#and then after the affliction passes away

[arcanarix]

The Helpless -- G. Suguru X Fem! Non Sorcerer Reader

Summary:

You, a passionate graduate student, encourage the priest Suguru Geto to appear as a guest lecturer to one of the classes you assist teaching. Little do you know, that small, seemingly unimportant decision changes the entire trajectory of your life.

Word Count: 13.2K

Warnings: Yandere, Yandere Getou Suguru, cunnilingus, a reader who can see curses, a reader who is a graduate student, hands free orgasm, dubious consent

AO3

It’s one thing to be a regular-degular everyday gal slaving away in academics.

It’s a whole other beast when you’re a regular-degular gal who, not only takes up an ungodly workload for your last Master’s semester, but you also decide to TA a few classes as well. But that’s not all! Did you mention you have other burdens you’re certain no one else in your world carries? Being able to…see things.

You’ve come to accept that seeing things is just as natural as breathing, at least, for someone like you. It’s why you’ve come to develop a sense of empathy for those unaware they’ve been afflicted, especially fellow students or the faculty around here. Or people you just pass by on your commute to class. There’s not much you can do, except give them some reassurance. There’s nothing more you can do, than to be a bit more lenient with students on their grades when their performance is has slipped. Whether from the things they’ve been afflicted by that only you can see, or for some other humane reason, like family problems, or personal problems.

You don’t remember when this curse of sight began. You’re not aware of anyone else in your family who struggles with this particular unique issue, either. While many take the old adage “fighting your inner demons” as just that, a figure of speech, you’ve come to learn that it’s a quite literal thing.

Humans manifest their own troubles.

It’s an early day for you. 7AM you’re lecturing one of your previous courses, Philosophy and Contemporary Thought. It’s nothing new for you, but it will be new to this new set of students, and you hope you shed some light on the topic in today’s lecture to these bright minds. It’s what you live to do now. You’re certain after you graduate that you’ll pursue a PHD in Philosophy.

While you still have another hour until the lecture begins, you have been writing on the whiteboard a high-level overview of the topic. Absurdism, Nihilism, and Existentialism. All fantastic topics in their own rights, and you might have a little too much passion when discussing them to the professor which typically lectures this class. In fact, at one point, you even bring up the idea of bringing in some guest lecturers, which the professor is delighted to do for you.

When you bring up who you want as the next guest lecturer, the professor is understandably a little uncertain given the organization’s ambiguous reputation. You suggest the leader of the Star Religious Group, Suguru Geto, a priest infamous for preaching about the current state of society to his followers and devotees. You think it might be an eye-opening experience for young minds. Not that you agree with a lot of his ideologies, but it is always good to go in with an open mind. Even if such ideologies might seem completely out there.

What’s more shocking to you is a new e-mail notification which is from the devil you know, Suguru Geto, you see when you toss your head over your shoulder in the middle of writing another bullet point on the board; the marker squeaking against it from the force. You dash back to your desk and podium, scanning the reply’s contents. Your eyes light up with delight! He’s pleased with the invitation and is happy to engage young minds, just as you are!

You crack your knuckles and draft a reply before hitting send. You then glance at the clock which reads 7:45AM. You have 15 more minutes to prepare the class and also make such a delightful announcement!

His reply is as quick as yours. Your eyes widen in shock from the last line.

‘Would it be bold of me to request to discuss this over some coffee or dinner? I’d like to meet you sometime before the day I’m scheduled to lecture.

Best Wishes,

Suguru Geto’

He doesn’t have to ask you twice! You grin as your hands spring back to life drafting another reply. All you can say is yes, yes, yes! If that means the possibility of more opportunities for exposure to other ideologies, then what’s the issue? You don’t see any!

Your pinky hits enter when you shoot the response back. And just in time, some of your students pour into the large seminar room. You don’t ignore the little curses latched onto some of them, ignoring the twinge of sympathy in your chest. You can deal with that later, however you can. You just know to remember the names attached to those faces when you go to grade their assignments.

They don’t need added stress. While you aren’t sure what to do with the curse of sight, it at least makes it easier for you to be kind.

And sometimes, that’s the hardest thing to be in a world like this. Where humans are the cause of their own suffering.

“Good morning,” you greet with a little pep in your voice, hoping to wake up those dreary faces. Yes, it’s early. Yes, there’s probably a million things these students would rather be doing than attend an 8AM 90-minute lecture. But these young minds are troopers for showing up, anyway; you always remind them it’s easier to do nothing.

Some students who have entered the class acknowledge you with a nod or a strained smile. Some of them with the curses latching onto them. They seem so tired. Only you can see that but to everyone else, they seem normal.

More of your students begin to pour into the grand lecture hall, and you grin. 5 more minutes.

“Take a glance and what’s on the board, and let me just turn on the big screens…” you trail off as you do just as you promise. The two huge overhead screens project your computer screen with the PowerPoint you prepared at the ready. “…I’m lecturing today in place of the professor who is away for the week.”

You do hear some students murmuring amongst themselves before the clock strikes 8AM, thus having you begin. The murmurs quiet down as you gesture for the students to direct their focus on you as you begin rambling away on some of your favorite topics ever.

And perhaps the greatest gift of all for you, is the fact that they still seem engaged in spite of their exhaustion. You have to give yourself a pat on the back for that one. It means you’re doing something right!

After the lecture ends, you return to your dorm and pull up your email for any other responses from Geto. To your delight, he has responded with more of his contact information. Instead of his professional phone number, he provides his personal. It’s still a bright beautiful day for you to conquer but you have some evening lectures to attend. You take advantage of the time to catch up on your own assignments and grading work from other classes you TA.

You do seem a bit desperate, but hey! It’s all for the sake of education, after all!

Dialing the number, you wait. You hear the other line click.

“Yes?” comes a smooth voice over the line. You exhale, calming your nerves the best you can in that moment. You can’t help it! All of this anticipation is killing you, but in a good way and not the undesirable way.

“Hello,” you begin, still a bit nervous (and, duh, excited) at the prospect of meeting such a famed priest. Even if he is a nutjob, that somehow makes him even more fascinating. “Am I speaking with Suguru Geto?”

“Yes. Are you the TA at Tokyo University, that I’ve spoken to just a bit ago?”

You answer with a bit too much enthusiasm in your voice. “Yes, that’s me! Thank you for your time with my students. I’m sure they’ll love to hear your perspective in class.”

“Of course,” he replies in a low murmur. “I am more than happy to provide my insights for the sake of furthering education. So, I’m set to lecture next week? Would you like to grab some dinner before then?”

“I’d love to,” you breathe, your heartrate increasing by the passing second. Why are you acting like this? You’re acting like a shriveling schoolgirl trying to impress your senpai! This can’t be real. “What days are you free?”

“I can free up my schedule, but yours is far more rigid than mine, I expect. So what day works best for you?”

“Hm…how does Sunday evening sound?” That’s the only day you’re ever truly free. It’s usually the day you use to reset your week, but you can get all of that out of the way before the evening, anyway! It’ll be a nice way to cap it all off.

“Excellent. I’ll give you the details to this restaurant my family likes to go to. I’ll come pick you up that day.”

Oh, you can feel the excitement seeping into your bones and searing them like acid. You can’t help it—anything that expands your knowledge, anything that gets your gears moving in that huge noggin’ of yours? That’s worth being excited about, for sure!

Though you have to admit, it feels a little too easy. You doubt he wants to discuss anything beyond the lectures and what kind of tidbits to feed to students, You don’t claim yourself to be a mind-reader, either, but judging from the tone of his voice…he seems just as eager as you to meet. Unless you’re just playing on some wishful thinking, because you’re just that damn naïve sometimes and you can’t help but let your imagination run a little wild.

You don’t realize you’ve not responded until you hear Geto clearing his throat over the line.

“Miss?” you hear him inquire, concern laden in his tone. You flush a bit, embarrassed by how long you kept him in this call when he has his own agenda to follow after this. You shouldn’t waste his time any more than you already have.

“Sorry, got lost in thought for a moment,” you chuckle, as your eyes roll upward. “Yes, that sounds perfect. I can’t wait to meet with you.”

A long, reflective silence stretches over the two of you, and then:

“And I, you. Until then.”

Click.

Oh, the anticipation! And it’s already Friday, so you have to make sure you give your best foot forward and the greatest first impression. After all, you don’t want someone like him to think that you neglect yourself in favor of furthering your students’ education? Even if in some cases that might be admirable, you don’t want to seem like you don’t take care of yourself.

Especially since you’ve caught wind of quite a bit of gossip around Suguru Geto. That he’s the handsomest devil people have ever seen, and that people join his organization for the sole reason that he’s beautiful eye candy. You wonder how that’s going to turn out for you. You can’t help it; you get as excited over men as you do over education, and you’re not exempt from desiring some kind of connection. You’re only human in the end.

It's simply human nature to desire connectedness. Heh. It’s part of why humans strive to join communities, who share similar values, mindsets…isn’t that why he’s lead Star Religious Group over the years? Isn’t that why you decided to pursue a degree on Philosophy, to seek an understanding on the human condition?

“Great, now I have to figure out what to wear…” you muse out loud as your gaze flits to your tiny ass closet. With hardly anything too fancy because you strive for comfort sitting through long, long, looooong lectures and instructing them. Nobody cares about fashion sense in higher education, anyway, at least on schoolgrounds.

You almost wish you’ve packed some nicer things for occasions such as these, though. It’s important to make a great first impression.

The dorms at Tokyo University aren’t the most pleasant. They’re all cramped up and feel isolating, even—more like especially—the single dorms. You’re lucky enough to nab one yourself. All you’re provided is a closet, a bathroom that connects to the neighbor’s, and a small bed. And a desk. Just standard, cramped up, uncomfy at best. Even if you give it a touch that shows off your sparkling personality, it doesn’t change the fact that it’s…just small.

Not in a cozy way. So far from a cozy way.

“What to wear, what to wear…” you muse out loud again, sliding open your bamboo closet to reveal…a very dull set of capsule clothes. You wish you didn’t listen to those influencers online, because how the hell are you going to style any of these basic, boring clothes? And why are you deciding upon this two nights before meeting with Geto? Oh, right. You’re hoping to get his attention somehow.

Because you’re a lonely piece of shit.

You don’t even know what he’s like. Not really. You have seen some pictures, and the rumors hold true: he’s jaw-droppingly handsome. Like, holy hell, you want to take his pants off right then and there and show him a good time on the fucking spot type of handsome. Those long thick luscious locks of black hair cascading down his back. Those striking, intense violet eyes that remind you of amethysts.

And that jawline. Oh, that fucking jawline. A sharp jawline that’s so, so damn rideable too.

Everything you want in a man, and he’s a damn lunatic and you know it.

Maybe you’re a little too into it.

“Ugh! Are you serious?” You sift through your tiny capsule wardrobe and also find that it’s completely void of any color. No pop of color to spice up a dull wardrobe…does this mean you have to go shopping? Do you even have the funds for that right now? A satin black blouse with faux pearl buttons catches your eye and you hum as you consider how to style it. It’s not the fanciest getup, but it’ll do.

“Now I have to settle on a makeup look and hair…ugh! And the right perfume? Did I even pack any with me this term!?” You practically tug and pull at your hair as you rack your mind for ideas; you don’t have the greatest sense of style, but you can always seek some trusted sources for ideas. You kind of wish you had time to make more girl friends during your time as a graduate here. You need second opinions, and you have access to none.

Curse you for being more of a loner! Curse you!

This might be something you have to settle until after your evening lectures…

Sunday night approaches sooner than you expect. Geto sets the time for 6PM on the dot and you expect to meet him at the back of your dormitory. The sun has dipped over the horizon, leaving behind a sky in hues of soft pinks, lavender, and indigo, dusted with bright stars. Tonight’s a waning crescent moon.

The parking lot is barely full, with other students likely out and about and enjoying their weekend. You should have enjoyed it a little more, too, but your schedule left almost no room for such luxuries.

You unlock your phone to check the clock a few times, but it’s only a few minutes until he arrives. You sigh as a gust of wind rushes through your hair, and you don’t bother to try to adjust it. You’ve given up on making a good first impression because you can’t seem to make anything work out. You hope you look presentable, at the very least. Like a dignified, distinguished woman—the way you should be.

Who can’t seem to wait much longer because you sooooo hate to be left waiting! You’re huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf to yourself. It’s not even like he’s stalling because you’re the one who decided to wait outside! Out here, in the crisp and chilly evening autumn air. You want to take a moment to appreciate the array of colors on the leaves of the trees lining the parking lot but you are far too eager to meet someone interesting.

Finally, a dark, smaller limousine pulls in front of you. You’re stunned. You know the guy must be loaded, but you don’t expect something so fancy like this for some reason. The driver steps out and opens one of the back doors for you, and you offer her a smile. The lady with the pretty, wavy pink hair only huffs in response, which has you perking an eyebrow at the animosity (eh, women can be catty with each other for sure, but you aren’t interested in engaging in that sort of behavior, and never will be interested in such) and you slide into the vehicle. There, on the opposite seat, is the man of the hour. Suguru Geto.

The pink haired lady shuts the door after you enter, and you adjust your skirt a bit because suddenly you’re too aware of how high it hikes up your legs when you sit. You feel a little exposed, without meaning to. You probably have forgotten how to dress like you’re 22 and cute, ready to mingle and to party like it’s 1999.

You don’t remember what that’s like, actually. You idly wonder if you’ve forgotten how to be a girl, sprucing herself up for a potential suitor. Getting swept off of her feet, getting asked out on dates…when’s the last time that’s even happened to you?

You are about to part your lips to speak, but then you notice something floating overhead. Your eyes widen in panic, before glancing at Suguru, who seems composed and collected with a little grin playing on his lips, complementing the rest of his handsome features.

Gosh, is it illegal to be that ethereal? It should actually be a crime.

“It’s nice to meet you officially,” Geto begins in that smooth voice of his, like a jazz singer between speaking parts of their piece. Your heart flutters at the sight of him and you reprimand yourself in your mind.

Get a grip! You think. This is just for business! He addresses your name, and you confirm he’s pronouncing it correctly.

But something else catches your attention, a chill dancing down your spine.

You don’t ignore the disgusting, grotesque, hairy, indigo worm-like creature hovering just above Geto. Its eyes look like narrow slits, and it has a tiny mouth. It’s an overgrown, nasty ass caterpillar to you. You try not to grimace when you see little bits of drool dribbling out of its tiny mouth. You try your best not to make it seem obvious that you see it.

Is he aware of its presence? Does he know about…seeing things? Much like you?

But unfortunately for you, he seems to catch onto your shift in demeanor, quirking an eyebrow. He gestures to the grotesque creature, making your hairs stand on end. “I take it you can see my little friend here.”

“I…yes,” you swallow, eyes glancing down at your lap while you fiddle with the fabric of your skirt.

A stretch of silence falls between you two, and those sharp violet eyes of his are assessing you. As if trying to understand your dilemma…not like he’s much different in that regard here, but you’re about to find out how wrong you are about that soon enough.

“From what I gather, you don’t appear to know how to get rid of them. Have you only been able to see them?”

You nod grimly, digging your fingers into your skirt. “Yes, all my life. For as long as I can remember.”

“I see,” he replies, “It’s quite a burden to take on, isn’t it? Able to see the evil humans create, but unable to stop it.”

“…Yes,” you admit, chewing on your bottom lip. So just what is he getting at? “I’ve always been…sensitive to these things, I guess. I can’t tell you exactly when it all started. I think sometime after my grandfather passed away as a child.”

Geto hums in acknowledgement. “Often, the only time someone without the innate ability to sense curses see them at a time of tragedy, or even before their own deaths.”

He adjusts his shirt. He’s not wearing his priest garb; instead wearing a casual deep navy top and dark wash pants. You notice he paints his nails to match.

You find yourself swallowing. Why do you find that so damn attractive?

“There is a way for you to rid the world of these curses,” he says, tone calm, even. Soothing on your nerves…has he ever considered hosting a podcast? He has a voice you can listen to all day, just for the comfort. “I can help you in that regard, but of course, that’s not why we’re here tonight, isn’t it? I look forward to next week with you.”

“Thank you for your kindness,” you reply, voice meek, a flush creeping onto your features. “I-I’d like to know what more I can do about this curse of mine. The sight, I mean. Um, I hope I don’t sound rude, but does it always…hang around you like that?”

“Not always,” he chuckles, waving his hand and in a split second, the spirit above him vanishes. “That was just a test. I’ve been watching your lectures since your professor reached out to me, just to get an idea of what to expect from you.”

“How did you know I could see them through the lectures posted online?” you tilt your head, curiosity piqued. It’s not often that students are asked to come up to the class to demonstrate knowledge, but perhaps there’s been some instances where you acknowledge the presence of a curse in the classroom that goes unnoticed by the standard human eye. You have no choice but to elect to ignore the presence in the middle of class, but sometimes you can’t hide your own reactions, perhaps. He must have caught on one way or another.

“I’m sure you can put two and two together,” he answers with that smug little grin still on his face, but you can tell in spite of that, he’s being a bit playful with you. You shake your head, grinning in spite of the anxiety spiking in your mind.

“Of course,” you say with a smile tugging at your glossy lips, as a laugh escapes your lips in uneven breaths. Your eyes flit around the secluded area of the limo, as if unsure how to proceed from here. You twist the edge of the sleeves of your blouse.

What are you supposed to do with this information then? A sheen of sweat glistens on your face, and you hope your setting spray is doing the trick to hold that soft glam look you worked so hard to make perfect for the night.

It’s supposed to be freakin’ sweat and transfer proof… you think in your mind, your lips twitching ever so slightly. God, you try so hard and where does It get you?

“Is something on your mind?” Geto’s voice snags your attention back to the immediate reality. Oh, right. You’re supposed to be discussing work stuff. What you want him to bring up in his guest lecture. And if he wants to make that a regular thing for the students this term.

“Sorry,” you reply in a wistful tone, fiddling with a stray strand of hair. “It’s been a while since I went out like this, I guess. Been all work and no play, and this still involves work!”

A gasp slips from your lips as he takes your hands in his, and you admire how soft his skin feels against yours. When you meet his eyes, they’re not hardened but soft, glittering like the gemstones those violet eyes resemble.

“It doesn’t have to be.” He runs the pads of his fingers across your knuckles in a soothing gesture. You feel your guard melt away. He seems like such a kind person in spite of the sort of things he preaches to his followers or devotees. You have done a little digging on him too for the purpose of your studies. The man before you doesn’t seem like someone who holds so much disdain for the current state of society. Even if you do agree with some of his views to a certain degree, a lot of his ideals do seem a bit…impractical.

But then again, most religious priests do believe in many impractical things. You’re beginning to understand the origins, considering the things you’re able to see that the standard human eye cannot. Most of these spirits are manifested from humans’ negative emotions. If only humans can understand how to control and harness that.

Unfortunately, it’s not like people can turn their emotions off unless they’re robots.

You can feel the flush on your face deepen and the sweat dampening your face a bit. You dig into your purse for a wipe to dab some of that off. You are definitely leaving a scathing review on that setting spray falsely advertising its benefits. Geto doesn’t make any comments. He doesn’t seem all that concerned, even. He can tell you’re a bit unnerved and is being kind and patient with you.

It’s a kind enough gesture from him.

You arrive at the restaurant and rather than the driver, it’s Geto who escorts you out like a gentleman, hooking his arm around yours. Though you can’t see through the driver’s tinted window, you just know that the driver’s probably seething at you from the display of affection and you’ve only just met the man. Are you going to get lucky with him? Maybe not on the first date, but he does seem interested in you for other reasons than just business.

Geto definitely does look far more godly in person than in pictures—which already make him look like an ethereal being, blessed by the Heavens. You can’t believe this is even happening.

Maybe it’s been a while since he’s encountered someone else with the curse of the sight, too. Maybe he finds some comfort in knowing someone like you is out there.

You feel the same way about him. You both share that curse, of the sight of these spirits, but at least he can do something about it. And he can help you do something about it.

As you’re escorted to your table—a more secluded corner of the restaurant, which has you quirk an eyebrow, but you figure it’s to discuss the elephant in the room—you’re handed your menus and left to ponder your orders. As you open yours, he speaks up again, and your eyes glance up from your menu as you’re drinking in the sight of those delicious udon noodles that you’ve been craving for some time now.

“So your class,” he starts, taking a sip out of his iced water. “Tell me about it. What else should I expect and what would you like me to expand upon?”

“Well, that all depends on you. Since you’ve kept up with the recent lectures, I’d guess you know we’re covering the topics of nihilism, existentialism, and absurdism. I’m sure you have plenty of valuable insight about that. You can tie that into your work as well. Of course, minus the seeing things part,” you answer with a nervous chuckle. “The guest lecture is just a fun bonus for students. They get bonus points to their final grade if they attend as well as an incentive. It’s something to keep them engaged and interested in the material they’re absorbing.”

He nods along as you speak, resting his glass back on the table as his eyes scan the menu below him. “Ah. So I have free reign, then?”

“Don’t speak about the…obvious stuff between us; I don’t need to tell you that,” you respond, voice wavering. “I’d guess as long as it ties into the topics we’ve discussed in past lectures, it’s fair game. I’m sure they’d love to hear insights on what you do at Star Religious Group as well.”

“I see,” he expresses. Soon enough the waitress returns requesting your orders before taking the menus. After she leaves, he continues: “So what had you interested in me, specifically? I can’t help but be curious.”

“Oh. Well,” you trail off, racking your mind over what to say. You obviously can’t tell him it’s for more personal reasons. Though you have reason to believe that he already has picked up on that part. You can at least try to sound honest and not like you’re desperate for some action in your life? What makes you think you even have a chance with this guy, anyway? Pure, unadulterated delusion? Perhaps! You dare to meet his eyes as you try to muster up some kind of coherent answer. “Honestly, it’s just good for the students to get exposure to other ideologies. It’s all part of expanding their horizons and teaching them to keep an open mind. The whole purpose of attending university is to enrich the mind. Plus, you are a famed figure here. It just seems…you know, natural.”

He stares at you, brows furrowing as he takes in what you said. He seems…almost flattered by the answer you’ve given him. Even if you pull a lot of it right out of your bum, you’re pleased with the fact that you can save yourself from some level of humiliation in that moment.

Before he reacts, your orders are set on the table. Once again, he waits for the waitress to leave.

“Well, I’m happy to be there whenever you so desire,” he finally tells you as he pried his chopsticks apart. You join him in indulging in a meal. “Tonight is on me, by the way.”

“Oh, pish posh,” you quip with a dismissive wave of your free hand, grinning wide. “Let me handle the check this time. It’s the least I can do, since you’re taking time out of your busy schedule for this.”

A genuine smile tugs at his lips from that. It makes you perk up a bit; he does seem so guarded around you—or is he just like that in general?—for some reason.

“Such generosity is rare these days,” he comments, “I can’t remember the last time I encountered a character so authentic like yours.”

“Eh, I’m not all that,” you retort with an amused huff while taking a huge heaping of udon. You ignore some of the broth hitting your chin as you talk through chewing. “It’s a natural way to act, isn’t it?”

He shakes his head, chuckling as he seems amused by your erratic antics. Even his beautiful violet eyes are twinkling because he seems like he’s enjoying himself.

A win is a win! You find yourself beaming, heart swelling with pride. Does this mean you have a shot?

“I beg to differ,” he quips, “It’s…rare these days, to find such authenticity in humans.”

Well, you think, he’s not exactly wrong there…

Things grow quiet for a moment as you’re slurping up your udon, and in the middle of another particularly long thick noodle, you catch him staring at you. Tilting your head, you finish your bite and gesture to him.

“What’s up?” you question with a confused puppy expression.

“Nothing,” he declares easily, helping himself to another roll of sushi. “You remind me of someone, is all.”

You almost want him to elaborate on that observation, but then ultimately decide against it. It’s not all that important to you right then. For the rest of dinner, the two of you begin to discuss more mundane topics until you’re done. You follow through on your promise in taking care of the check, which he graciously thanks you for (and you of course brush off because why? It’s not a big deal to you). He escorts you back to the limo and helps you back inside.

The ride back to your dorm is pleasant. You two continue to talk about things that interest you both, whether about the future lectures or about the curse of sight. It’s something to discuss later, but you do appreciate when he tells you he’s happy to help you where he can.

“Would it be inappropriate of me to ask you if I could walk you back to your dorm?” he inquires, “Just to make sure. As you know, schools are breeding grounds for curses. Manifested from stress, anxiety, fear…”

“I’ll be alright,” you promise, “I haven’t encountered too many issues since I stayed here. I’ll be sure to give you a call if I do need anything.”

“I’d like that very much,” he states, but then stops you before you begin walking away, grasping your elbow, his touch gentle. “I meant to ask you before, but time slipped past me. Are you aware of the existence of sorcerers?”

Your eyebrows shoot up to your forehead.

 “Sorcerers?”  you echo. He nods.

“It’s what I am,” he explains further, but it clearly doesn’t make things simpler for you. “I’m granted abilities where I can exorcise those spirits from humans. It’s part of why I took over that organization. As much as I’d like to explain further, I’m sure you’re pressed for time as well. This is something to discuss over a coffee date, if you’re so inclined to meet more with me beyond business?”

Your heart skips a beat at the idea. You nod.

“Yes,” you concede, practically breathless. “I’d really like that.”

He smiles, releasing your arm and almost appearing bashful from the proximity. “I’ll wait for you to enter your dormitory before I head off. You have a good night.”

You match his smile. “You too.”

You twist on your heel and can still feel his intense gaze on your back as you enter the building. You don’t turn back, but you can still feel his stare. You don’t sense any malice. More curiosity concerning you.

You are curious about him, too.

On the day of Geto’s guest lecture, there’s a lot of excited chattering amongst your students, with beaming smiles and wide doe eyes as they glance down at the enigma of the man at the front of the room. Many people are aware of his reputation—however they receive his perspectives. You see many of your female students snapping a few photos of Geto, with your male students shooting envious glares at him, which has you shaking your head to yourself as you pull up Geto’s presentation he’s set up for the class. Of course you’re no stranger to the fact that he’s popular to the ladies, because you’re not immune to his objective good looks, either.

This is surely to get your students interested in the material.

Before the class begins, Geto pulls you aside for a moment.

“Were you able to take a look at the presentation before today?” he asks, “I did my best to adhere to what you asked of me.”

You give him a nod. “Everything looks perfect and ties in well with the course material. I really appreciate all your effort, Geto.”

“Suguru,” he interjects, “No need to be formal with me. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

You like to think so. You give him a reassuring grin.

“Go ahead,” you push as your grin widens. “All those curious eyes are on you now.”

The lecture, as you expect because you don’t expect anything less, is a whopping success. You have never seen your students more involved before. Maybe Geto’s good looks help in that regard, but you hope to yourself that they actually pay attention to the things he’s said about his own ideologies in correspondence to the course material discussed. Even your typical troublemaking students are engaged, with their mouths agape and their notebooks open as they scribble furiously down on their papers.

Geto carries his words with authority like he always does; it captures the attention of everyone in the room.

“Society often asks the strong and fortunate ones to protect what is weak, but at what cost?”

You watch as his eyes scan through the room, inviting his students to challenge the ideology. “There is a natural order to the universe, and disruption of that order comes at a greater price than humanity is willing to accept or acknowledge. Why protect those incapable of willing to contribute? It risks stagnation. It risks evolution. Not to go back to the roots of Darwinism and the survival of the fittest, but strength and progress are ultimately what drive the world forward.”

A few of your students exchange confused glances, unsure of how to react, but their curiosity still keeps them engaged. Many other students are sitting with their mouths agape, pencils still poised above their notebooks. There are others nodding along, but maybe not necessarily in agreement with Geto’s ideals.

Geto proceeds, his words woven into the course material as you wish for him to, in ways that challenge the status quo.

“Let’s consider the history of human advancement,” he goes on, as he changes the slides on the projector with the device you’ve given him. “We see how often significant change has been driven by only the strongest and most adept of minds. Society romanticizes the idea of protecting the weak, but in doing so, we are forsaking the future for the sake of the present—for the sake of preventing the inevitable. True progress demands necessary sacrifice.”

What a nutjob, you sigh, but you keep an eye on your students, who are as open minded as they come if they’re taking a philosophy class. They’re enthralled by him, by the way he connects these broader concepts with the subjects they’ve covered in this class and classes similar. While they don’t agree with his worldviews (and frankly, neither do you), it still has their gears shifting in their minds. They’re engaged. They’re eager to enrich themselves. That’s the ultimate goal for you.

By the time the lecture concludes, you see even the usual skeptics in your class are caught off-guard, mesmerized by his words, their pens still furiously scribbling across the page after Geto completes his presentation. You are in absolute awe of this man. You don’t know how you can repay him for such an intense lecture.

You do treat him to coffee and pastries at a café on campus, thanking him profusely for everything and you do hope that he continues to come back for the rest of the semester.

That’s definitely one of the better lectures you’ve seen since you’ve begun pursuing higher education.

He takes a sip of his coffee, his eyes twinkling in amusement as he settles back into his chair, relaxed as if he’s conquered the world today. Which he may as well have in your eyes.

“I’m glad I was able to make a lasting impression on them,” he boasts, “Are they normally this intrigued by the material?”

You shake your head at that.

“Oh, not to such a degree like today,” you respond earnestly. “I was impressed. The professor seemed very pleased as well, so he’s definitely hoping you come by more often.”

His eyes flicker with something unreadable before he leans forward, lowering his voice to barely above a whisper.

“I did notice many of your students haunted by spirits,” he confesses, “I can do something about it, you know.”

“That would be great. It’d give you more of a reason to frequent the university,” you reply, “You said you can teach me how to get rid of the problem?”

“I can,” he assures you with a hum. “I’m more than happy to demonstrate one day.”

“How soon can that be for you?” you ask a little too eagerly. “If I can do the things you can do…even a little bit, I want to be able to help people in a way that I can too.”

He smiles at that, his face brightened as he does, and your heart does backflips.

“You truly are a good person,” he remarks, his tone almost reverent.

You glance away, feeling heat rush to your cheeks. Receiving compliments have always made you feel awkward, and coming from someone like him, who seems so genuine, so sincere…it’s both off-putting yet flattering to you. You shrug the compliments off with a noncommittal hum, sipping your latte as a form of distraction. “Eh. That’s up for debate.”

“No, believe me, I mean what I say,” he insists, his gaze unyielding. “It’s…great to meet someone like you.”

You freeze in place. Damn, this guy…is he trying to kill you with kindness, or something? It’s definitely working because you swear you lost all the feeling in your legs; your body threatening to turn to mush.

“So,” your voice peters out as you try to continue the conversation before it lulls into another awkward stretch of silence. “Why don’t we meet more often this week about the exorcisms?”

“Sure,” he replies, “Do you know where my temple is?”

“No,” you tell him. He hands you his business card with the address on it.

“You can come there tonight, if you wish,” he utters, adjusting his collar as a slow, teasing smile graces his features. “Or, you know. Whenever you have some free time to learn more about what it is I do behind closed doors. Obviously, this kind of thing isn’t known to the public. As you might have guessed, the religious group is a bit more of a…coverup.”

You nod. “I’m honesty not surprised that this kind of thing is legit.”

“Of course you’re not,” he retaliates, his features darkening which nearly has you jump in your seat from the sudden shift in his demeanor. “You’re not blind like the rest. You see what lurks between our worlds.”

An eyebrow raises at the way he phrases that statement. Maybe it’s his nutjob side of him coming out, which you’re willing to ignore. You obviously don’t think he’s a nutjob for being able to see things like you can, and to rid the world of the issue. No, no, in fact, you see him as a saint for carrying such a burden. Even if it’s not one he’s wanted, maybe. More than likely, actually.

You just find some of his preachings to be impractical, is all. But like you have said before, many priests preach impractical things. It’s ultimately what appeals to the masses, isn’t it?

“Well,” you start, as you get up to leave. You have some more classes to attend yourself before you can think about anything to do with spirits. “Thanks for today, Suguru. It’s really been an eye-opening experience for my students. I know!”

“Of course,” he replies smoothly, getting out of his seat as well and pushing his chair under the table. “Thank you for treating me to coffee. Next time, you must allow me to get the bill. I can’t imagine this is easy on your finances as a student yourself.”

“Aw, fine,” you reply with a huff—your stubbornness is more playful than anything else, meant to lighten the mood a bit because you crack under too much tension.

“Next time.”

You’re definitely lying through your teeth. You know you won’t; he probably knows you won’t.

“And next time,” he goes on to say, without skipping a beat. “I’d like it to be a proper date.”

You almost drop the nearly empty cup of coffee in your hands from that statement, which encourages a hearty laugh out of Geto. Your blush deepens, and you place your hands on your hips, indignant, but he doesn’t stop laughing so you can’t help but join him and laugh at your own ridiculous antics. His laughter seems so pure, untouched. Raw.

It knocks the wind out of you, you find yourself admitting. You have never seen a more beautiful man in your life.

A part of you wonders the last time he’s ever felt so alight and carefree like this.

Later that week, you find your schedule easing up so you decide to make a quick detour to the temple. You give him a heads up that Friday evening, and he gets a ride ready for you at the same time you met before. He must be a creature of habit, or he just doesn’t want you to feel scattered. Either way, you’re looking forward to this demonstration he has for you. Maybe you might meet a client in need that night. As you’re picked up and driven there, by that same, snarky driver as last time, you can’t help but let the anticipation kill you inside a little. You do bring some of your supplies with you tonight, since time waits for no one and you have piles upon piles of assignments to grade, regardless of what happens tonight. You doubt Suguru will mind.

When you arrive, you’re greeted by the Star Religious Group’s temple which screams opulence the moment you step out of the limousine. Your mouth is slightly agape, taking in the sight. The building stands tall, grand, majestic. The religious group’s crest is on the center of the double doors which you enter after the driver, who is escorting you to Suguru’s exorcism room. The halls seem to stretch for miles, but you aren’t allowed time to explore as the pink-haired snooty driver shoves you into the room where Suguru waits, expecting you.

“Sheesh, your driver has got quite the attitude with me,” you remark, dusting off any particles in your clothes. You set your schoolbag aside as you approach Suguru, who is sitting in the middle of the room on a raised platform. “Thanks for having me tonight.”

“I’m happy you can make it,” he answers as he adjusts himself in his seat. He’s back in his typical priest garb, and you wonder if that was a personal choice because you have to admit; it’s not the most flattering on him. Not that religious garb is ever flattering…

“So,” you begin, seating yourself in the center of the room. “The demonstration. What does that entail?”

Geto casts a veil by chanting an incantation you have never heard of before. Then again, you have never even heard of sorcerers until now, so everything is new to you. Then you witness a few curses lurking about, ones he likely released for the sake of the demonstration. You watch, wide eyed, as the amalgamations are absorbed into a black orb that can fit into his hand. He smirks as you before you watch him ingest it with a look of disgust etched on his face, and from the way he arches his back to force it down.

You’re in awe. That’s his personal method for exorcising spirits? He’s discussed it in the past, but you have never seen it in person until now. You’re not sure what to think. He’s mentioned there are other methods other sorcerers have, and this is the one he, in his words, has been cursed with as a sorcerer. You idly wonder if he ever wanted to be one from the start.

“And that’s that,” he finishes, “I’m already their host, and exorcisms are usually much tougher than this, at times. The next time a client shows up, I can show you a more proper exorcism.”

He lifts the veil.

“And you say this is your unique method?”

He nods. “Yes. I consume them to exorcise them.”

“Your body holds all of those demons? Like a vessel?” you whisper, eyes shimmering from concern. Doesn’t that…not seem unfair to him? He has to hold all of those curses in his body. He has to make sure they don’t roam freely. He has been granted a power that seems to eat away at him, chip away at bits and pieces of his own agency.

That’s monumentally unfair in your eyes. You wish you can lift that weight on his shoulders.

He nods again, expression grim.

“Suguru,” you start after a period of reflection. You chew a bit on your lip. “Doesn’t it ever feel like too much?”

The resounding silence you get is response is all the answer you need to understand.

Suguru finally takes you on that proper date sometime later. Which eventually expands to more dates. Seeing each other more often. And as a man of his word, he even follows through on his promise and returns back to your university for a few more guest lectures all throughout the semester.

You feel like you’re floating; you never expect for anything to evolve with Suguru, but you’re definitely not complaining about the development.

It’s late one evening when Suguru requests your presence for another demonstration of an exorcism. It’s one of your students, he mentions to you, and you recognize her immediately upon entering the exorcism chamber. She’s a bright, ambitious girl who’s been thriving in your class in spite of the curses surrounding her that you’ve been able to notice. It’s why you’ve been a little more lenient with some students than with others. Is it unethical? Perhaps… but sometimes it’s necessary to give them a little grace here and there.

She’s approached you several times between class and during lectures, her eyes wide and thrilled to learn in spite of clearly cracking under the weight of the torment the curse spirits have put her through. The young lady has mentioned in passing that she’s felt a weight on her shoulders, an overwhelming amount of exhaustion that she can’t seem to shake off no matter how much medication she takes to stay alert. You know the reason why. And Suguru has noticed her. That’s why he’s suggested the student to visit his temple.

“She understands she’s cursed after I explained to her,” Suguru instructs you, his tone colder than what you’re used to all of a sudden. “I’ve noticed these curses are particularly stubborn with her.”

Now, as you stand beside Suguru on his raised platform, looking at the young, bright bubbly student in question, cowering in her spot. You can’t help shuddering from the tension. You’re never great with it. Suguru maintains his sharp gaze on the poor girl, his violet eyes reflecting a darkness you’ve never seen before in him. The student stands trembling at her spot, her hands clutching the hem of her shirt. Her gaze flits to you, fear pooling in her eyes, and your breath hitches—you’ve never seen her more desperate for relief from her torment. Even the strong ones break.

“Watch closely,” Suguru instructs, resting a hand on your shoulder.

He raises his free hand, weaving no gestures, nothing. Just instructing the girl coldly to hold still. You watch in awe as you watch the disgusting, grotesque curse spirits clinging onto the poor girl vanish into that same black orb. Some of the lights in the room flicker. The temperature drops and you rub your arms, seeking some kind of friction, some warmth. You can see your breath when you breathe out.

“Suguru…” you murmur, beady eyes glancing up at him.

“Shush,” he chides, his tone commanding and almost dismissive, not meeting your gaze.

The student’s body jolts as if struck by an invisible force, her eyes wide in terror as her breath comes in ragged gasps. You feel an instinct to rush to her, to offer some comfort, but Suguru holds you in place. He has told you to come here to watch, not to act.

“Those blasted curses, they cling to the weakness in humans,” Suguru mutters, his lips barely moving as he brings the orb to his lips. “Humans…they don’t understand the forces they impose on themselves.”

You don’t rip your gaze from him, a strange knot twisting in your gut. He addresses humanity with such disdain that it makes your skin crawl. It’s almost as if he wants to distance himself from the very essence of humanity.

He swallows the orb whole, arching his back as he grimaces at the strong taste (they can’t taste good). Your student collapses forward, her body quivering from relief. She’s smiling as she feels weightless and carefree again. You finally rush to her side, your heart hammering as you rest your hands on her shoulders, offering her comfort. Now she’s safe…but seeing the way Suguru’s attitude has shifted…something is not settling right in your soul about him.

“You helped her,” you whisper, bewildered eyes flitting to his. “Thank you. Thank you, Suguru.”

Suguru’s expression remains cold, calculating, still looking at the student with a hint of disdain. “Of course. It’s what I do. These blasted things thrive off of the pathetic weaknesses of humans.”

Your eyebrows furrow at that statement. He’s cold. You know the gist of the ideologies he preaches, of course, but you never thought it ran so much deeper in his soul. His gaze finally softens the longer he stares at you. For a moment, you’re not sure you really know the sort of person Suguru Geto is. It can’t just be the public persona he displays. And it can’t just be the sides he shows to you one on one. It’s true; humans are both simple and complex, multi-faceted…You can never truly know someone, even if you’re in close proximity to them.

“Are these the things you wish to learn?” he inquires, approaching you and helping you to your feet. He acknowledges the student before she makes her exit. Not before thanking Suguru profusely for his help. She’s never felt better. You can’t help but feel a sense of happiness for her. That torment has finally ended.

“I want to do the things you can do,” you reply, “I want to help others. I don’t want to be helpless anymore.”

His gaze softens even more at that, and your heart flutters.

“Then I’ll show you. There are workarounds for those who lack cursed energy. Tools imbued with cursed energy will be beneficial to you.” He presses a chaste kiss to your forehead. “If you want to be the change you want to see in the world, then let me be your guide.”

“Teach me everything, Suguru,” you yelp a bit as he goes in for a dip kiss, leaning you backward as your lips meet. You return the passion, lips melding against his as if you can’t think of anything else you’d rather do in that moment. “I want to help you.”

He hoists you up by your bottom, hooking your legs around his waist as he continues to kiss you deep, leading you back to the raised platform and settling you on the cushions and not once breaking the kiss.

You don’t even stop him when he begins to unbutton your top. Or when he slips off your pants.

He trails little kisses and bites between your thighs, and you let out a dreamy sigh. You don’t even care that you’re practically out in the open here. But by now, the temple’s off the clock, isn’t it? Besides, it’s not like you haven’t already done riskier things with Suguru already in your own damn classroom.

Next thing you know, you’re already debauched and fucked out of your mind and he hasn’t even fucked you properly yet. He’s just taking you apart with his mouth, probably in an effort to wash away that curse taste he’s ingested not too long ago.

You do like to toy with the idea of being his stress ball. Carrying such a burden like his…he must need that escape. That little time of respite from his role in the world that has been thrust upon him against his will.

You can’t blame him.

If that escape is hours crushed between your thighs? Well, who are you to deny him?

Your lips part as you gasp when you feel his tongue twist around your little bud of nerves. He really has shown he can do this for hours. He’s even creamed untouched like a hormonal schoolboy before a handful of times just doing this and it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever witnessed. There’s even been another time where he’s been so aroused by you that he’s creamed inside as soon as he entered you, which at first he found embarrassing but you insisted to him that it was the highest compliment in the world to you.

You wonder if that’s going to happen again tonight.

A shriek escapes your lips as he closes his mouth over your gooey folds and suckled hard, gulping down some of that heavy slick while rolling his tongue between them. Your back arches against the floor, hips grinding up into his mouth and he growls, low and menacing, like he’s in that mood—only interested in pleasing you on his terms.

“Suguru…” his name slips from your lips in a dreamy moan, legs constricting around his neck as you desire to knock him closer into you. His breath fans against your sex, and you buck your hips upward, craving more friction.

All you’re craving is more.

Already you can see a hint of a wet spot in his robe, meaning he’s already strained, already fully erect and leaking of arousal just doing this, just tearing you apart. You want to return the pleasure but this is another instance where he doesn’t need to be touched. He looks flushed himself, fucked out of his mind and delirious, eyes half mast as he locks his gaze on yours, his lips and chin sheen from your slick, while suckling and licking and slurping at your sopping gooey glistening cunt like he’s honored to do it.

He growls low again, and that wet spot in his pants spreads. He’s creamed himself untouched again and you mewl from the thought. Yet he doesn’t seem satisfied. He never is after just one orgasm or three out of you. You come soon after him, clenching helplessly around the wet muscle. He only chuckles, passing his tongue from your entrance back up to your clit. Where the tip of his tongue teases it with a few flicks before plunging it into your twitching, fluttering, soppy hole. You moan, hands gripping his head, clawing at his hair. He approves with another twist of his tongue inside your gummy walls.

In these moods of his, he doesn’t plan to stop. And you don’t mind. This indulges you as much as this indulges him.

During finals week, Suguru decides to hang back while you’re proctoring the exams for your class. He’s able to exorcise any spirits while there in a blink of an eye, lifting the weights off of numerous distressed students. You can’t help but smile. He does excuse himself a few times to ingest the curses, returning the third time with a cup of coffee for you both.

He sneakily brushes his fingers over your hand as you scan the classroom for any suspicious activity—meaning cheating, not curses—and you cast a sidelong glance at him with a little smile on your face.

As the students turn in their exams at the end of the period, Suguru speaks up and catches your attention as you’re stacking the papers neatly on your desk.

“So, is this the last exam for you?” he asks, hovering over your desk.

“No,” you answer with a defeated sigh. You’re so over the term. Your final term is going to be your lightest workload, which you’re looking forward to; it’s the little things. “I still have my own exams to take for the rest of this week.”

“Oh. Perhaps afterward, we can celebrate then. Nanako and Mimiko have been nagging me about going overseas somewhere for the winter. Will you join us?”

You tilt your head as he moves to cup your face, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks.

“Who will look after the temple?”

“Ah,” he quips with a sigh. “Manami can handle it while we’re gone.”

“Oh, well, if you really would like me to, then of course I’d love to go. Where are you guys thinking?” You’re in the middle of putting away your laptop and the files full of exams tucked away in a manilla folder.

“Bali,” he answers with a grin.

Your jaw hangs open and your entire face lights up. “No way.”

He leans in to give you a chaste kiss. “Of course. We have all the money and the time now and the girls have always wanted to go. They’ve come to adore you. They’d love you there.”

Pinch me, I’m dreaming. How did I get so lucky?

Little do you know that luck of yours is going to be tested.

You squeal in delight as you steal a kiss from him. Before you know it that kiss melds into a quick succession of heated kisses, and he grips you by your waist, hoisting you over your desk and pulling you flush into him.

“Can we lock the doors now,” he breathes between slobbery, biting kisses and though delirious you still manage to nod, as he reluctantly pulls away to do just that along with closing all the blinds.

He returns to you, shoving your things out of the way on your desk as he presses your back against the cool wood. He locks your lips in a frenzied kiss, desperate, soon trailing down to the juncture between your neck and shoulder where he bites down hard.

“Suguru—!” you hiss, your nails digging into his shoulders. He responds with an amused chuckle, licking the hickey now blooming on that area as his expert hands yank your work slacks off.

“The cameras are all off, yeah? Or if they are—let’s give them a show then—!”

“Nasty,” you playfully chide while whacking his shoulder. “They’re off now. No more lectures in this room today.”

“What a shame,” he laments, as he pries your legs as far apart as they can go before plunging his tongue into your sex. You squeal like a pig again, for an entirely different reason, biting the inside of your cheek.

“Ah ah,” he admonishes with a frown as he twirls his tongue between your already soaked folds, groaning low and guttural at your natural taste. “I want you to enjoy it, baby.”

You feel the flat of his tongue lap over your sex, smooth and languid, and you flush harder from the goopy, gooey squelching noises from the combination of your juices and his saliva. He’s devouring you like he always enjoys, taking his time in taking you apart.

You yelp as he inserts his large pink tongue inside, and he chuckles again, the sound vibrating against your sensitive skin. You squirm under him, and he holds you down in place, his grip unyielding.

It’s all so lewd, but you should be used to this by now, feeling his tongue plunge in and out of your gummy, spongy insides. But your head falls back, nearly slamming itself against the desk as your eyes cross.

The sloshing of your juices and his saliva is so…so embarrassing, and in a lecture hall too? Not as if you haven’t done this many times before with him, but why is it as thrilling as the first time whenever it’s with him? No one’s ever made you feel the things he did. No one’s ever understood you like the way he did and you want to give him everything.

You come in a hot flash, and he pulls off your sex, but not before a few long, dramatic slurps and gulps of your gushing slick that makes you squeak in embarrassment again. You basically are livestock to Suguru. He’s not even going to deny it either.

You whine pitifully as you feel him pull away, feeling sorely empty. But you’re not whining for all that long when you hear the light wisp of him pulling his pants and taking out his fully erect cock. He’s prepared, as usual, taking out a condom to wrap around his absurdly huge length that you’re surprised you can even handle taking even with enough prep. He lines himself to your entrance and pushes just the tip inside first, waiting for you to adjust with a little grunt of his own. You love it when he gets vocal; it’s often the only time you ever see him completely raw and uncomposed. He lets himself go completely with you, and he plunges more of his length inside and you utter a little strained gasp, gripping tighter onto his shoulders if it’s even humanely possible at this point.

He hoists you up from the desk, securing you in his arms as he begins to move you up and down on his cock. You cling helplessly to him, burying your face into his neck and breathing in his natural musk. It’s crazy to you that this is the most vulnerable you’ve ever been with any partner you’ve ever had and he makes you feel so secure in allowing it. He must feel the same way. Doesn’t he?

His hands rake down your sides, stopping at your waist where he rests them. He purrs, his thrusts growing more erratic with need, and you can still hear some sloshing of your juices from your previous orgasm and it’s lewd and so embarrassing but it’s so hot because it’s him doing this to you. Not many people can get away with this in a dignified way…ever, really, but for some reason, with him, he makes you feel on top of the world.

And you are on top of at least his world right now.

Not much longer, and you find him releasing with you soon following suit, your gummy, gooey, slick walls clenching desperately around his cock. You stay like that for a few moments, still secured tightly in his arms and his cock still inside. Sometimes he likes to let it just sit in there for a few minutes, maybe longer, savoring the comfort of being inside you before fully pulling out and disposing of the used condom (in a much more discreet manner, considering they’re still in a public lecture hall).

He's always prepared. You appreciate that about him. He brings in supplies for a quick cleanup and suggests going to the nearest restroom for that before he escorts you back to your dorm. It’s your final week there until the semester ends. You ask him to stay and to join you in the shower.

Of course he won’t say no to such an inviting request.

Lucky for you, the shower you share with your neighbor is vacant, and you lock either side before stripping down. Geto follows soon after, slipping inside with you after you wait for the water to preheat.

“When do you graduate?” he murmurs as he kisses your shoulder. You lean into him, sighing in relief. You have never felt more at ease with anyone than like with Suguru. He makes you feel things no one else in your life ever has before. It’s why you have so few in your life; nobody ever truly ‘got’ you.

“Um, from the Master’s program next term,” you reply in a whisper. “But I think I might aim for my PhD…”

He secures his hold around your waist as the scalding water showers over your bodies. Steam begins to fog the area around you.

“Being on school grounds where curse spirits are everywhere…are you sure you want to be around that for a few more years?”

“Curse spirits are everywhere, in general, Suguru,” you counter, craning your neck as he kisses up to your ear. “It’s just…a fact. I can’t let that stop me from pursuing my goals.”

“That’s a fair point,” he mutters into your skin before reaching for your shampoo. “May I?”

“You’re sweet,” you chuckle, snatching the shampoo bottle from his hand. “But why don’t you let me take care of you, for once, Suguru?”

His eyes widen at the idea, but he gives you a soft smile. For a moment, you catch a glimpse of how tired he seems from the burden he’s forced to carry—nothing he’s ever wanted for himself from the start. The more you learn of his role of a sorcerer, the things he’s faced…you can’t help but want to give back. You want to make him feel cherished, loved. Because he is cherished and loved.

His lips move to your forehead where he peppers soft kisses as you begin to emulsify the shampoo he’s handed to you between your hands before working into his luscious locks of hair. You can’t help but admire how long it is, how well he takes care of it. He says he allows his twin girls to brush through it from time to time since they enjoy things like that.

You feel him pull you closer into him, so close that you can feel your synced heartbeats. You’re in the middle of washing down the middle of his hair and you chuckle.

“What’s up?” you whisper, as he hides his face into your neck.

“Thank you,” he whispers back, his voice almost like a pained whimper, catching you off guard. He has never been this open with you before. “Thank you.”

You think you hear him sniffling, at first thinking it’s because the steam is catching up to him. The steam from a shower can really do wonders on clearing out those sinuses. But no. It’s not from that at all, you realize as you hug him closer, drawing soothing circles on his back.

Suguru’s…crying.

He decides to stay a bit longer with you in your dormitory, snuggling you close into his body as you’re grading the exams.

You don’t comment on the crying, because it’s nothing to be embarrassed about, anyway. Why make a comment? He is free to feel everything and anything around you. It’s the greatest compliment of all to you.

He’s safe here with you, just like you feel safe with him.

You brush your fingers through his hair, inhaling the fresh cleanly scent of it. Fruity. Citrusy. It’s calming as you try not to make any snide comments on some students’ work, because higher education doesn’t necessarily mean you get a lot of bright students. It’s still a mixed bag.

“How the hell does a Master’s student not know how to spell mitigate?” you sigh, tapping your red ink pen against your forehead. “Or criticism? Seriously?”

Suguru chuckles at that, resting his chin on your shoulder, and meeting your eyes. The bags under his eyes are clearer now up close. He can’t mask his exhaustion. From whatever it is. You can only make speculations from what he’s shown you already. You aren’t here to judge him; what right do you have to do that? You can only be here for him.

“I love you,” you hear him say and your bewildered eyes meet his. But you come down from the temporary shock, kissing the bridge of his nose.

“I love you too,” you reply, meaning it, as you resume grading before groaning again. You just may rip all of these exams apart on the professor’s behalf! “Another misspelling of criticism?! These students need to go back to grade school because how the hell have they gotten this far in life?! Gosh, so much of their stupid is showing…”

You hear Suguru chuckle again and you beam at him, knowing you achieved your goal. Just to pull him out of that dark space he’s trapped himself in—whatever it is. You’re here for him. You want him to understand he’s not alone.

You press another kiss to the crown of his head. When’s the last time Suguru ever felt relaxed? Or actually happy? In a world like this and a technique like his, can he ever relax or feel happy?

You feel him slump against you as he drifts to sleep, snoring soundly. He’s more than welcome to stay, as long as he needs to. His duties back at the temple can wait. He needs to allow himself to rest.

When the semester ends, you take up Suguru’s suggestion to live with him at the temple. You don’t have plans to go back to the countryside, and your trip with them is in another week, anyway. Over time, it’s clear to you how deep his disdain for humanity runs from the way he treats his clients behind closed doors. He makes flippant remarks, and at first you wanted to believe it’s just some strange quirk of his.

An incident proves how wrong you are.

You aren’t supposed to be there. It’s your fault. But you enter the exorcism chamber seeking Suguru concerning the upcoming trip to Bali—you can’t even remember what about specifically anymore—and that’s where you see him at his most cold and heartless toward a client.

There, in the middle of the room, is an elder man cowering on his hands and knees before Suguru who possesses that hardened expression like he has other clients. Except something about this seems off. More off than usual.

“Please, Geto, I’m so sorry. I have no more money to give you, but please, please help me. I can’t take it anymore!” the man begs, and Suguru only chuckles coldly in response. He hasn’t realized you’ve entered the room yet. Or maybe he has, and he’s just begun to show you his unhinged side.

“If you have no more money for me, then I have no more use for you,” he sneers and though you can’t understand what’s happening, he snaps his fingers and some of his devotees go to retrieve the man to drag him out of the room. His eyes follow them with that hardened stare, which softens as soon as he sees his followers brush past you.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he apologizes as he approaches you. “Did you need something, baby?”

“Suguru, who was that just now?” you stammer as you clutch onto your phone, your lips pressed together as you try to make sense of what you just witnessed. Suguru doesn’t look like the man you’ve come to know to that man but now he seems to behave as if that’s nothing out of the ordinary for him.

Which maybe it isn’t, but it is out of the ordinary for you.

It just goes to show—you never really know who someone is behind closed doors, after all. You still don’t want to judge Suguru. Everyone is multifaceted. Everyone is complex. Everyone has layers. Why should you judge him, especially if you still don’t know the full story? You don’t feel like you have the agency to do so. You’ve come here on your own prerogative, because you want to help the helpless. You don’t want to be helpless yourself anymore.

Something dark flashes in his expression again and you feel a chill down your spine.

“Ah, he’s no longer a concern to the organization,” he explains, “He’s just been hoarding money he’s owed from us and then he comes to claim he has none left. So we cut business with him.”

You need to leave, you hear yourself say. You need to leave him. You need to escape. He’s not who he claims he is to you, isn’t he?

Run. An urgent voice reverberates through your head like a gong struck.

“It looked like he was…begging for your help,” you breathe, eyes downcast. “And you didn’t help him. Isn’t that what you do here?”

“We help those who are helpless themselves,” he answers with a sigh, taking your hands in his and drawing patterns into the palm which didn’t hold your phone. “And he isn’t helpless. He’s just run out of luck.”

Run. The voice repeats.

“I see,” you mutter.

“Now, what is it did you want to ask me about?” he asks with that wide smile of his that seems unsettling all of a sudden the longer you stare.

“Oh, um, nothing, I just wanted to ask you about the hotels we were staying at on our trip,” you reply, surprising yourself that you keep your voice even in spite of your heartbeat rapidly increasing and your brain screaming at you to stay away.

RUN! It roars now. You can’t ignore it. You can’t ignore your gut.

“That’s something we can discuss later.” He kisses along your knuckles. “I’ve been called to a few more meetings today. I’ll see you tonight.”

You gulp on a hard lump of nothing, but manage to nod.

“Okay,” you squeak, exiting the exorcism chamber and dashing toward your shared bedroom with Suguru. You don’t even look behind you. You’re just letting your legs carry you to your destination while your mind conjures an escape route.

You need to run. You need to get out. Before things get worse.

You burst through the door of the bedroom, seeking your suitcase which has already been set aside for the trip. You don’t want to think about that anymore. This is the perfect setup; he won’t think you’re leaving, just packing ahead for the trip, right? You doubt he’s that careless, but you can’t be careless, either. You can weasel your way out of here somehow.

You start with the small things. Then rummage through your belongings, tossing them into the suitcase as quick as you can. You freeze when you hear foot falls approaching the room, and you quickly zip up your suitcase, setting it aside.

“I doubt you’re packing ahead. You didn’t pack enough clothes for that here.” Your hairs stand on end as you hear his voice address you. “Are you planning on staying elsewhere?”

“N-no!” You lie through your teeth, whipping around to meet his calculating gaze. “I just wanted to figure out what to pack for the trip, I swear!”

“Then why did you stuff half your wardrobe in your suitcase?” His gaze flits to your backpack. “And your backpack is full of your supplies. I’m not a fool, my love, so don’t take me for one.”

“A-are you upset with me?” you stammer, twiddling your fingers.

“If you ever try to leave me, I’ll break every bone in your body and lock you away so you can’t escape,” he sneers, approaching you in a few long strides until he’s barely inches away from you. He clutches your arms in a tight, vice grip, and you yelp in shock. “Or perhaps I’ll keep you lodged in the throat of that worm curse you saw when we first met. Its useful for storing valuables like my cursed tools…or you.”

“Suguru?” Tears prick the corners of your eyes as now you’re the one cowering. What has happened? You’ve seen some signs and elected to ignore it in favor of giving him the benefit of the doubt, like everyone deserves. And look where that’s got you.

He twists one of your arms so far you can hear a few cracks and pops, and you howl in pain. “You won’t leave me.”

His grip around your arms constricts even more as he releases some of the curses he’s exorcised, surrounding you.

“You won’t leave me,” he repeats, his tone dripping in venom. “Not after you’ve shown me love I never thought I’d ever experience again.”

Again?

You feel the grimy arms of a large curse snake around your ankles and waist.

“You won’t leave me,” he says again, hie eyes darkening with something sinister. “Ever.”

[ariesvibe]

.

[hexjulia]

how hard can sewing your own dungarees be really

[yesimwriting]

An Act of Service

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x reader

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

"Of course."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do as you need."

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

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

He straightens. "Yes."

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

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

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

"You don't look like him."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"My prince?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Of course, my prince."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

[chuluoyi]

found you

- gojo satoru x reader

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

genre/warnings: reincarnation au, fluff/comfort

notes: a sequel to everything, but not anything

general masterlist

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

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

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

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

But sometimes, it was the most disturbing nightmare.

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

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

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

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

You were going insane. You were sure of it.

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

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

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

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

Gojo Satoru.

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

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

In the end, you swiped right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

gojo: you're y/n

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he too, saw his reflections in your orbs.

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

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

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

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

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

I found you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Would you go out with me?”

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

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

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

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

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

[gay-dorito-dust]

Heyy,love your headcanon stuff! Especially the Batboys things

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

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

Dick

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Damian

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘No.’

‘No?’ You asked.

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

Jason

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

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

‘Jason what the-‘

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bruce

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[insanusnavicularis]

I just had a dream and hear me out okay? Noble George.

It’d be something like:

Merlin, barging into Arthur’s chambers: yOU WON’T BELIEVE WHAT I JUST FOUND OUT

Arthur: …What did you find, Merlin?

Merlin: George. GEORGE.

Arthur: you found… George? The servant? Was he lost?

Merlin: THATS THE THING! George! The servant! Right? Right?!?!

Arthur: uh- have you hit your head? Please tell me you don’t actually have a mental affliction.

Merlin: George! The servant! The servant who loves polishing and sweeping and- and I don’t even know, doing laundry I guess? And brass!

Arthur: okay, Merlin, you’re starting to worry me, you either calm yourself down or I call Gaius.

Merlin: calm down? He’s not actually a servant, Arthur!

Arthur: what- what does that even mean?

Merlin: it means, Arthur, he’s a noble.

Arthur: what.

Merlin: he’s a noble, Arthur! An actual, royal, noble! Like with- with the lands and, I don’t know what, the riches and- he should have servants! But he is one.

Arthur: I’m gonna be real with you, I don’t know what you’re talking about. What do you mean he’s a noble? He’s a servant! Has been a servant here for- since I was a kid.

Merlin: for since you were a kid?

Arthur: for since I was a kid! Yeah! He is not a noble Merlin, why would he be a servant here if he was?

Merlin: That’s the thing! Look- just hear me out, okay? I was in the library doing research on magic when I stumbled upon a book with all the noble families of the whole kingdom, okay? And don’t ask how I found it, but suddenly there it was! Name and surname and all: George! So then I asked Geoffrey and he confirmed it was OUR George. Apparently Geoffrey knew the whole time!

Arthur: what-

Merlin: so then I obviously went to interrogate ask George what was going on, and he confirmed it! Didn’t even try to deny it! He said it wasn’t supposed to be a secret anymore.

Arthur, getting invested, eating popcorn: what does that even mean?

Merlin: he told me that being a servant has been his dream since he was little. When he was a kid he was always running after the servants in his household and trying to help them and learn from them but his father didn’t like that because he said it was below his station or some other classist shit.

Arthur, eyes wide: omg story time.

Merlin: anyways fast forward to when he was fifteen summers, he decided he was going to make a life for himself and follow his dreams so he ran away at night leaving only a note behind that explained the situation. He went from city to city until he reached Camelot and his dream finally came true and he became a servant. He didn’t tell anyone he was a noble because he didn’t want to be treated differently or be sent back to his father.

Arthur, in the edge of his seat: wow.

Merlin: wow indeed.

Arthur: wait- why did he tell you then? If he didn’t want anyone to know?

Merlin: he said he didn’t think it’d be a problem now with how much time has passed and all. I asked him if I could tell everyone and he said that as long as it didn’t interfere with his duties he couldn’t care less, so I ran here and told you.

Arthur: wow.

[happy-beeeps]

Sweat it out

Summary: tav comes down with a nasty flu, and one of her travel companions begins to worry... and maybe realize his feelings

WC: 1.3k

warnings: none i think! idiots in love

f!tav x reader

It’s quiet outside Astarion’s tent as he paces back and forth. Halsin has been inside with you for far too long, and the lack of communication has him worried. How long has it been since he hasn’t ended the night with your words, your breath near his? Weeks, months?

He doesn’t like to think of it. In fact, he’s doing an excellent attempt at thinking about anything else as he paces, and fails to notice the clatter of their camp members walking over to him.

“Chin up soldier, the rest of us seem okay, it probably has nothing to do with her tadpole.”

“Karlach is right,” Gale agrees, “it seems unlikely that the rest of us would be spared the same fate if this truly was connected to our wormy affliction. She will pull through.”

As much as it pains him to admit it, Gale is right. For all logical sense, this should have nothing to do with the mind flayers—but the thought offers little comfort (few things hinging on Gale’s ideas rarely do.) 

It has started this morning, you had remarked how your head felt wrong. You felt wrong. You had ignored it, had soldiered on. As the day progressed, you complained of aches that had not been there, of chills that ran down your arms. Your skin grew pallor, covered in a sheen of sweat. By the end of the night, a cough ragged at your chest, and you could do nothing f else but whimper to yourself. The slightest motion had set tears out of your eyes, your skin burning itself to rid your body of whatever was happening.

Only Halsin, Lae’zel, and Shadowheart accompanied you now, the two healers were working overtime on an attempt to find your ailment, and Lae’zel was not easily persuaded to leave behind one of her dearest friends.

Astarion thinks of the dagger pressed to poor Wyll’s throat when he kindly attempt to guide her towards a spot nearest the fire.

He’s worried about you. This isn’t new, he’s made peace with the reality that he cares for you, he just hasn’t figured out how to say it. Now, he fears the opportunity may be slipping from him.

It’s Halsin’s booming voice that calms his nerves, he and the other two step out from the tent, his grin palpable even from where Astarion is standing. “She’ll be fine. It’s a nasty virus, I’ve given her a brew to aid in the healing, and I’ve created tonics for the rest of us.”

As he passes them out, Shadowheart walks up to Astarion, who is quickly making his way towards your tent. “You… don’t need a tonic. On the account of you being, you know. Not really alive.”

“You’ve got such a way with words, really,” he breathes, but his eyes flicker to the flap of your tent, “so I can go see her?”

Lae’zel speaks up, placing a firm pat on his arm as she walks by, “she’s certainly been asking for you.”

* * * 

You have two clear, feverish trances.

The first is of your mother. A memory that’s not uncommon, one you drift back to anytime you attempt to rest an illness away. Its familiarity brings comfort as you attempt to sweat this bug out, and ignore Halsin and Shadowheart’s proding over your body. 

The other is… newer. One you hadn’t expected. You’re in a secluded section of camp, feet tapping against the water, skin swathed in moonlight. Your wearing nothing other than a long, white shirt, unlaced dangerously along the neck. This is no more than two days ago. 

You follow the memory along, watch from your eyes as you trace circles along your bare thighs, until you look to your side. Astarion is there, eyes swimming with emotion, as he gnaws on his lip.

Memory Astarion reaches out, grabbing your hand, weaving your fingers together. “I’m glad you’ve convinced me to stick around after our escapades, you are entirely addicting.”

Memory you leans against him, pressing your weight against his. His skin is cool, the chill sending tiny bumps along your exposed legs. “I’m glad you’ve decided to humor me, Star.”

You’re mortified when your eyes flutter open, your mouth in the process of muttering his name, to realize he’s here. Next to you. In your tent. As you sweat through probably a third pair of smallclothes.

“You rang?” He’s cheeky when he speaks, but his hand goes to palm your stomach quickly, as if he’s checking to make sure you’re here, you’re still you. The concern is sweet, and it sends an all new kind of flush across your body.

“Feel so sick, Star.” Shit. Is that tiny little voice coming from you?

He moves then, gentler than he’s ever moved before, carefully contorting his body around yours and pressing you against him. In an instant, it’s like a salve to your soul. You’re covered in him—his smell, his weight, his temperature. The chill itself is a whole other soothe to your aches. 

“I know you are darling, but Halsin said you’ll be better soon.”

“Can’t get you sick,” a cough takes your lungs briefly, “who’s gonna pick the locks for us then?”

He laughs, and smooths a few stray hairs out of your face. “I won’t. Officially medically cleared, according to Shadowheart. On the account of my ‘not being alive.’”

You move to nod your head, but the pain makes you stop. Astarion is quick, and he cushions the movement with his hand before pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I hear you were dreaming about me?”

“Maybe. Lots of trances. You know how it goes.”

“Was it particularly scandalous? Is that why my little love is so keen to swear?”

“Don’t have it in me to hit you.”

“You wouldn’t dream of it.”

It’s a calm silence that takes you next, Astarion stroking your hair as you listen to the distant clamor of your friends. You break it, after another moment.

“I remembered my mother.”

You don’t often talk about your family, and he knows this. He moved just slightly so you can see his face, curiosity and warmth covering his eyes. “What was it?”

“When I was little, I got sick, nothing bad but still sick. My mother, she’d rub my hair and sing to me,” you pause to close your eyes, as if you could will her here right now, “she’d go to our kitchens and shoo the cooks out, she’d make me her special soup, and when she brought it to me she’d promise me she’d teach me one day.”

“She sounds lovely.”

“She was. Smart too. She always knew things about me that I didn’t know.”

“Oh, like what?” Astarion’s face shimmers with a laugh and you use the last bit of your strength to attempt a shrug and burrow into his chest.

“She used to tell me she knew I’d end up with someone older. Don’t know if she knew how old.”

After your words, as if in cue, your chest begins its steady rise and fall, and Astarion recognizes the twitch in your fingers. You’re trancing again. Which means he’s stuck with your words and their heavy implications.

Still, with the way your overheating body simmers against his cold touch, he resolved that he doesn’t mind their weight, not at all. In fact, he’d like more of your burden.

You don’t slip out of your trance that night, but feel the briefest ghost of a kiss on your forehead.

When sunlight rolls around, your eyes blink awake. You’re weak, you can feel it, but better. You go to sit up, but realize quickly Astarion’s weight is still against you, one arm cradling your head to his chest, one arm twisted beneath you. 

You’ve never quite felt so comfortable, so held. You don’t remember what you told him last night, don’t remember exactly what he said. Instead, you decided to live in this moment now, and pray to all the gods you’ll get to relive it again soon.

[igbylicious]

whichever way [woosan x reader] pt7

pairing: woosan x f reader

rating: 18+

genre: smut, fluff-ish, light angst, neighbours au, friends with benefits

ch. summary: San opens up, Wooyoung cooks, and time passes.

wc: 5.7k

ch. warnings: no full-blown sex scene but there is smuttish content, dom San, sub Wooyoung, sub reader, strip poker, dry humping, cumming in pants, thigh-riding, overstimulation, titty fuck, light cumplay, vaginal fingering, blindfolds, gettin’ giggly during (an attempt at) sex

San background story: UNLOCKED. Comes with a pinch of angst over a strained past relationship.

a/n: features a soft-bodied, aromantic reader who uses she/her pronouns.

masterlist. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14

“Yes, Dad, I’ll tell Wooyoung. No I won’t forget, don’t worry about it. Say hi to Mom for me, okay?”

San ends the call, an amused yet weary smile on his face.

“…Did your dad call you just to ask you to ask Wooyoung to call him?”

You stifle a laugh at what you just witnessed, putting a container of blueberries in the shopping cart. The grocery store hums with the sound of background music and other customers around you, not too crowded but still busy enough for a random weekday afternoon.

It’s a sweltering day, afflicted by an early burst of summer heat, and so San has opted for a basic white sleeveless shirt with jeans while you and him go through the shopping list that Wooyoung compiled. It is a true testament to your steady exposure to San’s physique that you aren’t constantly distracted by his bare arms — just a perfectly reasonable amount. (So… still a lot.)

“Yeah, he did…” San sighs, shaking his head as he puts his phone away. He picks up a watermelon and taps it to check for ripeness, a pout still lingering on his lips. “Dad has Wooyoung’s number, I don’t get it at all.”

“Wait, really? That’s… actually kinda cute.”

San stares at you, watermelon still in his hands. “‘Cute’?”

“Yeah! It’s like an excuse for him to also call you, right?” you shrug, picking out some nice-looking peaches.

“Why doesn’t he just call me if he wants to call me,” San sulks, but there is the tiniest hint of smile on his lips. “I swear, he can be such a weirdo.”

“Hm. What’s that thing they say about apples and trees?” you ask nonchalantly.

“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean!”

“San, you are a bit of a weirdo.”

“Funny,” he corrects you firmly. “I am funny.”

“Don’t get me wrong, weird is good. I like weird! But your dad did call right when you were trying to convince me that you’re secretly immortal.”

“I’m just saying there’s no proof that I’m not! Have I ever died? No!” San says, like he has just outplayed you with the most brilliant ‘gotcha’ in human history.

“Alright, Mr. Immortal,” you grin at him, pushing the cart further along, “then why are you such a scaredy cat anyway? I’ve seen you get jump-scared by Byeol more times than I can count. You have nothing to fear, right?”

“Hey, that cat is a ninja,” San counters, comically serious. “She can get the drop on anyone. There is no shame in getting scared by Byeol.”

Good-natured arguments aside, you and San are a well-oiled machine in the store. You do your groceries together on the regular; it started off one time when you impulsively texted San whether he needed anything, since you figured he’d be tired from working all day after a late night with you and Wooyoung.

But instead of sending a list, San decided to just come with you. Ever since then, it’s grown into a habit for either of you to text a little 🛒❓ before you go out to the store. Sometimes you pick stuff up for San, sometimes he picks stuff up for you, but more often it turns into a group effort.

Just like today; ticking off the shopping list that Wooyoung charged you with. He’s cooking tonight, and you’re excited to finally taste for yourself whether Wooyoung’s promised ‘perk’ of friendship lives up to expectations.

San certainly believes it will, hyping up Wooyoung’s skills as you make your way through the grocery store. You listen to him with a fond smile, slightly worried that Wooyoung might not be able to live up to the sky-high expectations, but also endeared by San’s open adoration of his boyfriend.

Since it’s a hot day, you and San also pick up two ice cream sandwiches, and walk home together.

You squint at San, who lugs around both the watermelon and a heavy bag of groceries. “San, this is ridiculous. I should carry something too.”

San grins. “Nah, you already have your hands full! With snacks!” He eyes his sandwich, then blatantly opens his mouth at you.

“Yeah, and if I took the watermelon, it’d free you up to hold your own,” you point out, but you raise up the frozen snack to his lips so he can take a bite anyway.

He shakes his head with a full mouth, barely taking time to swallow before he makes his protests known. “That makes no sense to me. Besides, it evens up this way,” he says, lifting his hand with the grocery bag up to his shoulder like it’s a dumbbell, then slowly lowering it back down.

“…Weirdo.” You affectionately roll your eyes at him and feed him another bite.

The ice cream sandwiches are gone by the time you reach your apartment building, where you take the elevator up to the top floor. Hands free, you open the door to San’s home and join him inside.

“Aish, Byeol no!” San poutingly scolds his cat when you step into his living room, where Byeol is sitting on the coffee table like it’s her throne. She turns her head at him, lets out a little ‘mrrp’, and refuses to move an inch — and San does nothing to actually remove her from the table, just leaving her be. (What a softie, you think warmly.)

“Wooyoung will be here soon, right?” you ask while you unpack groceries together in the kitchenette; you take them out of the bag, San puts them away or on the counter for later cooking. He also puts some sweet rice in a bowl to soak, as requested by Wooyoung.

“Yeah, shouldn’t be more than—” San starts, but he is interrupted when his phone buzzes insistently yet again. He looks at the name on the screen, and grimaces at you. “Shit, sorry, mind if I take this?”

“Aren’t you popular today,” you tease him. “Go for it.”

San shoots you a look of apologetic gratitude, and answers the call. “Yunho, hey man! Listen, can I call you tomorrow? I got someone over right now. No, not Wooyoung, it’s my neighbour. Y-yes, that neighbour. From next door.”

You had walked over to the coffee table to lure Byeol off the surface, careful so she doesn’t knock San’s reading glasses onto the floor. But when San mentions you, you look up just in time to see how his ears have gone slightly red, and he grimaces at the eye-contact.

“Okay, talk to you tomorrow, Yun-ah!”

You raise an eyebrow at him from your place on the couch, with the fierce and terrifying ninja cat purring loudly in your arms. “So… I am that neighbour, huh?” you joke.

Embarrassment now fully burns across San’s face. “I swear we don’t go around gloating about you,” he rushes to explain, flustered. “Yunho just— I asked him for help on how to approach you, before you walked in on— He, uh, he has some experience—”

“It’s okay, San,” you assure him, taking mercy. “I trust you and Wooyoung aren’t the shag and brag types. Besides, it’s not like I haven’t told anyone about you guys either.” Hongjoong probably also has San mentally catalogued as ‘that neighbour’ in his head. That being said, you are curious about this Yunho and his ‘experience’ now.

“So, uh, Yunho is a friend? Very accomplished in picking up his neighbours for threesomes?” you ask, scritching Byeol behind her ears while she slowly falls asleep.

San laughs lightly, your question smoothing away his earlier embarrassment. “No, no, it’s not exactly like that. I met him back at my first BDSM party; Yunho took me under his wing when he found out how little experience I had. The parties ended up not really being my thing, I prefer to keep it more private, but we stayed in touch. We tag-teamed a few times — usually at his initiative, so when me and Wooyoung got… interested in you, I figured he was my best bet for some advice.”

“Oh? What was the advice?”

San rolls his eyes. “To make sure we asked you somewhere that you could run away from. Fast. In case we creeped you out. Very helpful.”

“Hey now, don’t knock him for that!” you laugh. “One should always give a person access to a solid escape route when soliciting them for sexual favours.”

“It’s not like I planned to corner you in the elevator!”

San strolls over to the couch to flop down next to you, where he runs a gentle hand over Byeol’s grey fur. A hint of a smile tugs at San’s lips when she bumps her head into his hand, and his face is relaxed. It reminds you a little of Wooyoung’s quiet photographs of him, serene and soft.

Curiosity nags at you. You’ve always been interested in San’s history with kink; you just never found the right moment to ask more about it.

“Stop me if this is too personal to ask,” you say, “but how did you end up at a play party? Most of the kinky people I know stick to buying some gear online, do a bit of research on their own.”

“Oh? Huh, good question.”

San chuckles, completely unbothered by your curiosity. It’s not surprising; ever since stepping into this arrangement, San has always been very free-spoken about anything related to sex. He does ponder the question for a moment, thinking it over.

“The kink was only part of it, really. A big part, sure, but the whole emphasis on negotiation and everything really spoke to me too,” he slowly explains. “I looked online into local communities, found some groups, and decided to just take the plunge. I guess I just wanted to be around people who knew what they were doing, you know? I… I really struggled with confidence at the time, thought it’d be nice to see experience in action.”

You blink in surprise at that last part. “Wait, you struggled with confidence?”

Considering how shy San used to be around you, perhaps you shouldn’t be too shocked; but inside the bedroom, you have never known him as anything but a beacon of self-assurance. He takes care of you and Wooyoung with a rough or gentle hand, always certain in his assessment of which the situation calls for. No, you don’t exactly associate San with a lack of confidence.

San is not bothered by you asking this question either, or at least you’re pretty sure, but his brow does furrow lightly, and his fingers gently curl in Byeol’s fur.

“Yeah, I did,” he says with a wry smile. He hesitates, but then continues on. “My old boyfriend, he… Communication wasn’t our strongest point, I guess. It was always on me to take initiative, to figure out what he liked and I just— At some point I couldn’t tell anymore if he was even enjoying himself, or just… going along with it.”

You lightly lean against San, putting a hand on his knee. Not wanting to interrupt, but still wanting to let him know you’re here. Casual acts of affection don’t come the easiest to you, but San looks like he needs one right now. For him, you will try.

His eyes crinkle as he smiles at you in silent thanks. “It’s not that I mind taking the lead or anything,” San says awkwardly, like there is a need to explain himself, “or explore new things together if someone is still figuring out their preferences, but I need something, right? I need to know if it feels good — or if it doesn’t.

“Especially since, well, since I’m into some rougher things,” he says, abashed. “I already had a hard time not feeling guilty about those interests and he… didn’t exactly help. I kept worrying I’d push something bad onto him, that the things I wanted to try were wrong.”

A sympathetic pang of pain rings through your ribcage, and you gently squeeze San’s knee. “There is nothing wrong about the things you want. I’m sorry he made you feel that way. You didn’t deserve that.”

San’s smile deepens at your assurance, but he shakes his head. “Honestly, in hindsight I think he had his own issues to sort out. I hope he has now. We just… weren’t good for each other.”

“San,” you say firmly, exasperation and fondness battling it out in your voice, “sometimes you seriously are way too much of a nice guy.”

He shrugs, grinning at you. “That’s fine by me.”

“Of course you’d say that! It’s okay to be a little resentful at someone who made you fumble around in the dark like that.”

Something complicated shines behind San’s eyes. Like he can’t quite share your feelings, but he still appreciates that you feel them on his behalf. “It’s okay, I’m doing a lot better now,” he assures you, his face brightening again. “Besides, better to look at where it brought me, right?”

“Oh sure, if you insist on being all emotionally mature about it,” you say, exaggeratedly rolling your eyes as you nudge an elbow in his side. “But yeah, I can see how that’d draw you to BDSM, with kink checklists and all that stuff. Must’ve been freeing to have people just flat-out tell you ‘yes, I would like you to tie me up and spank me until I cry, actually’.”

There’s a little pop of warmth in your chest when San laughs. “Exactly! I mean, not that being into kink automatically makes anyone perfect at this stuff, but it still helped me out a lot.” He considers what you said a moment longer, and his lips curve a little sharper as he grins at you. “Soooo… is that a request? The spanking thing? I did take it easy on you last time.”

“You took it easy— San—!” you splutter, giving him another nudge with your elbow. Byeol mrrps in protest at how you shift underneath her. “Fuck, you really got better at that whole confidence thing, huh?”

But you look at him, at his gleaming dark eyes, and as you think back on some of your past interactions with San, their context changes ever so slightly.

Like the way San always softens when he’s praised after an intense scene; or how he had thanked you for being so open with him during your first kink negotiation and after you’d used ‘yellow’ on him. You had simply taken his mindfulness towards your safety and consent as the green flags that anyone should like to see in their sexual partner — but now you can see it goes a little deeper than that.

It was always a given to you, that San would make you feel good and cared for. But San has not always seen it the same way.

San’s attention has shifted back to Byeol, and he scratches the purring cat under the chin while she slowly blinks up to him; looking like the very picture of contentment in San’s trusted care.

“Thank you, for telling me all this,” you say, squeezing San’s knee again.

He grins. “Thanks for being cool about it.”

“Of course I’m cool about it,” you tell him, a little confused that it even needs to be said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Eh,” he says, trying to shrug it off. “It’s not that I thought you wouldn’t be. It’s just, for some people it kinda ruins the fantasy, to hear that their dom has a history of insecurity issues.”

“You’re not a fantasy, you’re San,” you blurt out, stubborn and earnest. “And you are my friend, first.”

San blinks in surprise at your words. (You’re a little surprised yourself.)

“Well,” he says in the abashed silence that follows, while slowly breaking into a soft smile, “thank you. I’m glad to hear that, really.”

You grin back at San, trying not to be overwhelmed by the simple, honest gratitude that glitters in his eyes. “Good. A-anyway,” you continue awkwardly, “you and Wooyoung sure do make a lot of sense, considering. He is not shy about what he likes. Is that how you guys met too?”

San’s shoulders shake with a silent laugh at your ungracious pivot. “Not really, but kinda yeah?” he says, running a hand through his hair as he thinks about the question. “I did meet Wooyoung through Yunho, but they’re mostly gamer buddies. Yunho pretty much set us up; must’ve also realised we’d be… compatible. He’s observant like that,” San chuckles.

“And it’s true, that is what drew me to Wooyoung at first. I liked how outspoken he is about what he wants — and he liked that I like that about him. And then… well, we found a whole lot more to like about each other,” San grins at you, just a little cheeky.

Before you can respond, you hear the front door to the apartment open as the man in question lets himself inside.

“Hey, we were just talking about you!” San calls to Wooyoung when the latter steps into the living room.

“Oh? About how great I am?” Wooyoung says, walking up to the couch to give you a half-hug from behind and kiss San on the cheek. He has come straight from work, still carrying a pleasant waft of the florist shop’s scent around him.

You’re still a little surprised every time you see Wooyoung; he has abandoned his red hair-dye to go back to black. Not as boisterously loud but still strikingly attractive, especially with the way it’s growing out, long strands framing his pretty face. He is wearing simple but elegant black trousers, plus a cream-coloured button up with a relaxed fit, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a low v neckline that falls just short of scandalous. It makes for a stark contrast next to San in his casual summer fit, but the two still look good together, like they always do.

“Nah, I was just saying that you’re probably going to burn all the food,” San teases his boyfriend, feline mischief twinkling in his eyes.

Wooyoung scoffs, smacking San on the shoulder as he pulls back. “All the food? It’s samgyetang,” he says in an indignant pout. “How badly do I have to mess up to burn the soup?”

“…I’ve burned soup,” you pipe up.

Wooyoung’s exaggerated offence melts away as he looks at you, a distinct sigh of ‘oh honey’ painted across his face.

“I got distracted, alright! Not my fault that I took my eyes off the stove for two minutes and suddenly it was an hour later!”

He pats your cheek with a pitying shake of his head, then turns to San with a flat expression. “Let me know if you ever need a place to stay because a certain neighbour burned the building down.”

“Hey—”

“Thanks Woo, I’ll take you up on that,” San grins, then whispers to you, “Don’t worry, I’ll save you from the fire first.”

“Thanks… but also, rude? Stop assuming I’ll set anything on fire!” you sulk at him. “Is this what I get for confiding in you guys? Mockery and distrust? You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

Wooyoung gives you an unimpressed look; you really should’ve known better than to appeal to his sense of shame. Predictably, he banishes you from the kitchenette when he starts to prep the small hens — but there is a small consolation; San gets banished right with you.

This way, you and San end up playing some Mario Cart while the room slowly fills with the mouth-watering aroma of Wooyoung’s cooking. It’s comfortable and homey, with plenty of back-and-forth chatter between living area and kitchen.

Eventually, Wooyoung drifts over to your side while the chickens cook, where he is an energetic and unhelpful backseat gamer to both you and San. He also pointedly shows you the timer running on his phone, like he’s sharing a vital but obscure life hack to prevent burned food.

(Wooyoung also has a brief but animated talk with San’s dad over the phone, and you smile when you catch a few threads of conversation; “Yes, he’s sleeping well, yes. No, we haven’t had dinner yet, I’m working on it! I’ll make sure he eats well too.”)

The meal is delicious, just as San advertised, and perfect for fighting today’s heat. The chicken falls apart with ease, the broth rich and flavourful with ginseng and jujubes. “So? What do you think? Be honest,” Wooyoung badgers you, an intent expression on his face; one that morphs into a happy giggle when you moan around a mouthful of food, nodding at him with knitted brows.

You swallow the food down, and give Wooyoung the most puppy-eyed look you can muster. “This, uh, this isn’t a one-time thing either, right?”

“See, I told you right? Bedroom stuff isn’t the only benefit,” he grins, while San smiles contently at your appreciation of his boyfriend’s skills. One of San’s hands casually massages the back of Wooyoung’s neck, the way he is always casual in his displays of affection.

Every now and then, you do feel like a bit of a third wheel in San and Wooyoung’s presence, like when their shared braincell ricochets off each other in patterns too intricate for you to keep up with, or whenever they get a little too lost in each others’ eyes. However, Wooyoung makes up for it by promoting you to his sous-chef for making watermelon punch, while San is relegated to dish duty.

You sink back into the couch after dessert, drowsy from a sated stomach. Wooyoung offered just one drink with the guys before you take the long journey home but, much like you once burned your soup, your heavy eyes flutter shut for just one second — and suddenly there is a blanket draped across you while you’re curled up against the armrest, and your eyes are bleary and unfocused.

You blink, slightly disoriented while you need a moment to remember where you are. It’s starting to get dusky outside, and some drama plays quietly on the TV. San is sitting right next to you, with Byeol sleeping in his lap and Wooyoung dozed off on his other side, leaned into his boyfriend’s solid frame.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to crash on your couch,” you say, voice a little hoarse, but San shakes his head.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, eyes crinkled as he winks at you, “I’ll forgive you for breaking the no sleepover rule.”

You make a vague groggy noise, and twist your body to try and get comfortable again. San opens his arm, almost like a question, offering himself as a cushion. You don’t think about it too much, your brain still a little fuzzy from the nap, and curl into him, head resting against his shoulder.

This way, you don’t see how San brightens with the delight of someone who persuaded a skittish street cat to sniff their hand — but you do feel a sudden light pressure on the top of your head.

For a second you stiffen in tension, thinking San kissed you; but you turn slightly to see he just pressed his cheek against your head. A small but important difference in the grey lines drawn around your comfort zone. You breathe out and relax, then wiggle a little closer against him to find a comfortable angle. Safe with your friends.

“What’s the show,” you murmur sluggishly, trying to understand why the lady on the screen looks so tearful.

“Ah, see, she has this daughter,” San whispers back, and he starts an intent explanation of her tragedy that you only half-follow before you drift off again.

San stops talking when he realises you’re a goner again, shaking his head with a chuckle. He just quietly continues to watch the movie, more than happy to be a pillow for the three sleeping figures surrounding him.

As time passes, you reap more and more benefits of your close friendship with San and Wooyoung. Sharing meals, movie nights, casual outings; and something shifts so gradually that you don’t even realise at first. You go from inviting each other into plans, to naturally including one another without second thought.

It’s not that you’re always at San’s when Wooyoung is there, just like you’re pretty sure they still have plenty of sex without you, but the group chat does pop off on the regular. Everyone treats it like a given that time will be spent together; whether it be in the bedroom or not.

Also, it’s not always just the three of you hanging out. You meet some of their friends; many you recognise from Wooyoung’s photographs — although the much-discussed Yunho remains illusive for now, out of town for work. San and Wooyoung meet some of your friends as well; San even has an opportunity to wave at Hongjoong, when he walks in on you during a video call.

(Hongjoong loves mocking you for how you used to insist that this situationship was ‘not too involved’; but meeting a shy yet warm San goes a long way to assure Hongjoong that your judgement is solid this time around.)

Of course, you also continue to reap the classical perk of a ‘friends with benefits’ deal.

You were already well aware that San and Wooyoung both have a ridiculously high libido, with energy to match — and they’ve clearly taken a liking to the dynamic of having a third in the bedroom (of having you). In fact, there truly is no need to worry about intruding on them when you are usually the one who needs a break.

Sometimes you do wonder how long their interest will hold strong. It’s all new and fresh and exciting to them right now; will they revert back to a more private lifestyle once that excitement wears off? But there are no signs of that happening anytime in the near future, and you surrender yourself to the pleasure of the moment, letting yourself get dragged along by their enthusiasm.

As you do so, the nature of your sex life with San and Wooyoung starts to split into two directions; on the one hand, scenes become more planned out as elaborate fantasies are brought to the table, fantasies that sometimes require a degree of preparation. San in particular becomes more vocal about his interests — though he does always keep you and Wooyoung at the forefront of any discussion.

(Wooyoung is always at the ready to give San an encouraging nudge when he needs it, never too surprised by what San brings up. You suspect all of this is only news to you; maybe a side-effect of the openhearted conversation you had with San.)

But while the level of planning increases for some scenes, the level of spontaneity goes up for other moments.

It’s not unheard of for a casual hang-out to take a sudden, heated turn. Once, a memorable game night escalated into a round of strip poker, which further escalated when you discovered that San has terrible luck with cards. You and Wooyoung mercilessly poked fun at him for it — until San finally had enough, and turned the night around in his favour with a firm hand.

He did not allow you or Wooyoung to remove the rest of your clothes; San simply watched while you humped against Wooyoung’s clothed crotch in a frenzy, your own panties sticky and sodden, staining his trousers with your glistening arousal. Desperately you sought out friction, not stopping your rut even when Wooyoung came in his pants with a broken whine. He squirmed and whimpered as you mindlessly kept grinding on his sensitive half-hard cock, his eyes tearing up as he let you use him. But it was on Wooyoung’s thigh that you finally found the right angle, your body shuddering with sweet relief as your cunt clenched on nothing, dripping over the infuriating layers of fabric.

Only then, while you breathlessly kissed away the stray tears on Wooyoung’s cheeks, did San approach. He pulled you off Wooyoung, laying you side by side so he could take a proper look at the mess you’d made of yourselves and your clothes. Still unsatisfied, he’d plunged his fingers underneath your ruined underwear to gather your juices, and used them to slick himself up.

You’d moaned as he fucked your tits, but not as loudly as Wooyoung; San palmed him roughly through his crusted trousers, forcibly bringing him to another orgasm. San had abashedly apologised for making a mess of your bra… but only after he’d stuffed you with three fingers covered with his own cum, pulling your panties aside just enough for access.

That night, you learned a very important lesson about what happens when you tease San too much for losing a game.

(…Maybe not the lesson that San intended, since you were not exactly convinced to never tease him again; but still! A lesson was learned.)

At other times, not all planned endeavours go exactly according to plan either.

You still look back fondly on the time Wooyoung suggested everyone wore sleep masks; thinking it would lead to an evening of excitement and surprise, guessing at who was touching and being touched. But instead, you and the guys kept bursting into giggles as you blindly pawned at one another, clumsily fumbling around on the bed. San finally called it to a halt when he nearly got elbowed in his stomach — but it was not the last time you’d experiment with the masks. Just… not everyone at once.

In many ways, this thing with San and Wooyoung is the ideal situation for you. No pressure of romantic expectations, and a growing friendship that you’re coming to appreciate even more than the mind-blowing sex. (Which is saying a lot, considering.)

There is just that slight nagging in the back of your head sometimes.

The feeling that there is a timer on this arrangement, and that you are waiting for it to end. How long before something changes? Before San and Wooyoung move on to different things, or they choose to ‘focus on each other’, to move in together elsewhere, or start a family that does not include you? Before they simply… lose interest?

You tell yourself it’s silly; you stepped into this knowing fully well that you won’t be fucking around with them forever, and you need to trust that your friendship has grown into something substantial enough to survive a change of situation. That it will last, even after you fall a few steps down the list of their priorities. No matter how unlikely it is that you stay this involved in each others’ lives indefinitely, you will stay involved.

But the thought continues to nag, as thoughts are wont to do.

“We can still be friends if we stop having sex, right?”

You and Wooyoung are hanging out at your place after a long walk through the neighbourhood; Wooyoung with his new camera in hand, you mostly just trudging along for company. Now you’re resting up with a cool drink, keeping Wooyoung company once again as he gives the photos a cursory examination.

But now he blinks at you, surprised and confused by the unexpected topic. The question had slipped out of you without too much forethought, just an impulse you chased during a lull in conversation.

“…Why would we stop having sex?” he asks, a puzzled frown on his face. Like you’ve given him a riddle to solve that he can’t work out. “Do you want to stop having sex?”

“No, of course not!” you are quick to reassure him. “But you know. Things change sometimes. Situations change, priorities change. You can’t always know the future.”

“I guess,” Wooyoung says gingerly, like he never thought that far ahead before. Something draws across his face that you have a real hard time pinning down — but it clears up quickly, making way for a cheeky grin. “Yeah, obviously we’d still be friends. You’re not getting rid of us that easily.”

The grin is reassuring, but you can’t quite shake Wooyoung’s earlier expression from your mind. “Good,” you say, winking back at him. “Hey to be clear, I seriously don’t plan to stop things. I just… wanted to make sure, I guess.”

“Yeah, no, I get it! You’re making sure we don’t ditch you,” he teases, poking at your cheek. “Just don’t ditch us either, alright?”

“Of course not,” you say, rolling your eyes as you wave his hand away. “That was the whole poi— Oh!” You get distracted when your phone lights up with a text, so you don’t catch how quickly Wooyoung’s smile fades again. “San’s on his way, how about we get started on some food?”

Somewhere along the line, you’ve managed to convince Wooyoung that you’re not a walking fire hazard, which has led to the occasional team-up to make dinner. And today you are extra antsy to get started, considering what has been planned for later this evening.

By the time San walks in, you and Wooyoung have fallen into your familiar patterns in the kitchen, with easy and cheerful chatter that has chased the earlier awkwardness out of memory. San kisses the top of Wooyoung’s head, smacks you on the backside, light and casual (you aren’t even fazed anymore), and swipes a piece of pork from right underneath your nose.

“Aish, just five more minutes, you can’t even wait that long?” Wooyoung scolds him, but you secretly feed San another piece not ten seconds later.

Wooyoung gives you a massive side-eye when he catches you sneak bites to San — but in your defence, it’s really hard to be firm with San when he’s looking at you with shiny guileless eyes and stuffed cheeks. “The faster we eat, the faster we get to the fun after, right?” you say, barely even trying to justify yourself.

“Everyone’s always in a hurry these days. Rushing through their meal so quick they won’t even have time to taste it. Does no one appreciate well-cooked food anymore?” Wooyoung grouses, but you are not fooled. He is just as restless are you are, casting regular glances at you and San.

After all, there is quite the night planned for Wooyoung.

[nothingbutsweetwords]

ɴᴏʙᴏᴅʏ'ꜱ ꜱᴏɴ, ɴᴏʙᴏᴅʏ'ꜱ ᴅᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ

ᴀᴇᴍᴏɴᴅ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ!ɴɪᴇᴄᴇ

"…ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ ᴏꜰ ʀᴇɢʀᴇᴛꜱ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ."

Word count: 4,900.

Fandom: House of the Dragon.

Pairing: Aemond x Reader!Velaryon!Niece.

DISTANCE — 10. Him.

When she left King's Landing, it was as if a black shadow had settled over the entire city, a dark suffocating mist smothering any ray of light despite the sun's bright rays. The Red Keep became cold and hollow. It transformed into a labyrinth of echoes from shared memories, now faded in time, like a persistent lament that could be heard in every corner. 

As the days passed, he sought refuge in a rigorous and emotionless routine. Breakfasts became occasions for his mother's presence, and lunches were spent with his sister, though the conversation lacked the vimness it once had. 

It was a comfort, albeit a fragmented one. Alicent was always attentive, quick to notice every visible need. However, her affection manifested in an attempt to keep him safe, shielding him from any perceived dangers, but not from the stormy sea of his own emotions. She was aware of his pain, but they never spoke openly about what truly troubled him, fearing that stirring those deep waters might overflow them. Instead, she offered practical advice and an outward calm that barely touched the surface of his emotional distress. 

Helaena, with her serene and enigmatic nature, was a peculiar source of comfort. Her visions and whispers, often cryptic, seemed to touch the chords of his deepest thoughts, as if she could see beyond the obvious. In her presence, he found fleeting moments of peace.

The loss of her usual brightness after her marriage to Aegon only accentuated the air of affliction in the castle, revealing a wound in her soul that resonated with his own. It was clear that neither of them had wanted that union, but it was she who had suffered a brutal clash between her ideals and a starkly different reality she faced.

Despite this, she often repeated to him that phrase he had heard for the first time so many years ago, accompanied by a small, wistful smile: "Our wait will be rewarded." 

He found it increasingly difficult to hold onto trust in those words. They had become a thin fragile thread, turning his faith into a dull ache and keeping him anchored to a life that felt increasingly distant and unrecognizable.

Her absence left him with an overwhelming void, a sense of loss so profound that it seemed to consume every corner of his being—worse even than the loss of his eye, as if a part of his soul had departed with her, his best friend, his love. 

He wrote to her many times, pouring into the pages a torrent of emotions he couldn't express aloud. Each one contained a silent plea for a response, a sign that she still thought of him. But her replies never came, and with each day of silence, his misery grew like a storm that besieged him without respite.

He immersed himself in a series of mental scenarios, imagining every possible reason for the lack of response. Had she heard about his indiscretions the night before she left? Or was she angry because he hadn't allowed her to visit when she needed him the most? 

He tried to convince himself that she needed space, that time and distance would heal their wounds, but as the weeks turned into moons, the lack of words became an increasingly heavy burden, leading him to question and finally accept that, perhaps, he deserved the silence.

Sometimes, when fate offered a reprieve and luck favored him, he would see her in his dreams, even if they were tumultuous. In them, she would drift away whenever he tried to reach her, her expression distraught at his sullied touch. The pain of her absence mingled with the fleeting joy of seeing her face again, creating a cut that seemed impossible to heal.

There were moments when he nearly mounted Vhagar, to escape the place where his memories kept him imprisoned, and fly to her. But fear and insecurity held him back. His heart, wounded and fragile, couldn't bear the possibility of meeting a version of her who no longer wished to see him. The thought of facing that rejection was too devastating.

His connection with Vhagar was another of the few true comforts he had left. Flying with her offered a breath from his earthly troubles, a sense of freedom and power that he found nowhere else. However, even this source of relief was restricted. His mother feared the dragon, not just for her size and might, but for what she represented: an unbridled power and independence that she could not control. With maternal concern deeply rooted in her, she limited his opportunities to fly, fearing that something might go wrong.

He and his siblings were now only permitted to fly during royal journeys, which had drastically decreased over the years, along with the king's health. 

These limitations felt like heavy chains pressing down on him more and more. His desire to fly, to feel the wind on his face and Vhagar's roar beneath him, was an essential part of his being—a way to feel free and leave his worries behind if only for a brief moment. Every time it was denied to him, the frustration and resentment grew, adding to the tangled web of conflictions that tormented him.

He threw himself into his studies with an almost obsessive intensity, as if each text and lesson could offer a distraction. This rigorous pursuit of knowledge was more than just a means to an end; it was a way to drown out the loneliness that gnawed at his insides.  Instead of confronting his pain, he buried it under a façade of determination, finding in discipline another means of desertion.

Physical training became another outlet. Every sword strike, every grueling exercise, was a cathartic release, a way to channel his frustration and sadness into something tangible. He often pushed beyond the limits of prudence, driving his body to exhaustion. 

The relentless ache became an inescapable companion, following him even in his busiest moments. Despite his efforts to keep his mind focused on other tasks, the image of her smile and the echo of her laughter lingered like ghosts that refused to be exorcized. 

He found himself wondering, with a knot tightening in his chest, if she had forgotten him, if she had found a new life on the island and no longer thought of him. This uncertainty consumed him inside, like a flame that never went out.

The nights were especially cruel, filled with restless tossing and turning as his mind replayed memories and imagined scenarios. The fear of having lost her forever and the guilt for not having done more intertwined, creating an internal struggle that left him exhausted and unable to find sleep. 

As the months stretched into years, he adapted to an existence where her absence was a constant. Yet, he never stopped missing her, nor did he stop yearning for the joy her presence had once brought into his life. It was a quiet, persistent longing that he learned to live with.

His kind sister continued to bring him fresh roses every week, a simple yet constant gesture that tried to fill some of the emptiness. Sometimes, in his frustration and pain, he rejected them, leaving them to wither untouched. Other times, in a fit of desperation, he would throw them away, as if by doing so he could uproot the feelings that consumed him. But there were moments when, with an almost reverent stillness, he would lean over them, breathing in their fragrance and letting the soft petals brush against his skin, searching for a trace of the connection they once shared.

On one particularly lonely night, he dusted off the gift she had given him, a tangible symbol of their bond. He wore it with pride, like a talisman against the encroaching sadness. Next to the cherished case, on his nightstand, he kept a piece of the sapphire. Each time he looked at it, he imagined her, and clinged to the memory of her with all the strength he could muster. It was a small comfort, a glimmer of the love and friendship that had once been his.

He was sitting at the table, engrossed in conversation with his mother. It was a quiet breakfast, one of those rare moments of peace they could enjoy together lately, as she had been increasingly occupied with court matters. 

She was giving him news about Daeron and the impending arrival of some nobles for the festivities in his father's honor. Everything seemed routine, just a simple update on the day's affairs. 

But then, almost as if it were of no consequence, she mentioned: "A raven has arrived from Dragonstone." Her tone was casual, almost offhand, as if she were talking about the weather or some other minor detail. However, the words fell like lead. "Rhaenyra and her family shall be joining us."

For a moment, time seemed to stand still. He stopped eating, his fork halted midway to his mouth, and he sat motionless. His mind went blank, struggling to process what he had just heard. She, the girl who had filled his thoughts and dreams for all those years, would be returning.

Alicent, keenly aware of her son's reaction, watched his face carefully. Despite her attempts to maintain an air of indifference, her eyes showed a flicker of concern. She knew the significance of the announcement for him, and though she tried to downplay it, she couldn't ignore the palpable tension that hung in the air.

He finally set the fork down, his mind swirling. He tried to maintain his composure, but the lump in his throat and the quickening of his beatings were hard to hide. "When, precisely?" he asked, his voice taut with barely suppressed anxiety.

"A few days before it begins, I suppose" she replied, not taking her eyes off him. "Nothing to be concerned about." But they both knew that was far from the truth. The news was anything but trivial. Her arrival was not just another court event; it was an emotional earthquake threatening to shatter the fragile calm he had painstakingly built over the years.

As the days crept closer to the celebrations, the nights grew longer and more sleepless. He found himself going over every possible encounter, every word he wanted to say to her. Anxiety gripped him, a gnawing fear that she had changed, that the woman he had loved and lost might no longer exist in the form he remembered. The thought that perhaps nothing remained of what they once shared was a weight he couldn't bear, leaving him on edge.

The days passed wrapped in a fog of anticipation. The news loomed over him inevitably and followed him wherever he went. The arrival of servants from Dragonstone only intensified this sense of imminence. 

Among these newcomers was Lyra, the lady-in-waiting who, years ago, had wished him a happy birthday with genuine warmth. Now, however, her gaze was tinged with disapproval, her brows furrowed, and her expression hardened. He felt each of these gestures like a small sign of what was to come, amplifying his own discomfort.

He had set aside the books, as they no longer worked; the words blurred in his mind, and he was unable to concentrate. Instead, he spent those hours wielding the sword, until the skin of his palms became rough and calloused. 

One day, waiting for his sister for lunch, he anxiously eyed the usual vase of roses, which already appeared wilted. Helaena arrived with a smile he hadn't seen in a long time, it was bright, contrasting with the gravity of his own thoughts; however, she did not bring new roses as she usually did. 

She noticed his unease and, in a casual tone, remarked, "you shan’t need them for some time, I believe." 

During lunch, she spoke with overflowing energy, filling the silence of the room. He, though less communicative, felt relieved by her presence and liveliness. 

As they finished, he accompanied her to the door. She bid him farewell with contagious cheerfulness and went to her room, leaving him deep in thought. He lingered in the hallway, contemplating the change in her demeanor, wondering what she had meant.

Just then a roar from Vhagar echoed through the air, strong and clear. It was soon followed by another. The sound, different from usual, carried a tone of joy, almost of celebration. It caught his attention, pulling him from his reverie. 

Nervous and conflicted, he closed the door and sank into a chair, burying his face in his hands. He didn't feel ready for what was coming; the feeling of losing control overwhelmed him, it was a sensation he despised more than any other.

After some period of introspection and as the commotion on the floor of the chambers died down, he decided to head to the yard. There, more crowded than usual, he found the usual scene: guards and nobles training fervently. Criston Cole waiting for him, stood ready, morningstar in hand.

"Are you ready, my prince?" Criston asked, his voice laced with challenge and a slight smile playing on his lips.

He nodded, taking a wooden shield and a sword from the armory table. They both faced each other, taking their positions. With every muscle tense and alert, he began to move his body, eager to release the pent-up nerves consuming him.

Criston was the first to attack, his movements swift and precise. He, instead, chose to maintain a defensive stance, blocking and dodging. He heard each clash, the impact of metal against wood and the crunch of the ground beneath their feet. 

As the fight progressed, Cole increased his aggression, launching more powerful attacks. At one point, he managed to hit his shield, splintering and breaking the wood. He threw the remnants aside, adjusting his grip on the sword. Even without a defense, he kept his composure, with more calculated movements. 

They moved in circles, gauging each other's reactions. It was then that he spotted his nephews among the spectators. The sight of him, whom he had not seen since the attack that cost him an eye, ignited a flare of anger within him. He bitterly remembered the injustice of that day, how Lucerys had emerged unscathed while he bore the scar, a permanent reminder.

Criston, sensing the shift in his energy, redoubled his efforts, but he, driven by a surge of emotion, held his ground. With precision, he found an opening in Cole's defense. With a quick and decisive maneuver, he ended the fight with the sword pressed against his opponent’s neck, securing a clear victory. The yard erupted in applause and murmurs.

Criston, breathing heavily, looked at him with a mix of respect and pride. "Well done, my prince. You’ll be winning tourneys in no time" he said, with a playful smile.

He had little interest in such spectacles. He viewed tournaments as mere displays, insufficient to measure a warrior's true worth. 

Aemond, with heavy breathing, replied firmly with an icy tone: "I don’t give a shit about tourneys." Then, with his gaze fixed on his nephews, he addressed them "Nephews, have you come to train?" The question carried a sharp edge, a latent provocation that resonated with the unresolved hostility between them.

The young men remained silent, their expressions serious. Without waiting for a response, he turned back to the armory table and took another shield, determined to continue.

As he walked behind his mother, his gaze was fixed ahead with his siblings flanking him on either side, all heading towards the hall where breakfast would be served. 

The night before, she had been absent from supper, and while he felt a temporary relief that the encounter had been postponed, it was mixed with the sadness of not having seen her.

As he entered the room, his heart skipped a beat. His gaze instinctively sought her among the others, and when he found her, it felt as though time had stopped. He tried to walk with apparent calm, though inside, a battle was raging. 

She was watching him too, and in that brief moment their eyes met, he felt a jolt course through his body. None of the fantasies he had harbored about this moment could have prepared him for the reality. She was completely different, yet unmistakably the same, her essence unchanged. 

She was more radiant than he had ever imagined. There was an air of dignity, confidence and grace in her bearing that left him breathless. There was a dignity in her presence, a poise that was almost otherworldly, captivating him beyond mere words. Her gaze, filled with a subtle strength, seemed to pierce through his defenses, making him feel as though he were standing on the precipice of an emotional abyss. 

He quickly averted his eye, fearing that his emotions might overflow if he maintained contact any longer. He took his seat, and the ensuing silence was almost palpable, heavy with tension and unspoken feelings.

As breakfast progressed, he tried to maintain his composure, but his mind was in turmoil. Every gesture she made, every word she spoke, was a new wave crashing over him. Seeing her after so long was both a blessing and a torment. His hands clenched together on top of the table as he noticed her eyes following him, her gaze inscrutable.

She was even more enchanting than what he thought was possible. The maturity of her features only served to enhance her natural allure, making her beauty more profound. Her face, framed by the dark cascade of her curls, seemed to shine with an inner light. 

Every detail, from the way her eyes sparkled with hidden depths to the delicate curve of her lips, revealed the woman she had become. Her attire, the deep black fabric draping elegantly over her, accentuated her striking features.

Each glance at her was a painful, bittersweet reminder of the time past and lost. 

His mother’s words echoed in his mind: “Nothing to be concerned about.” Everything in him was concerned, everything in him was engaged.

The mere mention of Dragonstone seemed to light up her face; the joy in her expression and the smile he adored were unmistakable. At that moment, he knew her stay would be temporary. She had found a new home, a new life away from him, and the realization was like a dagger.

Upon learning that she had become a dragonrider, he felt a profound joy for her. He recalled the long nights they had spent talking about dragons, imagining what it would be like to fly. He wished he had been there to see her take flight for the first time.

When the king remarked, “The mount of the Good Queen Alysanne. It suits you well” and Helaena, by his side, nodded slightly, a dark fear settled in his chest. It was a gesture laden with foreboding that he was reluctant to explore.

A few hours later, he found himself having lunch with Helaena in her room. The soft afternoon light filtered through the windows, bathing the space in a warm golden glow. Despite the cozy atmosphere, he was lost in thought, his mind still dwelling on the events of that morrow and the memories they had stirred.

Helaena, ever perceptive, noticed his distraction. “Brother” she said softly, her voice filling the room with calmness. When he looked up, she was watching him with a tender expression. “Are you well?”

He hesitated, the words he had kept buried for so long finally emerging. “Will we be together?” he asked quietly, his uncertainty and longing for answers evident. He trusted that fate had its own path, but he needed to know if there was any possibility of a future for them.

She tilted her head slightly, her expression thoughtful as she chose her words carefully. “Some things will depend on you; others are already woven into the fabric of destiny. But I have found that after a long winter, summer is appreciated more” she replied with a wisdom that seemed to come from a deep place. His brows furrowed with a hint of concern. “But you must always keep the door open.”

He nodded, caught between optimism and resignation. He bid farewell to Helaena, each step he took feeling heavier under the weight of her words. As he opened the door, he found himself face to face with the person who had been occupying his thoughts. For a moment, he was caught off guard, stunned by the unexpected encounter.

“Niece” he greeted with a courteous gesture, inclining his head

“Uncle” she replied with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, a barrier he recognized immediately. “I was looking for Helaena.”

“Of course” he said, stepping aside to let her pass and holding the door open for her. With another polite gesture, she moved past him, her presence filling the space of the room. Helaena gave him a small knowing smile as the princess entered.

He let out a long weary sigh as he closed the door, feeling a growing sense of unease. 

That night, after a long bath, he once again found himself unable to sleep. Sitting at the edge of his window, he gazed out at the clear sky while idly spinning a sapphire between his fingers. The distant roar of Vhagar echoed, and the restless tides mirrored his own agitation.

With a long sigh and a sudden resolve, he adjusted his patch back in place, rose and walked toward the fire crackling in his room. Lighting a candle, he moved quietly towards the back door, leaving the sapphire behind. 

It had been years since he last opened it; since that night, he had avoided the path, as if keeping it shut could keep that memory at bay. Now, driven by an unknown force, he opened it swiftly and stepped into the hallway.

A light from the other end caught his attention. It was her, holding a candle, walking toward him with a serious and determined face. Upon seeing him, her eyebrows rose slightly in surprise. They both stopped in their tracks, staring at each other. Words crowded in his throat, unable to be spoken.

“I wished to speak with you” she said softly, breaking the silence gently. He nodded, still silent, fearful that his voice would betray him. “Shall we go to your chambers?” she suggested, her tone firm but laden with silent expectation.

He nodded again, feeling foolish for having been paralyzed. He gestured towards the way, even though she knew it by memory. Stepping aside to let her pass, his heart pounded with a frantic, uncontrolled rhythm. She pushed open the door that had remained ajar and entered with the same familiarity of years past.

He closed the door behind them and approached cautiously. She moved to the window, where the moonlight bathed her in a silvery glow. He noticed then how she was dressed, wearing a robe over her nightgown and her curls disheveled, contrasting with the elegance of the breakfast, yet to him, she looked utterly divine.

She faced him. A pang of sorrow struck him at her expression. “Why?” she asked, showing a vulnerability that made him feel even more guilty.

“Why what?” he replied, dreading what was to come.

“Why did you never come to see me?” The question felt like a dagger, striking with precision. He looked at her, feeling a knot in his stomach.

He opened his mouth to respond, but the words escaped him. Finally, he found his voice, though weak. “I did not know if you wished for my presence” he murmured, his words sounding hollow even to himself.

She looked at him as if unable to believe what she was hearing. “Is this some jest? I asked you so many times” she said, her tone incredulous. He furrowed his brow. “Did my letters mean so little to you that you did not even take the time to read them?” she added, her bitterness palpable.

He felt as though the world was swaying beneath him. “What letters?” he asked, trying to process everything, his voice softer, trying not to alarm her further.

“The letters!” she said, her words laced with indignation and sadness. “The ones I sent you” she continued. “I thought we had something special. Did I imagine it?” Her tone trembled with emotion. “I waited for so long, I wrote to you so many times, like a fool.” Her voice broke, and she covered her face with her hands. “I hoped… I hoped for a response, a visit, something to let me know you hadn’t forgotten me.”

He took a step forward quickly, his heart pounding against his chest, feeling an urgency he could not ignore. “You wrote me?” he asked, incredulous.

She lowered her hands, her eyes burning with impotent fury. “Do not mock me” she said, turning away, looking out the window again.

He followed her, overwhelmed by a newly discovered helplessness and a fluttering hope of reconciliation. “I wrote to you as well, hundreds of times” he tried to meet her gaze, seeking some glimmer of understanding. “I swear this to you, by all the gods” he pleaded.

“I never received a single letter from you” she replied, finally looking at him with her beautiful eyes shining under the moonlight, her anger softening momentarily with disbelief.

"Nor did I. Not one. Had I received any, I would have come to you at once. You must believe me," he said, “I thought you did not want to hear from me” he whispered desperately, his deepest fears laid bare.

“Why would I not?” she asked, still with a hint of distrust in her eyes from the revelation. Everything seemed so absurd and cruel, yet he felt as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. 

She shook her head, her steps carrying her nervously back and forth in the room, her mind working frantically to understand. “It does not make any sense” her voice was a barely audible murmur, more to herself than to him. “Why?” She continued to mutter, her voice filled with a mixture of frustration and anguish, while he merely watched her.

Suddenly, she turned to face him, her eyes searching for an answer he did not have. “Are you not upset about this?” she asked, her voice rising slightly, annoyed.

He continued to watch her, feeling a strange sense of peace amid the chaos. "I cannot find it within myself to be angry at this moment," he replied, "not when you are here before me once more." His voice was filled with a sincerity that surprised even him.

There were so many emotions at play, so many unresolved things, but at that moment, all that mattered was that they were face to face once more.

“I never stopped thinking about you, wondering why I never heard from you, missing you.” He wanted to reach out, touch her, somehow close the distance that had formed between them, but he couldn’t. “I never wanted to lose you.”

“Is that true?” she asked, almost whispering. “Did you truly never stop thinking about me?” She looked at him, her eyes filled with unshed tears. For a moment, time seemed to stand still, and in that shared silence, he understood the magnitude of what they had lost and what they might still recover.

He took another step towards her, his expression sincere. “Never” he said firmly, hoping she could see the truth in his eyes. “Not for a single second.”

She looked at him, her expression softening, and bit her lip, struggling to hold back the flood of emotions.. But the pain and confusion were still present, like a shadow that refused to dissipate. “This is… too much” she murmured, shaking her head slightly.

He nodded, understanding the enormity of what they had just uncovered. “I understand” he said softly. “Take all the time you need.” 

She turned, intending to leave the room, and he followed, prepared to escort her to her door. But just before they could move too far, she suddenly stopped and turned back to him. In an impulsive move, she threw herself at him with force, wrapping her arms around his waist in a desperate embrace. She pressed her face against his chest, her hands clasped tightly on his back, holding him with an intensity that suggested she feared losing him forever if she let go.

He, taken aback by the gesture and despite feeling he didn’t deserve her pure affection, couldn’t help but reciprocate the embrace. He wrapped his arms around her with a tenderness he rarely showed, letting himself be carried away by the moment. He rested his face on the crown of her head, breathing deeply, the sweetest and freshest scent of roses filling his senses, enveloping him in an intoxicating warmth.

It was a silent comfort. He realized how much he had longed for this contact, this closeness, more than he had even admitted to himself.

"I'm sorry" she murmured against his chest. "I'm sorry for everything." Tears began to fall, dampening his shirt. He could feel the rapid beat of her heart against his body.

She lifted her head, her eyes shimmering with something more. He found himself getting lost in that gaze. “What do we do now?”

With a gentle smile, he caressed her cheek with his thumb, wiping away a tear that had escaped. "I won’t let us be separated again" he promised, his voice firm yet tender. “If you will allow me, I wish to mend what has been broken.”

She nodded, and for a brief moment, the world seemed to shrink to the small space between them, where only the two of them existed.

@helaenaluvr @purplegardenwhispers @callsignwidow @squidscottjeans @scarletbedlam @fics-i-love-and-recommend @oh-you-mean-me @fossface @truly-abysmal

[mod-kyoko]

Hello! Hope you’re having a good day/night. Could I please request Nagito x gn reader that was helping take care of him during the whole despair disease outbreak, and whenever Nagito said ‘I hate you’ the reader would just respond with something along the lines of “Love you too, Komaeda.” Could be headcanons, oneshot, or whatever. Whichever you’d prefer.

Sorry if this sounds weird, I don’t usually make requests lol. Thanks in advance!!

taking care of despair diseased nagito

type: in killing game, hc format, established relationship

a/n: anon it's so crazy i was literally just playing chapter 3 of dra2 and was at the part when they get the disease

♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧

you noticed right away that something was wrong with nagito

every word that came out of his mouth was a lie

it was almost like he couldn't speak the truth at all

when hajime felt his forehead and noticed that nagito was burning up, you knew that was the reason behind his behavior

monokuma popped up soon after, confirming that nagito was indeed afflicted by the lying disease

still, you didn't understand why some disease would cause nagito to say things like nothing is real, everyone is fake, and everyone is out to get him

but it was impossible to reason with him, especially because not long after he passed out, crumpling to the floor

you lunged forward, grabbing onto him to soften his fall, and pulled him onto your lap

"mikan! we need to get him to the hospital!" you yelled, while everyone else stood by in shock

the nurse helped you carry nagito all the way to the hospital on the third island, where you laid him in a bed

"u- um, we need to get him out of his clothes and into a gown," mikan said

"i got it, go help ibuki and akane," you replied, so she left it to you

nagito regained consciousness while you were slipping his shirt over his head

"ah! what are you doing to me? ah, are you planning to abduct me and take me to your home planet?"

you would have laughed at the silliness of the question if he wasn't in such dire condition. instead, you replied patiently

"i'm not an alien, nagito" you reached for his pants to slide them down his legs, but he swats your hand away

"i don't... want..." he was struggling to finish his sentence without panting from the fever

"i know, i'm sorry. but i need to get you into a gown. would you rather have mikan do it?"

"yes, i would much prefer mikan do it," he rambled, staring at the wall

your heart fluttered a little bit, knowing he meant the opposite of what he said. but this wasn't the time to be flustered

after wrestling with your boyfriend a little bit, you finally got his pants off, and draped the gown around his shoulders

once you tied it, you let him lay back down on the bed, and he closed his eyes

at this point there wasn't anything else you can do, with no medic knowledge, so you decided to just comfort him through it

you reached out to pat his head, smoothing down his hair

he reacted weakly, shaking his head as if to shoo away your hand

"get your filthy hand off me," he snarled

by now you were starting to translate his words in your head

"go away (please stay)"

"stop touching me (don't stop)"

with one hand running through his hair, your other laced your fingers in his, watching as he shifted between a state of being awake and being unconscious

"i... hate you" he spat, beads of sweat collecting at his temple

"i love you too, nagito" you smiled, gently squeezing his hand

"i seriously... hate you... go away."

"i'm here, you're okay. i won't leave you."

"i don't want you here! go away!"

his eyes were watering, and you didn't know if he was crying because he was in pain or angry, so you reached out and wiped the tears away

"i want to be here, i won't leave you, i promise."

you could have sworn you felt him squeeze your hand back once before he slipped back into sleep

♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧

[genshingorlsrevengeance]

Request for basically the shrunken down s/o incident but with the Fontaine girls (Lynette, Furina and Navia) and March 7th from HSR

(Genshin Impact/H:SR) Lynette, Furina, Navia, and March 7th with their S/O being shrunk

Lynette picks up S/O, gently, staring at them curiously as her ears twitched.

(Lynette) "What happened?"

(S/O) "How am I supposed to know? And why are you picking me up by my shirt like I'm a cat?!"

Her tail swished for a brief moment, giving away her amusement.

(Lynette) "I'm not sure."

As funny as she finds it, she immediately finds every contact she knows to figure out what was going on with S/O.

All the while, Lynette had a hat on, with S/O underneath it.

She would have left them at home, but considering there were cats everywhere, that was not a good idea.

Once she learned that they would return to normal after a few days, she has them in her hands 24/7.

(Lynette) "...You're cute when you're bite sized like this."

(S/O) "I am NOT a cat toy, Lynette."

She's mildly concerned, but as long as she was watching over, nothing would happen.

Furina laughs at the sight of her pocket sized loved one.

(Furina) "What a splendid trick! Since when could you perform such a logic defying ability?"

(S/O) "N-Never!"

(Furina) "Hah!....Ha...Oh, you're serious."

Her smile vanishes quickly as she scoops up S/O into her hands.

(Furina) "Fear not my tiny beloved, for nothing will bring you harm!"

(S/O) "I-I'm not sure I trust you to handle me carefully!"

(Furina) "Nonsense! Come, we shall find Neuvilette to cure you of this!"

Which she learned, this cannot be cured, at least not instantly.

They would just have to wait it out.

Well, it's a good thing Furina is not beholden to anyone, as she sits at home and watches S/O.

She has tiny water familiars the size of S/O play around with them to pass the time.

(S/O) "I feel like I'm in an aquarium right now..."

(Furina) "Oh, is that something you'd like to go to?"

(S/O) "When I'm this size, no. I feel like you'd feed me to the fish."

(Furina) "Why do you have no faith in me, my dear?"

S/O stared at the fish currently circling them.

(Furina) "Playing with you, and using you as fish food are quite different things!"

(S/O) "But I bet you're wanting to see what happens with your vision, aren't you?"

(Furina) "N-No!"

(S/O) "..."

(Furina) "...Maybe a little-"

Navia blushes slightly at the small S/O currently on her table.

(Navia) "You're...SO CUTE!"

(S/O) "Not the word I would've chosen-"

Navia makes them yelp as she scoops them into her hand and rubs them against her cheek.

(Navia) "SO TINY! Oh my gosh, you're adorable!...W-Wait, how did you get that way?!"

Navia rushes around like a madwoman, trying to find a cure or someone who knows about this kind of thing.

Meanwhile, S/O has a full bodyguard detail outside their room, and around the table they're on.

(S/O) "Alright, even you have guys have to admit this is a little overkill."

(Bodyguard) "S/O, you know better than any of us that trying to reign Miss Navia in is a fool's errand."

(S/O) "...Fair point."

Once she learns that the duration will run its course for the next few days, she spends this time creating the smallest macarons in existence, solely for S/O.

She has them use dollhouse furniture so they have somewhere to sleep and eat.

(S/O) "You're having fun with this aren't you?"

(Navia) "Well, I can't say this is the worst thing we've done together!"

(S/O) sigh "Well, thank you anyway for taking care of me."

(Navia) "Oh please. I'd do this even if you were normal height!"

March 7th stares silently at the tiny S/O standing on her bed, looking panicked at their predicament.

(March 7th) "..."

SNAP!

(S/O) "D-DID YOU JUST TAKE A PICTURE OF ME!?"

(March 7th) "You're right!"

She immediately gets in frame of her phone to take a selfie with her tiny S/O.

(March 7th) "Okay, NOW let's see what the heck is happening!"

Of all the people to tell her S/O's affliction, it was Pom-Pom.

And that this wouldn't last more than a few days at worst.

Thank the Aeons.

That meant March could live this up!

The entire time, March is taking pictures of S/O, giggling lightly.

(S/O) "For the record, if this happens to you-"

(March 7th) "Then I'll be as adorably pint-sized as you!"

(S/O) "You can at least show a little more concern!"

(March 7th) "I am! It's why no one else is allowed in this room! I bet Caelus would use you to go dumpster diving."

S/O shuddered at the thought, the smell was already bad but being this small...

(March 7th) "You're much better as a paperweight!"

Despite her teasing and carefree nature, there was truth to her words.

She violently rejects entry for ANYONE to go into her room while S/O is in this state because she's worried.

But, this would be a fond memory down the line she felt!

[faerievampling]

The Life of Astarion's Dark Consort (Part 2)

Summary: More random hcs about our favorite vampire lord and his pretty consort. Particularly in their ancient years.

Here's the link to part 1

Pairing: Astarion x Female Tav

Warnings: 18+. Light smut. Astarion being very possessive of his treasure. Slightly dubious consent.

As Astarion’s dark consort, you are imbued with unimaginable gifts that only evolve and expand as you age into your vampiric strength. You are likely the second strongest vampire in existence by the time you and Astarion celebrate your second millennium together. Astarion is so proud of you, and he thinks your beauty only grows the longer you spend by his side and the more you embrace your vampiric nature.

Astarion loves your fangs, your red eyes, and your pale skin. You are a perfect reflection of him, and he loves seeing himself in you. Knowing that he created the most perfect creature is what drives much of his ego. 

Sometimes, after your husband has made love to you, he will stand the two of you in front of a full body mirror just to admire the two of you. He is so proud to be able to see the reflection of you both. He believes it was all worth it, everything the two of you did to achieve this waking dream. But eternity is so long, my love.

As the ages pass by, Astarion ensures that you are fitted in the most fashionable and stylish clothes of the times. The same goes for his regular spawn, even if Astarion is a little bit disgusted by them. They are merely spawn, after all. Nothing special, unlike him and his sweet consort.

Astarion embroiders cheeky phrases into your underclothes, especially your panties. ‘If you’re seeing this, you will wish you were dead’ one of them reads. Not very creative, but Astarion is quite amused by it. 

You have a soft spot for the spawn. Astarion isn't surprised by this, and he even understands it, but he doesn’t like it. The spawn remind him of the 'before times', that of which you are highly discouraged from ever acknowledging.

Astarion does not share his gifts with anyone but his darling, of course, so his spawn are afflicted with the same curses that Astarion once was. You think of them as beloved pets, and you pamper the spawn, to Astarion’s indignation and dismay.

But Astarion lets you. He’s annoyed that you’ve spoiled them, but at some point, he finds himself feeling a level of kinship with his bride and his other creations. Sometimes, seeing how you handle the spawn makes him fantasize about having a family with you. What if he just chooses the right spawn, maybe ones he and you could try to…love? The thought is lost on you both before it is even completed.

Astarion's love for you was a weakness, in the grand scheme of things. And he wouldn’t allow himself to have any more. You were his one virtue and his favorite vice.

Astarion has bouts of madness, especially during stressful times. He will make extreme decisions in these moments.

A memory that is nearly lost on you is brought back into view when Astarion sequesters you in a deep chamber in your palace. Once, he told you he wished to lock you in the boudoir and be in each other's arms for a decade. You nearly forget about it yourself, but Astarion remembers.

He frightens himself into the decision after an attack on the palace. The attackers had gotten so close to his bride: you were only a room away from the fighting. This sends Astarion into a panic.

You allow him a few days: just the two of you in bed. It’s even quite lovely, at first, being in Astarion’s arms as he makes passionate and desperate love to you. 

But it quickly turns sour once you filter through the frantic web of his mind and find his true intentions. Astarion insists it’s for your own good. You are to stay in the boudoir until the war is over. 

As an ancient, sheltered, pretty consort like yourself, you needn’t bother yourself with unpleasant feelings. Astarion gave you everything you wanted for so long. As you react to Astarion’s decision, he realizes he has entirely spoiled you. 

You dare compare this decision of his to that of which his old master would make.

Astarion reminds you how good you have it by forcing you to drink his blood as he fucks you senseless on silken sheets and a feather mattress. Astarion keeps you in the boudoir for some time. He comes and goes as he pleases, alternating between fucking you, biting you, and feeding you.

But Astarion succumbs to your begging once you finally break down and start to sob. Astarion hasn’t seen you cry in so long, he had forgotten what it looked like. But what he feels is so deeply uncomfortable, even disturbing to him, that he must fix his mistake and do what makes his consort happy. He can’t take it. He can’t stand seeing you anything but content. 

You gave him everything, and he will return the favor. And now, you two are forever bound, connected in body and blood. 

Masterlist

[zae-heeyyy]

Resumption

Summary: You and Arthur revisit the past. Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader Word Count: 1,362 Tags: fluff, kissing, high honor Arthur

A/n: This is an anon request gone off the rails because I can't write less than 1000 words for some reason 😅. I hope you enjoy! Thank you for reading!

P.S I understand and respect Mary, so I hope I did her justice here.

Resumption: The act of starting something again after it has been paused or interrupted. It implies a continuation of an activity, process, or state that was temporarily halted.

Traveling with your found family brought you back to this place you had long tried to forget. All that time ago, you left without much of a choice, pushing you straight into the clutches of the Van Der Linde gang. While the landscape had changed a bit, the people hadn't. Despite you remembering their faces, no one truly recognized yours.

You didn't blame them; you tried hard to forget them all, but being so close to everything again brought painful memories to the surface. This country somberly reminded you of loved ones passed on, desperate acts of survival, and a heartbreak that left you wanting to burn it all to the ground. You thought you could handle a simple supply run, but the longer you stayed in town, the harder you had to fight the affliction coming to a boil within you.

But every time you wanted to flee, the presence of a broad-shouldered, fearless cowboy kept you grounded. Arthur had sensed your uneasiness the second you hit town and made it his mission to protect you. You felt his touch for every minute of your trip, him keeping a hand on the small of your back as you gathered supplies and ordered from the catalog. He only turned his back on you to load the wagon while you hovered nearby.

A stagecoach stopped abruptly at the train station across the road. You didn't think much of it until you caught sight of a woman with child being helped out the side of the coach. She was clad in the fanciest day dress you'd ever seen, and her grandiloquent hat probably cost more than every piece of clothing you owned. Your body reacted before your mind did, your stomach dropping to the lowest pits of your being and your heart's rhythm multiplying by two.

The memory of her had engrained itself in you, etched deep in your brain. Yet, her role in your past was unclear at the moment, too clouded by the whirlwind of your life for you to put your finger on it. Arthur noticed your forlornness, stopping his task to look between you and the woman now disappearing into the train station.

"You alright? You know her?"

You opened your mouth to respond, but as the carriage drove away, it revealed a man in a dapper suit carrying luggage, his face no older than the day you left. You jolted like someone had doused you in cold water. Arthur came to the rescue, putting a calming, steadying hand on your back, but you were too distracted by the man you almost married once to notice. The phantom from your past blinked slowly with sad eyes, then turned his back and followed the woman inside.

Her identity gelled in your memory finally; she was the high-society woman he left you for. A time ago, your eyes would've shined with tears, but besides the initial shock of seeing ghosts, you felt a whole lot of nothing.

"You okay?" Arthur asked, breaking you from your trance. You were because you knew you'd never have to experience such heartbreak again. You just nodded, wanting to get as far away from this place as possible.

After things settled down for the night, Arthur whisked you away to a hilltop clearing, starting a fire and throwing a relaxed arm around you. He popped open a bottle of whiskey, had a sip, and passed it to you. His uneasy glance felt hot on your cheek, and you knew what was coming.

Scratching his beard, he spoke, unsure of himself, "so, that feller earlier…" His voice trailed off, the courage he had to ask leaving him as quickly as it came. Arthur hadn't pressed the issue of the brief encounter in town, trying hard to give you space. But his insecurity had gotten the best of him. You took a long swig from the glass bottle and shook your head, focusing on the ground.

"Somebody I really cared about once. Not so much anymore."

He didn't respond for a while, searching for the right words; he chuckled then settled on them, "he seemed real polished." You appreciated Arthur's mockery for once, his toothy grin lightening the mood.

"Oh, he is." You paused, eyes still focused down, eyebrows crinkling together. "Back then, I was doing what I could to survive, doing some things I'm not proud of, but he saw me. He saw me for me for me, invited me into his home, and cared for me.

Arthur scooted in closer, squeezing you into him. Talking about the past wasn't something either of you did much of. Yet, here you were, trusting him to carry some of the weight with you. It all left him feeling grateful and undeserving. You continued, "his daddy was a banker, and he follwed in his footsteps. They had money, a lot of it. His folks didn't think I was good enough, and then he made his choice. Found a girl who was more up to his standards, I guess. I loved him, and I thought he loved me. And maybe he did, but not enough."

You exhaled big when it all came out. Arthur laughed dryly, his eyes clouded over and focused off into the distance.

"I know all about that." You passed the whiskey back to him, and he accepted the silent cue, ready for his turn to open up.

"Had a girl that loved me once, Mary." The camp girls had whispered her name here and there, and even Grimshaw had commented that she liked you better than the last one. Many stories were told about her, and you weren't sure which ones were exaggerated for dramatic effect. None of it mattered, though. You trusted Arthur more than you'd ever trusted anybody and loved him enough to not only think of yourself in his rare moment of vulnerability.

"She was a fine woman. I can't bring myself to say anything bad about her, but her family, though…" he drew out a long, low whistle and started talking again. "I couldn't change, and well, maybe she did love me, but it just wasn't enough for us, either."

You took your turn to comfort him now, shifting positions to put your arms around his torso and lay your head on his chest. He hugged you back, resting his chin on your head.

"Didn't think love was for me. Was okay with that for a while. Then.—" vibrations from his chest tickled your ear as he laughed, "then Hosea and Dutch met this spitfire in the saloon and brought her back to camp. Said she was counting cards and scamming drunk fellers out of their money. The girl didn't even own a pair of shoes, but damn, was she sharp as a razor, and gorgeous. After a while, she had me thinking a lot about love again."

All that desperation seemed eons away now. Before Hosea and Dutch came along, you didn't know how you'd survive. Survival was the only thing on your mind; you didn't have time for anything else. Then, you met Arthur and knew it would all be alright again. Pulling away, you raised an eyebrow at him, grinning because you already knew the answer to the question you were about to ask.

"If that Mary girl came calling, would you go back?"

He grabbed you by the chin and spoke before he pulled your lips to his, "Hush woman. Can't you see I'm trying to be romantic? Yer my woman and yer stuck with me now. Ain't nobody for me, but you."

You kissed him for a long while, feeling his lips curving upwards. You pulled away and saw that all-so-familiar shit-eating grin creeping up on his face.

"What is it now, Arthur Morgan?"

"A banker, really?" he'd asked, his chipped tooth flashing under his lips, "I'm gonna try real hard not to hold that against you."

And then you threw your head back and laughed. Nobody made you laugh as hard as he did. And nobody else’s lips, hands, or body moved so perfectly in sync with yours. You were made for each other; you knew that for certain.

[izvmimi]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Senku?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Senku, what the hell is going on?”

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

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

“Senku.”

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

Logically.

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

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

“Oh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not by anyone who mattered.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mm.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s not the drugs,” you repeat.

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

“Do you mean it?” 

Senku doesn’t hesitate, before saying yes.

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

[lesinquietes]

In which Alucard and his Deity!Darling are on a mission together, and he loses control when she gives him a glimpse of submission🪽✨

18+ (minors dni) // light almost-smut, yandere

Limerence

Alucard pins you beneath him, catching you by surprise. He clutches your wrists with rough claws. When you fall, it’s behind a set of bushes. Before you can sputter and protest, airships, no doubt seeking Hellsing presence, whizz by above you. Their bright search lights are fixed on the path you were once walking. If you would have stayed there, they would have caught you. Given the urgency of your matter, that wouldn’t have been preferable; there’s no telling how many soldiers they would have sent.

Gathered in such an intimate position, he’s shocked you’re not fighting him. He supposes you’ve learned to pick your poison. He doesn’t mean any harm to you… yet.

He waits for you to ask him to get up. You don’t. The ships have long passed. He wonders if you’re simply frozen with anticipation. He knows what that’s like, to be tantalized by the moment.

“That was close.” You mutter eventually. “They’re getting more desperate.”

“They are.” He agrees grimly. “Their interference would have been a nuisance.”

His piercing orbs trace your jawline, watching as you swallow whatever else you wanted to say. Such a pretty throat you have. The blood there is celestial. He’s never tasted the nectar of a deity before. He wonders if it’s toxic to a creature like him. If so, then maybe he was meant to perish like this, at your whim; maybe you were meant to die together.

He refuses to allow his impulses to overwhelm him. You’ve been warming up to him lately. While your edges remain quite sharp, they’ve significantly softened since your first encounter. Without the proper signals, he won’t completely cross your boundaries.

Meanwhile, you adjust beneath him. Inspecting his pale face, you think he’s rather handsome. In the moonlight, even more so. His glasses are off, revealing irises with subliminal messaging, coaxing you to submit. You huff. Vampires are a cocky breed. You’ve encounter his kind in the past. They were the same as him — snarky and sure of themselves… until they weren’t.

You’ll show him. He may be the father of all vampires, but you’re certain you’ve handled worse threats. Contrary to what he might believe, you’re not one to be dominated.

“I could have handled myself.” You whisper, eyes peering into his. “But… thank you.”

He pauses. Your energy is shifting. You’re receptive to him. After endless nights of watching over you, having you grow used to his presence, ensuring that you miss him when he’s not around — are you finally ready?

“You could have handled yourself.” The vampire echoes. “Is that why I was the one to act?”

He dips down, smooth black locks tickling your face. Brazenly, his lips brush against yours. He closes his eyes for the serene moment, taking you in. He’s amused that you don’t pull away. Yes, perhaps you want this, too.

“My sweet Goddess.” He purrs. “Have I not shown you that I’m capable of protecting you?”

You stir restlessly. He notices your thighs rubbing together, unconsciously creating friction in your lower region. You don’t seem to have any control over your physical form. Humanistic sensations are afflicting you. Lust is meant to be a foreign concept to higher beings, isn’t it? You’re reaching for a forbidden fruit.

“You… have done your best.” You admit, frowning gently. “I thanked you, didn’t I?”

“Thanked me!” He scoffs incredulously, planting a ginger kiss to your jaw. “The woman of my deepest fixations need not give me gratitude; she need only give me a fair chance.”

He indulges in your beauty, trying with every fibre of his undead being to avoid stealing a glance at your neck. His mood is different than it was a moment earlier. He wants to feed on you while he fucks you. The urge is damn near unable to be repressed.

“I want to claim you.” He confesses, voice husky and baritone. “But… I shouldn’t.”

He tries to believe what he says. He really, really does. Except he can see the panic rising on your features, and it’s driving his animalistic senses up the wall. It’s the first glimpse of your anxiety. You, a gorgeous creature, trusted a starving vampire to get this close to you.

The vulnerability you’re exuding is intoxicating. It’s making his head spin. He inhales your natural scent. His long tongue flickers out to lap upthe subtle layer of sweat on your quivering throat. That’s enough deliberation. That’s enough abstaining. He’s going to do it. He can’t stop himself.

Maybe you really are a witch, casting spells to lower his locus of control so you can vanquish him when he’s preoccupied. He chuckles darkly. That would be fun. He’s always preferred a mate he can play with prior to totally dominating them.

“My dear… you’re irresistible.”

Alucard’s fangs protrude, and he gradually sinks down to the area above your collarbone. Softly, you moan. He hums approvingly when you bear your neck for him. His mesmerizing orbs become predatorial. He’s dreamt of this moment. He going to guide you into the afterlife with him, and make you his first wife in decades.

At the last second, the tides shift.

From the heavens, a ray of light rains down on him. He notices a second too late. By the time he retracts, and leaps back from you, one of his long legs is trapped in the beam. It severs instantly. Although he doesn’t feel it, there’s a humiliation to the act which causes him to howl.

He skids to one knee and bares his teeth. With a gloved hand, he wipes the drool that dropped from the side of his mouth — evidence of his lust for you. He’s speechless. Rage and vigour twist in his chest.

You’re hovering a few inches above the ground. A bright light pours out of your eye sockets and mouth. You’re grinning at him.

“You didn’t actually think I’d willingly let you turn me, did you?” You snicker cruelly. “Foolish Dracula.”

He growls lowly. You know what it does to him when he hears you utter his name — his true alias from days of old.

“Tempting little witch.” He snarls, fangs protruding from his ajar mouth. “Why do you give me the illusion of possessing you, as if I have not spent countless nights resting on your limerence?”

He lost sight of himself. His safety ought to override his impulses. But in that moment, when he saw how submissive you — a powerful Goddess — were being to his touch, he was a slave to desire. You could have killed him with your offensive light. That excites him. You really are capable of eviscerating Anderson, aren’t you?

You return to the ground. The whiteness beaming from your eyes and mouth also tapers off. You’re back to how he recognizes you in no time, except the smirk hasn’t left your features.

“Can I rely on you to keep your mind on the mission, thirsty corpse?”

He wonders what it would be like to overpower you now. You wouldn’t let him win easily. In fact, he doesn’t know the extent of your strength just yet. You stand a good chance of destroying him. He’ll have to be patient if he wants a shot at obtaining you.

He’s coming around to the idea that it wasn’t the time to turn you. Integra would have been pissed. She was lenient when he turned Seras, but you? And in the middle of a crucial expedition, no less? She wouldn’t have shown him mercy this time. But… part of him doesn’t care; part of him — a deep, hushed voice at the back of his mind — urges him to do it anyways, that a mighty king is more than deserving of an all-powerful queen. It’s you who incites the covetous side of him.

“You can.” Alucard snickers humourlessly. “Until our work together is complete.”

Previous l