last thing that he wanted for you to ever encounter.

he never wanted to share his pain and bare all of his weaknesses to you. but you unconditionally took them all, without any words nor complaints.

"she-she wasn't there."

"she didn't want to be disheartened and defeated if it had failed. you were gone and she is here. still here. you know where to find her, so go."

it wasn't just you. he also does not have the heart to see your face yet--he never really had a say on when he was getting released, anyway.

but he went to you.

your palms cupped his face, searching every inch of his skin like it is something foreign. his large hands held onto them, rubbing slow and soft circles on it.

"i've missed you...so much." you mumbled, risking a hiccup and another bout of tears to pour out of you. he dried your cheeks with both his thumbs.

"i know. i know, sweetheart," his voice was soft, barely a whisper, as he brought his lips towards your eyes.

he kissed your eyes tenderly, as if commanding for them to close for a minute. satoru knew how much you needed to crack--he wanted you to fall apart on him and he can pick up all of the pieces. he can make you whole again.

he can hold you together with his warm hands, thawing and melting you into a puddle of your own unresolved emotions. molding you exactly, to fit perfectly right where you belong.

right here. right next to him.

to him, you are the apple of his six eyes. the immeasurable devotion of his limitless. and the bottomless beloved of his infinity.

he could never leave you again. not like that. not ever.

he pressed his forehead against yours, his proximity tickling you with his breath and his pillowy lips brushing against yours. he rubbed his nose on yours and his eyelashes feather on your cheek.

"i love you," he rubbed his thumbs on both your cheeks while holding your gaze, accessing all of your senses with his presence.

he wants you to know, he's here.

he tentatively leans closer, only kissing you daintly. "kiss me. kiss me, satoru."

and so he planted his hand at the small of your back, leaning forward, obliging to your words. he kisses you--deeply and passionately. your mouth presses eagerly, gliding with his lips fervently without any lapses, like your life depended on it.

you put your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss even more. he gripped your hips tightly, pulling you impossibly closer to him.

satoru is trying his best to not tear your clothes off, on behalf of his student waiting outside.

"god-" he retracted, staring at your eyes.

"i-" he kisses your neck "-missed you-" your chin "-so-" your nose "-much."

there is no reason for the both of you to be separated at all. not anymore.

and so he interlocks your pinkies together like he always did. you giggled and he grins widely.

"i'm here. i'm home."

#gojou satoru #gojo x y/n #gojo x reader #gojo fanfic #gojo fic #itadori yuji #jujutsu kaisen #⋇⋆✦⋆⋇ sunfl0werlevi #DADDY'S HOOOOME

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kiestrokes · 8 months

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i like had this thought in the back of my head of like what ateez would be like with an S/O who has a physical illness bcs i actually have one which causes a lot of pain to my bones and i'm like in a constant state of pain and discomfort, been going on for about 12 years HELL YA ✊🏻, if i don't keep up on my meds (currently don't have the proper meds so it only tides me over for a little while-) then im basically fucked so IDK i feel like there isn't a lot of stuff written about this kind of stuff (im a sucker for shit i hardly ever am able to read abt) ALSO IM NOT 100% SURE IF YOUR REQS WERE OPEN BCS I DIDNT SEE ANYTHING POSTED ABT IT SO- YA- if you don't want to write it obviously you don't have to !! no pressure at all lovely

ATEEZ Caring for You: Chronic Illness Edition | SFW

Pairing: ATEEZ x Gender Neutral!Reader/You/Yn Rating: SFW Genre: fluff, slice of life, headcanons, imagines, scenarios. Warnings: chronic illness + immunocompromised talk.

🗝️ Note: Hey atiny anon! You actually asked the right person; I have fibromyalgia combined with a few other annoying chronic illnesses. Because you can't just have one 😓 I hope that you can find a decent fucking doctor and get on the proper medication soon. That's the biggest part of the struggle, finding a physician that will listen and is competent enough. I hope this was enough, I tried to assign each member a caring task that I felt fit them! Has not been beta-ed.

Disclaimers: This is a work of fiction; I do not own any of the idols depicted below.

Seonghwa

He’s here to help you prevent all the chronic pain that he can. Booking you massage visits. Trips to the hot springs. All the arnica rubs. Silly little games the two of you play, to keep your mind off the pain and depression spirals. His favorite is seeing who can build their new Lego set the quickest. Hwa is the biggest advocate for you, he would never return a dish at the restaurant when its wrong. But he will fight for you at every appointment, every pharmacy, wherever you need him to. Because he knows you've grown tired of fighting all the time.

Hongjoong

HJ's specialty is flexibility. You have a sudden burst of energy? He’s down to go explore that new pop-up market with you. You’ve come down with a bout of bone numbing pain? That’s cool, you’re getting changed into comfy clothes and piled up on the couch. Swaddled in your heating pad with all the snacks. Where he falls asleep on your shoulder. HJ never gets frustrated with your rapid change in mood or plans. Nothing but the most understanding partner you could ever have asked for, and boy is he so cute and snuggly when dozing on you. Small hands seeking your face for drowsy kisses that soothe your aches just a smidge.

Yunho

The quiet presence, the one who knows what you need before you say it. Passing you tissues, making you a cup of tea and most importantly holding you so that you can cry. Shedding angry tears about how frustrated you are with your own body for betraying you. For feeling weak. For missing out on things. He's gently calming every frayed nerve in your brain. Reassuring you that you're exactly where you need to be in this moment, and he will bring all of the fun to you. And he does, in small, manageable doses.

Yeosang

His way of caring for you is through caring for your outside. All the skin masks, hair treatments, skin softening lotions because if you feel cruddy, at least he can make you feel cute and comfortable. They do heal though, in their own way. The extra moisture of the humidifier and every cream and essence he buffs into your skin helps keep some of the aches away. Subsiding the itchiness of the nerve pain, just a little. And you can’t get over how cute Yeosang looks in each animal themed headband or with his hair tied back into teeny space buns or how nice his hands feel every time they glide over your skin.

San

Where Yunho is quietly attentive, San is passionately attentive. You cry, he cries (while holding you). Quite literally your pain, is his pain and he’s here to be with you through each step. No judgment is ever passed when he has to pick up your extra chores around the house. Because to him, that is the smallest act of service he can perform for you. San is the one who wishes he could take on your pain, that he could fight it and destroy it and it pains him that he cannot. So he will simply have to do everything else.

Mingi

He thrives on making you laugh and smile through tough days, because he understands feeling burdensome. Mingi never wants you to feel that way, he wants to make sure you verbally know that your presence is needed and welcome. His favorite thing is cuddled up in bed with you wrapped in your heated blanket watching shows. You looking so small in his arms, giving him the feeling of protecting something. He reassures you constantly, because he himself seeks constant reassurance. Mingi never tires of this, he will reaffirm every single self deprecating thought with a compliment even on his worst days.

Wooyoung

He cares for you with his skinship, which is incredibly healing. His happy heartbeat encourages yours. His strong hands make you feel loved and needed. Who would cuddle him if not you? Woo often reminds you, whispering the phrase into your ear as he traces his nails through your hair, or while rhythmically drawing circles on your spine. Making you float into dream land and anchoring you in the moment with him at the same time. Woo also loves making you whatever dish you’re craving, knowing you need energy to fight off fatigue and pain. And cooking is one of his many, many love languages.

Jongho

Needing to hoard all the extra rest you can get; you seek out solace at Jongho’s place for nap time. Jongho has taken notice, he’s also taken inventory as to which blankets of his you prefer, the pillows that keep you asleep the longest, what temperature you prefer the room to be based on what you’re wearing. All your favorite snacks before or after. New blackout curtains. He’s made his place your ultimate nap zone. New heated blankets. Duplicates of your fave lounge wear and socks. And he takes his payment in cuddles. Holding you tightly in his bed or sprawled on the couch. Sometimes he falls asleep himself and flips you onto your back to bury into your side like a full-sized teddy bear.

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thenightmarketofdathomir · 12 days

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Dear Wishmonger, your writings are a gift and a comfort to so many. May I ask, for my own self, how would a reader with a Neurological chronic illness be cared for by the brothers? Symptoms that seem frightening, painful and unpredictable to the outside observer leaves one wishing for a safe place to land until well again.

Twins smile upon you, friend. I hope this finds you well.

Title: Rakghoul Plague is way worse Pairing: Darth Maul/Reader (she/her) Rating: PG Warnings: Described symptoms of a hemiplegic migraine dramatized for effect (hurt/comfort), space medicine references

The first time Maul witnesses an episode that leaves you crumpled in a corner, half your body stricken with paralysis, your features twisted into a rictus of pain and totally unresponsive, he thinks its an attack: someone's infiltrated the Dawn, a spy on Dathomiri soil, in his home, among his kin... Biological warfare, certainly, targeting him at his most vulnerable though no one would ever dare call you a weakness --

But Maul knows that only the tender parts that remain unguarded are the most susceptible to attack.

He feels your pain in the twist of your legs, the curl of your fingers, and in your head when he reaches in with a gentle gesture so careful that any other adept might damage what's precious with less finesse, and he sees what you do against the dark canvas of your mind, familiar in that peculiar way that returns him to memories of a windowless durasteel cell and the droid that repaired him.

The particulars are unimportant. Broken bones can be healed many times over, but the feeling that remains is a lesson that can be imparted given the right incentive to recall it with renewed purpose:

He would not want you to make the pain a weapon.

He would spare you that study with every ounce of his being, knowing its intricacies with the intimacy of a lover taught these rituals of suffering.

The light changes: dark to white, and you remember the particular feeling of being cradled between cybernetic legs is an acquired taste, but maybe not to much of a comfort. His rough hands are careful with your body when he lifts you, balanced against the solidity of his chest as the world sways gently with each click and whirr of his servo motors as he carries you to the privacy of his quarters -- to his bed where he draws the curtains where no one but the Spirits can see the way he bows over you, protective.

Peace is a lie, but with your nose pressed into the hollow of his throat, you might be persuaded otherwise as his presence in the Force and in your body sifts away the aches and strain, and eases the tensions of your body.

When he withdraws his influence, he takes some of the tension that holds you in its grip with him as if it was a burden he opted to carry the moment you bruised your knees on Dathomiri stone. He watches you blink back to clarity from blindness, confusion registering because there's a twitch over his right eye that reflects the feeling of abating numbness mirrored beneath your own skin -- siphoned from you to him.

"My Lord? What happened?"

His answer is a cup pressed to your lips with cool water to soothe the sting of a dry throat, and a warm hand to your forehead, and then wrapping the back of your head, so soothing that your eyes flutter shut again as warmth suffuses the lingering tension. He squeezes his fingers, and you melt into the strength in his grip knowing that he'd never hurt you.

His murmur against your temple rolls through you like the promise of a hard rain after thunder, washing away those lingering discomforts that pulled you away from him for too many moments, "Needless suffering is hardly productive, my dear."

Your smile cuts through the dim, and he stiffens -- the firebright glare of his gaze narrowing.

You've scared him -- this unshakable, determined, angry creature.

Somehow, that comforts you: to know how important you are to him, even if he can't put it into words.

"I'll try to remember that next time," you tell him.

He glowers a moment longer, his frown deepening to create furrows over the furrows. He leans in, furious in a way that makes you want to cup his cheek, to offer comfort as he seethes, his grip on you unrelenting but no less careful.

"Never again," Maul promises.

You don't believe him, at first, so you kiss his cheek in a way that's meant to diffuse his brooding -- but none have the same connections as your lover, nor the resources, nor the talent... and definitely not the determination of a former Sith intent on guarding what's his from anything that hurts her.

For Maul -- he'll remind you again, forever, later -- the first time is the last time he'll see you suffer.

#Darth Maul #Darth Maul x Reader #Darth Maul x You #soft soft #h/c #f!Reader #the night market of dathomir #darth maul fic #darth maul fanfic #maul x reader #maul x you

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mimisplayground · 4 months

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Porn Star Dancing

yum yum yum also sry its not a gender neutral reader this time guys it was a request

Warnings: Stripper!Reader, Unsafe Sex (WRAP IT UP….), Probably really bad scottish slang 😭, kinda sub!soap for a minute there, Soap asks at the end if u would let Ghost hit, KINDA SOFT SEX NGL!!!

ill make it rough next time >:3

—————

MacTavish certainly wasnt a rich man by any means. Comfortable in life maybe, if he had better spending habits. But nowhere near a rich man.

But he doesn’t think anybody would know that he isnt a rich man from the way he stuffed a £100 into the band of your underwear when you crawled near him.

You giggled, wrapping your arms around his neck and leaving a kiss on his jawline before making your way back to the pole in the middle of your platform. Spinning around and pulling yourself up, watching as the Sergeant stared at you intently.

You only knew he was a Captain from when he came with his friend. Large man with a skull mask covering his face.

(“Cmon MacTavish, what are the recruits gonna think seeing their Sergeant mesmerized by a broad on a pole?” He had teased, leaving you a bit peeved at being called a ‘broad’. “Dinnae really care, Lieutenant. She a bonnie lass, all I care about.” )

You felt a small blush reach your cheeks at the memory. It was one of the first times that ‘MacTavish’ had caught your eye. And the owner since then had scolded you plenty about openly giving lap dances to your favourite. How were you meant to resist though?

Just like now, as the song ended and you found yourself pressed into the Sergeants lap, kissing his cheek and giggling when you felt him press a kiss in the middle of your chest. “Driving me crazy lass,” he groaned out, hands gripped around your waist tightly “gonna make me lose my mind ain’t ya?” You grinded down onto him at the end of his question, listening to the way he groaned and threw his head back.

“Wanna take me home? I’ll show you a fun time if you do.” You purred out, hands tugging on the hair of his mohawk firmly, gasping when he picks you up as he stands. “Let’s get going to my place then, lass.”

Within 20 minutes you found yourself in a cozy apartment, clothes on the floor as you continued to grind on top of who you now knew to call John. He groaned something about how sweet a girl you were for treating him to an at home show.

And you had, when you took of your clothes slowly, teasing him with the idea of seeing anymore of your skin than he already had, which wasn’t leaving much left to reveal. He had pounced on you once your clothes were all off though.

And he made quick work of stretching you and sinking deep into your cunt. His thumb pressed tight against your clit and rubbing circles into it.

He knew what he was doing, that was obvious, leaving you twitching and practically screaming out for him. You knew he was feeling good too, listening to him groan about how tight your cunt was, which left you more than a little embarrassed to hear.

And when he begged to cum inside of you you couldn’t help but nod yes, babbling about how you were on the pill, don’t worry about it, ‘please Johnny” leaving your mouth barely coherently. His arms wrapped tight around your waist as he came.

You found your own release in a few more tight circles rubbed into your clit, twitching against him as you tugged his hair.

You both panted for a moment, and then you heard John start chuckling. You stare at him in confusion, and he clarifies once his little chuckling fit had finished that “you’re the hottest person I’ve ever heard call me Johnny. Good lass.”

You grumble in embarrassment and lean in to hug him and hide your face. You figure you might be kicked out any second now, you might as well cling to him as long as possible.

“Hey lass?” John prompts you, and you hum in response.

“How do ya feel about letting my friend Ghost have a turn with ya?”

—————-

HAHAHAHAHA LEFT U GUYS ON A CLIFFHANGER HHAAAAAAHHAAAAAAA

>:3

anyways i hope u all LOVED it bc i loved it, Sergeant MacTavish 🤩

#cod smut #requests open #send asks #fanfic #cod fanfic #john soap mactavish #soap cod #soap x reader #soap x you #soap smut #johnny mactavish #fem reader

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lestatslestits · 5 months

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It’s still Monday (at least for me, which means I’m not late for TOTA Takeover Day 1, dedicated to Rosalie Garrity.

So enjoy a little ficlet, which is. So so sad. I’m sorry.

(And also totally not a projection of my own OCD symptoms)

The halls of St. Jude’s are quiet and it takes Rosalie a moment to understand why: Campbell Bain isn’t running through them like a bat-out-of-somewhere-she-can’t-say, because of some nebulous Bad Thing that might happen if she does (she doesn’t know what that thing might be, and she doesn’t want to know). Normally Campbell keeps the hospital lively, an excitable outlier among patients who are kept largely sedate by their medications. The days when he’s not gamboling his way through the ward usually indicate a slide into depression so black that it hurts to look at for too long. She’s got a soft spot for Campbell that she tries not to overthink because it always leads her back memories of Robbie, who she’ll never see look that grown (if you can call Campbell that: there’s still something of a puppy that has not grown into its extremities about him). She’s taken to sitting with him when he’s in a bad way, chattering about the goings-on elsewhere in the ward. It seems to comfort him, and it’s nearly a distraction from the knowledge that she’s fighting a one-woman war for cleanliness on the losing side. Not quite, but nearly.

She makes up her mind and makes her way to his room. Through the latticed pattern of the window in his door, she sees him lying in bed, curled in on himself. His face isn’t visible, he’s just the back of a loudly patterned tee-shirt and a tuft of hair. She raises a gloved hand to knock on the door.

“You don’t want to go in there.”

She nearly jumps out of her skin. Fergus emerges as though from thin air, as he’s wont to do. He’s as stone-faced as usual, staring through dark bangs. Fergus is intimidating, but she’s never felt intimidated by him, a paradox that she can’t quite unravel. “And why ever not?” She demands. He nods his head towards the window and she peers inside just in time to see Campbell move from a state of total stillness into a coughing fit that rattles his whole frame.

So that’s why he’s not roaming the corridors. He’s ill.

“Oh Lord,” she says, taking an instinctive step away from the door. A wave of shame washes over her. By the time of Robbie’s death she had been so pathologically afraid of germs that the very act of stepping into the hospital—a hospital for proper sick people, not loonies—to visit him had been nearly impossible, an exercise in terror and a battle that she lost almost as often as she won. Many afternoons had been spent waiting in the car, sobbing, while her husband made the visits alone. She knows she’ll never get those lost moments back. The floodgate to her memories opens and she’s struck full force by them as she sees Campbell sick in bed.

“Just thought you would want to know,” Fergus tells her. Then he’s gone, as quickly as he appeared, and before she can thank him.

Rosalie stands outside the door, at war with herself. She wants nothing more than to be able to step into that room and sit on the edge of Campbell’s bed, rubbing the ache in his taut shoulders away when another round of coughs consumes him. It would be like penance for Robbie, a way of doing better for someone else than she had for him.

But she can’t. Once she thinks she’ll just crack open the door to ask after him, but she can’t even wrap her fingers around the handle, no matter how she tries.

In the end she stands there, frozen in place, for the better part of twenty minutes, until Stuart comes and asks her with a sneer if she isn’t afraid of the germs sneaking out through the crack under the door. Then she has to retreat to change her clothes and wipe down her shoes, a feeling of shame heavy in her chest.

Her brief guardian angel presence goes totally unnoticed by Campbell, who never uncurls himself from his protective posture, and never turns towards the door.

#takin over the asylum #tota takeover #tota #rosalie garrity #ruth mccabe #takin’ over the asylum #takin over the asylum fanfic

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inkykeiji · 11 months

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Cant stop thinking about 26. Sickness + flawless!Tomura

prompt: sickness warnings: daddy kink without the kinkiness, mention of drugs, tomu is a brat as always words: 832

A stifled sigh sits heavy and stagnant in Kurogiri’s chest, tender hands rearranging the damp washcloth folded over Tomura’s forehead, fingers brushing back stray strands of silver. A beep sounds from within his pocket, and he reaches for the thermometer shoved in Tomura’s mouth, glass clicking against his teeth as Kurogiri removes it, that suppressed sigh finally escaping his nostrils.

A fever of 101 degrees.

“I’m fine,” Tomura snaps, but it comes out as more of a whine, stringy and petulant. “Just gimme another bump and I’ll be good as new, promise.”

“This isn’t a cocaine withdrawal, Tomura,” Kurogiri says sharply, narrowed eyes glancing at his charge for a moment before refocusing on the glass thermometer between his fingers. “Though you’re going to get one of those, too, if this sickness progresses.”

“What?”

“You’re ill,” Kurogiri responds flatly. “A virus of some sort is my guess, though I’ll have Doctor Garaki stop by immediately to confirm.”

“No,” Tomura groans out the word long and drawn, head banging against the pillow, fluffy silver tufts bouncing with the motion. “Not that quack again.”

“He’ll be here in an hour or less.”

Despite Tomura’s protests, Doctor Garaki does arrive in under an hour, murmuring to a grumbling Tomura that he’ll only be a moment, and verifies Kurogiri’s suspicions within fifteen minutes.

“It is, indeed, a virus,” he tells you as he closes the door to Tomura’s bedroom. “Nothing to be too concerned about; it should sort itself out in a few days or so. Lots of rest, lots of fluids. If his fever climbs any higher, call an ambulance.”

On the other side of the door, Tomura lays restless in his bed, legs twitching and tangled in the heavy comforter, face scrunched in irritated discomfort as he shifts, flopping from his back onto his side with more aggression than necessary.

“Baby,” he whimpers when he notices you’ve entered, arms outstretched and yearning, a deep pout etched into his face. “Come cuddle with Daddy.”

You do as your told, ever his good girl, supposing that even Daddies need comfort from their little babies from time to time, too.

He latches onto you the moment you’re close enough, pulling you down and hugging you to his chest, his own personal teddy. He doesn’t look well, eyes sunken and encased in a sickly purple, normally chapped lips cracked open and embellished with dried blood, skin sallow and clammy, having lost most of it’s natural colour. Clumps of silver, damp with cold sweat, cling to his forehead, teeth chattering together delicately, jaw flexing as he tries to stifle the movement.

Frowning, your fingers find the hinges of his jaw, rubbing gentle circles into them.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” he huffs, nose scrunching up. “I hate this. My whole body fucking hurts; I feel like someone took a sledgehammer to my bones and smashed them to bits.”

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” you say, sighing a little as you feel his muscles loosen beneath your touch. “How can I help?”

“Just...Stay here with me,” he murmurs, voice having already lost its caustic edge, exhaustion seeping through his words and turning them wispy. “Jus’want you close.”

And so, you do.

Kurogiri is awe-inspiring in his ability to anticipate Tomura’s every want and need, a skill honed and sharpened to perfection over years of nurturing and raising the man, brewing a pot of homemade chicken noodle soup in addition to a whole pitcher of lemonade—a desperate attempt to keep Tomura adequately hydrated, since he refuses to drink plain water, vehemently claiming that it tastes like poison, face screwing up dramatically every time you or Kurogiri succeed in getting him to take a sip.

Even as Tomura’s brattiness intensifies with the worsening of his illness, Kurogiri stays mostly unperturbed, a special type of fondness saturating his features, laced with the slightest hint of typical exasperation. His tired eyes are kind, his soothing voice stern yet soft around the edges, his slim fingers gentle as they fluff pillows and pat sweat and tip glasses to withering lips.

You want to help, too, but Tomura won’t let you, demanding that you stay in bed with him and tend to his more pressing needs—massaging his throbbing temples and running delicate fingers through his now stringy hair and tracing nonsensical patterns across his sticky skin, tender ministrations smoothing out ragged breathing and hushing down sulky complaints.

Kurogiri promises you that it’s fine—he’s alright, he doesn’t need any assistance, really—and claims that you’re doing more good than he ever could with just your placating presence alone, lulling a grousing Tomura into a state of liminality, half-conscious and wavering between states of aching insomnia and fitful sleep.

“This is the calmest I’ve ever seen him while sick,” Kurogiri admits to you, voice barely above a whisper, as Tomura sleeps with his head in your lap. “Honestly, it makes caring for him abundantly easier. You’re the best medicine the Doctor could have prescribed.”

#shigaraki x reader #shigaraki tomura x reader #shigaraki fluff #shigaraki tomura fluff #thank you for sending in a prompt anon!!! i really appreciate it!!#pls enjoy this hehe he's so cute #have a wonderful tuesday n stay safe!#flawless universe #inky.bb #clari gets mail #inky.prompts

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savventeen · 11 months

Text

purple, white, grey, and black

pairing: idol!seungcheol x gn!reader rating: M wc: 2.9k summary: you're asexual and proud, and have been for a while. so why does seeing ace pride posts sometimes churn something within you? or, the one where reader talks about where/if their asexuality and trauma intersect. warnings: implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced sexual childhood abuse, (these things are only talked about in the vaguest sense but please be careful), anxiety, mentions of acephobic family members tags: asexuality, asexual reader, established relationship, dialogue-heavy, emotional hurt/comfort a/n: this is a rewrite of a fic i wrote for a bts queer introspections fic fest, and i want to preface this by saying everyone's journey with asexuality is different and the one reflected here is based purely on my own personal journey. if any of you struggle with any of the same thoughts/questions reader does, that I do, i hope this can remind you that you're not alone 💜

jimbo the himbo @spaceace9393

just a friendly reminder: asexuality is a valid identity. it's not any kind of disorder, and it has nothing to do with disability, or trauma, or mental illness. we are not sick, or broken, or in need of "fixing.” we're just people who don't experience sexual attraction, that's it.

You stare at the tweet for a long, long time. Long enough that your phone screen dims before shutting off entirely, leaving you with only your reflection for company.

Your chest feels... you're not sure how to describe it, exactly. It might be a little bit like when you accidentally clogged the bathroom sink the other day — like there's something cold and murky sloshing around inside your lungs, bits of feelings you can't quite name sinking down to rest on something that's been building unseen for a while now.

Closing your eyes, you breathe in, slow and deep, and then release a shaky exhale. Your fingers start tap-tap-tapping away on your thigh as you realize that you kind of, maybe, really want to talk to someone right now.

You have your kakaotalk app open between one blink and the next.

you

cheollie? are u still at one of the hybe studios?

cheollie 🧡

yeah i'm still here not working on anything too important rn tho so you can swing by if you want i have extra ramyeon packs that soonyoung dropped off they're the spicy kind you like

You can't help but smile softly to yourself. Even though the anxiety of what you want to talk about makes your heart race, you don't think you'll ever stop being endeared by Choi Seungcheol.

you

cheollie ur the best ily ❤️ see u soon ~

cheollie 🧡

love you too ❤️

You quickly throw on your comfiest hoodie, threadbare and fraying at the seams, and you make your way over to the Hybe building. You also stop at a convenience store on the way, grabbing a canned coffee for each of you because you're a good partner like that.

By the time you get to the door of the studio, though, what little confidence you'd built up for yourself starts to fizzle out, replaced by the anxiety simmering on low just beneath your skin. The confusing feelings are still sloshing around inside your chest, so much so that you think about knocking even though you haven't knocked in months — not since Seungcheol started texting you the code of whatever studio he was working in at the time.

Groaning to yourself, you smack the edge of your phone against your forehead a few times before quickly punching in the code and opening the door before you can talk yourself out of it.

Seungcheol is slouched comically in the chair, head so low it's practically leaning against the armrest as his socked feet rest propped up on any empty corner of the desk. The computer's wireless keyboard is cradled against his chest and stomach, keys down, and he's using its smooth back as a makeshift mousepad. ...To play Solitaire of all things, you realize.

You stand there, just blinking for a moment as you process the image in front of you. He looks so stupid and cute and you can't help the grin that pushes against your cheeks.

"Cheol," you giggle. "What the fuck."

"Shhhhhhhh..." Seungcheol's eyes don't leave the monitor. "Don't question the process."

You snort as you finally close the door and walk over to set his canned coffee on the desk, on the opposite side his feet are propped up.

"What process?" You stand over him, folding your arms across your chest as you try to keep a straight face. Raising an eyebrow at his posture, you ask, "The one where you turn into a slouchy slug?"

"Hey!" Seungcheol swings the keyboard into your hip like he's trying to chop down a tree, making you double over even as you start giggling. "I am not a slug, how dare you!"

You just laugh louder and playfully shove his chair away from the desk. He yelps in surprise as his feet suddenly fall to the floor and he nearly topples over, and then he turns the full force of his pout upon you.

"I can't believe my very own partner is trying to kill me," he laments. "What did I do to deserve such betrayal? Did Jeonghan put you up to this?"

"Aww, poor aegi," you coo. You walk over to him and squish his cheeks between your palms so that his lips pucker out comically. "My poor little guppy wuppy."

His dark brows furrow harder and you let out an oof when he jabs you in the stomach with the wireless keyboard he'd managed to hang onto in the chaos, letting go of his face. It wasn't hard enough to hurt (never is) and you just stick your tongue out at him in retaliation.

He rolls his eyes and points to the couch. "Go have a seat, traitor."

You acquiesce with a soft snort, burying yourself in the corner while Seungcheol tidies up the studio. You pull one of the throw pillows into your lap and very quickly end up hugging it tightly to your chest.

For a few blissful moments, you'd forgotten about all of the confused, anxious things swimming around inside of you — forgotten the main reason you'd come here in the first place.

You must zone out, because the next thing you know, Seungcheol is squatting in front of you and trying to catch your eye, one hand gently squeezing your knee. "Hey, Y/n-ah. You doing okay over here? Want me to take you home?"

His eyes are wide and earnest, worry lightly furrowing his brow, and you will never cease to be grateful for how much he embodies unconditional care and comfort.

Shaking your head, you reach out to clasp the hand on your knee. "No, 'm fine." You tug on his hand, a silent request to come sit next to you. "Just wanna talk to you, if that's okay."

"Of course it's okay," he promises. "Always."

When he sits, he leaves a sliver of space between the two of you, leaving it up to you to decide how much (if any) physical comfort you want right now. That simple, little act of thoughtfulness is like the glimpse of a lighthouse amidst the storm that's brewing within your ribcage, and it gives you the courage you need to hoist your metaphorical sails and let the wind take you where you need to go.

You waste no time in anchoring yourself to Seungcheol's side, throwing your legs over his lap and burying your face into his collarbone.

"Hey, jagiya, hey, you're okay," he soothes automatically. His hands come up to wrap around you, pulling you close and rubbing soothing arcs up and down your back. "You're okay. I'm here to listen, yeah? I'm here."

He doesn't say anything else after that, just settles a bit more into the couch and waits for you to speak, always so full of patience when it counts.

It does take a while for you to say anything, mostly because you don't really know where to start. There's still so much swirling around inside you, murky and confusing, that you're not really sure if there is a start.

And a part of you wonders if it's even worth opening up your mouth at this point — the same part of you that's always walked hand-in-hand with your shame and doubt.

But Seungcheol's breathing is a steady rise and fall against your chaotic thoughts, his heartbeat a siren song reminding you that he has always held your hopes and dreams and fears and questions oh so carefully in the palms of his hands.

Eventually, you realize that it doesn't really matter where you start as long as you jump in. So jump you do. "Cheol?"

"Hmm?"

"Do— do you remember when I came out to you and the rest of the group as ace?"

" 'Course I do," he assures warmly, giving you a small squeeze. "Still so proud of you."

You hum happily. But your anxiety is making you feel fidgety again, so you pull one of Seungcheol's arms down into your lap so you can play with his long, sturdy fingers. He lets you do it without complaint, and something within you settles.

You let yourself breathe in, breathe out.

"After you guys," you start, bending and unbending his fingers one by one, "the first person I ever came out to was my mom, you know? And it's— it wasn't that she wasn't supportive. Or like, I think she was trying to be supportive, at least, but." You take a breath. "Do you wanna know what the first words out of her mouth were, after I told her that I was ace?"

Seungcheol hums an encouragement, pulling you impossibly closer with the one arm he still has wrapped around your back. You take another breath, uncurling all of his fingers and holding the spread-out digits in both hands, almost like you're going to try and read his palm.

You breathe in, breathe out. "She said— without any hesitation, she said, 'Oh, is it because of your trauma?'"

You feel the way Seungcheol tenses beneath you, watch the way his fingers twitch between yours like he's trying not to curl them into a fist.

"And I didn't know how to respond to that," you continue, keeping your eyes down, "so I just said 'I don't know, probably.'" You give the same little helpless shrug you'd given then, small and defeated, and you use the motion to hunch your shoulders a little more.

"Y/n-ah. That's..." Seungcheol starts, voice a little rough around the edges like he's trying to keep some big emotion from breaking through. "I can't imagine what that must've felt like."

And you know, you know, that he's filling in the blanks. That he's taking the words 'trauma' and 'asexuality' and drawing conclusions that probably aren't too far from the truth.

You grip his hand tightly between yours and tuck it against your chest like a child clings to a favorite stuffed animal; he presses a gentle kiss to the crown of your head. You both breathe — in, out.

"Yeah. It didn't— it didn't feel great," you admit, an understatement. "And she's not the only one, either. Every single family member I've come out to, every single one of them— that question has always been the first thing to come out of their mouth."

The faces of those family members flash before you, all carrying the same expression — pity, one etched so deep it felt (feels) almost condescending. "Is it because of your trauma?" "Is it because of what happened to you? Did he make you like this?"

"And I just..." You flail the hand not clutching Seungcheol's, searching for a way to put into words what you've been feeling for so, so long. "I have this knowledge living inside me at all times that, to the family members that I'm out to— they'll never see my asexuality as something to celebrate. All they will ever see is my trauma and how this part of myself is something that comes from a broken place."

You think about the tweet from earlier, the hundreds of others you've seen like it, and feel tears begin to gather.

Sniffling, you continue. "And then I'll go on the internet and see all kinds of ace pride and posts about how we're valid and don't need to be fixed and... and I know that. Logically, I know that my ace-ness isn't something that needs to be changed, isn't something that could change, even if I wanted it to, but..."

But.

For so, so long, you have had no idea how to finish that sentence. And it feels like some kind of defeat when you realize you still don't have an answer. "...I don't know," you shrug, helplessly.

Seungcheol presses another kiss to the top of your head, staying silent like he knows you still have more to say. He keeps a steady rhythm of slowly rubbing his free hand up and down your back, a tactile metronome for you to follow.

After a few minutes, you continue with a sigh. "About once a year, I'll talk with my aunt, and she never fails to ask if I'm "still ace" and... I just..." You cut yourself off with a frustrated groan.

"S'okay, aegi," Seungcheol whispers, squeezing the hand you're still holding close to your chest.

"Sometimes it feels like my ace-ness is tainted, you know?"

Even as the sentence feels punched out of you, it's such a bitter relief to finally admit it out loud. Because even though you've never really let yourself put it into words, you are finally able to recognize that this is one of the murky feelings that has been weighing you down — collecting in your subconscious like debris in the gutter. "And it's why bringing up my past can be so difficult for me. Because I'm so scared that people will go from just accepting my asexuality to thinking 'Ah, that explains it.' Like I just gave them the missing piece to a puzzle or something, when before it was just a part of who I am.

"And there's also a part of me that feels like... I don't know, that I'd just be adding fuel to the fire for all the people who like to shit on asexuality. That I'm just an example of why people who think they're ace are just traumatized and need therapy. But... I think I would have always been ace, no matter what happened or didn't happen to me as a kid. And I just...

"I don't know, Cheol," you croak, the tears you've been trying so hard to keep in finally starting to cascade down your cheeks. "I don't know how to feel anymore. I don't know where to fit. If I fit. If it even matters whether I fit or not."

And really, now that you've talked it out a bit, it essentially boils down to one thing.

"I guess— I guess what I'm saying is that I just want to be able to feel like I can be ace and a little bit broken at the same time. That I can be a work in progress and still something... worth celebrating."

You tuck your free hand into the sleeve of your hoodie and use it to wipe away the tears that are still falling. Seungcheol's next exhale shudders a little bit out of his chest, and then he's letting go of your hand so he can cradle your jaw and tenderly wipe at the tears himself.

"Hey, jagiya, will you look at me, please? Will you let me look at you?"

You nod, the lump in your throat having doubled in size between one moment and the next, and he gently lifts your chin until you're eye-to-eye.

"There you are," he murmurs, with a sad lopsided smile. You notice he has tear tracks of his own, and looking into his big, glassy eyes aches and soothes in equal measure. "I'm going to tell you something very important, so I need you to listen carefully, okay? Can you do that for me?"

Again, you nod, swallowing thickly.

Seungcheol's expression quickly melts into something serious. Not something scary, but something solid — a firm foundation for you to rely on.

"Y/n L/n. You will always, always be something worth celebrating. Being a work in progress is a part of life, and you and I and everyone else on this planet will be one until the day we die. I may not know all the answers, and we might never find the ones we're looking for, but if I know anything, it's this: not a day has gone by since getting to know you that I am not so, so incredibly proud of you — of the person that you are and that you are continuously becoming. More than I can really put into words."

You think you could drown in all of the love and support and affection pouring out of Seuncheol, overwhelming you in the best way. It's like your heart has capsized and all of the ooey-gooey feelings are flooding in, pulling you down deeper, deeper, deeper still.

But you've hit your emotional threshold for the day and decide to cut the moment the best way you know how. "Even when I'm an annoying little shit?" you choke out past your now-stuffed nose.

Seungcheol laughs wetly and wraps his arms around you again, tilting you both over so you're both mostly lying down on the couch. "I think maybe especially then," he murmurs, mostly to himself. Louder, he says, "I think we've earned ourselves a nice nap, what do you think?"

You think that sounds heavenly, and you both adjust your positions until you're comfortable and you can feel sleep pulling at your consciousness. Before you let it claim you, though, you take a few moments to breathe.

It feels a bit easier than before, the breathing. The stuff sloshing around inside your lungs doesn't feel as murky as it did before, doesn't feel as suffocating now that you've been able to bale some of it out. You don't have any more answers than you did before, but you have a bit more peace.

And as you finally drift off to Seungcheol's quiet, snuffling snores, you think that having a bit more peace might be enough for now.

#svtsource #seungcheol fanfic #seungcheol oneshot #seungcheol x you #seungcheol x reader #seungcheol x y/n #scoups fanfic #scoups oneshot #scoups x y/n #scoups x reader #scoups x you #asexual reader #savv writes #savv fics #giving you all a big piece of my soul with this one

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lunardragon00 · 2 months

Text

The Heir (Choi San x OC)

Masterlist

Genre: Fantasy , Lord!San x Princess!OC

Words: 4655

Warning: n/a

Chapter Eight--> Chapter Nine --> Chapter Eleven

ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔗𝔢𝔫: 𝔖𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔦𝔫𝔢𝔡 𝔄𝔩𝔩𝔦𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔢𝔰

In the soft embrace of dawn's light, Dragonspire stirred with the gentle rhythm of awakening. Princess Hana, nestled in the sanctuary of her chambers, found herself shifting restlessly in her bed, her brow furrowed with discomfort.

The sudden onset of morning sickness caught Hana off guard, its relentless grip leaving her feeling weak and unsteady. As she lay nestled in the comfort of their chambers, the weight of nausea pressing down upon her like a suffocating veil, she found herself caught in the relentless tide of discomfort that seemed to wash over her with each passing moment.

San, ever attentive to her needs, hovered at her side like a steadfast guardian, his concern etched into the lines of his brow as he watched over her with unwavering devotion. With each bout of nausea that wracked her body, he was there, offering soothing words of reassurance and gentle caresses that served as a balm to her troubled spirit.

"Stay here, my love," he implored, his voice soft with worry as he tucked the blankets snugly around her trembling form. "You need rest, and I will not have you exerting yourself unnecessarily."

Hana shook her head, dismissing him. "No, I have responsibilities that need to be taken care of." San's brow furrowed with concern as he gently brushed a lock of hair from Hana's forehead, his touch tender against her fevered skin. "Your health is paramount, my dear," he insisted, his voice laced with quiet determination. "Whatever responsibilities you may have can wait. Right now, you need to focus on resting and recuperating."

Hana met his gaze, her eyes reflecting a stubborn resolve that mirrored his own. "But the kingdom..." she began, her voice trailing off as another wave of nausea washed over her, leaving her breathless and weak.

San's expression softened with understanding as he gently cupped her cheek, his touch a comforting anchor amidst the storm of her discomfort. "The kingdom will manage without you for a day or two," he reassured her, his voice a soothing melody in the midst of her turmoil. "Your health comes first, Hana. Please, allow yourself the time to recover."

Reluctantly, Hana nodded, conceding to his unwavering insistence with a weary sigh. As she settled back against the pillows, her body still trembling with the aftershocks of her illness, she found solace in the warmth of San's presence beside her. "Please, call the Maestor is you feel any worse." San stands from the side of the bed and moves quickly to dress.

"You're leaving?" She asks, voice hearse from the strain over the past hour. San paused mid-motion, his expression softened with concern as he turned back to face Hana, her weary voice pulling at the strings of his heart. "A raven was sent from Coralrift late in the night. I have been summoned by my father." he reassured her, his voice a gentle whisper in the quiet of their chambers.

Hana's brows furrowed with concern at the mention of San's summons, her thoughts momentarily eclipsed by the gravity of his words. "Is everything alright?" she inquired, her voice tinged with worry as she watched him move with purposeful determination.

San's features softened with a reassuring smile, his eyes alight with a flicker of warmth as he approached her bedside once more. "Everything will be fine, my love," he assured her, his voice a steady anchor amidst the uncertainty that lingered in the air. "It's likely just a matter that requires my presence back home."

Though his words were meant to assuage her fears, Hana couldn't shake the sense of unease that gnawed at the edges of her conscience. With a silent nod, she offered him a small smile, masking the turbulent storm of emotions that churned within her heart.

"Take care of yourself, San," she murmured softly, her voice a tender caress against the backdrop of their shared intimacy. "And please, return to me safely." San's smile widened at her words, his heart swelling with a profound sense of love and devotion for the woman who had captured his soul. "Always," he vowed.

With a final brush of his fingers against her cheek, San bid her farewell and disappeared beyond the threshold, leaving Hana to grapple with the tumult of her thoughts and the quiet echo of his departure.

As San dismounts from Aeshara, his faithful dragon, the grandeur of Coralrift unfolds before him in a breathtaking panorama. The ancestral seat of his family rises majestically from the rugged cliffs that overlook the crashing waves of the tempestuous sea below. The fortress is hewn from the very stone of the cliffs, its towering spires reaching skyward like the outstretched arms of ancient sentinels, their weathered facades bearing witness to the passage of countless generations.

The walls are fortified with weathered stone, their imposing heights standing as a testament to the strength and resilience of the house that has called this bastion home for centuries. Turrets and battlements adorn the ramparts, their jagged silhouettes etched against the azure expanse of the sky, while the banners of House Choi flutter proudly in the salty breeze that sweeps in from the sea.

As San's footsteps echoed against the worn cobblestones of the courtyard, a familiar voice rang out, cutting through the salty breeze that swept in from the sea. Turning, San beheld the figure of Jongho, his cousin and trusted confidant, striding towards him with a warm smile etched upon his face.

"San!" Jongho called out, his voice filled with genuine affection as he closed the distance between them. "It's good to see you, cousin. Welcome back to Coralrift."

San's own smile widened at the sight of Jongho, his heart warming at the genuine warmth and camaraderie that defined their relationship. "Jongho," he replied, his voice tinged with the unmistakable lilt of affection. "It's good to be home." As they embraced in a brief but heartfelt hug, San felt a surge of reassurance flood through him, buoyed by the unwavering support of family amidst the turbulent currents of their world.

"Do you know what my father has summoned me for?" San inquired, his tone tinged with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension as he turned to Jongho, seeking insight into the purpose behind his summons to Coralrift. Jongho's expression softened, his features reflecting a blend of understanding and concern as he met San's gaze with unwavering sincerity.

"I'm not entirely sure," he admitted, his voice thoughtful as he considered the implications of Lord Jungchul's summons. "But knowing him, it's likely something of importance."San nodded, his thoughts swirling with a whirlwind of anticipation and uncertainty.

"Well, let's not keep him waiting then. Shall we?" Both men made way to the heart of Coralrift. As San and Jongho made their way through the hallowed halls, the banners of House Choi adorned the walls, their vibrant colors a stark contrast against the ancient stone that surrounded them. The light blue hue, reminiscent of the boundless expanse of the ocean, dominated the banners, while painted white seahorses danced gracefully across their surface—a symbol of the house's maritime heritage and the strength of its naval prowess.

"Why seahorses?" San finally voiced the question that had plagued him for years, his tone laced with a mixture of genuine curiosity and gentle bemusement. Jongho glanced at him, a knowing smile playing at the corners of his lips as he recognized the inquiry for what it was.

"It is said that the seahorse symbolizes patience, protection, and contentment," Jongho replied, his voice carrying the weight of centuries-old lore and tradition. "For generations, our ancestors have looked to the sea for sustenance and strength, and the seahorse has come to represent the resilience and fortitude of our people in the face of adversity." He continued. "But you already know that cousin." San shrugged in reply.

"Just thought it would be small conversation." San grinned in agreement, a sense of camaraderie settling between them like an old friend. San and Jongho reached the towering doors of the throne room, carved from the same sturdy oak that had weathered countless storms. With a shared glance, their gazes met, a silent understanding passing between them as they braced themselves for the revelations that awaited within. Jongho reached out, his hand resting upon the cold, weathered surface of the door, fingers curling around the wrought iron handle with a steady resolve. The two men stepped across the threshold, their footsteps echoing against the polished stone floors as they entered the heart of Coralrift's power and authority.

At the far end of the chamber, bathed in the soft glow of torchlight, Lord Jungchul sat upon his ancestral seat, his figure cloaked in regal authority as he awaited their approach.

"My son, Jongho," Lord Jungchul greeted them, his voice a low rumble that echoed with the resonance of centuries-old tradition. "Thank you for coming."

San and Jongho exchanged a brief glance,with each step, the distance between them and their father narrowed, the weight of expectation bearing down upon their shoulders like a mantle of duty.

"You summoned us, Father," San spoke, his voice measured yet tinged with the unmistakable edge of curiosity. Lord Jungchul inclined his head, his gaze steady as it swept over his sons with a discerning scrutiny.

"There are matters of great import that require our attention," Lord Jungchul began, his voice commanding the attention of all who stood within the hallowed confines of the throne room. "But first, let us speak of our house and its future."

"Yes, let us discuss your son's betrayal to the Choi name." Jaehyun's words cut through the air like a sharp blade, his voice laced with accusation and simmering anger. San's heart clenched at the mention of betrayal, the weight of his uncle's accusation bearing down upon him with suffocating force. Lord Jungchul's expression remained impassive, his features betraying little of the tumultuous emotions that roiled beneath the surface.

"What betrayal do you speak of, Uncle?" he inquired, his voice calm yet tinged with a hint of foreboding. Jaehyun's gaze hardened, his eyes flashing with undisguised disdain as they settled upon San.

"He speak of your union with the Princess of Dragonspire," His father declared, his voice ringing with righteous indignation. "A marriage conducted in secret, without the consent or knowledge of our house. Such treachery cannot be tolerated."

Jungchul's voice sliced through the air with disdain. "It was foolish, an abomination," his uncle declared, his words dripping with contempt. San's jaw tightened at the disrespect shown by his uncle. Despite the familial bond, he couldn't tolerate such insolence. Straightening his posture, he met Jaehyun's gaze with unwavering resolve.

"With all due respect, Uncle," San began, his tone firm yet controlled, "my father may address me as he sees fit, but you will watch your tongue in my presence." The tension in the room thickened, the weight of unspoken words hanging heavy between them. Jaehyun's expression hardened, his eyes flashing with indignation at San's defiance.

"I will not stand idly by and listen to such insults," San continued, his voice carrying the weight of his conviction. "If you have grievances, speak them with respect, or not at all." Jaehyun bristled at the rebuke, his pride wounded by San's unwavering resolve. For a moment, silence enveloped the room, each word hanging in the air like a silent challenge.

The air in the throne room grew heavy with tension, the weight of unspoken words lingering between them like a dense fog. Lord Jungchul observed the exchange with a measured gaze, his expression betraying little of his inner thoughts.

"Enough," he declared, his voice cutting through the silence like a sharp blade. "We are not here to exchange insults or accusations. We are here to address the challenges that face our house." San's jaw clenched, his frustration simmering beneath the surface as he struggled to contain his emotions in the face of his uncle's hostility. Beside him, Jongho remained silent, his expression a mask of stoic resolve as he observed the unfolding confrontation.

"San," Lord Jungchul addressed his son, his voice commanding attention, "your actions have consequences that extend far beyond your own desires. But that is not the true reason I have summoned you here today." Lord Jungchul's tone carried a weight of solemnity that left no room for doubt—the matter at hand was of grave importance, one that demanded their full attention and consideration.

"The Stepstones," Lord Jungchul continued, his voice heavy with gravitas, "have become a focal point of conflict and instability in recent months. Pirates, emboldened by chaos and lawlessness, have begun to terrorize our shores, plundering our trade routes and threatening the safety and security of our people." San's brow furrowed with concern, his mind racing as he considered the implications of his father's words. The Stepstones had long been a volatile region, plagued by piracy and unrest, but the severity of the situation had escalated to unprecedented levels in recent times. What they once thought was settled years ago, had now become, once again, a rising issue.

"We cannot allow this state of affairs to persist," Lord Jungchul asserted, his voice firm with resolve. "Our sovereignty is at stake, as is the prosperity and well-being of our citizens. It falls upon us, as stewards of our realm, to confront this threat head-on and restore order to the Stepstones." San nodded in agreement, his determination steeled by the gravity of the task before them. The safety and security of their lands, the livelihoods of their people—these were the principles upon which their house stood, and he would not allow them to be compromised by the whims of lawless marauders.

"We must mobilize our forces, bolster our defenses, and send a clear message to those who would dare to challenge our authority," Lord Jungchul declared, his voice resonating with conviction. "The time for action is upon us, my son. Together, we shall reclaim the Stepstones once more and ensure that peace and prosperity reign upon our shores."

As Lord Jungchul outlined the urgency of the situation regarding the Stepstones, San's inner turmoil intensified, a tempest of conflicting emotions swirling within him like a raging storm. On one hand, his duty to his house and his people beckoned him to action—to stand alongside his father, to defend their lands, and to reclaim the peace that had been stolen by the marauding pirates.

Yet, beneath the facade of resolve, a torrent of doubt and apprehension gnawed at San's conscience. The memories of his previous campaign in the Stepstones lingered like specters in the depths of his mind, haunting him with the echoes of past battles and the toll they had exacted upon his spirit. Moreover, his thoughts strayed to Hana—his beloved wife, whose well-being had become the beacon by which he navigated the tumultuous seas of his own conflicted heart. Her recent bouts of sickness weighed heavily upon him, casting shadows of uncertainty over their newfound happiness and casting doubt upon the wisdom of his departure.

The prospect of leaving her side, of once again being torn away from the warmth of her embrace, filled San with a profound sense of anguish and guilt. How could he reconcile his duty to his house with the yearning of his heart—to protect and cherish the woman he loved above all else?

As the deliberations in the throne room continued, San's gaze wandered to the ornate windows that framed the sweeping vistas of Coralrift, the crashing waves of the sea below mirroring the turmoil that churned within his soul. In that moment of quiet reflection, he knew that a decision loomed on the horizon—one that would test the very foundations of his resolve and define the course of his destiny.

"Cousin," he heard Jongho say. His attention was brought back to the three men before him. "What do you think? It is your dragon afterall?" San blinked, his thoughts momentarily scattered as he returned his focus to the present, drawn back from the depths of his inner turmoil by Jongho's inquiry. His cousin's words echoed in the chamber, cutting through the haze of uncertainty that clouded his mind.

With a furrowed brow, San turned his attention to Jongho, his expression a reflection of his confusion. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice tinged with a note of perplexity as he sought clarification.

Jongho regarded him with a steady gaze, his features unreadable yet tinged with a hint of anticipation. "Your dragon, Aeshara," he elaborated, his tone measured yet tinged with curiosity. "What is your decision? Will you heed the call to arms and ride with our forces to the Stepstones, or do you hesitate?"

San's mind raced as he considered Jongho's question, the weight of his decision bearing down upon him with unrelenting force. In that moment, he knew that the fate of their house hung in the balance. Before San could form a response, Jaehyun's voice cut through the tense atmosphere, his words dripping with disdain and accusation. The contempt in his uncle's tone ignited a spark of defiance within San's chest, his jaw setting in a firm line as he braced himself for the impending confrontation.

"You speak of duty and honor, yet you hesitate," Jaehyun sneered, his voice dripping with scorn. "Have you forgotten your responsibilities so soon? Or do you simply lack the courage to face them?"

San's nostrils flared with barely contained frustration, his resolve hardening against the onslaught of his uncle's derision. "I have not forgotten my responsibilities, Uncle," he retorted, his voice steely with determination. "But I will not be coerced into action by hollow words and empty threats."

Jaehyun's eyes narrowed, his expression twisted with contempt as he regarded San with undisguised disdain. "You forget from whence you came, nephew. You wear the colors of another house, you take claim to a dragon that was never yours to begin with. It has not been long since your union and yet you have already become one of them." he spat, his words a bitter reminder of the divisions that had long plagued their family.

San's jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides as he fought to contain the surge of anger and frustration coursing through him. Jaehyun's accusations cut deep, striking at the core of San's identity and sense of belonging within their family.

"I have not forgotten where I come from, Uncle," San countered, his voice tinged with a mixture of defiance and sorrow. "But I refuse to be shackled by the narrow confines of tradition and expectation. I wear the colors of House Kim as a symbol of unity, not division. And Aeshara is more than just a dragon; she is a companion. Our family too descends from Valyria, just as the Kim's do. We share the blood of the dragon as much as them."

San's resolve hardened, his gaze meeting Jaehyun's with unwavering determination. "Our family's legacy is not defined by the symbols we bear, but by the strength of our bonds and the honor of our actions," he declared, his voice ringing with conviction. "I may wear the colors of House Kim, but my loyalty lies with House Choi, now and always."

The tension in the room crackled with palpable intensity, the air heavy with unspoken animosity and unresolved conflict. With a heavy heart and tension hanging in the air, San turned away from his uncle, his decision weighing heavily upon him.

"I will not make my decision until I have spoken with my wife," he declared, his voice firm yet tinged with a note of sadness. "And I will no longer allow myself to be drawn into conflict with those who seek to undermine our family's unity."

With a final nod to his cousin and father, San bid them farewell, and with a determined stride, he made his way to Aeshara. Together they took to the skies, leaving behind the echoes of discord that lingered in the halls of Coralrift. As the wind whipped through his hair and the vast expanse of the sea stretched out before him, San felt a sense of clarity wash over him.

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

As Prince Seong-Min paces the ornate chambers of Sunseth, his anger burns like a relentless flame, consuming him from within. His youngest son, Prince Wooyoung, lies dead, his life extinguished under circumstances that still haunt the halls of their ancestral home. Seong-Min's eyes smolder with fury as he turns to his eldest son, Yeosang, the only solace in his tumultuous world.

"I cannot bear this injustice any longer. The Kim family, they have taken everything from us." His words are punctuated by the seething resentment that simmers just beneath the surface, a testament to the depth of his anguish and his thirst for vengeance.

Yeosang's gaze meets his father's, his expression a mask of serene composure amidst the tempest of their emotions. "Father," he interjects, his voice calm yet tinged with a note of caution. "We must tread carefully. Accusations without evidence serve only to stoke the flames of conflict."

But Seong-Min's fury brooks no dissent, his resolve unyielding in the face of his son's measured counsel. "They will pay for what they have done," he declares, his voice a thunderous proclamation that reverberates through the chamber. "I will see to it that justice is served, even if it means tearing down their house stone by stone."

Yeosang's heart aches at the sight of his father's anguish, his own grief mirroring the depths of their shared loss. Yet, in the depths of his soul, he knows that the path to true justice lies not in blind retribution, but in the pursuit of truth and reconciliation. As he stands before his father, a beacon of reason amidst the storm of their grief, Yeosang can only hope that his words will find purchase in the hardened heart of the prince.

Seong-Min's frustration boiled over, his voice laced with bitterness as he voiced his darkest thoughts to his son, the only confidant he trusted in his anguish.

"Choi San," he began, his tone heavy with accusation and simmering rage, "he is the serpent that slithers in the shadows, responsible for the death of your brother. Hana, that treacherous princess, she ordered his demise, mark my words!"

Yeosang listened in silence, his expression a mask of calm amidst his father's storm. "Father," he interjected, his voice a soothing counterpoint to Seong-Min's fury, "we cannot act in haste. There is no proof of Princess Hana's involvement, and Choi San may be innocent of the crimes you accuse him of."

But Seong-Min would hear none of it, his resolve hardening with each passing moment. "Innocence matters not in the face of my son's blood spilled upon the sands," he declared, his voice ringing with conviction. "Hongjoong, that fool of a king, he will pay for his sister's negligence. And his son... he shall bear the weight of his father's sins."

With each word, Seong-Min's thirst for vengeance burned brighter, a relentless flame that consumed all reason and mercy in its wake. In his eyes, the debt owed could only be repaid in blood, a reckoning that would echo through the annals of history, staining the sands of Mythria with the crimson hue of retribution.

While he understood the depth of his father's pain and the need for justice, Yeosang couldn't help but feel a sense of unease at the path of vengeance laid out before them. In his heart, Yeosang harbored doubts and reservations about the righteousness of their cause. He couldn't shake the lingering specter of doubt regarding Princess Hana's involvement in his brother's death, nor could he reconcile the idea of condemning innocent lives in the pursuit of their vendetta.

Despite his inner turmoil, Yeosang knew better than to openly challenge his father's resolve. Seong-Min was consumed by grief and driven by a thirst for justice that brooked no dissent. Instead, Yeosang sought to temper his father's fury with reason, to guide him away from the precipice of blind vengeance toward a path of measured justice and peace. Yeosang carefully chose his words, mindful of the delicate balance between his father's grief and his own crumbling resolve. With a voice tempered by compassion and understanding, he sought to redirect his father's thoughts away from the consuming flames of vengeance that threatened to engulf them both.

"Father," Yeosang began, his tone soft yet resolute, "I understand your pain, your desire for justice. But we must tread carefully, lest we lose sight of what truly matters." He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle between them like a shroud of solemn reflection.

"We cannot let our grief blind us to the consequences of our actions," he continued, his voice steady despite the tempest raging within his heart. "Revenge will not bring Wooyoung back to us. It will only breed more suffering and bloodshed." Yeosang reached out, his hand resting gently upon his father's trembling shoulder, a gesture of solace amidst the storm of their emotions. "Let us seek justice, Father, but let us not lose ourselves in the darkness of our own despair. Wooyoung would not want this for us."

Seong-Min's fury erupted like a storm unleashed, his emotions surging forth with an intensity that threatened to consume everything in its path. His hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white with the strain of his tumultuous rage, as he turned to face Yeosang with eyes ablaze with unbridled fury.

"How dare you speak to me of what Wooyoung would want?" Seong-Min's voice thundered through the chamber, its reverberations echoing off the walls like the tolling of a funeral bell. "You know nothing of his desires, his dreams, his aspirations."

Yeosang recoiled at the force of his father's wrath, the heat of his anger scorching the very air around them with its searing intensity. Yet, even in the face of his father's fury, he refused to waver, his resolve unyielding in the face of the storm.

"I speak only of what I believe to be true, Father," Yeosang replied, his voice unwavering despite the rising tide of his father's fury. "We must not allow our grief to consume us, to drive us to actions that we will come to regret."

But Seong-Min's fury brooked no dissent, his rage a tempest that swept aside all reason and restraint in its relentless onslaught. With a wordless cry of anguish and frustration, he turned away from his son. "You speak as though you are kin to the Kims, as though their blood runs through your veins," Seong-Min spat, his voice laced with bitterness and resentment. "Your close relationship with those siblings blinds your sight, clouds your judgment, and compromises the honor of our house."

Yeosang's heart clenched at his father's accusations, the sting of his words striking deep into the very core of his being. He had always sought to maintain neutrality, to navigate the treacherous currents of court politics with impartiality and grace. And yet, in his father's eyes, his efforts were perceived as betrayal, his loyalty questioned and his integrity tarnished.

"I have no allegiance to the Kims, Father," Yeosang replied, his voice steady despite the turmoil raging within him. "But neither do I harbor enmity towards them. We must not allow our grief and anger to drive a wedge between us and those who may yet prove to be allies in the days to come."

As the echoes of their heated exchange faded into the silence of the chamber, a heavy pall settled over the room, thick with unresolved tension and simmering resentment. Seong-Min's gaze bore into Yeosang with an intensity that sent shivers down his spine, a silent reminder of the rift that had formed between them in the wake of their shared loss. Yeosang's heart ached with the weight of his father's fury, the distance between them widening with each passing moment.

With a heavy sigh, Seong-Min turned away, "We will speak of this later," he declared, his voice a low rumble that echoed with the weight of his unresolved grievances. And with that, the prince of Sunsphinx withdrew into the shadows, leaving Yeosang to ponder the shattered remnants of their fractured relationship and the uncertain path that lay ahead.

#ateez #choi san #park seonghwa #kim hongjoong #jeong yunho #kang yeosang #song mingi #jung wooyoung #choi jongho #ateez imagine #ateez x reader #choi san x reader #choi san x OC #GOT #game of thrones #house of the dragon #hotd

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korebringerofded · 1 year

Text

The Truth- Steddie X F!Reader “Changes” part 4

A/N- This is part 4 to the changes series but could honestly be read on its own. I will be naming each part as I have a lot planned for this right now! Sorry this took so long I have been very ill.

Summary- After you find Steve and Eddie tangled up in each other the truth finally comes out followed by a great show of passion.

KIDS STAY OUT OF MY S W A M P

Warnings/tags-SMUT SMUT SMUT FILTHY SMUT, heavy steve smut, slight size kink, stomach bulging, Steve having a big dick, Eddie enjoying watching, Eddie is a mechanic because I think its hot though its not relevant for this part, unprotected sex, wrap it before you tap it please this is FICTION, multipart, slight angst, hurt/comfort.

A/N-If you enjoy please like, comment, reblog as it helps me keep going! I am worried this series will die and I have had lots of fun so if you guys want more and enjoy please let me know!

Eddie and Steve sat on opposite ends of the couch, faces burning crimson that only made their partially faded bruises appear darker.

You stood in front of them, arms linked over one another.

If there wasn’t pain etched across your face Eddie would have joked that you looked like a cross mother.

“I just don’t get it. The last time you two were alone you were LITERALLY fist fighting.” You sighed, eyebrows furrowed. “Eddie, you accused me of cheating on you with Steve.” You rubbed your arms. “And now you’re the one sucking face with him in our hallway.”

You had tried multiple times to get Eddie to talk about what had happened between him and Steve, or why he was gone for so long and where. Despite your efforts ever since Eddie and Steve appeared on your doorstep he had been unusually quiet about the entire situation. In fact, he avoided bringing up or talking about Steve as much as he could.

It had created a wave of tension between the two of you.

“It’s…hard to explain.” Eddie avoided your sharp gaze.

“You need to at least try, you owe me at least that.”

“Yeah…I know.” Eddie sighed. I thought that I hated him, but really…I was just jealous of him.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Afraid of how he made me feel, afraid he was going to take you away from me.” Eddie avoided looking at you or Steve. He couldn’t stop his hands from trembling.

Steve almost laughed at that, it was ridiculous to him.

When Eddie was there, Steve was painfully invisible to you. It was never a choice.

“Then I realized that what I was feeling was a lot more…complicated than I originally realized. I actually didn’t hate him at all.” Eddie glanced up, knee bouncing as his eyes locked with Steve’s.

The electricity that crackled between their gaze made the hair on the back of your neck stand on edge. Eddie’s eyes flickered between you and Steve who looked at him expectantly, each of you holding your breath.

“You…have feelings for each other” You whispered, feeling Steve and Eddie’s eyes burning into your skin.

The room was still after that, the tension building up a thick wall between you three.

Your mind was running in circles, lungs burning as you forgot to breathe.

“So…do you not love me anymore?” Your voice was soft, tears rolling down your cheeks. “Is…is that why you left?”

Fuck…What had they done? They never wanted to make you feel unloved.

Steve and Eddie pulled themselves from their spots on the couch to rush over to you in an instant, Eddie cupping your face in his hands while Steve sat beside you, taking your small hand in his.

“It's not that, princess. I love you so much that it makes me act like a fucking idiot. I…” He glanced at Steve. “I never planned on any of this, but nonetheless I love you both. In different ways but..both at the same time.”

“And…” Steve cleared his throat, trying to settle his drumming heart in his chest. “Y/N I have loved you since I saw you again that day at Scoops. Everything after has just been my awful way of trying to keep you in my life.” He couldn’t stop the words that slipped from his lips. “And somewhere along the way… I think I fell in love with you too, Eddie.”

You were shocked, frozen in place between the two men as the tension seemingly evaporated.

“So now what?” You were meek, face bright pink as you looked between the two men.

“That's up to you, sweetheart.” Eddie smiled. “I know what I want, but I’ll never force you into anything.”

You were quiet, chewing on your lip as you processed everything that had happened.

You loved Eddie, that was easy. Steve was and had been your best friend for a while, when you walked into Scoops Ahoy that day your life was forever changed, you were sucked into a russian elevator, you almost died, and Steve had saved your life countless times. You had a crush on him for so long before all that had ever happened. And being with Eddie you didn’t think about other people, it wouldn’t be true to say you never thought about Steve. Especially in those few weeks you were alone, while Steve comforted you and cared for you.

“What if we were all together, all three of us?” You blurted out, face burning even darker at the silence that fell over you three.

Steve and Eddie were simply shocked that out of the three of them, you were the one that said it first. The two men had certainly been thinking about just that for so long it felt like fiction but hearing it from your perfect lips, made it feel real for the first time.

“Is that-what you want?” Steve choked out, eyes wide. He still wasn’t sure how you felt about him, and to be honest you were just as confused but something deep in your stomach pushed you forward.

You glanced between the two men, finding your confidence before you leaned forward, connecting your lips with Steve’s. You had never kissed before, the sparks spreading over your lips as they melded together, Steve wrapping his hand around the back of your neck to pull you closer against him.

Eddie’s mouth went dry as he watched, his dick growing embarrassingly hard in his sweats. He had thought about it so much it made his head spin and now it was inches away, your thighs rubbing together as Steve’s tongue took over your entire mouth. You both pulled away eyes low and sultry and a thin string of saliva connecting between your lips.

“Fuck, don’t stop now.” Eddie chuckled, adjusting to get a better view.

“Are you-sure?” You panted, feeling a bit guilty for leaving Eddie out.

“Yes, absolutely. I am more than fine with watching for a bit.” Eddie’s eyes were blown and huge like a predator honed in on his prey, the full outline of his dick only making your head spin.

That was all Steve and you needed to fall back into each other, Steve tugging you to straddle his lap where he pressed soft kisses down the side of your throat. You leaned into his touch, tilting your chin up to give him better access as his hands massaged your hips, running over your thighs.

You couldn’t help but whimper and squirm slightly when you glanced over at Eddie who pumped his dick over his sweats, his eyes hazy and locked onto you and Steve. Your sweet noises were music to Eddie’s ears and only sent him further over the edge.

Steve ran his hands over your clothed breasts, squeezing and running his thumb over your nipples as his lips continued trailing down your neck and chest, eventually nuzzling between your breasts and pressing breathy kisses to your chest. Your heart echoed in your chest, Eddie’s sharp gaze and Steve’s desperate deliberate touch was sending you over the edge, between your thighs was becoming unbearably hot even in your thin cotton shorts as your puffy clothed clit was pressed against Steve’s dick, your hips bucking against him as he tugged your shirt over your head, he groaned softly at the sight of your bare breasts. He hadn’t even noticed you weren't wearing a bra.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Eddie chuckled, now having snuck his hand under his sweats and boxers and was running his fist over the pink tip of his hardened dick, precum shimmering.

“More than I ever could have imagined…fucking perfect.” Steve rambled, twisting your hardened nipples between his fingers as you trembled under his touch.

You were becoming increasingly impatient and desperate, Steve’s fingers working expertly at your breasts while you grinded against his dick, you didn't need to see it to be intimidated, the curved shape even clothed made you twitch and mumble incoherently.

You were going to cum and soon if you kept this up, all the tension and stress had built up all in this moment.

Steve was reluctantly not far behind and knew he wouldn’t last long like this. It all felt like a dream to him. He wanted to take care of you, make you come undone and eyes roll back. He wanted to leave you breathless.

“Someone is a bit needy, huh?” Steve grinned, tilting his head to the side with a shimmer in his eye as he dropped one of his hands to your thigh, his thumb running over your inner thigh before they trailed over the soaked front of your thin shorts. All while he flipped your nipple back and forth, his long fingers pressing against your cunt and massaging your puffy clit through your clothes.

“Better give her what she wants, Stevie. Our girl gets impatient, likes to misbehave.” Eddie chuckled darkly.

Our girl.

Those words only made you feel more light headed as Steve gently moved you off his lap so he could tug your soaked shorts off, leaving you completely nude. This was all so foreign and strange and yet you fell into it with ease as Steve tugged off his clothes as well before he guided you back onto his lap, your back pressed against his chest this time as his hands trailed over your body, his hard dick pressing unavoidable against your puffy lips.

“Wanna give Eddie a good view, hm?” Steve mumbled in your hair as he brushed his teeth over the spongy part of your throat.

‘Y-yes…” You blushed, eyes locking with Eddie’s as you struggled to keep your composer. Steve slid his hand down your front before he pressed his fingers to your clit, grinding his dick against your slick cunt as he did. Your mouth fell agape slightly, legs trembling for a moment.

“Fuck…” Eddie threw his head back, jaw tight as he watched you both closely, he could hardly move. It was by far the hottest thing he had ever seen.

You felt your orgasm approach rapidly as Steve ground his dick along your cunt, the curve and bumps along his dick along sending sharp waves of hot pleasure over you. His long, precise fingers worked against your clit.

“Stevie…” You mumbled, drunk on his touch. “Please…fuck me.” You whimpered, glancing back at him with teary eyes.

“Think you can handle me, princess? I wouldn’t want to hurt a sweet little thing like you.”

“Yes, please.” You pouted a bit, shooting a glare at Eddie when he chuckled.

“Spoiled little princess, like I said.” Eddie snorted, though he desperately wanted to watch Steve fuck your perfect pussy.

Steve was bigger than you ever could’ve guessed and when he pressed his tip into your soaked cunt you were squirming and trembling as he held your hips still. You panted, chest rising and falling as he fucked you with just his tip, letting you adjust to his size for a moment.

Your walls tightened and closed around him, Steve having to prevent himself from painting your inner walls right there. Steve pressed his fingers against your clit as he fucked into you, his dick pressing deeper and deeper inside before he was fully in, a slight bulge from where his dick nestled inside of you, tears stinging your eyes at the fullness.

“Fuck you feel so good-fuck.” Steve rambled, almost drunkenly as he finally moved his hips, his dick pulling completely out of you before sliding fully back in, poking your belly and bulging the skin yet again.

Eddie was seconds from finishing, your belly enlarged from Steve’s dick fucking into you slow and steady at first before you brought your hips down to meet Steve’s and he knew you could handle more, he gripped your hips and matched your pace, his head leaning back as his dick pressed and stung your walls, that familiar heat building more and more rapidly before you were whimpering, mumbling and coming undone around Steve’s dick, the two men not far behind you as your walls tightened around Steve’s dick and he came with a start, grunting loudly and eyes squeezing shut as he fucked his cum deep into your cunt.

Eddie came in his hand and over his lap as he panted, eyes never leaving the sight on the couch in front of him.

“Think you can handle us both next time, sweetheart?” Eddie chuckled.

Requests are open!

Again, if you enjoyed please like, comment, or reblog.

It helps me feel like less of a loser.

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#steve harrington x reader #Steddie x reader #steve x reader #steve harrington #stranger things #stranger things steve harrington #Steddie #Stranger things x reader #steddie x reader #Eddie munson #Eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x steve harrington #eddie x reader #eddie munson x yn #Steve harrington x yn #steddie x yn #x reader

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madamefluffnstuff · 3 months

Text

Loving Remedy

Fandom: Elder Scrolls Online

Pairing: Darien Gautier x Fem!Dunmer!Vestige x Bastian Hallix

Rating: K-T

Warning(s): Illness, Vestige has a flu, Consenting Polyamorous throuple. All parties are consenting adults and are in this relationship of their own choice.

Words: 937

AN: Fluffy request from my buddy @lithiumrev. I've never written a polycule/throuple before so I definitely fussed and overthought this more than I probably needed to. Apologies if there's any inaccuracies ;-; I hope you like it regardless, Lith! <3

~~~~~~~~~~~

Bastian and Darien were concerned- Raya hadn't left her room in several days. Normally this wouldn't bother them, but they also hadn't heard from her in that time.

"I'm gonna break the door down," Darien said.

"Waitwaitwait-" Bastian stopped him as he took a step back, "Have you considered knocking? Instead of breaking the door?"

"Ah. Well. Yes, I suppose we could do that."

A muffled, scratchy voice from inside the room interrupted them: "I can hear you two. You can just come in, it's not locked."

Darien wasted no time in twisting the knob, with more effort than what was needed. He and Bastian were slightly surprised to see Raya laying on her bed, her head propped on her arm. Her gray skin was visibly flushed and bright crimson eyes were a dull red. She did not look well.

"Raya, why didn't you say something?" Bastian

"Thought it was just a cold..." she replied in a scratchy voice, "But I think I caught something when we were in that Auridon port..."

He was silent for a moment before responding, "Hold on, I'll be back."

Darien approached the bed, shaking his head. "You could have asked us to help you.

She shrugged. "Like I said, thought it was just a cold. Thought it would pass on its own and didn't need any help."

The Breton man wracked his brain to come up with a solution. The Dunmer affinity for fire meant Raya would have a slightly higher body temperature, so a fever in a human could be perfectly normal for a Dark Elf. Darien thought again, when he remembered a trick one of the maids in the castle used on him as a child;

Raya looked up at him with bleary eyes as he sat down next to her. He gently brushed her hair out of her face and placed the back of his hand on her forehead. She sighed through her nose; his cool hand felt good on her warm skin.

Bastian happened to walk in as he did, and he raised an eyebrow at them. "What are you doing?"

"Checking for a fever."

"Wait- what?"

"Trust me, this works," Darien assured Bastian, without breaking eye contact with Raya.

An ever so slightly awkward silence ensued, followed up by Darien quickly standing up. "You could warm up a cup of tea on her head, that's how warm she is."

"...Please don't," Raya said.

Bastian cleared his throat. "Well it just so happens I have some tea. Luckily for you, Rye, it's already warmed up."

Darien stepped out of the way so Bastian could go through. The mage set the cup on the nightstand and turned his attention to Raya, offering her a hand to help her sit up. She graciously accepted, and though it took a moment to get comfortable, she was soon sitting with her back propped against the headboard. Sitting vertically rather than lying down also helped some.

"You alright?"

She nodded.

"Good." Bastian carefully picked up the still hot cup of tea and equally carefully handed it to Raya. "Try this. It's a drink one of my old tutors used to make for me. Took me a long time to figure out the recipe."

"It smells good," Raya rasped as she inhaled the tea's aroma. It had a slightly strong scent, but she could also pick up the pleasantly sweet honey mixed in. As the tea washed over her tongue, she felt a gentle warmth throughout her body. A soft sigh escaped her lips.

She couldn't quite place the familiar feeling it gave her. Perhaps an inn she frequented on her travels, or a favorite of the elderly Dunmer couple who lived next door to her as a child. Or even the choice drink of her one school teacher, who vehemently disliked coffee and would consume anything but. That always made her chuckle.

"Well?" Bastian interrupted her thoughts. "How is it?"

Raya took another sip. "Your tutor certainly knew what they were doing." The gravelly tone in her voice from being sick was briefly soothed by the beverage.

"I'm glad it seems to be working, even a little."

Darien's footsteps entered the house again. Raya and Bastian turned with confused faces- when did he leave?

"Hello, love! I'm back!"

"When did you leave?" Raya asked, voicing her thoughts.

"Just to the market. Wanted to grab something for you." He set the "something" on the table; it was wrapped in paper and twine, but too small to be from the butcher's.

Bastian, while curious, was equally cautious of what Darien brought back. "And what exactly is that "something"?"

"Bread."

"....Bread. You left just to get bread."

Raya sighed. "Darien, I can't eat that right now. I can't taste anything."

"Yes, but it'll be there for when you can. Besides. I have another idea to help you feel better."

Without waiting for Raya to respond, Darien sat himself next to her and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. His much larger frame was almost comical next to her tiny Dunmer body. "If I can't cure your cold, I can at least share my natural warming personality with you."

Raya sighed again and pinched the bridge of her nose. "I can't with you, Darien."

He ignored her and started to tell her about the week he had while she was out- the recruits, the training, his father breathing down his neck. Whether she wanted to hear it or not. Raya rolled her eyes as he increased the theatrics of his "storytelling".

Bastian, as tactfully as he could, interrupted Darien. "Well, regardless, love," he cleared his throat. "You get some rest. Darien and I will take care of you. You've done enough for now."

She nodded. As much as they drove her crazy sometime, Raya couldn't imagine what she'd do without her boys.

#writing #writing blog #writing request #request #eso #elder scrolls online #bastian hallix #darien gautier #polyamourous #polyamourous throuple #cw sickness #cw flu #cw sick #family fluff #fluff writing

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kurjakani · 3 months

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FOR THE CHARACTER ASK THING!!!!! Im quite curious about your peter lucas thoughts, whats goin on with that old man?

SEND ME A CHARACTER AND I’LL DO THIS;

PHEW THANK YOU I LOVE TALKING ABT THIS MAN. I'm gonna say. I definetly have a bit of a version of him in my head - it's been ages since I listened to MAG and he's kind of taken a life of his own. Also sorry i got so rambly here man i. Ill b real im lik3 right abt to fall asleep but i got exited abt him so here i go nevertheless..m

Sexuality Headcanon: HMM like. Bi. I dont think i can imagine him call himself that tho.

Gender Headcanon: old man. Like thats a part of his gender identity, being old.

A ship I have with said character: w MEEEE. My mag self insert. Lol. But yeah i am not that into the lonely eyes ship, just. Bc i do not care abt Elias all that much! I don't know many ships that include him otherwise. I haven't seen mary keay and plukas shipping but I'd love to. Idk. Awful vibes i think it could be great. Salesa maybe??? But I feel like its more like. Plukas likes looking at Salesa and Salesa kinda forgets hes even there sometimes.

A BROTP I have with said character: martin please. Please martin hang out w him tricking him into thinking ur getting more into the lonely but ur actually occupying his space and u are drifting away from the lonely TOGETHER. Also if u guys have heard the tim & plukas behind the scenes jokes abt cayacking and train documentaries. Yeah that too theyre """"buddies""""

A NOTP I have with said character: haven't come across anything that bothers me !

A random headcanon: i am really split on weather he barely eats or if he's like, a lowkey foodie. Idk why.

General Opinion over said character: For me I do view him as someone HURT by his loneliness, though in the show, if I recall right, he seems quite content? With his existance. Or says he is, and how he's drawn to it.

I will say- I partially mirror some of my own experiences of loneliness onto him. I was so afraid of opening up to people at one point that I convinced myself that I WANTED to be all alone. I used to want to move into a little cottage in the woods and cut off all contact to people. But it was a self destructive coping mechanism. At points a survival mechanism. Maybe canonically Peter Lukas is a reliable narrator?

I recall him talking about the warm glow coming from the windows of houses though, and the loneliness it made him feel- if i'm attributing this right. And i have a really hard time contributing that to anything but YEARNING. And reveling in yearning. I also have experience w that. Yearning is a DELIGHTFUL feeling.

So yeah I think I do find a lot of comfort in the version of Plukas I have in my head.

Honestly he's burrowed a little nest into my head abd become something beyond a little blorbo from my shows.

Like i have thought about marrying him as a performance art piece. But i dont think rustied featherpen would like that.

Anyways hes the hands. I reach out to the old hands with swelled joints and paper thin skin almost translucent yet the palest veins i ever did see like they'v been drained. Bro. He is the medival manuscript where the sun orbits the earth and that's his eyes and where they land on me. He is so far away and like honey 2 me bro

#ask #TYSM #yk what ill expand on my thoughts when im done w my relisten #i defi feel like my plukas is just in my head. and thats ok but it is kinda funny

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infinitemonkeytheory · 2 years

Text

I can’t believe they let Lizzo [play a flute owned by James Madison / twerk even though she’s not skinny / continue to exist as a Black woman].

I found this event [triggering / in violation of my need to only ever see thin white women on my timeline]. As someone who spends a fair bit of time yammering on about our nation’s heritage, it deeply offends me that [Lizzo seems to care about our nation’s heritage / a Black woman is now the Librarian of Congress].

Clearly this horrible event was a form of racial retribution. I know this because I believe life is a zero-sum game where [there are only winners and losers / only white people should put their lips on white people flutes / Lizzo should be as sad and lonely as my white nationalist substack subscribers].

Some people saw Lizzo playing James Madison’s flute and thought, Gee, what a nice thing that any normal person can enjoy. But this is the wrong reaction. Whenever anything happens in the world involving a prominent Black person, the correct thing to do is [immediately make it about myself / have a knee-jerk reaction I will never honestly explore / interpret it through my precious and lucrative lens of white grievance].

I don’t care if Lizzo is a [classically trained musician / popular and beloved artist / cultural icon]. Those things don’t matter to me, because when I look at Lizzo perform, all I can ever see is her [skin color / gender / body size], the three things that matter most to me when I judge a woman.

Speaking of which, what is a woman? Having given this question an unhealthy and inappropriate amount of thought, a woman is someone who should be [a virgin until she is married to a man / forced to give birth against her will / white if aquatic]. A woman is not someone who should [feel entitled to dress the way they want / dance the way they want / behave in ways that don’t please me personally].

I am absolutely qualified to make judgments on Lizzo’s performance, musical talent, and clothing choices because my only talent is [whining about white victimhood / obsessing about trans kids / podcasting about the scientific validity of Black mermaids].

James Madison is one of our most venerated forefathers, and in my anger over this Lizzo abomination, I’ve never once stopped to consider that President Madison [owned slaves / believed women didn’t deserve the right to vote / never once played his crystal flute]. And now that I’ve learned about the existence of this crystal flute, it seems very important to me that it should remain hidden away, just like [women who don’t conform to a Barbie standard of beauty / honest historical accounts about slavery and its enduring legacy / the truth behind my knee-jerk disgust response to Lizzo].

There are those who might take this event as an opportunity to celebrate the fact that Lizzo [actually cares about American history enough to tour the Library of Congress / is bringing welcome attention to the Library of Congress’s collection / is a multitalented artist and musician using her fame and powers for the good]. Me? I’m taking this opportunity to [embarrass myself, yet again, on Twitter / expose myself, yet again, as a petty and pathetic human being / enrich myself, yet again, off the dollars of people who still believe Trump “drained the swamp”].

At her Washington DC concert, Lizzo thanked the Library of Congress for preserving our history. She sparked international interest in its archival collection and inspired band kids everywhere to play their instruments with pride. What a sad episode for anyone who cares about this country. In fact, I feel quite ill. In a minute, I’m going to need [some smelling salts / to write yet another think piece about the catastrophe of wokeness / my comfort Confederate flag].

The Library of Congress should never allow someone like Lizzo to touch their archival instruments again. And that’s because [these instruments, which I’ve never given a thought to before today, are very important to me / Lizzo living her best life is something that makes me really mad / when I talk about our “heritage,” this is just code for “white people”].

#lizzo #mcsweeneys #library of congress #james madison

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tennessoui · 2 years

Note

Miss Kit updates from you never fail to cheer me up, and that was a tall order this week when I spent my birthday alone because of covid and had to cancel my party because I'm still testing positive, so thank you! If you're taking Prompts I'd love to see something where Anakin is ill or injured as misery loves company, maybe the bit in cheating au where he's hospitalised and Obi-Wan finds out/is in waiting room? No pressure though, just wanted to drop in and say your updates always make me happy

hey!!!! it's been uh. a month. maybe two months. so like. i hope you're no longer testing positive :D here is a 2k snippet set in the cheating au when obi-wan rushes to anakin's side after he loses an arm fighting. also when padmé may start thinking that there's something rotten in the state of stewjon.......

(2k) (cw: i wrote this on my laptop when the i key was sticking so who knows how many i's i've missed)

(also cw: cheating)

(this snippet is sorta mentioned, might be important to read for understanding of the verse)

Obi-Wan’s hands are shaking. They have been since the missive came in for Padmé and Obi-Wan had leaned over to read it when she’d gasped in horror.

Her husband had been wounded. There’d been an attack of some sorts, a robbery or a premeditated attack or something else all together, and Padmé’s husband had heard the noise from his gallery and gone to investigate. He’d decided to break up the fight with nothing more than his voice and his own hands, and he’d lost one in the process.

He’d lost a lot of blood as well, Padmé’s husband had. A lot of blood and an arm. Padmé had been right to be so horrified, so frantic in calling for a recess in the conference, just one long enough to gather her things from her Republic-funded room, brief the secondary senator from Naboo on the state of negotiations, and then hail a shuttle to the nearest space port. She was allowed to go with little fuss.

After all, it was her husband who had been hurt so drastically he had been airlifted to the best trauma center in Coruscant. She had children to comfort and hold and feed sweet words of reassurance to.

Obi-Wan logically knows that he must stay. He’d been told as much by Padmé herself—not outright, of course, she probably wouldn’t have thought to do so, but she’d squeezed his shoulder as she left the Hall and promised to comm him as soon as she could with updates on Anakin’s condition.

It was, after all, the duties of a wife.

But what of the duties of the lover? The affair? The man who knows for certain he has managed to slip his way into Anakin’s heart, wrap himself around it until its every piece belongs to him alone, nothing left over for the wife who has rushed to his side?

His hands ache with the need to hold, to feel at Anakin’s skin, his pulse.

He makes it ten more hours into the conference before he follows Padmé’s example. He does not stop to collect his things, nor does he brief the secondary senator of Naboo, parting with a “you best have been listening, mate, or our failure’s on your head”; he flew to this planet in his own ship, and he flies it now.

He utilizes every trick that Anakin has ever shown him about how to fly fast and how to fly well. Under the guise of Obi-Wan being the worst pilot in the history of Stewjon and Anakin being unable to be cordial with someone who signaled before they changed vertical lanes, they’d spent years sneaking out to the stars for activities that had nothing to do with flying.

But perhaps against his will or perhaps because his love for Anakin had to better him in some way in order to be endured, he had also learned how to pilot the way Anakin piloted.

His hands shake the entire time. It’s the one concession he will give himself to the roar of emotions that feel like they’re tearing his insides to shreds.

His comm buzzes and when he checks it, an hour out from Coruscant, it’s a message from Satine. He doesn’t read it. He has long since stopped caring what his wife has to say about any matter, and the matter of this affair in particular.

They had never particularly loved each other, though he thinks they both were convinced they did upon their marriage. But what he feels when he thinks of Anakin Skywalker dooms every other love he’s ever felt in his life to pale imitations.

They had never particularly loved each other, but it’s only been in the last year that Obi-Wan has felt resentment bubble up in his soul. His wife is one more thing that makes Anakin leave his bed early in the morning. Obi-Wan’s wife and, well.

Obi-Wan has been arguing with the health droids for ten minutes before Padmé appears from around the corner. She’s still wearing her Naboo regalia, though it looks much more worn. She must have arrived hours ago, yet she’s not left at all yet. This observation makes Obi-Wan’s heart seize up in fear. Has Anakin taken a turn so nonsensically towards the worst?

Padmé looks startled to see him. She looks relieved though, too.

If Obi-Wan were a better person, he’d let the guilt of it all eat him alive. As it is, he’s not a better person. He’s a politician, and he wants something.

“Padmé!” He says upon seeing her. “How is he? Please, tell DR-023 that I should be allowed to see him.”

Padmé blinks, as if she can’t understand the stimuli her brain is showing her. “Obi-Wan, you came.”

“Of course I came, Padmé,” Obi-Wan replies and knows he should say something else, but the words are tricky. He wants to say, because I love him. Because it’s Anakin. Because I know he would want me there. Because if it were me in that medical bed, I would want him beside me.

All of this is too incriminating. Padmé, though she still does not know about her husband’s infidelity, is not an unintelligent woman.

So he says, “I view you all as my family.”

This is uttered with a pointed look at the medical droid, barring Obi-Wan’s passage to the rooms of the hospital. Though heavy-handed, it seems to shake Padmé into action, and she swoops forward to key in the Skywalker room code into the droid’s bank, allowing Obi-Wan passage.

“Thank you,” he tells Anakin’s wife, and then when he cannot wait a second longer, “how is he doing?”

Padmé guides him back to Anakin’s room, and Obi-Wan lets himself be guided. “He’s—he’s going to be alright,” she says. “They—they won’t fit him with a prosthetic, not while he is unconscious and cannot consent, but they’ve taken him out of bacta and done several blood transfusions. Mine took, thank the stars.”

Obi-Wan swallows and stares forward so as not to give into the monster inside of him that roars in jealousy at the idea that Anakin and Padmé’s bloodtype match. That once more, Obi-Wan is made an interloper.

“Quite,” he replies faintly, for they’ve entered the room. There on the bed, looking much too still and ashen, is the love of his life. It takes all of his training in politics and appearance to stop himself from running to his side, grasping at his one hand, and raising it to his lips. The japor snippet around his neck burns with his need to touch and feel and heal.

Padmé, unaware of his agony, walks to the other side of Anakin’s bed, ghosting her fingers over his missing forearm with a haunted sort of expression.

“I was just going to leave to relieve the nanny,” she confesses, brushing a piece of hair away from Anakin’s face. Obi-Wan stiffens and forces himself to relax. “The twins haven’t seen him yet. I thought about getting them when I arrived, but….”

The twins live a charmed life, five years old and untouched by every great unfairness in the galaxy. Obi-Wan would hesitate to retrieve them as well, not when it would mean they would have to—at least for a moment—confront the senseless violence of their world.

“They should see him,” he tells her gently. Anakin would want that. “Please, I—I can get them if you do not wish to leave him.”

“I’m perfectly capable of parenting my own children,” she snaps. When she looks up, her gaze is hard.

Interloper.

“Of course,” Obi-Wan gentles his tone, his mannerisms, and steps back from the bed though that distance kills him. “Whatever you want, Padmé, I am only trying to support you.”

Anakin’s wife stares at him for several seconds, before glancing down at her husband. “You’ll call me if he awakens?”

“In an instant,” Obi-Wan promises, and she nods once, slowly and then with a fast upward tilt of her head. She navigates around the bed, and Obi-Wan moves closer to the very bounds of what is allowed.

He doesn’t watch her leave. He cannot tear his gaze away from Anakin’s slack face. There will be scars on it, wounds so deep that the bacta could not heal them perfectly in time to save him from the blemish.

Obi-Wan already finds them beautiful, because it is Anakin and he finds Anakin beautiful always.

He doesn’t watch Anakin’s wife leave, so he is startled to hear her speak. Startled and deeply grateful he hadn’t given into the impulse to touch her husband’s cheekbone. Stewjoni are affectionate, but not that affectionate.

“I am glad you’re here, Obi-Wan,” she tells him. Her tone is unreadable and when he turns around, her face is the same.

“Oh?” Obi-Wan asks when she does not immediately continue.

And then for a moment his heart freezes in his chest as he follows the descent of her eyes. Sometime between leaving the conference and arriving at the hospital, he’d taken his heavy, ceremonial Stewjoni cloaks off. His shirt is unlaced most of the way, his chest almost on display.

But she’s not looking at his skin.

The japor snippet lays lower than the shirt cuts, thank the gods, but there’s something in her eyes that looks like a denial. A rationalization. She’d seen the same leather cord around her husband’s neck for two years before he’d lost that pendant.

Before he’d given it in secret to its intended recipient and told his wife it must have fallen off in some restaurant on some planet.

He tries not to move, to hold his posture exactly as it is. Any sudden movements would read as guilt.

He has nothing to feel guilty about.

He has a whole galaxy’s worth of wrongdoings to feel guilty about.

“Why’s that?” he asks, prompts her towards speech in a voice that he prays is not shaking.

Her eyes snap up to his face. They’re unreadable. She is unreadable. She is the last thing that stands in the way of Obi-Wan being able to cradle Anakin’s head in public, kiss him in broad daylight, and if he loved Anakin less, he would tear off the necklace and throw it to the ground in front of her feet, dare her to rationalize that coincidence away, the same way she’s rationalized all the touches she’s seen, all the heavy looks, lovers’ feuds, piloting lessons.

But he loves Anakin.

And if a team of droids refuse to operate on him without his consent, he can’t just go and reveal their affair to his wife without the same.

“Why’s that?” he asks again, when she doesn’t say anything. He crosses his arms, higher than he usually would, in case the japor snippet is peaking out from the edge of his shirt collar.

“They said he was calling for someone,” Padmé Amidala-Skywalker says, soft as rain and bells and lace. “They thought it must have been his wife. When I told them I was his wife, they called me Mrs. Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan’s shoulders tense with the effort not to look at Anakin. He wants to see him suddenly so bad that it hurts, but he forces himself to hold eye contact. “How strange,” he murmurs instead of the myriad of things he wishes to say. “I’ve always thought the name Obi-Wan to be quite masculine.”

Padmé says nothing, but she does leave.

It feels less like a surrender, more like a retreat.

#asks #prompt fill #cheating au #when anakin wakes up obi-wan tells him he needs to choose #both because he cant stand not being the one informed of anakin's medical condition #and also because he thnks maybe padmé knows #and he needs anakin to choose before padmé confronts him or else he'll never be able to trust that anakin #honestly chose him #which he hopes he will but doesnt know for sure because this obi-wan is willing to have an affair and pulls one off for like 6yrs #but he's also an idiot #cw: infidelity #outtakes include obi-wan mentioning something offhanded about the conference #and padmé going omg!! you left the conference!!! what about the stewjoni agenda??#and obi-wan (flushed) is like 'i wasnt thinking about the stewjoni agenda'#and padmé is like '......yes #i wasn't thinking about the naboo agenda as well......'#heavily implying 'but im his wife'#to which obi-wan would reply honestly much the same lol #obikin #tbh only obikin i know padme is mentioned a lot as his wife but nah #thats a plot point love #this is like my guilty pleasure au #i lose followers literally every time i post a snippet from this au but like it's gross and codependent and destructive #and ADDICTIVE

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maya-no-more · 4 months

Text

The Crane: Chapter Two - The Storm

Author's Note: Phew, this chapter has been a loooong one coming. Sorry for taking so long, life's been kinda shit for me recently and I needed to take some time to take care of myself. Aaaanyway, here's chapter two. Hope you enjoy :)

⚠️ Content warnings: Panic attack, mentions of sexual assault, physical and emotional abuse, sex and prostitution, (very) minor character death, physical scars, swearing, emotional damage.

Definitions of Japanese words used throughout the chapter will be provided at the bottom of the page.

—

Shallow breaths fill my lungs with air almost too dense to inhale. One tear turns to a dozen, before suddenly rivers of salty water are flowing from my eyes, leaving trails through my makeup and catching in the creases of my palms as I desperately try forcing them away. My body begins to tremble, and my vision begins to spin. I want to scream, 'FUCK YOU, FUCK YOU, FUCK YOU!' but all I can choke out is a pained sob. Everything is too much. Where only moments ago I could feel nothing at all, now every little thing seems to send my brain further into its own ever-growing spiral. My obi is too tight, my perfume too strong, and the once comforting sound of the furin¹ hanging at the teahouse door now makes it feel as though someone was dragging an urokitori² down my spine. I stand up far too quickly and stagger aimlessly to the other end of the room, throwing myself on the floor and forcing my head into my arms in a futile attempt at shutting out the noise. Still, the white man's words repeat over and over and over and over and over and over, bouncing and circling within my brain. "Cut out her tongue." "Fuck it out of her." "Put a bullet between those pretty eyes of hers." Bullet. Bullet. Bullet. I can't breathe. I bite down on the skin on the back of my hand, sending a trickle of metallic-tasting crimson into my mouth, but I'm too lost in the labyrinth of my own unraveling mind to notice.

It's been a week since the incident, and yet, every moment alone brings the memories back as though they had only just happened. Every second when I'm not distracted by a customer, the phantom feeling of his grimy, calloused hands on my body reverberates through me. I've likely been long forgotten, but his words and his actions still haunt my every waking moment. My chest tightens still further, a vise squeezing relentlessly as if the very air I'm gasping for has turned to molasses, too viscous to inhale. I'm adrift in a sea of chaos, the waves of panic crashing over me, dragging me further out into the abyss, when suddenly, the door slides open.

Clip, clop, clip clop.

"Hiina." I needn't even lift my head to know that Madame Kaji is standing before me, but out of habit and respect, I do. My vision blurs in and out as I try to steady my gaze on the woman towering over me. Though intimidating, Madame Kaji's firm presence centers me, and after a minute of labored breaths, I recollect myself. Whether I've calmed out of an obligation to maintain any morsel of professionalism I've left is irrelevant because I can get air into my lungs and no longer want to peel the skin from my bones. Slowly but surely, the sandstorm raging within my brain is beginning to settle. In a manner quite unlike the Madame Kaji I have grown to know over the past sixteen years, she lowers herself and takes a seat against the wall beside me, smoothing her kimono, setting her hands in her lap, and looking directly ahead.

"When I was five, my mother passed away. A fever." Madame Kaji suddenly begins, her voice taking on an unusually gentle tone. "My father was heartbroken, but I didn't really understand. She was ill much of my childhood, so it wasn't much different to me, but oh, my father… I reminded him of my mother, and he despised me for it." A ghost of a sad smile plays on her lips as she recalls the memory, but I catch a familiar glint in her eye that I recognize from all those moments glaring in the mirror. Anger. "He was a botefuri³. I remember hearing stories about how he would come through the village, breaking off small pieces of wagashi⁴ and passing them out to the local children. Sometimes, he would give them a toy to share or a smooth wooden ball whittled from the old chestnut tree behind our house. The children would run around and laugh, and my father... he would laugh with them. I would hear the children chant from down in the center…' Botefuri-san, the sweet-bearing man, always comes through with a toy for me and a treat for you! Botefuri-san, thank you, sir, for making me smile while you're hard at work!' "She laughs coldly… Painfully.

"After a day of handing out sweets and laughing with the children, he would come home… He didn't laugh when he was with me." Madame Kaji lifts the sleeve of her kimono for just a moment, but that moment is enough for me to spot the countless ribbon-like scars snaking across her skin. "Still, the next day, he would return to the village and hand out those sweets. This is how it continued for eleven years. It became a routine of sorts…" She pauses a moment, seemingly lost in the sea of the past. Moments like this were incredibly rare with Madame Kaji. As a matter of fact, this was the first time she'd spared more than a few sparse words for me. It was humbling, and I dared not interrupt. "When I turned sixteen, he granted me permission to begin working, saying that any reason to see me less would be a blessing. Anyway, My cousin's husband ran a local ramen shop, and after hours of pleading, he'd agreed to let me work there, though on a fraction of the salary. Still, it was better than being alone and waiting… Waiting for my father to come through the door. I began sleeping in the cellar of the shop, smelling more fish than humans each day. I don't know if my cousin's father knew I was sleeping there, though maybe he did and chose to turn a blind eye for my sake... Bless that man. Two months later - I must have been sixteen then, yes - I got news that my father had died. A confrontation with a general. Something about a permit. Move forward two years, and I'd finally saved enough money for a kimono, a pair of geta, and a ride to Mihonoseki. The rest is more or less a blur. I was young, beautiful, and stupid, ah, yes. A fresh girl from the countryside who was quickly yanked by the arm into a brothel and never since looked back."

Silence.

Sat with our eyes set forward, neither of us speak. There is nothing to be said. Even if there was, I would have no idea how to say it. In the blink of an eye, the woman beside me was no longer Madame Kaji but a person. Not some untouchable entity whose eyes were filled with relentless disapproval or a totem of strictness and rigor, but a living, breathing human being. "In short, life has a fickle habit of treating the kindest people with the most cruelty. That's just how it is for women like you and me. Time and time again, we get thrown to the dogs, but time and time again, we fight back. I swear to you, Hiina. I've done it, and you will, too. If life's a bitch to you, you better do your damnest to be a bitch right back." When I turn back to face Madame Kaji, I am met directly with her eyes. The candlelight glimmers dangerously in her pupils as though the flames were dancing around within her brain. She is powerful. She is terrifying. With a gentle flick of her wrist, the woman smooths her kimono and, with it, summons back her old, stern demeanor. She rises to her feet while I stay planted. I'm not ready to stand yet for fear of toppling over again - because of a loss of circulation or the crushing weight of reality; I am uncertain. "Keep your head up, dear. If you spend your life staring at your feet, you'll stumble and fall and only get trampled again." With that, Madame Kaji pulls open the door, steps out, and slides it gently shut behind her.

—

One foot in front of the other. Don't forget to smile. Chin up, but not too much, or you'll look prude. Pinkies up. Pause. Show an ankle, aaaaand, continue. Not twenty minutes after I'd been on the floor of the readying chambers with Madame Kaji telling me her life story, I was back serving tea to men with drool dripping down their chins. In the far right corner of the room, I spot the man I was directed to serve. With a tray of tea in hand, I make a slow beeline toward him, careful to offer the occasional wink and smile to the men lining my path. Finally, after stepping over a customer far too drunk for two in the afternoon, I set down the tray in front of the man. His head is lowered, but I spot a peculiar pair of brown-tinted lenses perched on his nose. I pay no mind to the katana⁵ set beside him. We receive all kinds of customers here, all of whom are wealthy, from politicians and successful barley farmers to samurai. His legs are crossed, and his bandaged arms are set in his lap. He seems stiff and reserved, unlike the majority of my other customers whose liquor-clouded brains would send their bodies wiggling around in bizarre ways. This shouldn't be a problem. Every now and then, we encounter men still virgins to the world of teahouses, terrified to lower their gaze further down than a woman's nose. We quickly get them out of their shells, though. Like clockwork, I pour two small cups of tea for us, setting one in front of the man. He doesn't touch it. No problem. "My name's Hiina. What's your's?" No reply. I've had situations like this before; poor men scared shitless of women. Nothing a little touch to the shoulder won't remedy. Raising a carefully manicured finger, the tip of my nail barely grazes the fabric of his sleeve when his hand shoots up and grabs my wrist. For the first time, I make eye contact with the man, and my heart drops into the pit of my stomach in an instant. Staring back at me through those lenses is a pair of piercing blue eyes. Even through the brown tint, the color is undeniable.

Images of the white man whom I'd all but forgotten for a blissful twenty minutes return to my mind in an instant. The way his pale, soulless eyes pierced into mine, picking apart my defenses like a vulture tearing the flesh from an animal. I imagine myself a bit like that animal now: already dead and hopeless but still good enough for some vile scavenger to eat. A deep-seated chill crashes over me like an arctic wave. The hairs on my arms prick up beneath the man's iron grip, and I dare not break eye contact for a second. It feels as though we stare into each others' eyes for hours, and though under other circumstances this might have felt romantic, this was anything but. As quickly as it happened, the man releases his grasp on my wrist, letting his hand return to his lap. I am frozen in place. Fear in its purest form rushes through my veins, not because of the man sat before me, but the one with the smoke, and the liquor, and the threats, and that- that weapon clipped to his waist. The one whose eyes are staring right back into mine now, just implanted in another body. The man's lips move, but my brain fails to catch any semblance of a sound. My body and my mind are disconnected once again, and the feeling, were it not for the pure terror coursing through me, has almost become comfortable. A silent abyss within my brain that I can escape into when the world around me grows too loud. However, like all good things, the strange peacefulness shudders to a halt when the man's voice suddenly registers.

"I am not going to hurt you."

"I'm sorry?" A heavy fog still clouds my thoughts, and though I can hear him clearly, I struggle to comprehend.

"I apologize for my violent reaction. It was an impulse." He lowers his head into a deep bow, a sign of… respect. This already strange interaction just grew even stranger. Not once in my life has someone treated me in such a manner, and to receive it from a man who just moments ago I was sure would kill me, no less. I am flabbergasted. Working in a teahouse is not quite considered the epitome of a respectable job. Despite smiling through the ruthless hours of labor, scrubbing our skin raw to achieve the unachievable 'perfection,' and leaving not a single ounce of our dignity undamaged, the men who drool at our ankles between the brothel walls are still the very same ones who spit at us in the streets. In an instant, the eyes behind those lenses transform from ones harboring an indescribable terror to something calmer. Kinder. They are almost beautiful.

"Miss, are you alright?" I watch as his eyes trace my features, searching for…. something. Still stunned, the very best I can do is nod. "Please. Sit." Shakily, I lower myself onto the floor in front of him, hands too trembly to bother trying to pour the tea.

"If I am to understand correctly, around a week ago, you had a customer. A white man. Do you remember who I am referring to?" No. No. No, no, no. My breath hitches in my throat. I physically cannot escape this man. I run from him, but there he is in my path, so I turn to run the other way, only to find him standing directly before me once more, that malicious smirk plastered on his lips and that weapon pointed directly between my eyes. "Put a bullet between those pretty eyes of hers." I cannot fucking escape him.

"Please. This is important." Despite the distress that I can only imagine is blanketing my features, the man persists, his eyes not leaving mine for a moment. "Miss, any information you share will aid in our search for the man." He lowers his voice carefully. "I am going to kill him, but for that, I need your help. Please." At that very moment, something within me snaps. Though Madame Kaji's inspiring but incessant words echo within my brain, this sudden explosion of resolve comes from myself. A boiling, primal anger begins to bubble in the pit of my stomach. The feeling is so foreign. All these years, I've accepted that emotions are not something to be embraced but rather suppressed because the more you feel, I've learned, the more you end up hurting yourself. The numbness of a lifetime is but a distant memory now, and suddenly, I feel so much. Almost too much. It is intoxicating. My hands have long since stopped shaking, and, watching my reflection in the man's lenses, I roll back my shoulders, straighten my spine, and lift my head.

"What do you need to know?"

—

Definitions:

¹ furin: A traditional glass Japanese wind-chime thought to scare away evil (*wink wink*).

² urokitori: A Japanese cooking tool used to scrape the scales off fish.

³ botefuri: A traditional Japanese wandering salesman who would sell any variety of things, from household tools to food.

⁴ wagashi: A sticky, traditional Japanese sweet made from sweetened rice flour. Mochi is a type of wagashi, and it can come in a variety of flavors, shapes, and colors.

⁵ katana: A curved Japanese longsword used by the Samurai.

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