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skzstannie · 3 months

Note

Hii it’s okay if you can’t but I was wondering if you could do a skz x 9th member reader where she was in a car crash as well as the others? But she was badly injured as well and had to be looked after by chan because she wasn’t in good condition? Totally okay if you can’t thanks❤️

"You're awake!"

SKZ-> ot8 x 9th member!reader (Chan-centric)

genre: angst, hurt/comfort wc: ~3,200 cw: some cussing, car accident, reader and skz get hurt

summary: ^^ see request

A/N: Hello! Not super happy with how this came out, but I hope you still like it anon! Started a new semester, so updates will be less frequent, but I'll still be lurking in everyone's feed through likes and reblogs 👀

Masterlist | Happy Scrolling!

"I'm just saying, if penguin's could fly, I think they'd take over the world."

"Felix, literally what are you talking about?" you give him a strange look from where you're seated diagonal from him in the car.

"If penguins ever learned to fly, I think they'd try to overthrow the government in a vengeful fury."

You all sit in silence for a moment, trying to preserve the last of your braincells from deteriorating.

"Okay..." Seungmin responds, quirking his eyebrow at him.

"I am so excited for tonight!" you break the silence that settles, practically vibrating in your seat from the excitement.

"We know, you haven't stopped talking about it," Minho boredly comments, his phone lighting up his face from the shadowy back seat.

Jeongin throws an elbow in his side from where he's seated beside him, earning himself a nasty glare from the man. "Don't be mean to Ynnie, she's just excited to perform."

"I'm so sorry. Let me rephrase that," he clears his throat, setting his phone down in his lap, "Oh my gosh, I know! It's all you've talked about since this morning!" he squeaks, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning," you mumble, rolling your eyes at your grumpy member.

Before Minho has the chance to respond, your entire world is shaken when another car T-bones you from the right.

Time seems to slow down as the car is flipped, sending you out of your seat towards the ceiling of the car. Your seatbelt manages to control some of the damage to your head, but it slices into your neck from the pressure. Blood starts to drip out of your wound, but you don't even feel it as your hazy gaze travels over to your members.

Your breath hitches in your throat as your eyes land on Felix's still body in the back seat, his eyelids draped shut. He doesn't appear to have any other injuries, but you're immediately ripped away from the sight of Felix when you hear Minho groan in pain. You Jeongin a quick once over, and upon seeing no visible injuries, keep your eyes moving. You don't miss the way Jeongin's hands are firmly grasped around Felix's forearm as he shakes the older man, trying to wake him.

It's painful to twist in your seat, but you do so anyway. Catching a glimpse of Minho, you see a jagged piece of glass protruding out of his forearm. It appears small, but you know it must still hurt like a bitch. Other than that he looks okay, so you continue to look over your remaining members. His eyes are panicked as he frantically looks over the four of you. "You guys ok?" his voice shakes with fear, and his teeth are clenched from the pain radiating from the glass in his arm.

The ringing in your ears starts to subside a bit, and the grunts coming from your right get louder. Seungmin's arm is twisted at an unnatural angle, and there's blood dripping from his left eyebrow. You can't bring yourself to answer Minho, the shock still clouding your mind.

As the rest of your senses start to come back to you, your focus remains on Seungmin as he huffs in pain. You feel a stinging sensation in your thigh, but as you slowly start to drop your head to look, you feel a shaky finger reach under your chin.

Seungmin's reached his hand out, gently pulling your chin until your eyes meet his again.

"Just keep looking at me, Yn," he whispers. You do as you're told, but the pain is worsening by the second, and your breathing starts to quicken.

All else is tuned out as your eyes remain on Seungmin's unwavering gaze.

Seconds feel like hours as you sit there in the car. Your eyelids start to become heavy, and you fuzzily catch Seungmin's eyes turn frantic as your blinks become slower and more frequent.

"Just keep your eyes open, don't fall asleep," he repeats. His word are gentle at first, but as your mind turns to mud, his voice becomes louder and urgent, almost screaming at you. You feel a rough hand grab your shoulder from behind, shaking you. Their attempts to keep you awake are futile, though, as everything becomes too much for you to handle.

"No, don't close your eyes! Stay with me!" and that's the last thing you hear before you drift off into the darkness.

~ ~ ~

You're awoken to the sound of quiet repetitive beeping.

Opening your eyes is a task all in itself, your eyelids feeling impossibly heavy.

After a moment of struggle, you're met with the bright light from a window to your right. You slowly turn your head to the side, and you see Hyunjin, Chan, and Changbin all perched on the couch. It looks uncomfortable, the way all three of them are scrunched up on the little loveseat.

You let your gaze linger on them for a moment, their presence providing a calming sensation for your jumbled mind.

Suddenly, your surroundings overwhelm you. You become terribly aware of all the wires connected to you. The ECG stickers become your biggest enemy, and the IV sticking out of your hand makes you angry.

Really angry.

You groan when you try to lift your arm, a sharp, shooting pain radiating down from your shoulder. You push through the pain though, urgent to remove all these wires from your body. The bandages littering your body feel as if they're burning your skin, and you've never needed to get something off of you faster.

You begin to peel the bandages from your arms, the pain from the adhesive no match for the pain you had been feeling previous to their removal.

Your agonistic groans manage to wake Changbin, and he panics when he sees you frantically tearing at your ECG stickers.

He jumps up from the couch, earning a yelp from Hyunjin as he was using Changbin as a pillow.

You're too overwhelmed to care about their actions as you continue to tear at your skin, even the blankets covering your body feeling like burning coals on your skin.

"Woah, what are you doing? You can't take those off yet," Changbin tells you, rushing to your side to try and restrain your arms.

"They're hurting me," you mumble, wretching your arms out of Changbin's grip to continue to pull at everything that touches you.

"Yn," Hyunjin gasps, quickly standing to his feet, running over to help Changbin.

Chan awakens from the commotion, alarm bells immediately sounding in his head when he sees your panicked movements.

You become more frantic when Hyunjin grabs one of your arms from Changbin, rendering you immobile.

"Get off!" you screech, yanking on your arms as hard as you can. Chan quickly runs out of the room in search of any healthcare professional he can find.

"You're gonna hurt yourself," Hyunjin struggles against you, holding tightly onto your hand.

"Let me go!" you continue to scream like a banshee, "You're hurting me!"

Neither do as you say, fearing for what you'll do to yourself if they listen.

"You're ok," Changbin pleads, bringing one of his hands away from your arm to rest it gently on your forehead. "Please calm down, everything will be ok."

You're too panicked to notice Chan re-enter the room, a nurse trailing in behind him.

She has a shot in her hand, and she hurriedly comes up beside Changbin to administer the drug. She hastily inserts the needle into your upper arm, and it only takes seconds for your demeanor to soften. Your thrashing becomes weaker, and your shouts become quieter, turning into soft mumbles.

The guys let out a sigh upon seeing your eyes close, your stature finally relaxing into the hospital bed once again.

"What the hell was that?" Hyunjin huffs, slightly out of breath from the physical altercation.

"Sometimes patients can be violent when they wake up out of a coma. It can happen to anyone," the nurse explains, taking the chart off the wall beside the bed. "We'll get some soft restraints to put on her arms before she wakes up again. It's unlikely for her to panic again, but it's just a precaution."

The guys nod, all three of them staring at your now peaceful face.

~ ~ ~

The next time you wake up, you feel as if you're experiencing deja vu. Your eyes open slowly, and you wince at the feeling of them being crusted over from sleep.

You also become strikingly aware of the aching pain radiating from your thigh. Your leg remains immobile, and you feel the constricting cast running from your mid thigh down to your ankle.

You go to bring your hand up to rub your face, but your movements are restricted. Your attention is brought to your hands, now laying limply by your side. There are restraints covering your wrists. Your face contorts into an expression of confusion, and you glance at the couch to your right.

Seated there are Chan, Hyunjin, and Changbin. Your deja vu hits you harder when you see them resting against one another, sleeping soundly.

"Chan," you call out to him, your voice surprisingly hoarse, your throat scratchy and raw.

He immediately jolts up, waking the other two in the process.

"Hey, you're awake," he says, getting up from the couch.

He's cautious as he walks over to you, taking slow steps to get to your bed. Changbin and Hyunjin watch from the couch, keeping their distance. Their expressions rival Chan's, somehow looking even more timid.

"Hi," you suddenly feel shy under their gazes, "Why are you looking at me like that? I can't even move; can we get these things off of me."

"Yea, sorry, the nurse said it was just precautionary. I'll go get someone to take them off of you," Hyunjin gets up from the couch, hurrying out into the hallway.

Realization dawns on you, and you bring your eyes to meet Chan's again. "Did I hurt someone? What happened?"

"You were trying to hurt yourself," a nurse enters the room, answering the question for Chan. "You were in a coma for a couple days. Sometimes, when patients wake, they can turn aggressive. Which you did, but nobody was hurt, the boys stopped you before you could do any damage."

You just nod, not entirely sure how to respond. She explains in more detail what had happened as she takes the restraints off your wrists.

"We had to sedate you, so you were out for an additional day. On the bright side, your coma allowed for your body to do some of the tough healing while you were unconscious. You had a surgery on your thigh the night you were brought in due to a compound fracture in your femur. The surgery was successful. It seems to be doing well for now, of course we'll have to bring you back in for some check-ups, but you should be good to go for now."

Your eyes widen as she goes on and on. Chan sits beside you, rubbing a hand up and down your back to help comfort you. The nurse continues about the paperwork, and leaves to gather it so you can leave.

"How are you feeling?" Changbin asks from the end of your bed.

"Overwhelmed," you answer curtly. The thought of not being able to perform for a while hurts your heart. Not only that, but you can't even walk!

Your suddenly hit with a wave of memories from the night of the accident, and your eyes water at the thought of the rest of your members who were in the car with you.

"Are the other guys alright? Where are they?" your voice is panicked as you ramble off questions.

"They're ok, we promise," Chan reassures you, wrapping his arm around your shoulder. "They went home a couple days ago to rest. None of them got hurt as badly as you did. They all got some stitches, Seungmin's got a broken arm, and Felix has a pretty nasty concussion, but they're ok."

You sigh in relief, allowing your head to rest on Chan's shoulder.

The nurse comes back in, a folder filled with paperwork in hand. "As soon as you fill these out, you'll be good to go! Your medications and dosages are in this little baggy. You had some lacerations on your side, but we just covered them with butterfly bandages. The stitches on your neck can be taken out at your next appointment. Just be weary of them as you go about your day, try not to turn your head too quickly," she instructs, handing over the paperwork.

Within a few minutes, everything is filled out and you've been put in a wheelchair. Chan stands behind you, wheeling you out towards the van. Hyunjin carries your crutches from beside you, and Changbin holds your medicine and the paperwork.

Getting in the car was a hassle all in itself, as your leg felt like a million pounds with the cast on it. Your hip was so sore from laying in bed for so long, so you opted to have Chan lift you into the car.

Once finally settled, you lean back against the seat and close your eyes. You don't want to admit it, but you know these next few months are going to be difficult.

~ ~ ~

It's been a few weeks now, and things have started to go back to how they were before the accident. This is the first regularly scheduled week since then, and you're grateful for the normalcy.

Your managers had put everything on hold for a while, allowing you and the rest of your members to recover some. They knew it was a difficult time for all of you, and you were thankful for their leniency.

You have been spending most of your time on the downstairs couch, lounging around in front of the T.V. Various members would join you throughout the day, helping you with whatever you needed. Chan has certainly been the most doting, running at your every beck and call.

Today was no different; Chan decided to stay home with you while the rest of the members went to dance practice. He knew it'd probably put him behind, but they weren't set to perform for a good while, so he'll just catch up a different day. Plus, he knows Minho can handle them all just fine without him there.

The two of you are lounging on the couch, watching one of your favorite T.V shows, when Chan gets up to use the bathroom.

You hear the door close, and realize now's your chance. Your stomach's been growling for the past hour, but you didn't want to make Chan make you something.

However, you are done being the world's longest lounging couch potato, so you rise to your feet, grabbing your crutches from beside you, and make your way into the kitchen.

You know you don't have long before Chan finds you, so you ravage through the fridge quickly to try and find something to eat. You see your leftovers from the other night neatly packed away, so you grab those.

You carefully set your crutches down, leaning them on the counter next to you before hopping, leftovers in hand, to the microwave.

Unfortunately, the rug in front of the sink slips beneath you, and you fall onto the ground, your leftovers opening and spilling out onto you.

"Oh for fuck's sake," you sigh. Thankfully, you're not hurt, your butt just a little sore, but some of the sauce now decorates your cast.

You hear the door fling open from down the hall, and a frantic Chan bursts into the kitchen a mere second later. "What are you doing?" he's panicked as he rushes over to you, his arms looping under yours to pull you up.

"I was just going to heat these up because I was hungry, but then I slipped. I'm fine," you lightly push Chan away from you, knowing fully well that you can stand on your own.

He looks slightly taken back by your attitude, but nevertheless moves towards you again. He wraps his arms around you in an attempt to pick you up, no doubt to carry you back into your permanent spot on the living room couch, but you give him a firmer shove this time. "Did I hurt you?" he worries, his eyebrows scrunching.

"No, I just want to walk to the bathroom myself and get cleaned up," you explain, doing your best to keep your composure.

"I can help, let me grab you a wash rag for your cast," he bends down next to you, rummaging through the cupboard.

"Chan, please," you sigh. As much as you loved being babied at first, enough is enough. "I need some time by myself. I love you guys, but I'm not sure I've had a moment alone since the accident." Your arms are crossed as he stands, a pout forming on his face.

"But we just want to help you," he says, puppy-dog eyes on full display.

"And I thank you for all you guys have done the past month, but I really need to start doing things for myself again," you reach past him, grabbing your crutches and head down the hall to your bathroom. "Now to get this sauce off me," you mumble as you push the door open with the end of your crutch.

~ ~ ~

You're laying on your bed later in the day, knee propped up on a plump pillow to help alleviate some of the pain from your aching leg, when you hear a knock on door.

You tell them to come in, and the door opens to reveal Chan. "Hi," he's timid as he walks in. He takes a seat on the edge of your bed, a guilty look on his face.

"What's up?" you ask, sliding your bookmark into the crease of your novel.

"I wanted to apologize on behalf of all of us. We've been really clingy since the accident, and we didn't realize we were overstepping."

"Chan," you sigh, adjusting yourself to sit next to him. "Please don't beat yourself up about this. Honestly, I was just a little frustrated earlier and took it out on you. You guys have helped me more than you know these last few weeks. I really don't mind all the doting."

His eyes light up at that. "Really?" his voice is giddy, and you regret that you were the cause of his sadness before.

While the overprotectiveness really did get on your nerves a bit, if it brings them that much happiness to take care of you, you suppose you can get past your grumpiness and let them do it.

"Really."

"Guys, she changed her mind!" he yells, and not even a second later, your door swings open, seven smiling faces staring back at you.

They hurry into your room, clumsily fighting each other to sit on your bed. They're still cautious of your leg, but they all manage to fit, even if a little squished.

"Don't make me regret this," you joke, ruffling Seungmin's hair from where he's laid out on your lap.

"You know you love us," Chan comments, smirking at you.

"I certainly do."

#stray kids #skz #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #skz oneshots #stray kids oneshot #stray kids imagines #skz imagines #bang chan #skz bangchan #stray kids bang chan #bang chan x reader #skz angst #skz hurt/comfort #skz 9th member #stray kids 9th member #stray kids ninth member #skz ninth member

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astarion-approves · 9 months

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Tav making astarion a flower crown?

Astarion x GN! reader

Tav makes a flower crown for Astarion. 400+ words drabble

Fluff, just 100% fluff, short and sweet. Third person. No beta and rushed proof reading.

----

Through the woods and over countless bridges, Tav was always stopping to pick up a flower along the way. Didn’t matter if it was raining, if there was a battle waiting in the distance, or if the team was exhausted and needed to stop for the night— Tav was always grabbing flowers.

None of the others saw exactly what they were doing with them, mostly assuming it had something to do with creating potions or that it dealt with their magical abilities. Sorcerers were always a strange breed after all.

Perhaps chewing on some flowers would grant them the ability to talk to animals or even as a quick caffeine boost. They all paid no mind to it.

At night, for weeks, Tav would sit away from the rest of the group, fiddling with something in their lap, little glows of light coming from them as they worked in silence.

But then, one morning, Astarion woke up to a surprise waiting beside him.

A crown made entirely of flowers, little daisies and peonies, roses and hydrangea, lillies and buttercups, more flowers than he could even name or count. They were shrunken down so that such a wide variety could fit in a single crown. Their stems weaved together in such a delicate and elegant design. Each flower looked like it just bloomed for the first time, even when Astarion recognized some of them as being picked from the ground weeks ago.

“What’s this?” He picked it up with careful hands, and a sudden warmth flowed through his fingertips and down his arms.

“It—“ Tav sat in their own bedroll, watching Astarion as he studied the crown. Tav was nervous, their hands closed together and blush filling their cheeks. “It’s a flower crown.”

Astarion snorted. “Yes, I know that. Allow me to rephrase. Why the flower crown?”

Tav took a breath, their eyes cast down words as they spoke quietly, “We don’t know what the future holds with these tadpoles and… The crown— it’s enchanted. Protection from sunlight. The flowers will absorb any sun that touches you.”

“You’re telling me,” Astarion began, his lips pressing together for just a moment. “That you… made me a crown to protect me from the sun?”

“Y-yes, but I can’t guarantee that it works. I just… I wanted to at least try.”

“Without asking for anything in return?”

Tav shrugged. “We’re friends, why would I?”

Astarion sighed and put the crown on, looking up to the sky he saw that the day was mostly overcast, but it felt like the sun was shining directly on him and keeping him warm.

He would never admit how good it felt.

“Well, how’s it look?” Astarion leaned back, facing Tav and posing with the crown. “Am I still as handsome as ever?”

Tav smiled. “Always.”

It felt strange having someone you barely knew care so much for you… and to expect nothing in return. Now Astarion felt all warm inside, his heart aching as he gazed back at Tav.

And it wasn’t because of the crown.

#astarion #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #baldur's gate #astarion bg3 #astarion x mc #bg3 astarion #astarion x gn reader #astarion x reader #astarion x you #astarion x tav #x gn reader #x gn!reader #gn reader #fluff #cute #velvet writing

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spiderlyla · 8 months

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Irrational — Miguel O'Hara

synopsis: miguel finally mans up to ask you out—only for a misunderstanding to insue.

tags: eventual fluff, alchemax scientist!miguel × co-worker!reader, jealousy, misunderstandings, reader's gender is not mentioned (gn reader)

inspired by @general-dweebous 's idea.

Silent and cold. Two words that perfectly described the state of Miguel O'Hara's office. Two words that perfectly described the state he was in.

His eyes were transfixed on the box infront of him—or rather the two boxes infront of him. He'd brought extra food to share today, a habit he only picked up lately, mainly because he never had anyone to share food with until recently. The previously warm boxes were now stale and cold, and so were the empanada's inside of them. Doesn't matter. He lost his appetite, and you weren't going to have lunch with him.

He just sat in his chair. Fingernails—or maybe talons, he was unsure— digging into his palm to the point where little scars formed. His thoughs were all mangled up, as he failed to distract himself from the little interaction that led him to be sitting here in the first place.

It was suppose to go so well. He'd even rehearsed it all the night before.

You'd come up to him at his station just before lunch break with ten minutes, asking him if he'd like to sit with you— you did, he agreed.

The two of you would walk to the cafeteria, you'd tell him all about your incompetent co-workers trying to sound as nice as you could, it was sweet, but he was blunt, rephrasing your words to make it sound meaner than what you probably intended. You would laugh. He would laugh—He did laugh. He noticed that you didn't have the little tupperwear box you get everyday in your hands, maybe you were in a rush? No problem, he already had your share of food ready.

You'd sit at your usual table, you did.

You'd ask him what he's eating, he told you.

It was then he would push the small box towards you, telling you he got you one too. You'd take it and take a bite, and you'd compliment the taste of it, probably asking where he got them. He'd tell you he made them. And he did. He woke up extra early this morning just to make these. You'd probably say how much of an excellent cook he is, and that's when he'd do it. He'd ask if you'd like to come later today for dinner at his. He'd be delighted to cook for you.

That's how it was suppose to go, and he hoped you'd agree—he spent hours telling himself that you would agree just to encourage himself to finally get to do this.

But when he tried to proceed with his plan, everything he'd built up came crashing down on him.

He was about to push the box towards you when a man approached your table. He was unfamiliar to Miguel, he didn't work there, that was apparent by his casual sport attire. He tapped your shoulder and you stood up when you saw him, the look of surprise on your face quickly replaced with an affectionate one.

"Hey, what are you doing here?" The guy held up a box—your box. "You forgot to pack lunch this morning, packed it for you and thought I'd drop it off." He handed you the box with a grin, and when Miguel looked back at you, you had the widest, prettiest smile he'd ever seen.

Packed it for you? You live with this guy? But he remembers the time you invited him to that party you threw during New Year's, there was no indication you lived with someone—let alone another man.

"That's so sweet, Ned, thank you." You tip-toed and gave him a kiss on the cheek. A kiss on his cheek, your hand on his shoulder. A harsh sensation, undescribable, clawed at Miguel's racing heart.

"Don't mention it—Sorry to intruppt your talk though!" The man—Ned's eyes fell upon Miguel, who was looking at his lap, fiddling with his watch. Trying to rationalise this, never reaching a rational conclusion. "You must be Miguel O'Hara right? I hear alot about you—I mean, alot."

"Ned, don't—" You laughed, putting your hands on his chest as to push him away a little. "He's just embaressing me—Ignore him—" Ned laughed too, putting his hands on yours to prevent you.

"I am Miguel, yes." His voice was hoarse, gruff, it was a miracle anything came out at all with that lump he felt in his throat, suffocating the everloving fuck out of him. "If—If you'll excuse me." He got up, picking up his boxes, and immediately heading to the door.

You didn't even come after him, too occupied with laughing to even notice he was gone.

And here he was, sitting all alone, eyes shut as he tried not to remember the scene of your lips on another man's skin. He grunted, hands tangled in his thick black hair.

"Maybe it's not what it seems," A familiar golden glow appeared by his shoulder. "Maybe you misread the situation—"

"There is nothing here to misread, LYLA." He replied sharply. It was unlike him to not try to even make sense of a situation, but what is there to rationalise? You lived with this guy. He packed you lunch because you forgot it and came all the way to Alchemax's headquarters—which by the way, were on the outskirts of Nueva York—just to give it to you.

How stupid of him to think you'd stay single until he gets the courage to ask you out. How foolish of him to think it was a good idea to get his hopes up for once. How incredibly dumb of him to think this would go in his favor, because when did it ever.

"We don't even know who that is! It could be a friend—"

"LYLA, stop." His head snapped towards the floating hologram of his assistant, "You're the one who encouraged me to do this, and it failed before I even got the chance to try. I am not about to make scenarios up just to be let down again."

She ignored him, of course she did. "—I could always do a quick search. I'm sure I can find out who that is—"

"No," His refusal was immediate. Of course, curiosity and jealousy were eating him from the inside, but with you, he wanted to do this right. He would never breach your privacy like he would any other person. "Enough. We're not discussing this anymore." Miguel tapped his gizmo, and LYLA's hologram immediately dissappeared with a loud protest.

The office was queit again, Miguel wondered if you truly hadn't noticed that he was gone at all. Maybe you did notice and were relieved that he was.

Did he truly misread the situation? Or did he misread what he thought the two of you shared?

The brushing of hands when you walked next to each other, the sweet smile you flashed him everytime you saw him, the way you were so touchy around him, always hugging him and putting your hand on his shoulder to comfort him, the way you caught his stare whenever the two of you were in the same lab, that shy smile that would appear on your face and your reddened cheeks.

Was it just him interpreting it all wrong?

His thoughts were quickly intrupted by a cheery knock on his door, a pattern he knew all too well. Just before he could reply, the door swung open, with you waltzing into his office like you always do.

"Hey, I was looking for you everywhere!" Miguel grunted, shuffling with some paper on his desk to make himself look busy. "You went running off—"

"I have work to do." He replied dryly, not raising his head from the seemingly empty papers. You stopped by the door, and he was sure if he looked up, he'd see that cute pout of yours.

"You're not having lunch?" Miguel glanced at the two boxes he set aside and shook his head. "No, you should though."

"Who am I suppose to have lunch with then?"

"Your boyfriend isn't going to keep you company?" He looked up, anticipating your reaction. Your face contorted between confusion and absolute shock, then your eyes lit up. A wide grin made its way onto your lips, and you took a few steps towards Miguel's desk.

"Ned's my brother." You chuckled, tilting your head. Miguel felt his neck and ears heat up. He could practically hear LYLA in his ears, teasing him endlessly about this. How would he even know? You never mentioned a brother.

"Oh, I thought...because he said you—I guess—"

"Are you nervous, Miguel O'Hara?" You teased, and he grunted, rolling his eyes. "Ned is always busy, and always out of the country, but he's on vacation and currently living with me."

Of course, why didn't he think of that?

"Oh."

You giggled, fucking giggled at him. He was seething for the past 20 minutes, at the possibility that another man that wasn't him had you all to himself, only for it to turn out to be your brother.

"Not used to being wrong, huh?" You placed a hand on his fisted ones, and he immediately relaxed. "I rarely am."

"Awh, were you jealous, Miguel?" A scoff escaped his lips, he refused to let you tease him.

And you decided to play nice for once, deciding to let it go just to salvage his crumbling pride. "Anyways, those empanada's you were telling me about—"

"One of them is for you." He intruppted, "I...made it. In the morning. They're cold now."

"We could microwave them."

"Or you could come over and make a fresh batch with me." The words slipped off his tounge before he could think twice, something he often found himself doing whenever he was around you. He was about to apologise for being too bold, but then he looked at you.

With the prettiest smile and most bright eyes he'd ever seen, you nodded. "I'd love to."

Seems like his plan did work after all.

A little off, but still, it worked.

#miguel o'hara #miguel o hara x reader #astv #miguel o’hara x reader #atsv miguel #across the spiderverse #spiderman 2099 x reader #miguel o hara #spider man atsv #spiderman into the spiderverse #miguel fanfic #miguel o' hara #miguel o #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel x you #alchemax scientist miguel o'hara #alchemax

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obbystars · 19 days

Text

Boothill HCs

NOTES: dividers by @cafekitsune !!

( Made before 2.2 / Boothill might be OOC / GN!Reader / I was in a “writing” mood tbh / first half is fluff, second half is small angst / i just love angst )

Prefers to be the little spoon because he likes the feeling of being held. Plus he enjoys the warmth it gives him. Bonus points if you give him kisses while you’re cuddling.

Speaking of, please shower him in kisses, he loves it. It flusters him a lot and may cause him to blue screen for a moment, but aeons… he loves it. First time you did it, he did actually overheat.

A biter, but I think we all know that. He goes in, seemingly going to give you a kiss, but now you have a faint bite mark on your cheek. You’re pointing your finger at him? Chomp. Your clothes show a bit of skin? Chomp. Does he “kiss it better”? Sure, if you ask nicely enough. He’s pretty smug about it.

It took some time, but you eventually (sort of) mastered understanding Boothill through his censorship. Sometimes you even complete sentences for him, or rephrase it in the way he would’ve said it. Sometimes he tells you to tell someone they’re “this” and “that”.

Would be more than happy to help you learn how to handle a gun. You never know when it will actually come in handy in the future, so it’s better to learn now. It’s not like he can stay around for long so he can’t always be there to protect you anyway. Managing to hit your mark will have him so happy.

Has probably given you a bullet through a kiss more times than one might expect. Was it on purpose? Accident? Who knows! ( it definitely wasn’t an accident )

God forbid anyone looks at you the wrong way or let alone touch you. He’s pretty intimidating ( but so god damn hot.. ) so there aren’t a lot of fights as a result. If there is, you may want to grab a chair and a drink. Maybe two once he’s done.

A gift giver in my eyes. It’s not always something expensive, but he seems like the “I saw this and thought you might like it” kind of guy.

Since I can’t go on anywhere without slapping angst, here we go.

Part of him feels like he’s not providing you enough. As much as his body gives him an advantage in his work, it’s kind of a disadvantage when it comes to you. He’s cold and made of metal. Whenever you ask to be the little spoon this time, he always wonders if he’s crushing you. He knows how to be gentle, but he can’t help but think he’s holding you too tightly.

More often than not, he doesn’t feel like he’s in “his own body.” His body moves as he commands it to, he can still feel emotions, still think for himself, but there’s always the thought that this isn’t living. That he’s not really “living”. He doesn’t bleed red, he doesn’t have a heart that beats. He knows it doesn’t bother you, but it still bothers him. If he was given the chance to live again as a “normal” human, he’d take that in a heartbeat.

Make no mistake, he loves you more than anything. He loves how you make him feel, he loves being with you and the affection you give him. He just thinks you could have someone better. Someone who can be with you all the time and give you what he can’t. He never voices this to you, though. At least not now. Maybe one day..

Most nights, he stays up. And most nights, there are a lot of unwanted thoughts. You ever so slightly tightening your hold on him while you sleep takes him away from those thoughts for a while, only to then be reminded he has to leave you again in the morning. He hates having to do that, but there’s not much any of you can do.

I want to write so much more but UGH im outta ideas…

#boothill #boothill x reader #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail #honkai star rail boothill #hsr boothill

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theemporium · 1 year

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[1.6k] sick of their lovesick friend crushing on you, remus and sirius take it upon themselves to give james the boost he needs to talk to you. it doesn’t quite work out the way they planned.

It wasn’t meant to happen like this.

Or, to accurately rephrase that, it wasn’t meant to be this fucking intense.

Sirius Black and Remus Lupin were nothing but good friends. They were there when you needed someone to listen, they were there to offer advice, they were there to make you laugh when all you really needed was a distraction.

They were good friends.

But even this was pushing their limits.

It was no surprise to anyone at Hogwarts that James Potter fell hard and fast. It may not happen often as people like to make it out to be, but the second that boy sets his eyes on someone, he’s a goner. And there’s no one better than his friends to know that.

They had seen it with crushes over the last few years, but none of them hit the boy as hard as you did.

One snarky comment, a broom race and one infirmary visit later, and James Potter was completely besotted by you.

And as his best friends, Remus and Sirius had been subjected to far too many rambles the bespectacled boy had given over the months since he first laid his eyes on you.

But even they had their limits and their patience was quickly running out. That’s why they had a plan, a simple plan. It was honestly the simplest of plans where nothing could go wrong.

Or at least, that’s what they had thought.

The main problem was that for all he was confident and arrogant and loud, James Potter seemed to lose all confidence and suave when he was around you. The boy got flustered and stumbled on his words and struggled to even say anything remotely impressive, and it was a disheartening sight to see.

So when Remus suggested a simple confidence boosting potion from the alchemy in Hogsmeade, the plan was set in stone. They’d sneak him the potion, convince him to ask you out and the rest would be history.

The task to acquire the potion was left to Sirius considering Remus had prefect rounds and would be unable to get the potion himself. But Sirius didn’t think some measly potion from Hogsmeade would be enough, so he didn’t see the big deal in grabbing one from his family’s favourite upend alchemy instead.

As it turns out, it was a very big deal.

Not only were the potions stronger, but they were laced with extra festive elements for witches and wizards who were stupid enough to buy potions during holidays.

And this confidence potion was laced with a very, very strong love potion—-in celebration of Valentines Day.

“What the fuck did you buy?!”

“The man in the store said it would enhance!”

“Enhance what? His bloody insanity?!”

“Stop yelling at me, Moony, I am sensitive!”

Both boys stared at their friend who sat on the bed in front of them, a cheesy grin on his face and his tousled hair falling into his eyes. They thought it would be easiest to slip in the potion in the morning, just before they headed down for breakfast.

Now, they realised, it would probably be best if they hadn’t given him the potion at all.

James Potter sat on his bed, a badly drawn picture of you that was no better than a stickman on a piece of parchment in his hand as he sighed hopelessly.

“She’s so pretty,” James murmured happily.

“That’s a bit of ink and paper, mate,” Sirius replied, looking at James with the caution one would have for a wild beast.

“She’s even pretty when she’s a drawing,” James continued as he lifted his head to look at his friends. “Don’t you think?”

“Uh, sure,” Remus murmured, unsure if disagreeing with a lovesick fool would be the best course of action. He turned to look at Sirius, a glimmer of annoyance in his gaze. “We can’t let him leave this room when he is acting like…that.”

“He will be fine, Moony,” Sirius scoffed and waved his hand dismissively. “It’s barely noticeable anyways.”

Remus raised his brows. “Oh really?”

“Hey, buddy, how ya feeling?” Sirius asked as he turned back to James.

James jumped onto his feet, puffing his chest out. “I feel like I wanna sing to the world how much I love my girl—“

“Yeah, okay, maybe he’s not ready to leave the room just yet.”

Remus let out a heavy sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay, I’m gonna go down and grab us some food and possibly some books from the library that can help us…reverse whatever this is,” he announced as he turned back to Sirius and fitted him with a glare. “Keep an eye on him, and do not let him leave.”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “Aye, aye, captain.”

“I’m serious.”

“I thought I was Sirius.”

“I swear to Merlin—“

“I promise, I promise!” Sirius eventually sighed and raised his hands in mock surrender. “Now go, before Prongs starts spouting sonnets and you start correcting him.”

It didn’t sit well with Remus has he quickly exited the Gryffindor common room, heading into the halls of the school and making his way down to the Great Hall. Leaving Sirius in charge of a very…odd James was not reassuring in the slightest, but at this point they had little choice in the matter. They needed to get this sorted out and get it sorted out soon without alarming any of the teachers.

Or worse, James’ mother.

Remus suppressed his shudder as he made his way through the throng of students, heading towards the Gryffindor table so he could grab some food for the lot of them and make a quick escape.

However, the boy failed to notice the group sitting just a few feet away from him.

“Remus, hey!”

Remus froze, a piece of toast hanging between his fingers before he turned his head to the left, giving you what he hoped was a casual smile—although it looked more like a grimace.

“Hey,” he answered lamely.

“You’re late this morning,” you joked lightly, your attention purely on the boy. You stretched your neck to try and catch a glimpse of his friends but he was alone. “Hey, where’s—”

“James is sick!” Remus blurted out and watched as you frowned in concern. “Not like, deathly sick. But just enough for him to stay in bed for the day.”

“Oh,” you murmured and the disappointment was clear in your voice. “Is there anything I can do to help? I have some potions my mum gave me—“

“No, no,” Remus waved you off. “Potions can’t fix this.”

But that only seemed to deepen your worries. “Remus, are you sure he’s okay?”

However, before Remus could even open his mouth to spout another lie, another voice yelled through the hallway just outside the Great Hall.

“OH TREASURE OF MY HEART!”

Remus closed his eyes. “Fuck.”

“OH DARLING APPLE OF MY EYE!”

“He had one fucking job,” Remus muttered to himself. “One. Fucking. Job.”

“WHERE IS THE LOVE OF MY LIFE?!”

Your wide eyes met Remus’. “Is that—”

Just then a figure came bursting through the entrance of the Great Hall, standing in nothing but socks, a pair of boxers and a white shirt. But James Potter didn’t care about the gasps or gawking eyes, he was looking for one person—you.

“My love!” His eyes brightened as he spotted you on the table and quickly began making his way over to you.

Not even seconds later, Sirius came running after him as he panted heavily. “Fucking…prick…hexed me.”

Remus would’ve snorted if James approaching you wasn't the priority.

Your eyebrows furrowed together as a partially dressed James kneeled down in front of you. “James—”

“Love of my life, you look absolutely stunning today, it wounds me!” James sighed dramatically as he reached to take your hands in his, pressing kisses on the back of each knuckle.

“I wound you?” you murmured as the boy looked up at you with wide eyes.

“Don’t you know, darling? It wounds me to even be apart from you!” James exclaimed.

“Okay, buddy, how about we head back to the dorm?” Remus murmured as he tried to pull James up, but his hands were quickly batted away.

“Leave me alone, Moony, you are getting in the way of true love!”

“True love?” you repeated, biting back the smile growing on your lips. You were still very confused, but at least you were amused.

“The truest!” James said as he looked you in the eyes before taking a deep breath. “Oh darling, do me the pleasure of becoming Mrs Potter—“

“OKAY!” Remus clapped his hands together, finally pulling James away from you as Sirius cackled beside him.

“You’ve ruined my proposal, Moony!” James whined. “You’re officially taken off the best man list.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Remus muttered before flashing you a sheepish smile. “Just…pretend this never happened.”

Before Remus could make proper move of herding a boisterous James out of the Great Hall and back towards the Gryffindor dormitories, you were out of your seat and chasing after them.

“James!”

His head quickly snapped around, big eyes finding yours as his face split into a grin. “Yes, my love?”

You stopped when you stood in front of them, your chest moving up and down quickly and your heart thundering in your chest, but it was too late now.

Before you could second guess yourself, you leaned forward and grabbed his face in your hands, pressing a kiss on his lips before pulling back.

“Come find me when you’re…better.”

James didn’t even get the chance to reply as you quickly skidded off, his lips parted in shock and his cheeks burning a bright pink as he aimlessly stared at the spot where you stood moments ago.

“Moony?”

“Yeah, Prongs?”

“Did that really happen?”

“Yeah it did, mate.”

“Right…great…catch me, mate.”

Remus opened his mouth to reply but James’ body had already sagged against his, the boy’s eyes now closed and he couldn’t help but let out a snort as he heaved the unconscious boy’s arms around his neck.

“I better be your fucking best man now.”

“Hey!”

“Shut up, Pads and carry the croissants.”

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meiieiri · 6 months

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water’s edge | 01

₊˚.༄ pairing: crown prince!gojo satoru x f!reader | setting: modern royal au

₊˚.༄ summary: in a world where titles define their fates, gojo satoru, the crown prince of japan, and his wife-to-be, face a tempestuous court of deception and schadenfreude. as they waltz on the edge of ruin, can their love endure the treacherous waters that threaten to pull them apart, or will the whims of the enigmatic chrysanthemum throne prove strong enough to drown them both?

₊˚.༄ author’s note: thank you so much to @angstbot2000, my awesome beta-reader for sitting through this 9.07k word count monstrosity of a first chapter! and with that, here we go~!

₊˚.༄ masterlist

He was every bit the worldly man portrayed to be by the media and that alone is enough to terrify you, even as you sit about a full foot apart from him, feeling the pinprick of his ice-cold demeanor pierce your skin like a thousand needles.

“Your Highness, how have we never heard of your relationship with Ms. (Y/N) before unlike your previous ones?”, a correspondent from the NHK Broadcasting Corporation asks from the crowd of reporters, surprisingly at their most civil and dignified behavior before their future emperor and empress, literal gods in mortal form, embodiment of unadulterated divinity on earth in Japan’s distinct imperial past, one much different from today’s democratic and liberal political climate.

Gojo’s eye twitches at that.

It was a simple question, but it struck a nerve in him, angering him more than you ever could by merely existing. Though it was a valid inquiry, all of Satoru’s relationships have always been well-documented by the media, save for one. His supposed relationship with you.

You move to clutch his hand in an attempt to calm him down, having sensed his discomfort, but he only shrugs his hand away before you could even come within a quarter of an inch of touching him.

“My apologies, your Highness,” the reporter apologizes quickly when Satoru doesn’t answer right away, turning to the woman in charge of the press conference, situated by the podium displaying the seal of the imperial family. “Sorry, may I rephrase that?”

She turns to look at the prince, subtly asking for his permission. With a slight nod of his head, Satoru doles out his merciful forgiveness towards the reporter, keenly aware that it would only take him a second to have his staff contact the NHK Broadcasting Company and have them fire him before he could even return to the office.

“Thank you,” he bows gratefully. “Rephrasing my earlier question, would your Highness mind if you share a few words about how you and Ms. (Y/N) met?”

Satoru Gojo is a man who goes by many identities, as attested by tabloids and reputable newspapers alike; they agree on the fact that Satoru Gojo is a womanizer, a card shark, and the harbinger of disaster to the imperial family. He never sleeps with the same woman more than once, oftentimes leaving a poor naive girl entangled in a mess of sheets even before the morning sun filters through the motel’s bedroom windows. The crown prince isn’t entirely heartless though, he is quite known to leave a generous sum of money tucked neatly in a small envelope as a “thank you” gift to all the women he’s been with.

Not that it dulls the sting of humiliation, of course, it still hurts like hell to be treated as an expendable commodity that’s only good for a one night stand.

Funny how that grotesque description is starting to sound like you.

Another rumor about Satoru Gojo is that he’s a reckless card shark; one who goes to fine hotels during after-hours when the bar and lounge is reworked into a gambling den for the ultra rich and wealthy, closed to the unsuspecting plebeians, only frequented by those whose morals fall within the scope of gray and obsidian black. The young prince has been rumored to religiously go to these kinds of establishments to play high stakes poker games more often than he ever visits the family shrine where his ancestors are entombed in an uneasy eternal rest. The poor Emperor Meiji must be rolling in his grave seeing the imperial family’s impending doom at the hands of his great great grandson whose only real ambition in life is to waste it on the vulgar things that high society hedonistically craves.

One last thing to keep in mind about your fiancé is that he is a consummate actor, having honed the talent of keeping up appearances since his first public appearance as a child of only seven years old, alongside his mother and father during the opening ceremony of the Winter Olympics which Tokyo had been selected to host earlier that year.

He squeezes your hand, despite rejecting the compassionate gesture earlier, and looks deep into your eyes with false fondness, fully aware that he was imagining the face of another in place of yours.

His nails bitterly dig into your skin as the cameras go off, capturing the tender moment between the two of you. To anyone outside the circle which you and Satoru unwillingly find each other entrapped in, the two of you were the quintessential picture-perfect couple, gazing at one another as if the world the two of you had found yourselves in would spiral out of its orbit had one of you dared to look away, The tabloids have even begun to call your unexpected engagement a modern-day fairytale unfolding before everyone’s eyes.

But that was just it, this entire arrangement — you and Satoru Gojo were nothing more than unwilling participants in a fabricated Cinderella story.

“Well, we met informally a few times before, during the national shamisen competition held in Kyoto two years ago and the awarding ceremony of our very own national artists where she received the title of ‘national treasure’ earlier last year–”

The many reporters scribble this information down on their bullet journals or tablets, hoping to piece together the exact timeline of this relationship. It is rather peculiar for the crown prince to suddenly reveal he is getting married, and to some mystery woman at that — not that the press was unfamiliar with you,with most of them being very much aware of your identity as a renowned traditional Japanese instrumentalist, but what eludes them is the manner in which you found yourself suddenly romantically involved with Prince Satoru Gojo of all people, whose affairs are heavily publicized by the media. The grotesque manner in which it is publicized is a different story.

“But we first met formally during His Majesty the Emperor’s silver jubilee. His Majesty is a benefactor to the Japan Arts Council and is a patron to many music conservatories in the country, and as such, is very interested in the fine arts. It just so happened that Ms. (Y/N) had been invited to play for us on the night of the Royal Gala.”

That was typical; the prince first meets the princess in a ball, looking upon her absolutely enthralled as she enters the ballroom, captivated like he was under some form of trance. His eyes would stay glued to her as she danced along to the crescendo of the string quartet, the hem of her gown fluttering about her form like a gentle stream of star-fall as she twirled gracefully under the bright chandelier lights. His lips would be parted, dazedly wondering who the girl could be and if they were ever fated to meet again.

But alas, one has to remind themselves that the age of dreaming of such hopelessly romantic nonsense, especially at twenty-three, is long over.

FLASHBACK: His Majesty’s Silver Jubilee Gala

The Chrysanthemum Throne should have died the day the envoys of the late Emperor Shōwa, Foreign Minister Mamora Shigemitsu and General Yoshijiro Umezu, ascended the gangway of the USS Missouri to sign the unconditional surrender of the Japanese Empire to the allied forces that laid waste to the Japanese islands. With the allied powers marching onwards to the capital city of Tokyo, having left nothing in their wake but the ashes of an empire that had been brought to its knees by the fires of merciless destruction that rained from countless air raids, the narrative should have moved towards the abolishment of the entire imperial system and the immediate execution of the emperor. But in a bid to refashion the emperor as a symbol of continuity for Japan, General Douglas Macarthur’s decision to not hold Emperor Shōwa accountable for the war crimes committed in his name during the height of World War II allowed the last remnant of Japan’s imperial past to survive. Save for the removal of the emperor’s political power, the oldest monarchy in the world was left relatively unharmed.

Still, despite the fact that the imperial system had been effectively humbled after the war, this was not so evident as you walked through the imposing halls of the imperial palace.The Kita-Damari north lobby you passed through earlier gave an impression of uncontested refinement; the entire floor had been constructed from the most exquisite granite from Yamaguchi prefecture, and the walls embellished with cedar wood that can only be found in Kumamoto prefecture. If the lobby was meant to portray elegance, then, the Houmei-den State Banquet Hall exuded an air of absolute power that could make anyone tremble in the face of such magnificence; you could recognize the tapestry work of the legendary artist Gakuryo Nakamura as the main decoration piece for the walls, and even more rare stones and wood from Japan’s many prefectures serving as the foundation of the gargantuan hall.

It was half past nine when you accidentally locked eyes with the crown prince that night. This entire time, you’ve envisioned the imperial family as images on your phone screen. You didn’t think for one second that they could be real and that Satoru Gojo, the crown prince of your nation, despite all the disturbing rumors surrounding him these past few years, would be so ethereally beautiful, like he had been fashioned from pure celestial moonlight.

You avert your gaze immediately upon catching yourself staring at him, knowing you weren’t supposed to as part of royal protocol which you’d been thoroughly briefed on the moment you received the invitation to perform for the imperial family. You uneasily remove yourself from the hall in search of the lavatory to touch up your makeup when you come face-to-face with the empress who also excused herself from the festivities to get some air.

She doesn’t notice you at first as she continues to take a drag from her cigarette, staring blankly at the koi fish that swam about the courtyard garden’s pond. From afar, she looked to be an ordinary woman, not the untouchable monarch you thought she was alongside the rest of her family, her ivory hair was neatly pulled back into a tight bun, several crystal hair pieces dotting her silky locks. You quietly made your way towards the powder room, your pace slowing down as you inch closer to the empress not really knowing what to do.

Should you let her be while she’s having a moment to herself or do you intrude on the hallowed ground of her presence as protocol dictates with a low curtsy?

“Your Royal Highness,” you greet her, in a soft voice, stopping to curtsy as you pass by and she kindly hums in acknowledgement.

“Ms. (Y/N),” she turns to face you, discarding her half-finished cigarette in the jade ashtray. “Forgive me for smoking in front of you, do you mind?”

Secondhand smoke.

From that statement alone, though brief as it is, sheds light into the empress’s character as being empathetic, and compassionate. You shake your head, subconsciously playing with your clutch bag. “Thank you.” She reaches into her clutch bag again to pull out her pack, slotting a cigarette between her lips. “How are you enjoying the banquet so far? I hope it is to your liking.”

“I don’t think what I say should really matter. After all, I’m only a guest.” Your meek character causes the empress to let out the tiniest of laughs. A smile plays at your lips seeing her face morph into a soft chortle, her earlier troubles seemingly leaving her mind for a bit as she speaks with you. “But, in all seriousness, your Highness, I think the banquet is going well. Most of the other guests seem to feel the same way.”

The empress nods, relieved. “That’s good to hear, by the way, I hope your performance goes well,” she says. “His Majesty and I have been looking forward to it all evening.”

A blush paints your cheeks. As the only guest artist who will be playing a traditional Japanese instrument, the tsugaru shamisen, you were the odd one out among the other distinguished national artists who will be playing Western instruments such as the piano, the harp or the violin and many others. “That means a lot to me, your Highness, thank you,” you bow forty-five degrees.

“Well,” the empress says warmly, wrapping up the surprisingly refreshing conversation. “I wouldn’t want to keep you now, I’ll see you back inside,” she picks up her pearl-embellished clutch bag, and re-arranges her diamond tiara before excusing herself. As she makes her way back inside the reception hall to rejoin her family, she thinks back to the girl she just serendipitously met with a small smile on her face. Ms. (Y/N), she thinks to herself, recalling your name with a certain lightness in her heart.

Just then, her son, Satoru walks up to her, righting his lapel and the medal of the Supreme Order of the Chrysanthemum pinned to the left breast-pocket of his full royal uniform. “Mother,” he greets her formally, planting a quick kiss on her cheek. Gojo’s face falls when he sees his mother’s watchful eyes anxiously scouring the room for a particular person. “Mother, what is it?” he asks, concerned at her expression. Suddenly, his mother stiffens when she finds the exact person she is looking for, obvious displeasure painting her features.

Satoru tries to calm his mother down, his voice as soft as a feather’s touch, “Mother…” he trails off.

“You brought her here?” the empress whispers harshly, almost in disbelief that her son would be so insolent enough to do such a thing — by ‘such a thing’, she meant unscrupulously bringing along his Machiavellian Chief-of-Staff, Himiko Zenin, who seemed to relish in the attention being gallantly given to her by the many foreign heads of state in the banquet hall.

“And what is she wearing?”

Her face contorts into one of annoyance when she sees Himiko parading around the unmistakable Akoya pearl necklace only to be worn by members of the imperial family on her neck. The empress is not one to use unsavory words even for someone she dislikes with every fiber of her being, but she could not help but liken Himiko to a bitch brandishing a new expensive collar. She swears the sight alone is enough to make her vomit. “Is she a member of the imperial family now, Satoru, what on earth—!”

“She’s not hurting anybody,” Satoru’s eyes narrowed into slits at his mother’s reaction.

“She’s hurting you!” the empress hisses, begging her son to see reason. Satoru has been made well-aware of the fact that keeping Himiko around was not good for his public image, yet, he still insists on fanning the flames that could sooner devour his pipe dream of inheriting his father’s crown.

Satoru glares at his mother, before proceeding to spare his radiant Chief-of-Staff an amused glance, a sense of pride forming in his chest seeing her alluring charm at work as she mingles effortlessly with his father’s guests. He often argues that Himiko is the blueprint of the perfect future consort — she comes from the Zenin political clan that has made Tokyo its political stronghold since the 1970s, she is intelligent in all ways from being fluent in many languages to knowing the law from inside out, charming and charismatic, and most of all, easy on the eyes. A smirk forms on Gojo’s lips when he sees Himiko sharing a laugh with the wife of the Russian ambassador as if to prove his point.

“Let’s just go,” he ignores her pleas, gently pulling his distraught mother away to take their seats next to his father, nonchalantly condoning Himiko’s brazen-faced behavior.

As long as he was around, no one could harm her, not even the empress.

“Acknowledging the representative correspondent from Nippon News Network, Mr. Nozomi. You may ask your question now,” the floor adjutant says into the microphone.

“Thank you,” Nozomi stands up, momentarily adjusting his press ID. He flips through his leatherbound notebook in search of the query he hastily wrote earlier. “This question is directed to Ms. (Y/N).” A spiteful quiet scoff escapes Satoru’s lips, sending waves of hurt in your chest. What could you possibly contribute to this already awkward conversation? And what did you even know about the imperial system’s traditions?

“Ms. (Y/N), I’d like to know your thoughts on marrying into the imperial family at this delicate time. As you probably know, many of our citizens are questioning the relevance of the imperial system now that our country has embraced democratic values over pro-imperialist ones, thus, leading to the formation of staunch anti-royalists groups. Do you believe that your marriage to Prince Satoru would bring about a positive change to Japan’s current political landscape?”

Your thoughts stutter. “Political…landscape?” you think aloud, and Satoru only smiles/smirks in cold amusement, taking a sip of his sparkling water and eyeing you from his peripheral, seeing you pathetically struggle to conjure up a coherent answer. You haven’t exactly gotten to learn about your duties yet as Gojo’s future wife and a future princess, and he was eager to see how you’ll worm your way out of this one. Of course you neither understood the intricacies of the world you were marrying into nor the unknown minefield you dared tread; most women who throw themselves at Gojo’s feet, kissing the soles of his shoes deplorably begging them to marry him, are like that — naive, unintelligent — he looks at your plain features again and rolls his eyes severely disappointed — and criminally boring to look at in comparison to the standard he has set.

“My apologies, Mr. Nozomi,” a soft smile graces Satoru’s lips when he hears her melodious voice cutting through the awkward tension in the air as you wrack your head for an answer. “But, it seems you’ve caught Ms. (Y/N) off guard there. Perhaps, you have another question that’s a bit…easier to understand? We are, after all, here to bear witness to an engagement, not a political fora.”

Himiko steps forward from her spot next to the member of the Imperial Household Agency who was facilitating this press conference, her dainty hands clasped in front of her in an immaculately proper posture befitting the crown prince’s Chief-of-Staff and his rightful future wife, or so Gojo thought. How he wished it had been her who sat next to him today, with the diamond encrusted engagement ring he reluctantly gave you adorning her ring finger instead. Gojo’s intrusive thoughts swarm in his mind as they tempt him to kiss her in front of all these cameras and single handedly destroy his engagement to you in a single, gut-wrenching blow. But he is quick to stop himself when he remembers his mother’s words earlier this morning.

“This is your last chance, Satoru. This is the last thing I can do to save you, please don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

At any point in time, he would have succumbed to his desire to expose his relationship with his beloved Chief-of-Staff, but this was a pivotal moment that could spell the end for him and his ambitions if he does so much as make a single move that could anger his father. And what’s worse was he might not be able to guarantee Himiko’s safety if that happens. Satoru, therefore, resigns himself to continue holding your hand, albeit reluctantly, his fingers finding the gaps of yours.

The reporter nods at Himiko’s backhanded request.

“My apologies, then,” he ratifies his question to make it more suitable for someone of your caliber. You couldn’t help but shrink into yourself, feeling that you are being patronized by everyone in this room — from your frigid fiancé to his Chief-of-Staff who was severely outclasses you in eloquence, refinement and sophistication and to all the members of the press that had been invited today whose reception to your engagement to the crown prince has been lukewarm at best. “My question then is—“

“—I am sorry for taking too long to answer your question, Mr. Nozomi.” Satoru’s eyes flicker over to yours, taken aback when you speak up. “I, unfortunately, am not yet that familiar with the current situation concerning these said groups, and,” you bite your lip, thinking of what to say next. “I don’t think I’m qualified enough to give an objective opinion on whether my marriage to his Highness will bring about a positive change to our nation.”

Gojo grimly scowls as he watches you make amends with your forthcoming destiny as his future wife, and heaven willing, empress of the nation.

“And I cannot promise that I will lead this country to greatness. I cannot grant laws to uphold and promote justice, I most certainly cannot lead our defense forces to defend our nation, but…”

You think back to why you came here in the first place, your heart pounds violently in your chest as adrenaline rushes through your entire body.

“But I can do this: I can dedicate my entire life to making this country a better place for our people, though, I still do not quite know the way. But I will most certainly do my utmost to try.”

FLASHBACK: His Majesty’s Silver Jubilee Gala

You don’t know how they do it — standing in front of a multitude of people under the glare of the limelight, about a thousand pairs of eyes trained on you as if at that moment, you stood at the very center of the world without cracking. This was the life they were born into, a life that overflowed with the contrasting worlds of luxury and duty, power and powerlessness, indulgence and deprivation. The women of the imperial family were dressed in the most luxurious of gowns with hundreds of precious stones sewn onto the fabric, and the men wore their dignified navy uniforms. All of the people in the hall have gathered far and wide to bring good tidings to the emperor and his family, bringing gifts of jewels, national treasures, and promises of a stronger alliance with Japan. Yet, something felt off about them — their faces, although trained and poised to smile, were pictures of discomfort.

The white-haired prince you had locked eyes with earlier, the one who watched you intently throughout your performance as you skillfully struck the strings of your shamisen with the bachi producing a sound that resonates deep within the primal past of Japan, stared at you with an unreadable expression as he clapped his hands. You offer him the smallest of smiles to be polite just like you did with the empress earlier when you found her smoking outside the banquet hall, but he does not reciprocate the gesture, his eyes devoid of any warmth unlike his mother. Standing before the crowd of many world leaders and the imperial family, you bow reverently before your public, your shamisen strapped to your body, while your calloused fingers gripped the bachi of the instrument.

The crowd thundered with applause, most of the foreign dignitaries rising to their feet, giving you a standing ovation as you finished your piece. You bow again when the applause continues for another minute or so.

Satoru grimaces when he hears his father whisper to his mother. “Isn’t she amazing?” he marvels at your performance, showering you with more praise for that brief number than he ever gave his son for the majority of his life.

The empress senses Satoru’s growing ire, and nudges her son’s arm, consoling him despite their earlier disagreement about bringing Himiko to the gala. Satoru doesn’t know what to feel. Despite all his shortcomings and his active efforts to build an impenetrable steel wall between them, his mother still does everything in her power to meet him halfway. As his hand reaches to find his mother’s, however, he spots Himiko exiting the hall, stopping mid-way to stare at him with her irresistible fox-like eyes, tempting him to follow her like a siren beckoning an unfortunate sailor to surrender to the abyssal depths.

“Satoru,” his mother says under her breath, holding onto the belief that her son could muster up the willpower to resist Himiko’s whims. The emperor was about to give his courtesy address, and having the crown prince walk out at this moment would be severely inappropriate, not to mention, damaging to his already bad reputation. “Satoru, please.”

His father ascends the steps, each stride evoking a deep sadness and longing in Satoru. Somehow, the crown prince hones in on the clicking of his father’s shoes against the granite floor, the same ones he’d have to fill someday when his father grows weary of their ancestors’ throne. The speech is pretty uneventful with his father going on and on about preserving the peace and harmony of his reign, his so-called Reiwa era, and vowing to continue his public service, which he had begun as a young man in the august of his own father’s reign, until the twilight of his days.

Harmony, Gojo thinks bitterly, a sneer appearing on his face. What did his old man know of such a word when all he’s done, so far, is sow the seeds of discord in his family?

“On that note, I’d like to express my deepest gratitude to all of you, our dear guests and to my fellow fathers and mothers of your own respective nations, who have so kindly come here today to renew our vows of selfless service to our peoples. May we all be imbued with endless wisdom in our pursuit of the greater good.”

The cameras go off like little flashes of lightning spontaneously piercing the dark, moody space of the reception hall.

What a fucking joke, Satoru scoffs into his champagne, the golden liquid staining his throat and holding back words of contempt towards his father. What did his father know of being a father when he had spent his entire life tearing apart his own family in the name of the throne? What did he know of harmony when he had done nothing but sow discord in the imperial house?

The emperor gives a slight nod of acknowledgement to the gracious applause he receives, and promptly makes his way over to his family who are in the process of arranging themselves for an official picture in front of the late Emperor Taisho’s magnum opus, his calligraphy painting that read: 永遠の恵み (Eternal grace) which is the imperial family’s personal motto and central dogma, to commemorate this momentous occasion. Satoru stands next to his father, his breath shallow as if being anywhere near his father could suffocate him.

“I see you’re still acting like the petulant child you are,” his father spat having already spotted Satoru’s little plaything in the crowd earlier tonight, despite the well-rehearsed smile on his face as the official photographer snaps photos in quick succession.

The tongue that Gojo has been holding finally breaks free from the dam that’s been holding the waters of resentment from bursting forth. “And I see you’re still an ass.” Hopefully, the photographers couldn’t hear their tense conversation lest it be the cause of another scandal;, the rumor mill didn’t need any more ammunition for yet another mudslinging campaign against the imperial family.

Oh, but wouldn’t it be interesting if Satoru made a scene to ruin his father’s special day by lewdly kissing his Chief-of-Staff for the entire world to see?

As if sensing her forbidden lover’s thoughts, Himiko saunters over to the official photographer, putting on the air of a devoted servant of the crown prince, ever present within ten feet from her master, when just minutes prior, she acted like she could replace the empress herself.

“You insolent—“ his father grits his teeth at the sight of Satoru’s tramp, absolutely furious.

“Please stop,” the empress spoke under her breath, close to tears. Why is it that whenever their family is together, which is a rare occasion in itself, it always ends in such painful conflict?

“If only we had another son-” the emperor continued his tirade against his only living son, the only legitimate child that he had been blessed with after years of trying to produce an heir with his wife. But there was not a scintilla of anger in his voice; that had long passed when the empress had effectively quelled the fury in his heart with her broken plea, instead there is only longing for things that cannot be.“-if only…Suguru had been our boy, our prince-”

And just like that, something breaks inside Satoru akin to a glass goblet imploding when it hits the floor. It was almost as if his father wished that he had never been born.

…”Fuck this,” the white-haired prince moves to leave, but his mother’s delicate touch catches his arm.

“Satoru, my little light.”

Satoru’s breath hitches in his throat when his mother calls him by his old childhood nickname. Little light. That’s what they wanted him to be since the moment his cerulean eyes first opened as a baby who has been unwillingly burdened with the weight of centuries of tradition on him the minute he was conceived. His name had already been predetermined to mean ‘enlightenment’; everyone wanted him to be a light for the nation, a hope for the people. The imperial family may have been reduced to mere powerless symbols of the constitution, but they are the embodiment of their people’s hopes and dreams for a better Japan. It took twenty years for the emperor and empress to be blessed with their little light, but now, it seems that everything is growing disorientingly dimmer at such an accelerated pace.

But the empress will not just stand by and watch the light get extinguished. “Please don’t do this, we need you.”

Of course he always craved to be beloved by the people, to become their bonafide and benevolent prince. It had always been his dream to inherit his father’s crown, to fill the impossibly large shoes of his ancestors. But, what is truly his dream or was this a dream unjustly forced onto him?

The wind howls more violently and the final flicker of the imperial family’s light loses the battle, as the candle that had first been set alight by their forebears is now reduced to a pool of wax. Satoru’s eyebrows furrow, utterly spent from all of this, and yanks back his arm from his mother’s grasp.

“You need your prince…but when will you ever need your son?”

And with that, he leaves, his free hand ripping off the Medal of the Order of the Chrysanthemum once he is a good distance away from the gala’s venue. Himiko stays behind for a few minutes to make sure that she isn’t giving off the impression of being so eager to follow the prince and condone his tantrum. Instead, she stares directly at the empress, emerald and sapphire clashing violently with one another, as she wordlessly celebrates her victory.

Mr. Nozomi, though known by his colleagues to be a no-nonsense kind of man, seems satisfied with your answer. It lacked some academic background, but it was a statement that was sure to bring comfort to the people. “Thank you, Ms. (Y/N). This is comforting to know,” the stout man with graying hair offers you a reassuring smile. It had been so long since many people, particularly and most especially in his age group, had ever had the honor of seeing such a warm-hearted future monarch whose words could almost easily calm others, and he dare say, even the violent Sea of Japan whose fury has long been felt in his freezing hometown of Hokkaido since time immemorial.

Satoru forces a smile at that, literally grinning and bearing it — by ‘it’, he meant your little display to outshine him, your future husband, the Crown.

“Any more questions?” the imperial house’s official speaker calls out as the room is filled with the sound of pen tips scratching on paper as the members of the press write down notes. This was going to be the wedding of the century, and they’d be damned if they couldn’t make a good story out of it. “None?”

“Actually, I have one.” Himiko gives the microphone to the correspondent from The Tokyo Times, the most reputable newspaper in the country. “I hope that this question doesn’t offend His Royal Highness, but if you may indulge me for a bit, don't you think the timing of this wedding is too sudden? I mean,” she clears her throat momentarily. “His Highness had only recently been allowed to appear before the public after he got arrested the other week, and now, he’s getting married.”

Just when you thought that the brutal questions would start to mellow out, one of the more hardened reporters all but crushes your remaining hope of this press conference ending on a good note.

All color drains from your face at that question. It was, indeed, warranted. If you had seen all this unfold before your very eyes, during your time as a commoner, the whole marriage would appear rushed, not to mention, fishy especially after the many Lesé-Majesté that had victimized the imperial family lately due to Gojo’s recent and very frequent scandals.

You look at your fiancé, heart pounding in your chest. What were you supposed to say to that? It’s not like you could be downright blunt about the whole reason why you’re getting married in the first place, that would only paint your soon-to-be husband’s family in a worse light; right now, people only challenge the relevance of the imperial family in a free democracy like Japan, you really don’t want to reach that point of no return when they start to despise the very notion of paying taxes to an institution that they feel is morally ambiguous.

Not to mention, such sentiment could put you and your fiancé in danger.

Satoru takes a deep breath through his nose, desperately calming himself before he says anything damning. How he wished he could have this petulant woman dragged out of there for such an offensive question but that would only prove her point.

Fortunately, Satoru is well-prepared for this, no matter how irritating his current predicament is. Having to be reminded of the greatest source of his humiliation is infuriating, but it could also provide him with the perfect opportunity to rewrite his public image and regain his footing in the act of succession currently being drafted by His Majesty, the Emperor.

All of a sudden, he rises to his full height, his hand not letting go of the sleeve of your white wool coat as he does. He casts you a disgusted look, seeing the expensive fabric hug your form; how is it even possible that you were wearing a high class outfit and still look like a cheap imitation of all the women he’s been with? He couldn’t begin to compare you to Himiko whose fashion sense and overall aura outshined yours; it would be like comparing rust to the Hope Diamond.

“Satoru, what are you doing?”

“Just follow my lead and drop that stupidly lost face you make all the time,” he hisses into your ear. “Now, stand up,” he commands, pretending to help you to your feet like the head-over-heels-in-love fiancé he’s meant to be and not the stone cold man whose last name will be the heaviest burden you’ll have to carry for the rest of your life. Well, by your life, you meant the snake pit that you now found yourself in with a fiancé who wishes you to fade from the fabric of existence and the prying eyes of the world keenly watching the drama that is yours and Satoru’s impending marriage.

Satoru smooths out any wrinkles on your dress before turning to the cameras. Gasps fill the room at what he does next. “Y-your Highness?” a journalist puts a hand over her mouth at the sight of the crown prince’s display of humble contrition: a bow, a plea for the forgiveness of his people. Following his lead, you also bow, your palms pressed against your thighs.

“I am sorry,” his tenor rings clear like the ringing of a shinto shrine’s suzu when a pilgrim first sets foot on the hallowed grounds of the temple. “As your prince, I understand that I have failed my family, His Imperial Majesty, the emperor, and Her Royal Highness, the empress. I have, in my recklessness, failed my ancestors, and the throne itself. But most of all, I, through my reckless actions, have failed each and every one of you who are probably watching this.”

Sincerity oozes out from each word, and you wonder, does Gojo actually mean any of this? Or was this another one of his well-rehearsed theatrics? And if this, his first public apology for all the atrocious things he’s done, is all conjured from the distorted playwright that is Prince Satoru Gojo, then, you could only pray that he takes pity on you and does not make an actress out of you.

FLASHBACK: The Imperial Palace of Tokyo (An hour after His Majesty’s Silver Jubilee Gala)

Satoru painfully eyes his mother who earlier tonight had cruelly given him the false hope that she would always advocate for him only to avert her gaze, screwing her eyes shut as if by doing so — all of this — all the undue hurt that her son had caused the family would magically go away. “Mother.” Is she even qualified to still be called that when she has proved tonight that she would abandon her son in his time of need without a moment’s hesitation?

What his father says next is so hypocritical that it makes even hardened criminals look more honest and self-aware than him. “Don’t use that tone on her, don’t even dare.”

Satoru scoffs angrily, he can’t believe this. “I didn’t know you’ve recently decided to be a devoted husband now,” he snarls but his father doesn’t budge, he was not going to entertain his foolish son’s tantrums today. The emperor only pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing heavily, desperately seeking out the reason he has been dealt the unfortunate hand of having such a heathenous son.

“I don’t even know what to say.” What can be said when face to face with such a vile predicament? Normally, his disagreements with Satoru would be tempered by his wife’s intervention, pleading with him to spare the heir to the throne of unforgiving punishments that brewed within a wrathful father’s mind; the last time was Satoru’s humiliating suspension from his public duties and the instance before that, a severe cut in his monthly salary as a public official funded personally by the people he blatantly betrays in his acts of wanton avarice. The difference between those times and this unfortunate situation is that in the past, one could still detect some semblance of remorse in Satoru’s demeanor.

All that is gone now. If one were to compare Satoru to a criminal, he is already a hardened one, desensitized to his wrongdoings.

The steel handcuffs which hugged the skin of Satoru’s wrists prove that, at this point in time, the heir to throne’s character was in serious jeopardy. “Your Majesty, you can reprimand your son however you’d like, but, please do not have him chained up like some animal.” She knows such a request is wrong. Like a dog released from a painful muzzle, Satoru would only grow more rabid with his actions. In the past, he was fueled by a desire for attention, now, after this night, he would be fueled by spite.

Other than the imperial family, three police officers who came from the Kabukichō district where Satoru had been reported to be physically assaulting a fellow gambler when a high stakes poker game had turned in favor of his opponent are in the room, witnessing all this happen with bated breath. It took at least five officers to pry Satoru off the bloodied middle aged man who had a foot in his grave by the time the crown prince was done obliterating his face, and another five to escort him into the police mobile.

All of this transpired on the night of the silver jubilee gala. Mere hours after Satoru took off.

A horrified silence had befallen the entire banquet hall when the news broke out, immediately going viral on every social media platform.

The emperor contemplates his wife’s words for but a passing moment when he decides otherwise, turning to the men in blue, his voice is authoritative and could make any devil tremble in their boots. “Thank you for reprimanding my son,” he sighs. “I can assure you that—“

The Tokyo metropolitan police officers alongside the imperial police await the decision of the emperor, but have already begun to pull out the keys to Satoru’s handcuffs thinking that His Majesty would have him released.

“—All charges pressed against Satoru Gojo will proceed accordingly and—“

And for once in his life, Satoru feels the unmistakable emotion — terror. “—What?” Satoru is livid at this point. “Father!”

He merely ignores Satoru, his eyes trained at the shocked faces of the many officers whose feet are still planted to the ground.

“—And that I will be allowing all concerned members of all law enforcement units who responded tonight to take him into custody until the date of his full criminal trial should any take place. As such, I now declare Satoru Gojo’s claim to the throne as null and void, and his title of crown prince forfeited in favor of his brother, Suguru Geto—“

It was at this time that Himiko once again barges in just as Satoru is being led away, surprisingly, she was now wearing her usual uniform of a black suit and pencil skirt. She immediately throws herself at the feet of the emperor. Where was the bravado she so proudly displayed at the jubilee gala by indirectly confronting the empress? Gone. Where were the pearls she had practically worn without authorization of the people who were permitted to wear them? Now replaced with her fake 12-karat gold necklace that she wore since childhood. “Your Majesty,” she kneels before him like her pleas would reach the emperor’s stony heart. “Please don’t do this—“

The emperor and empress angrily turn towards her, their eyes ablaze. What was she doing here? “I have half a mind to have you arrested too, Ms. Zenin!” the emperor growls. Himiko was there at the scene of the crime, after all, and having her arrested would greatly destabilize the hold she possessed on the imperial family through her illicit affair with the crown prince. “Now, drop it!” the emperor yells at the sputtering girl. “I have allowed you to lead my son astray for too long and now it is time for me, his father, to discipline him, unless, of course…you’re willing to take his punishment for him.”

“Yes,” Himiko nods frantically. “Please do whatever you want with me, I-I will gladly accept it all.”

“No!” Satoru resists against the officers, as the imperial guards begin to restrain Himiko who makes a pained sound when she, too, is given handcuffs of her own. “Don’t hurt her! Please don’t hurt her!” It was the plea of a being in love, seeing his lover take all his father’s bullets. “Father! I’m begging you—!”

“—And how long have you made the empress and I beg for you to straighten out your life?!”

“—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” Satoru was exhibiting signs of mental distress at this point, his eyes brimming with tears like he were a child who had been told he was grounded. “Your Majesty,” he reverts to calling his father by his official title. “Please…please. Just let her go.”

How incredibly touching: two sworn lovers protecting one another to the bitter end, selflessly taking the fall for the other, shielding their beloved from any danger that might befall them. Only problem is…this toxic partnership between a prince whose life’s purpose is to stupidly follow his heart with gross disregard for those around him and a woman whose negative influence is demolishing her beloved’s reputation.

While the country is reeling from an economic recession, here Satoru and Himiko were indulging in yacht trips, while the impoverished scrounge for food in Tokyo’s many landfills, the crown prince and his girlfriend attended lavish state banquets left and right, while the homeless sleep under a resin-roofed bus stop at the height of winter, Satoru gifts countless of properties to Himiko as if one home couldn’t possibly be enough for the woman he so desperately loves.

“Satoru,” Himiko sniffles as she is slowly taken away, defiantly calling him by his name rather than his official title in front of Their Majesties. As if by doing so, that would help hers and Satoru’s case.

Gojo shakes his head furiously, his eyes welling up with tears. “Mother, please don’t do this.”

If this was going to be the end of them, then, Satoru hoped that his family would, at least, allow Himiko to return to being a private citizen, to walk away from all of this a free woman, free to live out the rest of her life away from the schadenfreude of the imperial court. Even if it meant never having to see her again, feel her warm touch against his skin the same way the sun bathes the earth in its resplendent glow, kiss her with the passion of someone who could have been a devoted husband to her had they been born in different circumstances, he will do anything. He would count the very stars in the sky if he could, die a thousand deaths if he must, if it meant allowing Himiko to be spared the pain of being branded as a criminal and placed behind bars.

“I’ll do anything, please just don’t hurt the woman I love.”

If only Satoru put more effort into earning the love of his people the same way he’s now willing to humbly bow his head to cossett the love of his life. Akiko Gojo gasps quietly when her prideful son falls to his knees in supplication. Suddenly, she is filled with memories of a younger Satoru who was once chastised by his courtiers for tripping on his own feet while he frolicked and played in the palace gardens, and how she didn’t think twice to comfortingly lift him into her arms while his retainer had been so content leaving him on the ground, his scraped knee ailing him as he struggled to stand up.

The empress’s feet seemed to have been possessed by a mind of their own, as she took one step forward, her sorrowful eyes trained on her crying son. “Satoru,” she gently crouches down next to him. “Oh, my little light,” she calls him by his childhood nickname. “Please don’t cry,” she weeps as she wipes his tears away with her thumbs. She shouldn’t be doing this, knowing that Satoru would only take advantage of the knowledge that she’s always going to be there for him regardless of what he does and what monster he becomes.

But seeing her child, her only boy, in the thralls of desolation is too much for her frail heart. So, she makes the choice for him, standing firm before her husband who has always taken the lead in their marriage. “Your Majesty, I beg you to not make a criminal out of Satoru, and reconsider restoring him to the succession. Please have mercy on your son.” His only legitimate heir. If Suguru were to inherit the throne, it would only throw their family into more chaos, and with the events of tonight, the imperial house could benefit from letting Satoru’s recent mishap die quietly. It would be disastrous for everyone if, on the anniversary of his father’s coronation, Satoru were to be unceremoniously thrown out of the palace.

“Akiko,” the emperor involuntarily utters his wife’s name, surprised at her sudden decision to stand up for their degenerate son.

From the moment the 2.3 pound Meiji tiara first touched her head, she relinquished all sense of self to the crown — her surname, her childish desires to lead a normal life, her civilian antics, everything — but now, here she stood before him, not as Empress Akiko but the liberal-minded woman that the emperor fell in love with as a young man. She may have given up everything to forge herself anew as empress of the country, but there is one thing that she has kept under lock and key so that the crown may never hope to steal it from her: her unconditional love for her son.

“Your Majesty,” she glances at Satoru’s kneeling form, her heart clenching in her chest. I’m sorry, my little light, she silently apologizes to her son, the last thing she wants is to seek the impossible from him, but if this was the only way that his future will be secured, then, she’ll just have to be the awful mother that Gojo thinks her to be. “I have a proposition for you.”

A journalist looks up from his laptop, dumbfounded at what he’s witnessing. “…No way,” he says under his breath. It wasn’t everyday you see a monarch bow before his people begging to be pardoned, but then again, no other monarch in the world is more problematic than Satoru Gojo.

Satoru clutches the fabric of his slacks, his knuckles turning white as he does so. This was so humiliating for him, having to apologize to mere nobodies whose existence wouldn’t even make it to the footnotes of history books to be written a hundred years from now. “I know my words mean nothing after everything I’ve done and the people I hurt, but still, I am sorry,” Satoru utters the apology again as if by saying it a second time, it would hasten his godforsaken sentence that is to be locked in a vile marriage with you.

He’s made it clear earlier by his gestures that he wants nothing to do with you, but perhaps that was only because you hardly know one another, you don’t exactly run in the same circle as him, you don’t have the slightest connection to any political dynasty — not by affiliation, and most certainly not by blood — nor were you some heiress to some long standing conglomerate that the imperial family is closely acquainted with. Perhaps it was just that. All of this animosity stems from the disturbing fact that you couldn’t even call yourself friends now here you were betrothed to one another announcing your engagement to the world.

But, something doesn’t feel right.

Shouldn’t awkwardness between you and Satoru be the worst thing that could come from this shotgun arrangement? You understand that this situation is uncomfortable for him as much as it is terrifying for you but is this truly enough to warrant his hatred? It’s not like you actively volunteered for the part, after all, yet he acts as if you had been the prime instigator of this marriage. You find yourself caught between wanting to keep him at arms’ length to advocate for tense but peaceful silence in your marriage and wanting to become his true and altruistic wife to get to know him better but at the expense of your emotional well-being knowing that he’ll probably hurl new insults at you.

At this point, the former seems to be the safest option, but there is something so deeply intriguing and captivating in Satoru that you ignore all the warning signs altogether.

Satoru ends the press conference by re-announcing the date of the wedding which will take place next week. You follow him out of the hall, meekly walking three steps behind him. Suddenly, he stops in his tracks, burying his hands in his pocket, adopting a more casual posture. You expect him to berate you for some unknown faux pas you’ve committed during the press conference but instead, you are met with something else. “I’m sorry about earlier.”

He turns around to face you, he doesn’t look angry, but he doesn’t look too invested in the conversation either. He just seemed indifferent. His eyes dart around the expanse of the corridor, someone could be listening in to this conversation — the palace has eyes and ears everywhere after all — he needs to temper his tongue lest he angers the emperor or the empress, despite every nerve in his body tempting him to spew more vitriol at you.

Waving a dismissive hand, you shake your head, instantly forgiving him earlier. “No, I must have overstepped my boundaries, I understand and I’m sorry.”

Gojo sighs heavily, offering you a small nod. “Let’s just forget about it,” he says. “It’s getting late,” he notes the time on his watch. “You should probably head home to rest.” That was…surprisingly kind of him.

“A-actually,” you unconsciously play with your engagement ring. “I wanted to ask if you were free tonight so we could…have dinner together.” The empress encouraged the both of you to get to know each other, after all. “I know it must be difficult being engaged to me when you don’t even know me.”

Satoru lets out a weak laugh. He wasn’t at all interested in getting to know you, frankly, he couldn’t give two shits, but it was amusing for him to see how delusional you are.

“I see,” he notes in a business-like manner. “Well, perhaps another time since I have an urgent appointment tonight and I’m already running late.” You can’t even pretend to not be disappointed when you’ve already taken the liberty of reserving seats for the two of you at a nearby restaurant you frequently visit. He plants a parting kiss on your cheek, but something about it feels so detached and hollow, but who were you to expect more when he didn’t harbor an ounce of affection for you? You nod against the kiss, curtsying as he walks away.

“What a day.” You discard the many hair pins that neatly gathered your hair into a half-updo, grimacing at the stickiness of your locks from the copious amount of hairspray that had been applied to it. Sighing, you get into your car, removing the standard four inch pumps you’ve been instructed to wear, as per the dress protocol set by the Imperial Household Agency for female members of the imperial family when they attend public events, in favor of your more laidback ballet flats.

As you drive out of the main compound of the palace, you are surprised to see Satoru, accompanied by what looks like eight bodyguards, hastily making his way to the official car used by the emperor. He waits as his chauffeur brings the car around, but for some reason, he does not look impatient for someone who is supposedly running late for an urgent appointment, he is leisurely tapping away on his phone. Suddenly, something catches you off guard. A boyish grin appears on Satoru’s face when he is approached by a figure that looks like a woman.

An awfully familiar one.

You don’t know if it must be the heat from your car’s air conditioning unit but — you feel your heart in your throat, no, to be accurate, you feel like you’ve been winded by a punch to the gut — you understand why she would be with him given her position and all, but why was Satoru draping his suit over his Chief-of-Staff’s narrow shoulders?

…

And…why is she kissing your fiancé’s cheek?

water’s edge taglist: @dummyf @kentokaze @esthelily @mandysfanfics @strawberryjimin13 @mat71201 @snowprincesa1 @naturallyspontaneous @kooromin @gojoist @dcvilxswish @13-09-01 @peachipeachy @iluv-ace @sawendel @helloitsshitzulover @jjuniescuderia @ackermendick @starrylibras @timetobegone @heelariously @idktbhloley @jjuniescuderia

#fic: water’s edge #gojo satoru #jjk x reader #geto suguru #gojo satoru x reader #geto x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #gojo satoru angst #gojo x you angst #geto angst #gojo x reader #jjk angst #jujutsu kaisen x reader angst #gojo angst

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lathalea · 8 months

Text

The Arrival

Yes, my beloved readers, it's time for another Thorin fic from yours truly!

Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield x Reader/OC (pick one) Rating: G Warnings: none Author's notes: Thorin and his Company have reclaimed Erebor and started rebuilding their kingdom. Everything seems fine except for the fact that the King Under The Mountain is eagerly awaiting the arrival of someone very dear to him... Also, I want to apologise to Peter Jackson for stealing some lines from An Unexpected Journey and J.R.R. Tolkien for appropriating and rephrasing one sentence from The Lord of The Rings. I'm a hopeless romantic, what can I say? You can find this fic on AO3. For @legolasbadass 💙💙💙

Khuzdul: Iglishmêk - dwarven sign language Kurdelê - my heart Lukhdelê - my light of all lights

The King Under the Mountain, Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, the second of his name, also known as Thorin Oakenshield, the king of Durin’s folk, was not a patient Dwarf—and yet he waited. He had been standing on the main terrace above the Great Gate of Erebor since the moment when the first rays of the morning sun gilded the distant peaks of the Iron Hills. His eyes, however, were turned towards the west, where the jagged tops of the Misty Mountains grazed against the pink sky. As he took a deep breath, fresh spring air filled his lungs. It was his—and his people’s—first spring in Erebor since it was reclaimed. The winter after the Battle of Five Armies passed in a blink of an eye. The kingdom was being rebuilt and prepared for the returning Dwarves, food stores had to be replenished, new trade agreements had to be signed… but among all those duties, something else kept Thorin awake until late on many a night. His memories.

The memory of a pair of hands gently resting on his shoulders as he sat behind his desk, and the sweet timbre of the voice that went with it, “Come, Kurdelê, it is time we reposed for the night, those reports can wait until the morning.”

The memory of those soft, sweet lips pressing innocently against his cheek and murmuring something scandalously indecent into his ear.

The memory of how her body felt in his lap, his arms around her waist, her arms around his neck, her forehead pressed against his, her silver laughter as she pretended to scold his rash behaviour, so unbecoming of a king.

The memory of her bare skin in candlelight.

But there were other memories, too. Their lengthy late-night conversations about anything and everything. Their secret escapades to the market, or to an inn, dressed as common folk, pretending to be a couple of travelling merchants. Their wanderings through the Blue Mountains in search of the best view of the sea in the west (his choice) and the most beautiful flower glades (her choice).

During the lengthy council meetings he had to hold almost daily in Erebor, he would recall how much her presence changed the dynamics of similar gatherings back in the Blue Mountains. Her reasoning was swift, and her no-nonsense approach to the matters of state made even the most ancient council members nod in approval. Even now, he would—out of habit—turn to his right, wishing to discuss a matter with her or ask for her insight. But she was not there, and so he would give out a dissatisfied grunt and return to the matter at hand.

He knew that the only thing he had to do was wait, and he abhorred it. But there was nothing to be done. No sane person would risk crossing the Misty Mountains in the middle of winter. Now, however, the spring came into its own right. And he sent his best men to the High Pass to oversee the approach of the first dwarven caravan from Eriador. It was supposed to bring the first group of his people returning home, merchants, masters of craft, their families and belongings… and her. The whole Erebor was waiting for the arrival of their kin—the symbol of a new beginning for the Mountain and its dwellers. Many eyes turned to the west, counting the days, making wagers, discussing the route the waggons must have taken, and the current road conditions. It seemed that in those days, only one topic existed: the caravan.

But Thorin could only think of her lovely hand in his. Of her kindred touch.

As soon as a raven brought word from the caravan, reporting that they have succesfully crossed the mountains, he could not stop himself from looking to the west, and hoping.

This was the fifth day he spent on the terrace, waiting for any signs of the caravan’s approach.

On the first day, Gloin waited with him in hopes of seeing his wife and son, but was called away due to some issue in the treasure chamber. Thorin stayed, cursing the enchanted forest (and its haughty king, for good measure) for daring to obscure his view. Sadly, neither the forest nor its king moved out of the way.

On the second day, Dwalin asked Thorin whether he was growing mawkish in his dotage, staring at the edge of Mirkwood like a lovesick whelp—a question he had to take back on the training grounds.

On the third day, Dori asked whether Thorin would rather wait inside, on account of that nasty rain, and drink some warm tea with honey. No, said Thorin, he would not. And that envoy from the Iron Hills could join him there, on the terrace, by the way.

On the fourth day, Nori, Bifur and Bofur kept Thorin company, amusing him—and themselves in equal measure—with the latest gossip straight from the taverns of Erebor (all two of them, for now). He had no idea that several hundreds of dwarves, mostly newcomers from the Iron Hills and the White Mountains, could wreak such havoc. And marry so swiftly and in such numbers. Spring was truly in the air.

Now, on the fifth day, he stood alone, and waited. Roac was circling the Long Lake below, giving out a single caw from time to time, “Still nothing.”

And then, a hunting horn rang out in the air. Thorin knew its sound all too well.

“Balin!” he exclaimed to his friend who sat in the hall beyond the terrace. “Sound the alarm!”

The elderly dwarf raised his head from above a piece of parchment, slightly puzzled.

“Call out the guard,” Thorin insisted, feeling his impatience take the better of him. “Do it now!

“What is it?” Balin rose from his seat, his scroll forgotten.

“The caravan!” Thorin gestured excitedly—perhaps a tad too excitedly for a Dwarf of his stature—towards Mirkwood, where a long line of waggons started emerging from the forest. “They will be here soon!”

She will be here soon.

Over a year passed since the last time he held her in his arms, since he braided the silky dark waves of her hair, and since he looked into the brilliant, wise eyes of the woman he loved. To him, it felt like an eternity, and in that very moment, as he hurried down the stairs that led towards the Great Gate, he made a solemn promise to himself.

When the caravan arrived, most of the Dwarves were already gathered outside of the mountain. The guards held their heads high, presenting their weapons in an honorary salute, not leaving their posts, but even they cast curious glances at the newly arrived, trying to find familiar faces in the crowd. Thorin smirked at his thoughts. They looked as impatient as their king.

He knew the protocol of such meetings like the back of his hand, requiring him to stand by the gate, look regally, and welcome the newcomers to their new—old—home. His resolve wavered, however, when he saw a familiar figure clad in a green, fur-lined gown getting down a waggon, helped by one of the guardsmen. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Without thinking, he took a step forward, and then stopped, recalling who he was and what he was expected to do. He was also not allowed to leave his post, just like his guards. Instead, he observed from a distance, admiring the way the waves of her hair fell down her shoulders as she looked around, perhaps slightly disoriented, taking in the surroundings. Thorin saw the exact moments when her gaze rested on the mossy stone shaped by his ancestors into statues of warrior kings. Then her gaze moved down, focusing on the green marble of the Great Gate. Her eyes widened, her lips formed an “O” and then moved, she spoke something, but her words were lost in all the commotion. In that very moment, she reminded him of that bright-eyed maiden he had met for the first time in a mountain meadow half a world away; the maiden who laughed at his abysmal jokes, who fit so well in his arms when they danced, and who accepted his awkward courting efforts. The time that passed between then and now did not take away her ability to wonder and enjoy the world around her. She endured so many hardships on the way from the Blue Mountains to Erebor, so many cold nights on the road, faced so many dangers, and yet she never wavered in her decision to leave the Blue Mountains behind to be with him and their people. Now, she was finally here and, at last, he felt complete. Being able to see his own kingdom—their kingdom—through her eyes, and to see how amazed she was at the view, was a reward on its own.

Thorin could not stop himself from smiling when her eyes finally met his.

“Welcome home, my…” he began signing in iglishmêk, in that discreet way they often did on official occasions when the eyes of many would rest on them.

A light flush bloomed on her cheeks, she responded with a smile, and began walking towards him, oblivious of her escort and the joyous crowd around her, forgetting about the protocol, moving faster and faster, a giggle escaping her lips, her braids danced in the wind, her cloak flowed behind her, and…

“Thorin!” she called him in that melodious voice of hers, and there were diamonds in her eyes, or perhaps it was only his vision that suddenly turned very blurry, and he opened her arms, and thought “the Abyss take the protocol!”, and he rushed towards her, ignoring Balin clearing his throat in embarrassment, because she was finally here, and he had waited long enough—and they finally met halfway.

He wrapped his arms around her and felt her pressing into him, and there was laughter, and more tears in their eyes, the diamonds of happiness, those most precious among gems, and he was finally able to finish that sentence.

“Welcome home, my wife,” he rasped out, pressing his forehead against her, breathing in her familiar flowery scent, the one he adored so much. This was her, finally her, in his arms, and only she mattered in this very moment, not the crowd cheering around them, witnessing this moment of tenderness between their ruling couple, not even his kingdom, nor the world around them—now, it was only her.

“I missed you, my love,” she murmured, holding tight onto him, as if she wanted to make sure he would not disappear, and a wave of warmth washed over him. “I can’t believe I’m finally here, with you, after all those months…”

“Neither can I,” he agreed, cupping her cheek tenderly and eliciting a small sigh from her. “It was much too long, Lukhdelê.”

“Aye, it was,” she nodded, her eyes searching his face, as if learning it anew.

“I made a promise to myself,” Thorin continued. “Never again.”

“Oh?” she tilted her head in that alluring way of hers, and he had to suppress the improper urge to kiss her passionately in front of his people.

“Never again shall we part for so long. I crave you by my side, my heart,” he stated, bringing her hand to his lips.

“Then I will be looking forward to you upholding the promise,” she graced him with a teasing smile that made his blood run faster. “We have been apart indeed for too long, and so were our people. I believe it is time for us to work on improving their morale, would you not agree, my king?”

“Your wish is my command, my queen,” he agreed and took her in his arms again, and then their lips met. Sweetness intermingled with warmth, tenderness fueled the fire inside them, and he cared not that they stood in front of the gate in the sight of many.

After all, who cares about protocol when you have to properly welcome your wife home?

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#thorin oakenshield #the hobbit #richard armitage #thorin x reader #legolasbadass #the hobbit fanfiction #thorin x oc #thorin oakenshield x reader #hobbit fic #thorin

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schemmentis · 1 month

Text

Revelation

Anon asked: Prompt: With Jacob living with Melissa, he sees how gay she is around reader and tries to open her eyes for it.

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1.3k

Pt. 2

“So…” Jacob drawls as he brings the last of the dirty dishes in from the living room. “When are we gonna talk about it? Because I kinda can't pretend I'm not seeing what I'm seeing at this point.”

“What are ya talkin’ ‘bout?” Melissa questions. A stern look at him for his not forthright way of speaking. “Talk about what, kid?”

“Y'know…Y/N.”

“What about Y/N?” Melissa rephrases her original question as she takes a step away from her sink. A hand on her hip as she outright glares at Jacob now. Irritated at his still beating around the actual topic, and now that he's bringing you into it too.

You were the newest member of their little Abbott crew. Still, you had been around long enough that they all knew you fairly well. Melissa, arguably, the most of all of them. Though she wasn't necessarily the warmest person; she certainly was more so than when you had first met her.

You were now a regular on the couch for morning news, at Mel and Barb's table for lunch, and the game nights the red head sometimes hosted. The crew, especially Janine, had wanted it to be held more often. Melissa maintained once a month was more than enough to invite them all into her space after school hours.

She stands even more firm on that stance now that Jacob is staying with her. She's grown more fond of him in their short time so far as roommates. He'd surprised her on more than one occasion for some of the things they had in common. The sharing of Real HouseWives goes a long way just by itself. Still, she wasn't about to invite anyone in any further.

Except, when she wasn't paying attention she already had. You had taken the spot right behind Barbara of being her favorite. Some days, you surpassed her work wife too.

She raises an eyebrow when Jacob still stands across from her in the kitchen. Game night had just ended and he was kindly helping clean up afterward. Then he had to ruin Melissa's mood by implying something about you. She still didn't understand what the younger man was trying to get at as he stumbled over the start of his next sentence beneath her glare. She knew, though, if it was anything bad about you she was prepared to make it however long they stayed sharing a living space hell for him. Even if she did like him.

“Would you just spit it out?”

“How much you like Y/N, is what I was trying to say. I didn't realize how close you two were until now.”

Melissa scoffs. This is what he had gotten her worked up over? She tugs the dish towel slung over her shoulder off to toss it onto Jacob's. “You dry.” She mutters, turning back to her sink to begin washing the used dishes.

“Of course I like Y/N. I don't see what the big deal is.” Melissa says after a moment of washing in silence.

“I knew you always picked her to team up with on game nights, obviously.” Jacob says as he dries the plate she's handed him. “And how you guys are at school and all. I just never noticed the other stuff until staying here.”

“What other stuff, Hill?”

Jacob's brow furrows, realizing Melissa really doesn't see it. “You talk to her every night on the phone.” He says, gently setting the plate into the dish rack before taking the bowl she's holding out to him. “Even though it's only been a few hours since you saw her last.”

“So?”

“I mean, do you do that with Barbara?”

“No, why would I? I'll talk to her in the mornin’ or Monday, whatever. Whenever we're at school next. Unless somethin’ bad's happened.”

“Right…” Jacob trails off, trying to navigate the conversation carefully. Part of him worries he's reading too much into things. The other part is worried he's already irritated the redhead just by starting this conversation and if he is right it's clearly going to be a revelation for Melissa.

He clears his throat, trying another approach. “Do you and, uh, Barbara do anything on the weekends?”

Melissa gives him a side eyed look. A little bit like he's dumb for asking. At least, he's sort of used to that one from her. “No. She's got church and Gerald.” She says like that's obvious and he should know that.

Which, he does know. He shifts the piece of silverware he's drying to the dish rack. “Last weekend you went to the movies with Y/N.”

“Yeah, she wanted to see Barbie. Again. She insisted it's different at the theater.”

“The weekend before that you went to the farmer's market together.”

“I'm not gonna pass up fresh produce, especially the peppers. I can use those in plenty of dishes and you get twice as much than at the supermarket. Besides, Y/N is always looking for fresh, local honey. New vendors, too. If somebody new is at one of the local markets then she's gotta go check it out.”

Silently, Jacob is begging Melissa to get his point but he can see she really isn't.

“You don't think it's…different with Y/N?”

“It's different with all youse.” Melissa answers as she shoves the last cleaned plate into Jacob's hands, frustrated at his prodding. “I ain't with you like I am with Barb and I'm not with Barb like I am with Y/N. What's it matter?”

“It doesn't.” Jacob answers quickly. At least, it doesn't in the way he can tell his questions are beginning to stress Melissa out. He certainly isn't judging, or trying to.

He thought Melissa at least had an idea of the different way her relationship with Y/N was when he first brought it up. He thought he had just caught onto something that was being kept private. Now, though, it's clear to him that Melissa hasn't even considered that relationship to this level.

“I just noticed you guys…spend a lot of time together is all. I thought…” Jacob stops himself from finishing his thought. He doesn't know how Melissa will take it now.

“You thought what?” Melissa presses, wiping down the kitchen counter. She doesn't turn to him but Jacob can hear the glare in her tone.

“I thought you guys were…seeing where things were going.” Jacob hedges.

“What's that even ‘spose to mean?”

“I thought you were dating and just not ready to tell everyone yet.” Jacob finally says plainly.

“Dating?” Melissa echoes, turning back to face Jacob now. In half a second, she gauges his seriousness. He means it. “You thought me and Y/N were, are, dating?”

Jacob shrugs helplessly. “Yeah. You two are just kind of…always together.”

“Well. We’re not.” Melissa says sternly.

Jacob nods. “I get that now. I won't just…assume next time?” He hesitantly promises, mustering a smile he hopes will disarm Melissa's demeanor. “For what it's worth, you guys would be good together, though.” He adds, making his way out of the kitchen to put away monopoly still left out on the coffee table.

Melissa stares after Jacob. He's disappeared from sight but her eyes remain on the space he had stood in before. A knee-jerk part of her says it's ridiculous he even thought the two of you were dating. A larger part acknowledges how he could have thought it.

She takes a deep breath, turning back to the sink. She lets the dirty dish water from the sink. She wipes the faucet and edges before wiping down the metal of the sink once the water’s drained. She drapes the dishrag over the metal divider between the two basins.

Her hands brace against the edge of the sink. A dim metal thunk when her palms hit it with small force. “Shit.” She’s falling for you.

#melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti fanfiction #melissa schemmenti x you #revelation

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goldenamaranthe-blog · 14 days

Text

Date Expectations 4: I Should Have Bought You Flowers

Charviathan

Charlie: (walking through Pentagram City upper class district with Seviathan on a "lazy" Sunday)

Charlie: (Sees a flowershop across the street and tugs on Seviathan's sleeve) Sev, darling?

Seviathan: What's up, sugar?

Charlie: Can... Can I get some flowers?

Seviathan: Huh? (Glances at the flowershop) Why are you asking me. You got your own money.

Charlie: (huffs) Let me rephrase. Would you be a dear and buy me some flowers? You haven't done that since prom... years ago....

Seviathan: Oh, sure. Here. (Hands Charlie a 50) Go nuts. I'll wait for you here.

Charlie: (Deflates as she hands the money back) Nevermind... Let's just keep walking.

Seviathan: Whatever you say, sugar.

-Not Much Later-

Charlie: (enters her room and sighs as she pulls out her phone. A single message notification from her dad)

Lucifer: Happy Birthday, Kiddo!

Charlie: Yeah.... happy birthday.....

Chaggie

Knock! Knock!

Charlie: (wakes up groggily) Who is it?

Vaggie: Uh... Vaggie, Charlie. Not really anyone else in this castle you call a mansion.

Charlie: Oh, fuck! I'm so sorry, Vaggie! (Scrambles out of bed only to get herself tangled in her own blankets and fall out of bed) Ah, shit! I'm still trying to wake up! Y'know. Get the brain back online! Ha! Ha!

Vaggie: (soft chuckles) Charlie, it's nine in the morning. I'm surprised you're still asleep.

Charlie: Just.... uh.... wanted to sleep in a little! (Untangles herself and rushes to the door, nearly throwing it off its hinges as she opens it) Did you want some break.... fast.....

Vaggie: (standing awkwardly with a serving tray holding a stack of chocolate chip pancakes with whipped cream and sprinkles, fresh strawberries in a bowl, a glass of milk, and a small bouquet of lavender, baby's breath, and white roses in her hand)

Charlie: (blushing as she takes the bouquet) Vaggie.... what's all this about?

Vaggie: (smiles bashfully) Um... Happy Birthday?

Charlie: (blushes harder and tries to hide behind the flowers as tears springnto her eyes) You made me breakfast in bed.... and got me flowers... for my birthday?

Vaggie: Well... yeah... was.... was I not supposed to? I kind of figured that you'd be the type to like birthday celebrations. And I didn't know what to get you, since you're kind of the Princess of Hell and can really buy anything you wanted....

Charlie: (grabs the tray of food, sets it on the floor, and hugs Vaggie tight while smothering her in kisses) This is the best birthday gift ever~

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel incorrect quotes #chaggie #charviathan #charlie morningstar #vaggie #seviathan von eldritch #happy birthday #flowers #breakfast in bed and flowers #early chaggie relationship #seviathan is a douche #date expectations #domestic chaggie #soft girlfriends

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daisynik7 · 8 months

Note

OMG I love your party idea it's so cool!! how about "slow down baby" by Christina Aguilar for Eren Yeager 💓💓 one of my favs

Slow Down Baby

Slow down baby and don't act crazy, don't you know you can look all you want but you just can't touch

Pairing: Eren Jaeger x f!reader

Rating: Explicit – MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Word Count: ~2.4k

cw: modern-day au, mutual masturbation, voyeurism, implications of cheating, cheating, sex toy use (vibrator), dirty talk, pet names (good girl, princess)

Summary: Your boyfriend Jean is working late again, and you can’t help but be suspicious that there’s something nefarious happening behind your back. Pent up from not seeing him this whole week, you take this alone time to treat yourself to some much-needed self-care.

Eren Jaeger knows that his friend is cheating on you, and he hates it. You don’t deserve it, not one bit. When Jean asks him to do a favor to try to cover up his infidelity, Eren seriously considers telling you the truth, ultimately deciding against it because of “bro code”. But what happens when he walks in on you taking all your sexual frustrations out on a little toy? Can he really keep his mouth shut?

Author’s Note: Thank you for this request @shepnicolo! Love me some Xtina, great song for the y2k karaoke party! This was a fun one for me, so I hope you like it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Likes, reblogs, and/or comments are always appreciated, thank you for reading everyone! MDNI banner designed by @/cafekitsune. Header image from Pinterest.

“Hey babe. Sorry, but I’m going to be at work late again tonight.” It’s already past nine in the evening when Jean calls you, informing you of this last-minute change of plans.

“Again?” He’s had overtime every day since last week. He’s also been leaving early in the mornings so by the time you wake up, he’s gone. It feels like you’ve barely seen him at all. “How about dinner?”

“Yeah, yeah. I already ate.” There’s shuffling in the background. And maybe it’s just your paranoia, but you swear you hear a woman giggling quietly beside him.

You swallow hard, asking, “Is someone with you?”

“Huh?” His tone shifts, as if you’re asking the most ridiculous question. “What do you mean?”

Immediately regretting it, you rephrase, not wanting to sound accusatory. “I was just wondering if anyone else is working overtime with you. That’s all. Didn’t want you to be lonely there.” The last statement is a lie; you sincerely hope he’s alone and not doing what you’re suspicious of.

He clears his throat nervously. “Oh. Well, yeah, there are a few people here with me, so you have nothing to worry about.”

Too late for that, you think, listening carefully for any more clues. When you can’t hear anything else, you sigh into the phone. “Okay, sweetie. I’ll see you later then.” You wait for him to respond, but he doesn’t. Quickly, you add, “I love you – ”

He hangs up before you can get it out completely.

Jean had been pulling away from you for a while now. It didn’t just start with the overtime. It began over a month ago, when you noticed how glued to the phone he was while the two of you watched TV together. When you asked who he was texting, he answered, “It’s my new coworker. She’s asking some questions about work.” At the time, it didn’t raise any alarms in your head, so you dropped it. Every day, he was immersed to the screen, sometimes excusing himself to take a call outside on your balcony. You resisted every urge, every temptation to eavesdrop on his conversations, look through his text messages, interrogate him further.

You continue to give him the benefit of the doubt. There’s no way Jean would ever cheat on you. While you haven’t been together for that long, you like to think that you know him well enough to be sure he’s a faithful boyfriend. You don’t even have proof of his infidelity. It would be unfair to accuse him of such atrocities over some silly speculation, right?

Since he’s been in the office late this entire week, the two of you haven’t had sex in what seems like forever. Pent up and frustrated, you take this time to care for yourself, since Jean’s not around to do it. It starts with a serving of your favorite dessert, then a warm bath, soothing the tense muscles in your body. You surround yourself in a comfy robe, brushing your teeth with the full intention of falling asleep as soon as you do the one thing you need to make yourself feel better tonight.

With all the lights off, except for the dim glow of the lampshade on the nightstand, you snuggle into your bed, untying the robe so it’s splayed beneath you. Inside the drawer, you retrieve your favorite vibrator and a small bottle of lube, pouring a tiny bead on the tip. Spreading your legs wide, you smear it on yourself. Using your free hand, you navigate to your favorite dirty audio, playing it out loud.

~~~

Eren hates this. Absolutely hates it.

He’s driving towards your apartment with a set of keys in his pocket and a bouquet of roses sitting in the passenger seat. All because your friend is a piece of shit.

Eren’s known for a while now that Jean is cheating on you. It started with a not-so-subtle comment in the group chat. My new coworker is fucking hot. That alone disgusted him. Connie, of course, laughed it off. Armin didn’t say anything, probably unsure how to respond at such a statement. It only went downhill from there.

She’s got the best body omg.

I’m in trouble now.

This is bad guys lol.

Don’t tell the girls okay?

Jean has always rubbed Eren the wrong way, ever since they were kids. But at least he respected him. Now, not so much. Not at all, actually. You don’t deserve this, not one bit. No one does, but especially you. And maybe the reason he can’t completely berate Jean is because Eren’s harboring a secret of his own: He’s head-over-heels for you.

Of course, he’s never acted on it. Bro code, right? Thou shall not hook up with another bro’s girl, or whatever the unofficial rule is. But what if said bro is acting like a total asshole? And what if this bro would treat you the way you deserve and more? Then what?

It’s because of this stupid code that he finds himself in the most ridiculous, aggravating situation. Earlier in the night, Jean texted the group chat. SOS SOS SOS. Armin and Connie were both busy, so didn’t respond, leaving Eren to answer the cry for help.

Jean explains it quickly through the phone, voice all panicky and guilty. “Dude, I need you to do me the hugest favor right now. I would you owe big time if you could help me out.” Basically, he needs Eren to buy a big bouquet of roses and deliver them to your apartment, where you can see them first thing in the morning.

“Why?” he asks, irritated by this request.

“I think she’s suspicious. So I need to do something to throw her off the scent,” he explains. Eren can already see the cocky, shit-eating grin on his face. Why is he friends with this douchebag? And why did he agree to do this? He’s complicit in this mess now, not only for keeping his friend’s infidelity a secret, but for helping him continue it. He wants so badly to tell you the truth so you can escape this relationship. At the same time, he’s supposed to have his friend’s back no matter what, even if he is being a massive prick.

So, he decides to help his buddy out, no matter how much it’s killing him. He meets Jean at an unknown address, most likely his side chick’s place. “Dude, seriously. I owe you one,” he says, patting him on the shoulder.

Eren nods silently, not wanting to speak in case he lets his true feelings slip. Jean hands him the spare keys to your apartment. “Just sneak in and set the flowers on the kitchen counter. She won’t suspect a thing.” It takes all of Eren’s willpower not to punch him in the face, so he quickly turns around to get into his car and drive off.

It’s almost midnight by the time he arrives to your apartment. Surely, you’re asleep by now, still completely unaware that your bastard boyfriend is cheating on you. Still, he shouldn’t meddle in your relationship, even though he wants what’s best for you, which is not Jean.

He unlocks the door quietly, tip-toeing into the kitchen to set the flowers down, as instructed. He notices your bedroom door is ajar, a faint streak of light coming from the inside, and the undeniable sounds of a man growling expletives like, Come for me, slut. Yeah, give it all to me.

His eyes widen, surprised that you’re still awake, even more so that you’re listening to something like this. Curiosity gets the best of him; he stealthily makes his way beside your door, peering through the tiny opening to get a glimpse of you.

You’re laid out on the bed, bare and exposed, gripping a vibrator to your pussy. The sight alone is enough to put him into a frenzy. Hearing your soft whimpers from your mouth along with the electric buzz from the toy fluttering on your clit sends him into a trance that he can’t snap out of. Before he can think logically, he’s pushing against the door, making his presence known.

~~~

“Eren!” You sit up in bed, flinging the toy off to the side, covering yourself with your robe. “What are you doing here?”

He stands before you, a crazed look in his eyes, an obvious bulge protruding from his pants. He stutters, “I’m sorry.”

“What are you doing here?” you repeat, glaring at him.

His mouth is agape, unable to get the words out. You’re losing patience, watching him struggle to explain why he’s here, inside your home, watching you masturbate. You grab your phone, making sure to exit out of whatever filthy audio that’s still playing, fingers ready to dial your boyfriend’s number when he blurts out, “Jean is cheating on you.”

You freeze on the spot, heart sinking from having your worst fear confirmed.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, staring down at his feet. “I’m so sorry.”

There are no tears in your eyes, surprisingly. Instead, your throat is heavy with emotion as you repeat for a third time, “So, what are you doing here?”

Still avoiding your gaze, he answers, “Jean thought you were catching on to him, so he asked me to bring you flowers to throw you off.”

You can’t help but laugh, shaking your head. “Unbelievable.” Crossing your arms over your chest, you ask, “How long have you known about it?”

“A few weeks.” He looks up at you, saying your name this time. “I’m sorry you had to find out like this.”

After a deep breath, you sigh, relaxing against the headboard. “I’m sorry you’re involved in it.” You smile at him. “And I’m sorry you had to see me…you know.” Embarrassment catches up to you, heat rushing into your cheeks, aware that you’ve just been caught touching yourself with your vibrator, which is still in plain view beside you.

He steps forward, inching closer towards the end of the bed. “Don’t apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong. Jean is a fucking asshole. You don’t deserve this.”

“What do I deserve, Eren?” You peer at him, tears welling in your eyes now, desperate for any ounce of comfort he can give to you in this moment.

He sits near you on the edge of the bed, keeping his distance. “You deserve to be loved by someone who’s always going to treat you right. Someone who’s going to love you from head to toe.”

“Someone like you?”

A gentle smile forms on his face. “Yeah. Someone like me.”

No matter how badly you want to close the distance between you, want to feel the love he says he can give to you, guilt holds you back. Sensing your hesitation, he scooches nearer. “Let me help you. Tell me what you want.”

Eren has always been sweet to you. Too sweet, in fact. You’ve always gotten the sense that he cares more for you than he lets on. And maybe it’s because you’re hurt right now, fragile, heartbroken, even a little scornful towards Jean. Whatever it is, it makes you realize you’ve been too busy with the wrong man to notice the right one has been here all along. However, two wrongs don’t make a right. Even with the confirmation of Jean’s adulterous behavior, you’re still his girlfriend until you officially end it, which will be soon.

In the meantime, you manage to come up with something you can do to take advantage of this moment.

You let go of your robe, letting it fall to your sides, displaying your nude body to him, arousal wet between your legs from earlier. He watches you carefully, cock straining against his sweatpants, breathing heavily.

“I’m not a cheater like Jean,” you mutter, spreading yourself wider, showing off your glistening cunt.

“I know you’re not,” he whispers, scooting forward, hand drifting to his lap.

Reaching for your vibrator, maintaining your gaze on him, you say, “I’m a good girl.”

He swallows hard, palming his erection through the fabric. “Fuck. You’re a good girl. Such a good girl.”

“You can look, but you can’t touch. Understand?” Your finger hovers over the button, tip pressed to your throbbing clit.

He nods erratically, licking his lips. “Yes.”

“Good,” you smirk, turning the toy on, ready to give him a show. “Tell me all the things you want to do to me.”

He shoves his boxers down, cock sprung stiff against his abdomen, the slit shiny with precum, veins bulging on his shaft. It’s the prettiest cock you’ve ever seen, better than what’s-his-face by a longshot, though you might be biased now, given the circumstances. Eren wraps his fist around it, jerking himself off while he watches you tease the tip on your swollen bud. “I want to fuck you into this mattress,” he moans. “Pound this pussy until we break the bed.”

“Yeah?” you purr, pressing the fluttering tip deeper into your clit. “What else?”

“Want to bounce you on this cock, watch you cream all over me,” he huffs, stroking himself faster. “God, this is hot. So fucking hot.”

Pleasure ripples through your body, toes curled from the sensation, so close to your climax with his soothing voice spitting his nasty fantasies at you. “I wish you could fuck me right now,” you confess, limbs quivering from ecstasy, pussy fluttering around nothing, aching to be filled.

“Me too, princess. Me too. But you’re a good girl. And good girls don’t cheat.” He readjusts himself onto the bed, kneeling in front of you, stroking his hard dick. “I can give you this cum, though. That’s not cheating, right?”

You blindly agree with him, approaching your climax. “Yeah, give it to me. Give it to me, Eren.”

He swears loudly, shooting his load onto you, spilling over your clit, dripping down your pussy. “Fuck,” he groans, marveling at how pretty you look covered in his seed.

You smile at him, relaxing against your pillows, dipping the tip of your vibrator in his mess. His mouth hangs open, eyes half lidded, watching as you stuff it inside your cunt.

“Holy fuck,” he whispers, stroking his cock again, eyes fixated on your pussy.

Do technicalities even matter anymore? All you know is that you want to be loved from head to toe by Eren Jaeger. You set aside the toy, sitting up to close the gap between you, pressing your lips to his. He hesitates before deepening the kiss, tongue slipping inside your mouth, sloppy and eager for more.

When you break apart to catch your breaths, he leans his forehead against yours, whispering, “Are you going to be a bad girl now and take this cock?”

Grinning, you nod, pulling him in for another kiss.

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