prettytemis

[prettytemis]

Gojo being the type to let you mark him up allllll you want, then purposefully showing them off during battle- the curses are sick of it, just exorcize them already.

[prettytemis]

🪽| sephiroth ⤸

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ FICS:

❥ smut! “leave them on”

❥ smut! “a phone call away”

❥ smut! “worship”

❥ smut! “tension”

❥ smut! “feverish”

❥ smut! “just a glance”

❥ headcanon! “nsfw dom alphabet”

❥ headcanon! “nsfw sub alphabet”

❥ fluff! “garden party”

[prettytemis]

your highness has no idea

pairing — childhood bsf satoru x fem reader

synopsis : gojo satoru has always been a little ridiculous when it comes to you. that’s what happens when you grow up with someone who once wrote “i wanna be a princess when i grow up” in the second grade yearbook and never quite stopped deserving the crown. twenty years later, he’s still finding new ways to treat you like royalty—carrying your bags, buying you candy, pretending it’s all just friendly devotion. but the truth is, satoru’s been yours longer than he’s willing to admit… and it’s starting to get a little too hard to hide.

tags -> slice of life-ish, mutual pining, childhood friends to lovers, misunderstanding but it’s soft and stupid, first kiss, white rose symbolism, fluff, YEARNER SATORU, oblivious idiots in love, princess treatment, satoru-centric, lighthearted with feelings, emotional constipation, love confessions, happy ending, art not mine—will credit as soon as i find source!

wc — 10.3k | gen. masterlist | read on ao3?

a/n: this was supposed to be a short, silly fic about satoru being down bad and giving you princess treatment because of something you wrote in a second grade yearbook. but then i blacked out and woke up 10.3k words later, emotionally compromised and surrounded by strawberry candy wrappers. so yeah. i hope you enjoy this soft, dumb, painfully slow-burning love story between two idiots who’ve clearly been married since they were seven. as always, reblogs and comments are deeply appreciated and returned with a consensual kiss on the forehead 😽🌹

satoru's brain operates on a frequency that should probably concern medical professionals. right now, that frequency is completely hijacked by the sight of you sprawled across his couch, ankles crossed, unwrapping a piece of strawberry candy with the kind of focused concentration most people reserve for defusing bombs. you hum something tuneless under your breath, fingers working the wrapper with methodical precision, and he thinks this might be how people spontaneously combust.

the thing is, he's been in love with you since the second grade, which makes him both devoted and completely unhinged. it started with a yearbook—those flimsy little books where seven-year-olds write their life plans in crayon. you'd written “i wanna be a princess when i grow up” in that careful, looping handwriting, tongue poking out in concentration like it always does when you're thinking hard. when you asked what he wanted to be, he'd scribbled “astronaut” because it was the only job he could think of that might get him to the moon fast enough to bring you back a rock that sparkled like the tiaras in your disney movies.

twenty years later, he's still trying to make good on that promise, just in different ways.

“satoru, you're staring,” you say without looking up from your candy wrapper, voice carrying that familiar note of fond exasperation. your lips curve into the smallest smile as you speak, and his pulse does something acrobatic against his ribs.

“i'm appreciating,” he corrects, settling into the opposite end of the couch with deliberately casual movements. his hair catches the afternoon light streaming through the window—those impossible pale strands that seem to drink in sunlight and reflect it back like spun moonbeams, never quite behaving despite his half-hearted attempts to tame them each morning. the light makes them appear almost translucent at the edges, ethereal in a way that's always made strangers do double-takes on the street. “there's a difference.”

you finally look at him properly, lifting your gaze from the candy wrapper, and he gets to see the way your eyes crinkle at the corners when you're trying not to smile. it's the same expression you've had since childhood—that particular combination of amusement and affection that you've never quite learned to hide. the sight of it makes his chest feel too small for his heart, like someone's trying to stuff an ocean into a teacup. “appreciating what, exactly?”

“your dedication to proper candy unwrapping technique.” he gestures toward your hands with exaggerated seriousness, watching the way you smooth out each wrinkle with your fingertips. “very thorough. very princess-like.”

there it is—that little snort-laugh that means he's being ridiculous but you're charmed anyway. your head tilts back slightly with the sound, exposing the graceful line of your throat, and you ball up the wrapper with unnecessary force before throwing it at his face. he catches it with reflexes that are definitely overkill for crumpled plastic, his hand moving faster than thought, fingers closing around the small projectile before it can make contact. “you're so weird.”

weird doesn't begin to cover it. he's the kind of weird that keeps mental notes about how you like your coffee (too much sugar, splash of vanilla creamer, stirred exactly twelve times counterclockwise), the way you scrunch your nose when you're thinking hard about something, how you always steal his hoodies but pretend it's accidental even though you've been doing it for fifteen years. the kind of weird that's been carrying a torch so long he's surprised it hasn't burned his hands off.

“weird in a charming way though, right?” he asks, leaning forward slightly. his eyes—those unsettling ice-chip irises that seem to shift between arctic blue and pale silver depending on his mood—fix on your face with an intensity that would probably make anyone else uncomfortable. but you've been looking into those eyes for two decades, watching them go from bright and mischievous in childhood to something deeper, more complex now. something that holds secrets he's never quite brave enough to voice.

“weird in a… uniquely satoru way,” you concede, and the fondness in your voice makes his stomach flip. you've moved on to the next candy, and he watches the precise way you smooth out the wrapper again, fold it into a tiny perfect square like you're performing surgery. these are the moments that undo him completely—not the big gestures or dramatic declarations, just you existing in his space like you belong there. like maybe you always have.

his phone buzzes against the coffee table, vibrating insistently, but he ignores it. nothing's more important than this: you humming off-key under your breath, the late afternoon sun painting everything golden and soft, the way you've unconsciously tucked your feet under his thigh for warmth. your toes wiggle slightly against his leg, and he has to concentrate on not shivering at the casual contact. domestic bliss wrapped up in strawberry candy and the scent of your shampoo—something floral and sweet that he's never been able to identify but would recognize anywhere.

“remember when we used to do this in elementary school?” you ask suddenly, holding up the neatly folded wrapper between your thumb and forefinger. the paper catches the light, creating tiny rainbows at the creases. “you'd always try to make yours into origami cranes.”

“key word being ‘try,’” he says, but he's smiling at the memory, the corners of his mouth lifting despite himself. his hair falls across his forehead as he tilts his head, those pale strands shifting like seafoam. you sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor, patient as anything while he struggled with paper folds, your small hands guiding his through the steps over and over again. telling him it was okay that his cranes looked more like abstract art, that they were beautiful in their own way. you'd been doing that his whole life—making his failures feel like victories just by witnessing them with that soft, encouraging smile.

“i still have some of them,” you admit, ducking your head slightly as if embarrassed by the confession. your fingers twist the new wrapper, creating small accordion folds. “in my apartment.”

his heart does something complicated against his ribs, a stuttering rhythm that makes him wonder if cardiac episodes can be triggered by pure affection. “the terrible cranes?”

“the terrible cranes.” you pop the candy into your mouth, and he tracks the movement without meaning to, watches the way your lips close around the sweet treat, the slight movement of your throat as you swallow. when you catch him staring, a faint blush creeps up your neck. “they're in my memory box with all the other important stuff.”

important stuff. he files that away with all the other small revelations you drop without realizing their weight, adds it to the mental catalog he's been building for years. you keep his terrible origami. you think their childhood memories are important enough to preserve in a special box. you're sitting in his living room like it's yours too, feet tucked against his leg like the contact is natural, necessary even.

“what else is in there?” he asks, genuinely curious but also desperate to keep you talking, to hear more about the pieces of your shared history you've deemed worth saving.

you consider this, working the candy around in your mouth thoughtfully. “lots of things. movie ticket stubs from our first pg-13 movie—remember how we snuck into that theater in eighth grade? your mom's chocolate chip cookie recipe that you wrote out for me in high school because i wanted to learn how to bake. that polaroid from senior prom where you're making bunny ears behind my head.”

each item hits him like a small revelation. he remembers all of it—remembers the way you'd grabbed his hand in the dark theater during the scary parts, how you'd insisted on writing out the recipe even though you'd never shown any interest in baking before, the way you'd laughed so hard at his bunny ears that you'd snorted and immediately turned red with embarrassment.

“you kept the recipe?” his voice comes out softer than intended, almost wondering.

“of course i kept the recipe. your handwriting was so bad i could barely read it, but i kept it anyway.” you grin at him, that bright, uninhibited smile that makes his chest feel too tight. “still can't make cookies worth a damn, but i have the recipe.”

“i could teach you,” he offers without thinking, then immediately wants to take it back because it sounds too much like a date, too much like something more than friends would do together.

but you just nod enthusiastically, bouncing slightly on the couch. “yes! we should definitely do that. i've been wanting to learn forever, but every time i try on my own they come out like hockey pucks.”

the casual way you accept his offer, like spending an afternoon in the kitchen together is the most natural thing in the world, makes his pulse skip. he can already picture it—you in his kitchen, flour in your hair, probably getting more ingredients on yourself than in the bowl. him standing behind you, hands covering yours as he shows you how to fold in the chocolate chips, trying not to think about how perfectly you'd fit against his chest.

“satoru?” you're looking at him with that slightly concerned expression that means he's been quiet too long, lost in his own head again. your brow furrows in that particular way it does when you're trying to read his mood. “you okay?”

“yeah,” he says, and his voice comes out rougher than intended, scratchy around the edges. he clears his throat, runs a hand through his hair in a gesture that's become automatic over the years. “just thinking.”

“dangerous,” you tease, but there's something softer in your eyes now, something that makes him wonder if you can see right through him. if maybe you've always been able to see through him, and he's been the only one pretending otherwise.

the afternoon stretches out, lazy and warm, filled with the comfortable silence of two people who've known each other long enough that conversation isn't always necessary. you've finished your candy and are now absently braiding the hem of your shirt, fingers working the fabric with the same methodical precision you'd used on the wrapper. he thinks about how easy it would be to just say it. to tell you that he's been yours since before he knew what that meant, that every day feels like borrowed time because surely someone this good, this bright, this perfectly imperfect can't actually want to spend her free time with someone like him.

instead, he reaches for the tv remote and pretends his hands aren't shaking. pretends he doesn't notice the way you watch him move, doesn't see the little frown that crosses your face when he turns away from you to focus on the screen.

the opening credits of some mindless sitcom fill the silence, but he's not really watching. he's thinking about memory boxes and terrible origami cranes and the way you said “important stuff” like it meant something. like maybe he means something.

like maybe twenty years of almosts might finally be leading somewhere.

the farmer's market on saturday morning is your idea, which means satoru trails behind you like a devoted shadow, carrying your reusable bags and pretending he's not cataloguing every smile you give to the vendors. you're wearing that sundress he likes—the one with tiny cherries printed on cream-colored fabric that makes your skin look like it's been kissed by sunlight—and he's having what can only be described as a religious experience watching you examine peaches with scientific precision.

the dress hits just above your knees, swaying gently as you move from stall to stall, and he has to actively work to keep his eyes from following the movement. the morning sun catches in your hair, highlighting strands he's never noticed before, and when you lean over to smell a particularly promising piece of fruit, he has to look away before he does something stupid like stare at the graceful curve of your neck.

“these are perfect,” you announce, holding up a peach that's blushed pink and gold, soft to the touch but not too yielding. your fingers cradle it carefully, thumb brushing over the fuzzy skin with reverence. “smell.”

you thrust the peach toward his face with the enthusiasm of someone who's discovered buried treasure, and he dutifully inhales, though mostly what he's registering is your proximity and the way your hair smells like vanilla and something uniquely you. something he's never been able to identify but would recognize in a crowded room. “smells good,” he manages, and you beam like he's just solved world hunger.

your whole face lights up with the compliment, eyes crinkling at the corners, and he thinks distantly that he'd probably agree with anything you said if it meant seeing that expression again. you could tell him the peach smelled like old socks and he'd nod along just to keep you smiling.

“right? we're definitely making cobbler this week.” you're already moving toward the vendor, pulling crumpled bills from the small purse slung across your body, but the words stop him cold.

we. the casual assumption that he'll be there, that his kitchen is your kitchen, that making cobbler together is just what you do. his chest goes tight with affection so intense it borders on medical emergency. you don't even question whether he'll want to spend his sunday afternoon elbow-deep in flour and fruit—you just assume, with the easy confidence of someone who's never had to doubt their welcome in his space.

“whatever you want, your highness,” he says, the pet name slipping out before he can stop it. it's been happening more frequently lately, that old childhood nickname finding its way into casual conversation. you've been ‘your highness’ in his head for so long that sometimes it escapes into real conversation, and every time it does, you get this look—half amused, half something else he can't quite read but desperately wants to understand.

“you and that nickname,” you mutter, but you're smiling as you hand the vendor your money, counting out bills with careful precision. your cheeks are slightly pink, though whether from the compliment or the morning sun, he can't tell. “i swear you're never gonna let me grow up.”

if only you knew. he's acutely aware of how grown up you are, how you've traded pigtails for soft waves that catch the light and crayon drawings for the kind of smile that could probably power a small city. he's noticed every single change, catalogued every new freckle and laugh line, the way your voice has gotten slightly deeper, more melodious. somehow he's fallen deeper with each transformation, like he's been in love with every version of you that's ever existed.

“excuse me,” the peach vendor says as she hands you your change, coins clinking softly in your palm, “you two are just the cutest couple. how long have you been together?”

satoru's brain short-circuits so completely he's surprised smoke doesn't start pouring from his ears. his mouth opens and closes without sound, and he can feel heat creeping up his neck, probably turning his face an unflattering shade of red. you laugh—that bright, surprised sound that makes his stomach flip—and shake your head quickly, hands fluttering in denial.

“oh, we're not—we're just friends,” you say, but there's something in your voice, a slight hesitation before the word ‘friends’ that makes his pulse stutter.

just friends. the words hit him somewhere behind his sternum, not quite pain but not quite relief either. the vendor looks embarrassed, starts apologizing profusely, but you wave her off with easy grace while satoru stands there wondering if his internal combustion is visible from the outside. his hands tighten on the straps of your bags, knuckles probably white with the effort of appearing normal.

“happens all the time,” you tell him as you walk away, weaving between other shoppers with practiced ease, and there's something in your voice he can't identify. something almost… wistful? “people always think we're dating.”

“yeah,” he says, aiming for casual and landing somewhere in the vicinity of strained. his throat feels tight, words coming out rougher than intended. “weird, right?”

you glance at him sideways, and for a second he thinks you might say something else. your lips part slightly, like you're considering it, but then you just shrug and move toward the flower stand, leaving him to follow and contemplate the particular torture of being mistaken for your boyfriend by strangers when he'd give anything for it to be true.

the flower stand is a riot of color and fragrance, buckets of blooms arranged in careful rows. the vendor is a tiny elderly woman with silver hair pinned back in a neat bun, and she takes one look at them approaching and immediately starts gushing about her roses, hands gesturing enthusiastically toward a display of pink blooms that smell like summer and promises.

“for your girlfriend?” she asks satoru with a conspiratorial wink, gesturing to the roses with the confidence of someone who's been in the matchmaking business for decades.

“just friends,” you say again, quicker this time, the words tumbling out before satoru can even process the question. he tries not to read too much into the way your smile falters slightly, the way your shoulders tense almost imperceptibly.

but the woman is persistent, pressing a single white rose into his palm with another wink that suggests she knows something they don't. the flower is perfect—petals like silk, stem thornless and smooth. “sometimes the best love stories start with friendship, young man. trust me, i've been selling flowers for forty years. i know these things.”

satoru stares down at the rose, its petals soft as silk between his fingers and impossibly white, like fresh snow or clean linen or every perfect thing he's ever tried to find words for. when he looks up, you're already walking toward the next stall, shoulders tense in a way that makes him want to chase after you and demand to know what you're thinking. what you're feeling. whether the flower vendor's words affected you the same way they affected him.

instead, he pays for the rose without arguing about the price, tucking it carefully into one of the bags where it won't get crushed, and follows because that's what he's always done. followed you, waited for you, hoped that someday you'd turn around and see him the way he sees you.

the way he's always seen you.

“satoru, come on,” you call over your shoulder, already three stalls ahead, and he realizes he's been standing there longer than he thought, lost in his own head again. you're holding up a small jar of honey, sunlight catching the golden liquid inside. “they have lavender honey. remember how much you liked it at that restaurant last month?”

you remember. of course you remember. you remember every small preference, every casual comment, every little thing that most people would forget within minutes. it's one of the things he loves most about you—the way you pay attention, the way you care enough to file away the smallest details about the people you love.

he jogs to catch up, bags bouncing against his side, and finds you already chatting with the honey vendor about different varieties and flavor profiles. you're animated when you talk about food, hands gesturing as you describe the restaurant where he'd first tried lavender honey, and he finds himself falling in love with you all over again just watching you exist in the world.

“we'll take two jars,” you're saying, already reaching for your wallet, but he stops you with a gentle hand on your wrist.

“i've got it,” he says, pulling out his own money before you can protest. your skin is warm under his fingers, and he has to resist the urge to let his thumb trace across your pulse point.

“you don't have to—”

“i want to.” and he does. wants to buy you honey and flowers and anything else that makes you smile like that. wants to be the reason for that soft, pleased expression that's currently gracing your features.

you let him pay, but not without rolling your eyes in fond exasperation. “you spoil me.”

“good,” he says simply, accepting the jars from the vendor and tucking them carefully into the bag with the rose. “you deserve to be spoiled.”

the words slip out before he can stop them, too honest, too revealing, and he watches your expression shift into something he can't quite read. you duck your head, hair falling forward to hide your face, but not before he catches the faint blush creeping across your cheeks.

“come on, your royal highness,” you say, bumping his shoulder with yours, and the casual contact makes his heart stutter. “let's go home and make that cobbler.”

home. you said home, not his place or his apartment, but home. like it's yours too. like maybe it always has been.

maybe it always has been.

back at his apartment, you're quiet in a way that sets his nerves on edge. you've been friends long enough that he can read your moods like weather patterns—the slight tension in your shoulders that means you're thinking too hard about something, the way you're biting the inside of your cheek that suggests internal debate. right now there's definitely a storm brewing behind your eyes, thoughts churning in a way that makes him want to reach out and smooth the furrow between your brows.

you're sitting on his kitchen counter, legs swinging in a restless rhythm, heels occasionally bumping against the cabinet below. he's putting away the morning's purchases with probably unnecessary focus, arranging the peaches in a bowl like they're precious artifacts, trying to ignore the way your silence is making his skin feel too tight.

“satoru,” you say finally, and something in your tone makes him turn around immediately, abandoning his careful arrangement of fruit.

“yeah?”

you're fidgeting with the stem of the white rose he bought, twirling it between your fingers like you're trying to solve a particularly complex equation. the petals have opened slightly since this morning, revealing deeper layers of ivory and cream, and in the afternoon light streaming through his kitchen window, it looks almost ethereal in your hands.

“can i ask you something?” your voice is smaller than usual, uncertain in a way that makes his chest tighten with immediate concern.

his heart starts doing that thing where it forgets how to beat properly, rhythm stuttering against his ribs. “always.”

“do you ever think…” you pause, take a breath that seems to require effort, start again. “sometimes i wonder if i'm reading too much into things. like maybe i think someone likes me and it's all just in my head.”

the bottom drops out of his world.

someone. you think someone likes you, which means there's someone you're paying attention to, someone who's maybe been giving you signs that you're trying to interpret. his brain immediately starts cycling through every male friend you have, every coworker you've mentioned in passing, that guy from your yoga class who definitely stares at you too much and makes comments about your form that seem less than professional.

the rose trembles slightly in your hands, and he realizes you're nervous. actually nervous about asking him this, which means whoever it is matters to you. matters enough that you're seeking advice, validation, reassurance that you're not imagining things.

“like who?” he asks, and his voice comes out strangled, like he's being slowly crushed by invisible hands. like all the air has been sucked out of the room and replaced with something thinner, harder to breathe.

you look up at him, and there's something vulnerable in your expression that makes his chest ache. something raw and uncertain that he wants to protect, even as it's currently destroying him from the inside out. “never mind. it's stupid.”

“it's not stupid,” he says quickly, moving closer without really meaning to, drawn by the magnetic pull that's existed between you since childhood. “whoever it is would be crazy not to like you.”

wrong thing to say. he knows it immediately because your face does something complicated, cycling through disappointment and resignation before settling on a smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes. that careful, practiced smile you use when you're trying to hide how you really feel.

“you have to say that. you're my best friend.”

best friend. there it is again, that careful designation that feels more like a cage every time you say it. he wants to grab you by the shoulders and tell you that he's been crazy about you since before he knew what crazy about someone meant, that every day he doesn't tell you feels like a small betrayal of everything you've ever meant to each other.

instead, he says, “i don't have to say anything. i say it because it's true.”

and it is true. brutally, completely true. whoever this mystery person is, they'd have to be blind and stupid not to see how incredible you are. not to notice the way you light up a room just by entering it, the way you remember everyone's favorite coffee order and check in on people when they're having bad days and laugh so hard at terrible jokes that you snort a little, which only makes you more endearing.

you're quiet for a long moment, still twirling the rose, and he can practically see the thoughts churning behind your eyes like storm clouds gathering on the horizon. when you finally speak, your voice is small in a way that makes him want to wrap you up and protect you from whatever's making you doubt yourself.

“sometimes i think i make up feelings where they don't exist,” you say, barely above a whisper. “like maybe i want something to be there so badly that i convince myself it is.”

and oh. oh, you're talking about him, aren't you? you're sitting here in his kitchen, talking about reading too much into things, about wanting feelings that might not exist, and he's too much of a coward to realize you're talking about him. the signs are all there—the way you've been looking at him lately, softer and more lingering than usual. the casual touches that seem to happen more frequently. the way you said “home” earlier like you meant it.

except what if you're not? what if there really is someone else, someone who's been giving you mixed signals while satoru's been pining from the sidelines like an idiot? what if he's the one reading too much into things, projecting his own desperate hopes onto innocent moments of friendship?

“you're not stupid,” he says finally, because it's the only safe thing he can think of, the only response that won't reveal everything. “if you think someone likes you, there's probably a good reason.”

you slide down from the counter, rose still in hand, and for a second you're standing close enough that he can count your eyelashes, see the tiny flecks of gold in your eyes that he's memorized over years of study. close enough that if he just leaned down a little, if he was brave enough to close the distance...

“maybe,” you say, but you sound doubtful. disappointed in a way that makes him want to take back everything he just said. “or maybe i'm just really good at lying to myself.”

you're moving toward the living room, and he follows because he always follows, brain spinning through every conversation you've had recently, every look, every moment that might have been a sign he was too scared to read properly. you settle onto the couch like you're planning to stay for a while, curling up in the corner with your legs tucked beneath you, and he takes his usual spot on the opposite end, careful to maintain the precise distance that says ‘best friend’ instead of ‘hopelessly in love with you.’

the white rose ends up in a glass of water on his coffee table, petals catching the light from his windows, and you're staring at it with an expression he can't quite read. contemplative, maybe. wistful.

“this person,” he starts carefully, hating himself for asking but needing to know, “how long have you been thinking about them?”

you give him a look that's equal parts amused and exasperated, head tilting in that way it does when you think he's being particularly dense. “are we really doing this?”

“doing what?”

“the thing where you help me analyze my pathetic love life like we're in high school.” you're picking at the throw pillow in your lap, fingers worrying at a loose thread. “sitting around dissecting every interaction and trying to figure out what it all means.”

pathetic love life. as if you could ever have anything pathetic about you. as if whoever this mysterious person is doesn't realize they're the luckiest person alive just to be on your radar. just to have you thinking about them, analyzing their behavior, wondering if they feel the same way.

“i'm being a good friend,” he protests, though the words taste bitter in his mouth. bitter like the coffee you drink when you're stressed, bitter like the medicine you have to swallow when something's wrong.

“you're being nosy.”

“can't i be both?”

you laugh despite yourself, and the sound goes straight to his chest like it always does, warming him from the inside out. “fine. but you can't make fun of me.”

“when have i ever made fun of you?”

“constantly. it's like your primary form of communication.” but you're smiling now, some of the tension leaving your shoulders, and he counts it as a victory.

you’re not wrong. teasing you has always been safer than the alternative, easier than letting you see how seriously, completely, utterly gone he is for you. easier than admitting that every joke is just a way of buying more time in your presence, every playful insult a cover for the compliments he really wants to give.

“i promise to be nice,” he says, crossing his heart with exaggerated solemnity, and you snort at the theatrical gesture.

“i'll believe it when i see it.”

you're quiet for a moment, picking at the throw pillow, and he can see you working up the courage to say whatever it is you're thinking. your teeth worry at your bottom lip in a gesture he recognizes from childhood—you used to do the same thing before spelling tests and soccer tryouts and the first day of school each year.

when you finally speak, your voice is so soft he has to strain to hear it, has to lean forward slightly to catch every word.

“it's been a long time,” you admit, not looking at him. “like, a really long time. since we were kids, maybe.”

since we were kids.

since. we. were. kids.

his heart stops beating entirely, just quits on him right there in his living room, because unless you had some secret elementary school boyfriend he doesn't know about, unless there's some childhood friend he's completely forgotten about...

you're talking about him.

you've been thinking about him.

since you were kids.

“oh,” he says, because his vocabulary has apparently shrunk to single syllables, because every word in the english language has suddenly abandoned him when he needs them most.

“see?” you say quickly, finally looking up at him with eyes that are bright with what might be tears. “i told you it was stupid. forget i said anything.”

“no,” he says, too loud, and you startle slightly at the volume. “no, it's not stupid. it's...”

it's everything. it's his every prayer answered, every birthday wish granted, every star he's ever wished on coming true all at once. it's twenty years of hoping and waiting and pretending to be content with friendship finally, finally meaning something.

“it's what?” you ask, and there's something hopeful in your voice that makes his chest feel like it might crack open, like his heart might actually burst from the sheer force of what he's feeling.

he opens his mouth to tell you, to finally, finally say what he's been carrying around for twenty years, and then he panics. because what if he's wrong? what if you're talking about someone else after all? what if he says everything and ruins the most important friendship of his life? what if you look at him with disgust or pity or worse, that careful politeness you use with people who make you uncomfortable?

“it's brave,” he says instead, taking the coward's way out, watching the light in your eyes dim slightly. “whoever it is would be lucky to have you thinking about them.”

your face falls so subtly he almost misses it, just a slight dimming of the light in your eyes, a barely perceptible tightening around the corners of your mouth. but he's been studying your expressions for twenty years, cataloguing every micro-expression, and he knows he's fucked up. knows he's missed something crucial, said the wrong thing, let fear win when courage was what the moment required.

“right,” you say, and your voice is carefully neutral, scrubbed clean of the hope that had been there moments before. “lucky them.”

you're pulling away from him, not physically but emotionally, retreating behind the walls that friendship has never required before. building barriers in real time, and he's sitting there like an idiot, watching it happen, knowing he caused it but not knowing how to fix it without potentially making everything worse.

the rose on the coffee table seems to mock him with its perfect white petals, a symbol of something he was too scared to claim when he had the chance. when you were sitting right there, telling him everything he's ever wanted to hear, and he was too much of a coward to hear it properly.

too much of a coward to take the leap that might have changed everything.

you leave not long after that, claiming an early morning tomorrow and some excuse about laundry that you both know is bullshit. the way you gather your things—phone sliding into your palm with deliberate precision, keys jingling once before being muffled in your grip, that little cross-body bag with its worn leather strap that you always adjust twice before leaving—feels like watching his entire future pack itself away in slow motion.

satoru's throat constricts as he tracks each movement, his vision tunneling on the careful way you avoid his gaze. there's something devastating about the ordinary nature of your departure, the way catastrophe can masquerade as routine. you're folding in on yourself, shoulders curved inward like you're protecting something fragile in your chest, and he knows with sickening clarity that he put that defensive hunch there.

“text me when you get home safe,” he says, one hand automatically reaching up to rake through his hair—those moonspun strands that never learned proper behavior, always catching and scattering light like captured starfall. the words scrape against his vocal cords like sandpaper. it's what he always says, has been saying since you got your first car at sixteen and his anxiety about your well-being became a living thing with teeth and claws.

“always do,” you reply, your fingers worrying at the delicate chain of your necklace—that thin silver thing that catches at your throat when you swallow nervously. your voice carries the hollow ring of obligation rather than affection. you still won't look at him directly, your gaze fixed somewhere around his left shoulder where his sweater pulls slightly across his collarbone, and the absence of eye contact feels like a physical ache behind his sternum.

the click of his door closing echoes through the apartment with the finality of a coffin lid. satoru stands there for a full minute, staring at the wood grain, before the magnitude of his cowardice hits him like a freight train carrying twenty years' worth of missed opportunities.

the apartment transforms in your absence, walls stretching impossibly wide, ceilings vaulting into cathedral heights that make him feel ant-small and infinitely alone. the couch still holds the impression of your body, cushions dented where you'd curled your legs beneath you, and he finds himself gravitating toward that spot like a moth to flame. when he sits down, the lingering warmth of your presence soaks through his jeans, and he has to press his palms against his eyes to keep from doing something pathetic like burying his face in the throw pillow you'd been hugging.

the white rose sits on his coffee table like an accusation, its petals pristine and mocking. sometimes the best love stories start with friendship, the vendor had said, and satoru had been too much of a fool to recognize the universe handing him a script.

his phone buzzes against the glass surface: home safe. thanks for today.

the message glows on his screen, twelve words that somehow contain multitudes of disappointment. he can picture you typing it, thumb hesitating over each letter, probably tucked into your favorite corner of your couch with that oversized cardigan pulled tight around your shoulders, rewriting it three times before settling on something safely neutral. you used to add heart emojis to these check-ins, little digital affirmations that he'd treasured more than he had any right to. their absence now feels like a door slamming shut.

he types: anytime. sleep well. his thumb hovers over the send button for thirty seconds, jaw working silently as he wars with himself.

then deletes it. tries: we should talk about what happened. his teeth catch his lower lip, worrying at the skin until it stings.

deletes that too. his fingers hover over the keyboard, shoulders hunched forward in defeat, cycling through seventeen different responses that range from desperate to devastated. i love you gets typed and erased four times, each deletion making his chest cavity feel emptier. please come back so i can fix this makes it halfway before he chickens out, his hand scrubbing down his face hard enough to leave red marks. i've been yours since we were seven and i'm sorry i'm too scared to be brave never even makes it past his mental rough draft.

finally, he settles on: anytime. sleep well.

the delivered notification appears, and then... nothing. no immediate response, no typing indicator, no late-night follow-up like you sometimes send when you can't sleep. just radio silence that stretches into the night like a chasm.

satoru spends the next six hours staring at his ceiling, replaying every microsecond of your conversation with the obsessive precision of a crime scene investigator. his hair fans across the pillow in ethereal wisps, those pale strands seeming to glow with their own inner light against the dark fabric, like captured lightning or the first frost of winter given form. the way your voice had gone soft and vulnerable when you said since we were kids. the hope that had flickered in your eyes—those beautiful eyes he'd never been brave enough to hold contact with for more than stolen moments—before he'd snuffed it out with his cowardice. the careful way you'd reconstructed your walls in real time, brick by brick, your shoulders drawing inward and your hands clasping tightly in your lap until you were safely barricaded behind the familiar boundaries of friendship.*. the hope that had flickered in your eyes before he'd snuffed it out with his cowardice. the careful way you'd reconstructed your walls in real time, brick by brick, until you were safely barricaded behind the familiar boundaries of friendship.

since we were kids. the phrase loops in his mind like a broken record, each repetition driving the knife of realization deeper into his chest. unless you'd harbored some secret elementary school crush he'd never known about—which, given that you'd been attached at the hip since kindergarten, seemed unlikely—there was only one person you could have been referring to.

him.

you'd been talking about him.

and he'd been so paralyzed by the possibility of being wrong that he'd missed the moment entirely, let it slip through his fingers like water through a broken dam.

by the time dawn creeps through his blinds, painting everything in shades of regret and determination, he's made a decision that will either save his life or end it completely. the resolution sits in his chest like a live wire, sparking against his ribs every time he breathes. he's going to tell you everything. twenty years of accumulated feelings, every birthday wish spent on your happiness, every star he's wished on while thinking of your smile. all of it.

the thought terrifies him so completely that he has to grip the edge of his mattress to keep from floating away on a tide of panic.

sunday afternoon arrives with the punctuality of a church bell, and with it comes the familiar sound of your key in his lock. you'd exchanged spare keys sophomore year of college, a practical decision born of too many instances of locked-out roommates and forgotten textbooks. what had started as convenience had evolved into something more significant—the quiet intimacy of belonging in each other's spaces, of being trusted with unrestricted access to the small, private corners of each other's lives.

now, listening to that key turn, satoru's heart hammers against his ribs like it's trying to break free and run away before his mouth can ruin everything permanently.

“hey,” you say as you appear in his doorway, and the single syllable carries the weight of exhaustion that makes his chest constrict with guilt. there are shadows under your eyes that weren't there yesterday, and your smile—when it finally appears—lacks its usual wattage.

“hey yourself,” he manages, his voice cracking slightly on the second word.

you move through his space with less than your usual confidence, the easy familiarity replaced by something more cautious. instead of immediately claiming your usual spot on the far end of the couch—the corner you'd long ago designated as yours, complete with the throw pillow you'd brought from your own apartment and the way you always tucked your feet up under you—you hover near the armchair, fingers worrying at the strap of your bag.

the careful distance you're maintaining might as well be measured in miles rather than feet. it's like watching you interact with a stranger's apartment, all politeness and uncertainty where there used to be ownership and ease. the sight of it breaks something fundamental in satoru's chest, some load-bearing beam of his emotional architecture crumbling under the weight of what his cowardice has cost them.

“about yesterday,” he starts, the words tumbling out before he can lose his nerve entirely.

“we don't have to talk about it,” you interrupt quickly, finally settling into the armchair but perched on its edge like you're ready to flee at the first sign of discomfort. your hands clasp in your lap, knuckles white with tension. “i was being weird, and awkward, and i made things uncomfortable. we can just pretend it never happened and go back to normal.”

but normal is what got them here in the first place—twenty years of careful boundaries and unspoken feelings and the kind of willful blindness that masquerades as friendship when it's really just elaborate emotional self-harm.

“you weren't being weird,” he says firmly, rising from the couch to face you properly. the movement is too quick, driven by urgency rather than grace, and you startle slightly at the sudden change in his position. “i was being an idiot.”

something flickers across your expression—surprise, maybe, or the faintest spark of hope quickly tampered down. “satoru—”

“just let me say this, okay?” the words come out rougher than intended, scraped raw by a sleepless night and the weight of everything he's been carrying. “before i lose my nerve completely and spend another twenty years being a coward.”

you go very still, and he can see the exact moment you decide to let him speak. your shoulders settle back against the chair, hands unclasping to grip the armrests instead, and you give him a small nod that somehow contains multitudes of permission and trepidation.

the silence that follows feels crystalline, fragile enough that the wrong word might shatter everything beyond repair. satoru runs his hand through his hair—those pale strands that never quite cooperate, that catch light like spun moonbeams even in the dim afternoon glow filtering through his blinds. the gesture is pure nervous energy, fingers combing through the silky mess as if he might find courage tangled somewhere in the roots.

“when you were talking yesterday,” he begins, then stops, takes a breath that tastes like terror and determination in equal measure. “about thinking someone liked you since you were kids...”

he watches your face carefully, cataloguing every micro-expression. the way your lips part slightly, the flutter of your eyelashes as you blink too fast, the barely perceptible forward lean of your body like you're drawn toward his words despite yourself.

“you were talking about me, weren't you?”

the question hangs in the air between them, loaded with twenty years of almosts and maybes and the kind of hope that feels dangerous to voice. your breath catches—a sharp, barely audible intake that he might have missed if he weren't paying attention with the focused intensity of a man whose entire future hangs in the balance.

“satoru—” you start, but he's already moving, dropping to his knees in front of your chair with the graceless desperation of someone who's finally found the courage to stop running from the thing that matters most.

his hands hover just above your knees, not quite touching but close enough that he can feel the warmth radiating through the soft cotton of your sundress—a different one today, this one scattered with tiny daisies that make him think of childhood summers and innocence and all the ways you've been beautiful to him across the years.

“because if you were,” he continues, words spilling out in a rush now that the dam has finally burst, “then i need you to know that you weren't reading too much into anything. you weren't making up feelings that don't exist or convincing yourself of something that wasn't there.”

your eyes are wide, pupils dilated in a way that makes the familiar color seem deeper, more infinite. he can see his own reflection in them, distorted and desperate and more honest than he's ever been in his life.

“i've been crazy about you since the second grade,” he confesses, the words scraping against his throat like they're made of glass. “since you wrote that you wanted to be a princess in our yearbook and i decided right then and there that i was going to spend the rest of my life making sure you felt like one.”

the admission settles between them like a living thing, breathing and vital and impossible to take back. your hands tighten on the armrests, knuckles going white again, but this time it looks less like tension and more like anchoring—like you're holding on to keep from floating away on the enormity of what he's just revealed.

“every door i've ever opened for you,” he continues, momentum carrying him forward now that he's started, “every time i've carried your bags or bought you flowers or called you ‘your highness’—it wasn't just being a good friend. it was never just friendship.”

his voice cracks on the last word, twenty years of careful pretense finally crumbling under the weight of truth. “it's all been because you're my princess. you've always been my princess, and i've been too much of a coward to tell you.”

silence stretches between them, heavy and loaded with possibility. satoru can hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears, can feel the subtle tremor in his hands where they still hover near your knees. you're staring at him with an expression he can't quite read, cycling through what looks like shock and disbelief and something that might be the beginning of joy before it gets tampered down by uncertainty.

he's never felt more exposed in his life, kneeling here in his own living room with his heart splayed open like a roadmap to twenty years of devotion. the vulnerability is excruciating, every nerve ending raw and oversensitive, waiting for you to either pull him back from the brink or push him over the edge entirely.

“you,” you say finally, and your voice comes out barely above a whisper, thick with something that might be tears or laughter or both. “you complete and utter idiot.”

the words hit him like a physical blow, driving the air from his lungs in a sharp exhale. his heart, which had been hammering with nervous hope, stutters and nearly stops entirely. this is it, then. the moment where twenty years of friendship dies on the altar of his feelings, where he learns what it costs to love someone who can't love you back.

“look, if you don't feel the same way—” he starts, already beginning the retreat, already starting to build the walls that will let him survive the aftermath of this spectacular emotional implosion.

“of course i feel the same way!” you explode, suddenly on your feet, the force of your movement sending him rocking back on his heels. your hands are gesturing wildly now, cutting through the air with the sharp precision of someone who's been holding back way too much for way too long. “i've been in love with you since we were kids, you absolute disaster of a human being!”

the words slam into him with the force of a freight train, reorganizing his entire understanding of reality in the space between one heartbeat and the next. of course i feel the same way. the phrase echoes in his skull, bouncing off the walls of his mind like a pinball machine gone haywire.

“you have?” he asks, and his voice comes out small and wondering, like he's afraid that speaking too loudly might break whatever spell has made this moment possible.

“yes!” you're pacing now, three quick steps to the window and back, your sundress swirling around your legs with each sharp turn. “why do you think i've been hanging around your apartment every weekend for the past fifteen years? why do you think i never date anyone seriously? because i've been waiting for you to figure it out!”

he's scrambling to his feet now, desperate to close the distance between you but afraid to move too fast, like you're some wild thing that might bolt if he makes the wrong move. “you've been waiting for me?”

“forever,” you say, and now you're definitely crying, tears streaming down your cheeks while you laugh with what sounds like relief and frustration and twenty years of pent-up emotion finally finding release. “i've been waiting forever, and you just—yesterday when i was trying to tell you, you just—”

“i panicked,” he admits, finally closing the space between you in two quick strides. his hands come up to frame your face, thumbs brushing away the tears with a gentleness that belies the tremor in his fingers. “i thought maybe you were talking about someone else, and i couldn't handle it if you were.”

your skin is soft under his palms, warm and real and perfect, and he can't quite believe he's allowed to touch you like this. that you're letting him catch your tears, that you're leaning into his touch instead of pulling away.

“someone else,” you repeat, shaking your head with enough force to send your hair flying. “as if there could ever be someone else. as if anyone else could even compare to you.”

the words hit him like salvation, like every prayer he's ever whispered to the dark finally being answered. “really?”

“really,” you confirm, and then you're rising up on your toes, hands fisting in the front of his shirt to pull him down toward you. “now stop being an idiot and kiss me before i lose my mind completely.”

he doesn't need to be told twice.

their lips meet in the middle of something that's been building for twenty years, soft and desperate and perfect in a way that makes his brain go completely offline. you taste like the strawberry lip balm you've been using since high school, sweet and familiar and right in a way that makes him wonder how he's survived this long without kissing you.

your mouth is warm and yielding under his, and when you sigh against his lips—this tiny, breathy sound of contentment—he thinks he might actually die from the sheer overwhelming rightness of it all. his hands slide from your face into your hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands as he deepens the kiss, pouring twenty years of accumulated longing into the connection between your mouths.

when you finally break apart, you're both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together like you can't bear to be more than an inch away from each other. your hands are still fisted in his shirt, holding him close, and he can feel the rapid flutter of your pulse where his thumbs rest against your throat.

“holy shit,” you breathe, and the profanity sounds like a prayer falling from your kiss-swollen lips.

“yeah,” he agrees, voice rough with emotion and the lingering effects of the best kiss of his entire life. “holy shit.”

you laugh, the sound bright and bubbling and infectious, and he finds himself grinning back at you with an expression that probably makes him look completely unhinged. he doesn't care. he's just kissed his best friend, his princess, the love of his entire life, and she kissed him back, and if that's not worth looking a little crazy over, then nothing is.

“so,” you say, and he can hear the smile in your voice even with his eyes closed, can feel it in the way your lips curve against his when you speak. “what now, your highness?”

the nickname—his own endearment turned back on him with teasing affection—makes him groan and drop his head to your shoulder in mock defeat. “you're never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“absolutely not,” you confirm cheerfully, arms winding around his neck to hold him close. “i've got twenty years of princess jokes stored up, and now that i know you meant them...”

“i meant every single one,” he says, pulling back to look at you properly. your hair is messed up from his hands, lipstick smudged in a way that probably matches his own mouth, and you're looking at him like he hung the moon and stars just for you. like he's something precious and beloved and yours. “i meant all of it.”

“good,” you say, going up on your toes to kiss him again, soft and sweet and lingering. “because i've got twenty years of being your princess to catch up on.”

this time when you kiss, it's slower, more exploratory. a conversation conducted in the language of lips and tongues and shared breath, twenty years of friendship providing the foundation for something deeper and more complex. he maps the shape of your mouth with the dedication of a cartographer, memorizing every curve and hollow, the way you taste like strawberries and forever and every dream he's ever had.

your hands slide up into his hair, fingers combing through the pale strands that have been catching light and hearts since childhood, and he thinks distantly that he's never going to get tired of this. of touching you, of being allowed to touch you, of the way you melt against him like you were made to fit in his arms.

when you break apart this time, it's with the reluctant awareness that you still have things to talk about, logistics to work out, twenty years of carefully maintained boundaries to navigate in this brave new world where you're allowed to love each other out loud.

“we should probably talk about what this means,” you say, though you make no move to step out of his arms. if anything, you settle more firmly against him, like you're claiming your space in his embrace.

“it means i'm yours,” he says without hesitation, the words coming as easily as breathing now that he's allowed to say them. “if you'll have me. it means i've been yours since we were seven years old and you asked me to be your friend, and i'm never letting you go again.”

your eyes go soft and liquid at his declaration, and he watches you blink back fresh tears with the tender fascination of someone who's finally been given permission to witness your every emotion.

“i've been yours too,” you whisper, voice thick with feeling. “for so long that i can't remember what it felt like before.”

“then it's simple,” he says, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your temple, breathing in the familiar scent of your shampoo and the new, intoxicating knowledge that he's allowed to do this now. “we stop pretending otherwise.”

you laugh, the sound muffled against his chest where you've pressed your face. “you make it sound so easy.”

“isn't it?” he asks, genuine curiosity coloring his voice. “we already do everything else together. we already know each other's worst habits and biggest fears and what makes each other laugh until we can't breathe. now we just get to add kissing to the list.”

“and other things,” you add, pulling back to look at him with an expression that's equal parts innocent and suggestive, and he feels heat pool low in his stomach at the implication.

“other things,” he agrees, voice dropping to something rougher, more intimate. “lots of other things. twenty years' worth of other things.”

you shiver slightly at the promise in his voice, and he files that reaction away for future reference, cataloguing it alongside every other response he plans to learn by heart.

“so what's first?” you ask, settling more comfortably in his arms like you're planning to stay there for the foreseeable future.

“first,” he says, pressing another kiss to your hair because he can, because you're his now and he's allowed, “we order way too much chinese food and eat it on the couch while we figure out how to tell people that we're finally together.”

“people are going to say they saw it coming,” you predict, tilting your head back to look at him. “we're going to get so many ‘about time’ comments.”

“let them,” he says, grinning down at you with unrepentant joy. “they can say whatever they want. i'm just happy i don't have to pretend anymore that i'm not completely gone for you.”

“completely gone,” you repeat, testing the phrase like you're tasting wine. “i like that. makes it sound properly dramatic and ridiculous.”

“it is dramatic and ridiculous,” he confirms. “twenty years of pining? that's shakespearean levels of absurd.”

“but worth it,” you say, and it's not a question.

“absolutely worth it,” he agrees, sealing the promise with another kiss that tastes like strawberries and new beginnings and happily ever after.

later, when you're curled up together on his couch—your couch now, he supposes, since everything that's his has always been yours anyway—sharing lo mein and sweet and sour chicken while some forgettable movie plays in the background, he thinks about that second-grade yearbook tucked away in his bedroom closet.

about seven-year-old you writing about being a princess in careful, looping handwriting, tongue poking out in concentration. about seven-year-old him deciding that if you wanted to be a princess, then he'd find a way to make it happen, even if it meant becoming an astronaut just to bring you back moon rocks that sparkled like the tiaras in your disney movies.

mission accomplished, he thinks, pressing a kiss to the top of your head where it rests against his shoulder. though the seven-year-old version of himself probably never imagined it would involve quite this much kissing.

not that he's complaining.

“satoru?” your voice is sleepy, muffled against his shirt where you've pressed your face into the curve of his neck.

“mm?”

“next time just tell me you love me from the start, okay? save us both some time.”

he laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest and making you smile against his skin. “deal, princess. though for the record, i do love you. have always loved you. will always love you.”

“i love you too,” you mumble, words slurring slightly with approaching sleep. “my ridiculous, dramatic, completely wonderful disaster of a man.”

“your disaster,” he corrects softly, fingers combing through your hair with reverent gentleness. “always yours.”

you hum contentedly, settling more firmly against him, and he thinks this might be what happily ever after feels like. strawberry lip balm and sunday afternoons and the girl of his dreams finally, finally in his arms where she belongs, where she's always belonged, where she'll stay for as long as he has breath in his body to keep her there.

yeah, he could definitely get used to this.

the white rose from yesterday's market sits on the coffee table beside their empty takeout containers, petals still pristine and perfect in their small glass of water. a symbol of new beginnings and answered prayers and the kind of love story that starts with friendship and ends with forever.

sometimes the best love stories start with friendship, the vendor had said, and as satoru drifts off to sleep with you warm and safe and his in his arms, he thinks she might have been the smartest person he's ever met.

taglist: @raendarkfaerie @thisuserisnotfunctioningproperly

[prettytemis]

the season of thorned roses ⸺ a bridgerton!au

pairing ⸺ duke!satoru gojo x fem!reader

summary ⸺ dearest gentle reader, a new season is upon us as the ton gets ready for a season filled with drama, heartbreak, and passion. after being crowned diamond of the season, duke gojo⸺only looking to marry just to secure his inheritance⸺has his sights set on you, the easiest (and most obvious) option. later, when you catch his saying unsavory things about you on a terrace when he least suspected it, you swear to never marry gojo. as london's fashionable set goes through yet another wedding season, will there be hope for scandalous gossip, hate, and thinly veiled insults, or will we witness blooming love and passion?

genre/warnings ⸺ enemies to lovers, bridgerton au, angst, fluff, eventual smut, suggestive, jealousy, misogyny, regency era au, gojo being infuriating, reader also being infuriating, both of them are clueless honestly, all they do is bicker 💀, some historical inaccuracies, mentions of sex work

notes from the author: im aashi, and this is my first series on this app :p for anyone who would like to know, this does end with a happy ending. ty for reading!

masterlist | drabble | fanart

chapter index

01 ⸺ the debutante

you begin to get ready for your presentation for your debut this season, and satoru steels himself to find a wife. you don't get the reception you'd wanted from some, and satoru will soon curse himself for letting his tongue loose (6.3k)

02 ⸺ the aftermath

after an eventful first ball after your debut, you continue the season with thinly veiled vexation towards gojo. but fate is not on your side; you and gojo keep encountering each other, matching fire with fire (7.8k)

03 ⸺ the manor

you and gojo have just uncovered your mothers' matchmaking scheme: a plan that sends you both to his extravagant countryside manor in kent, arriving a week earlier than the rest of the ton. the question remains—can you endure gojo's insufferable nature during this secluded stay? (8.3k)

04 ⸺ the game

satoru has some revelations about you. both you and satoru share some quite...happening days at the manor, including an eventful game of pall mall. (4.9k)

05 ⸺ the fall

gojo comes up with a strange yet tempting arrangement, but the accident that follows it may cause epiphanies for the both of you. (11.8k)

06 ⸺ the house party

you are bedridden, recovering from your wound, when gojo delivers season-changing news. the house party that follows buzzes with tension, and an unexpected arrival that sends ripples through the ton. (7.4k)

07 ⸺ the rebound

after the arrival of your dearest brother, you pursue a new angle to the season, one to prove that you, the diamond, will not be scorned. new opportunities with duke nanami arise and with it jealousy and bitterness fester in the ballroom. (6.8k)

08 ⸺ the lake

both you and gojo discover contradictory feelings lodged deep in your heart, and a confrontation (with an unexpected ally) leads to a rather....wet conclusion. (4.6k)

09 ⸺ the embers

sukuna takes you on an excurion into town at night, where you both meet a stranger that gives you illustrative insight into gojo. on the other hand, satoru has to suffer his best friend's most terrible plan as of date (10k)

10 ⸺ the art gallery

duke nanami suprises you with an inquiry, and the panic caused by it leads to an encounter with a very unexpected person (4.7k)

11 ⸺ the geto manor (soon!)

drabbles/headcanons

01 ⸺ gojo unable to wake up on time after a wild night (suggestive)

02 ⸺ avoiding gojo after getting your period (suggestive)

03 ⸺ gojo walking in on geto at a brothel (nsfw, not canon)

03 ⸺ gojo when you're pregnant

[prettytemis]

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐃 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐀 𝐓𝐖𝐎-𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄.

Zayne x non-mc, angst because that's all i'm good at lol

𝑺𝒚𝒑𝒏𝒐𝒔𝒊𝒔 : Dating a renowned cardiac surgeon was never meant to be easy—but falling in love with a man who already has a child and a history he never quite let go of? That’s something else entirely. Caught between hospital corridors and family day events, you tries to find your place in Zayne’s world—until one mistake shatters the fragile balance, and you're forced to ask yourself the question that’s haunted you from the start: did you ever meant to belong?

Being a surgeon’s girlfriend is already difficult—but what if your boyfriend also has a child with his ex?

When you first started dating Zayne, he didn’t hide anything. He told you about her—MC—and their daughter, Aurora. You were stunned for two reasons:

One, that Zayne Li, of all people, was dating you.

And two, that he had a child out of wedlock.

Still, you told yourself you could handle it. That you would try.

But no matter how hard you tried to be close to Aurora, she would quietly slip away. No tantrums, no words—just cold avoidance. At first, you told yourself she was only six. She couldn't possibly be hostile, right?

Zayne often brought you along to see her. Said it would help. You played along. Even MC was polite, if a little…off. You told yourself it was nerves—maybe jealousy. Or maybe it was just you, trying to ignore the invisible thread that still seemed to tie her and Zayne together. The shared child. The memories. The easy familiarity.

One evening, while sitting across from Zayne at his house, you hesitated before speaking.

“Zayne… do you think we could go out next Saturday?” your voice was soft, almost reluctant.

He was just returning from work, undoing his coat and sinking into the couch with a tired sigh. “I’m sorry. I have a scheduled surgery that day.”

You nodded, then asked again, a little more hopeful, “Then… how about Sunday?”

Zayne leaned his head back and rubbed a hand down his face. “Aurora has a family day at school on Sunday. She asked me to be there... You understand, right?”

You did. You always did. But this time, something inside you pushed back.

“…But you’re always busy,” you said quietly. “If not at the hospital, you’re with them. What about me?”

“What about you?” Zayne said sharply, straightening. “That’s nonsense. We live together—you see me every day.”

And just like that, the silence cracked into an argument.

But it never lasted long. Zayne, as always, came back to you hours later—apologetic, calm, promising to make it up to you. And he meant it. He always meant it.

So here you were, at Aurora’s school on a cold winter Sunday—Family Day.

Zayne brought you along again. Said it would help. Said it mattered.

You stood on the sidelines, watching him and MC playing with Aurora.

They looked so natural together. Laughing, moving in sync, fitting into the same frame like a picture that had never been taken apart. Aurora was radiant between them. And Zayne… he looked so happy.

They looked like a perfect family.

And you?

You were the stain on the canvas. The outsider in the photograph.

You flinched slightly when you felt a small tug on your sleeve. Aurora stood beside you, looking up and pointing at a nearby ice cream truck.

You blinked, surprised. She’d never approached you before.

“You want that? Okay, let’s get you one,” you said gently, a quiet warmth blooming in your chest. Maybe… just maybe, this was a start.

But the moment shattered in an instant.

Aurora began coughing violently—ice cream falling from her hand, her little fingers clawing at her throat as she struggled to breathe.

Panic consumed you. “Aurora?”

Zayne and MC rushed over immediately. You fumbled for words, heart racing, explaining what happened—but you barely got a sentence out before MC’s face twisted in alarm.

“She’s allergic to dairy!” MC cried, snatching Aurora from your side. Her eyes were wide with fear—and something else. Accusation.

“I— I didn’t know—” you stammered, heart racing. You were shaking. You didn’t know.

“She’s six! You should’ve asked!” she snapped, voice cracking with panic. “I know Aurora doesn’t like you—but you didn’t have to do this! Was it really that bad? That you had to—” Tears welled up in her eyes as people began to gather, murmuring, whispering. Judging.

You turned to Zayne, desperate. “Zayne, I swear—I didn’t know—”

“Shut up, [Reader].”

The words hit you harder than anything else. His voice was sharp. Cold. And worse, disappointed.

Zayne never yelled. Never lost control. And now, he couldn’t even look at you.

He scooped Aurora into his arms, MC following close behind. And without another glance in your direction, they left—getting into his car and driving away.

You stood there, frozen. Surrounded by strangers with pointed eyes and low murmurs.

They didn’t know you. And yet… they were already judging.

And somehow, you didn’t blame them.

Because in that moment, as the wind bit at your skin and your heartbeat rang in your ears—

You knew the truth.

You didn’t belong here.

You never did.

Author's note : comments is very much appreciated! i like reading your comments and also, should i do a part 2? zayne's pov, maybe.

[prettytemis]

[prettytemis]

grumpiest gojo in tokyo

a cursed gojo satoru comes home irritable and picks a fight over dinner, only to realize too late the weight of your effort and care. what follows is a night on the couch, a morning of regret, and a heartfelt attempt to make things right—with curry, apologies, and the quiet kind of love that stays.

wc — 6k ✦ tags domestic fluff, hurt/comfort, angst with happy ending, established relationship, cooking together, miscommunication, curse effects, domestic arguments, making up, satoru being an idiot, emotional vulnerability, slice of life, tender moments, attempt at humor, crack treated seriously, dramatic gojo satoru

if someone had told satoru that he’d spend his tuesday evening glaring at his own reflection like it had personally insulted his ancestry, he would have laughed until his lungs gave out.  

but here he was, six-foot-three of pure irritation wrapped in a designer suit that suddenly felt too tight, too scratchy, too everything. the curse had been pathetic—some low-grade spirit that barely registered on his radar before he obliterated it with a flick of his wrist. what he hadn’t expected was the parting gift: a nasty little enchantment that flipped his emotional switches like a toddler with a light panel.  

now every small inconvenience felt like a personal affront. the elevator music? annoying. his reflection? punchable. the way his key scraped against the lock? absolutely infuriating. even the hallway carpet seemed to be judging him, its expensive fibers somehow too soft, too plush, too deliberately welcoming.  

the elevator had been its own special hell. fourteen floors of smooth jazz that made his teeth itch, pressed between a woman who smelled like she’d bathed in vanilla extract and an old man who kept clearing his throat every thirty seconds like he was trying to communicate in morse code. satoru had spent the entire ride contemplating whether teleportation counted as assault if he used it to escape small talk.  

“lovely weather we’re having,” the woman had chirped, and satoru had to physically restrain himself from responding with a detailed analysis of how the barometric pressure was clearly off and the humidity was making his hair stick to his forehead in a way that defied both gravity and styling products.  

the penthouse door swung open with more force than necessary, and satoru stepped into what should have been his sanctuary. the familiar scent of home—vanilla candles, your perfume, the faint trace of coffee from this morning—hit him like a wall, and for one blessed moment, he felt the curse’s grip loosen. then he saw you standing in the kitchen, arms crossed, wearing that particular expression that usually made him want to kiss you senseless, and the irritation came roaring back.  

today, it made him want to argue about everything from the weather to the existential meaning of kitchen tiles.  

“you’re late,” you said, not looking up from whatever you were aggressively chopping on the cutting board. the knife moved with practiced precision, each cut deliberate and sharp. your hair was pulled back in that messy way that meant you’d been cooking for a while, little wisps escaping to frame your face. you wore his old dress shirt over your clothes, sleeves rolled up to your elbows, and normally the sight would have him crossing the room to wrap his arms around your waist from behind.  

today, even that looked wrong somehow. the shirt was wrinkled in a way that suggested you’d been moving around the kitchen for hours, and there was a small stain on the sleeve that looked suspiciously like turmeric. why couldn’t you just be more careful?  

“traffic,” he bit out, the word sharp enough to cut glass. his fingers worked at his tie with jerky, aggressive movements, the silk suddenly feeling like a noose around his throat. “apparently half of tokyo decided to drive like they learned from a cereal box.”  

you paused mid-chop, the knife hovering over what looked like carrots. expensive carrots, the kind that cost more than most people’s lunch, cut into perfect uniform pieces because you knew he had opinions about vegetable consistency. finally glancing up, your eyes narrowed as you took in his rigid posture.  

“what crawled up your ass and died?” you asked, setting the knife down with a soft clink that somehow sounded accusatory. “and don’t say traffic. you teleport half the time anyway.”  

“maybe i wanted to drive today,” satoru snapped, his voice rougher than usual. he yanked the tie free and tossed it aside, watching it land on the marble counter with unnecessary focus. the silk crumpled against the expensive stone, and he felt irrationally annoyed that it didn’t land properly. “maybe i wanted to experience the joy of sitting in gridlock with a bunch of people who think turn signals are optional.”  

“oh, so you chose to be miserable,” you said, turning back to your chopping with deliberate calm. “how very mature of you.”  

“i’m not miserable,” he said, which was a lie of such epic proportions that even he didn’t believe it. “i’m fine. perfectly fine. can’t a man come home without getting interrogated by the food network?”  

your hands stilled on the knife handle. in the three years you’d been married, satoru had never once referred to your cooking as anything other than perfect, divine, or life-changing. he’d never mocked your careful preparations or compared you to cooking shows. he’d certainly never used that particular tone of voice when talking about something you’d spent hours working on.  

“excuse me?” your voice dropped to that dangerously quiet tone that usually made him backtrack and grovel. the same tone you’d used when you’d caught him eating the last of your ice cream at two in the morning, or when he’d accidentally shrunk your favorite sweater in the wash because he’d been too confident about his laundry skills.  

today, it just made him more irritated. even your anger seemed performative, like you were trying to make him feel guilty for having a bad day.  

“you heard me,” he said, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it over the back of the couch with unnecessary force. the expensive fabric wrinkled on impact, and he felt a petty satisfaction at the sight. “i’m tired, i want to eat, and i don’t want to play twenty questions about my day. is that too much to ask?”  

you set the knife down with deliberate precision, the kind of movement that screamed ‘controlled fury.’ your knuckles had gone white where you gripped the edge of the counter, and satoru found himself fixating on the way your chest rose and fell with carefully measured breaths.  

“oh, you want to eat? how convenient.” each word was articulated with the kind of precision that meant you were fighting to keep your voice level. “i’ve been cooking for the past hour because my darling husband texted that he wanted my famous curry tonight. silly me, thinking i was being thoughtful.”  

“i didn’t ask you to spend an hour on it,” satoru said, the words coming out harsher than he intended. the curse was making everything sound like an attack, including your genuine care for him. “i just said i was craving curry. that doesn’t mean you had to go full iron chef about it.”  

your face went through several expressions in rapid succession—confusion, hurt, then something that looked dangerously close to rage. “full iron chef?” you repeated, your voice rising slightly. “i’m sorry, are you complaining about the effort i put into making you dinner?”  

“i’m saying maybe you don’t need to make it such a production,” satoru said, immediately regretting it as your expression shifted to something that could freeze hell over. “it’s just food.”  

the silence that followed was deafening. you stared at him like he’d grown a second head, and satoru felt a small part of his rational mind screaming that he was being an ass, that you were trying to do something nice for him, that he should shut up and apologize right now.  

instead, he doubled down.  

“what?” he said, spreading his hands in a gesture of false innocence. “i’m just saying, it doesn’t have to be a whole event every time. sometimes simple is fine.”  

“simple,” you repeated, and there was something in your voice that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. “you want simple.”  

“i want to eat dinner without feeling like i owe you a standing ovation,” satoru said, the curse twisting his words into something cruel and ungrateful. “is that really so unreasonable?”  

you stared at him for a long moment, and he could see the exact moment you decided you were done with his attitude. your shoulders squared, your chin lifted, and that dangerous calm settled over your features like armor.  

“you know what?” you said, your voice reaching that pitch that made neighborhood dogs howl. “you’re absolutely right. simple is better.”  

you grabbed the cutting board and dumped the half-chopped vegetables directly into the trash, pot and all. satoru watched, horrified, as you tossed the expensive ingredients he’d specifically requested—the organic carrots you’d driven to three different stores to find, the specialty spices you’d ordered online, the grass-fed beef that cost more than most people’s grocery budgets—into the garbage with the efficiency of a woman who’d reached her limit.  

“what are you doing?” he asked, the curse making even his genuine confusion sound accusatory. his eyes—usually the color of summer sky, bright and endless—had gone stormy, like the ocean before a hurricane.  

“keeping it simple,” you said sweetly, the kind of sweet that preceded natural disasters. you pulled off his dress shirt and tossed it at his chest, leaving you in just your tank top and jeans. “since apparently i’m just making everything too complicated.”  

“that’s not—” satoru started, catching the shirt reflexively. it still smelled like you, like vanilla and that perfume he’d bought you for your birthday, and for a moment the curse’s grip loosened enough for him to realize what he was doing.  

“no, no, you’re right,” you continued, moving around the kitchen with purposeful destruction. “why should i waste time making special trips to find your favorite vegetables? why should i follow that complicated recipe you love? why should i light candles and put on music and wear your shirts because i know it makes you happy?”  

with each rhetorical question, you disposed of another carefully prepared element of dinner. the candles got blown out. the music got turned off. the recipe, bookmarked and stained from multiple attempts to perfect it, got shoved back onto the shelf.  

“stop,” satoru said, but his voice came out wrong, still sharp and irritated instead of apologetic. “you don’t have to—”  

“oh, but i do,” you said, spinning around to face him with your hands on your hips. “because apparently i’ve been making things too complicated for you. apparently, my husband thinks putting effort into making him happy is some kind of burden.”  

“that’s not what i said,” satoru protested, but even he could hear how weak it sounded. the curse was making it impossible to find the right words, turning every attempt at explanation into another attack.  

“isn’t it?” you asked, and your voice cracked slightly on the words. “because it sure sounded like you were complaining about me caring too much about you.”  

“i wasn’t—” satoru started, then stopped. because he had been, hadn’t he? he’d taken all your thoughtfulness and thrown it back in your face like it was an inconvenience instead of a gift.  

“you know what the really stupid part is?” you said, and now you were crying, tears streaming down your face while you tried to maintain that fierce expression. “i was actually excited about tonight. i thought, ‘oh, satoru’s having a rough day, let me make him something special.’ i thought it would be nice to spoil you a little.”  

each word hit him like a physical blow, and satoru felt the curse’s influence waver as genuine regret started to seep through. you were crying because of him, because he’d taken your love and twisted it into something ugly.  

“baby—” he started, stepping toward you, but you held up a hand.  

“no,” you said firmly, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. “you don’t get to ‘baby’ me right now. you wanted simple? congratulations. you can order takeout like a simple, uncomplicated person who doesn’t have to worry about anyone making too much effort for them.”  

you stomped past him toward the bedroom, and satoru felt the inexplicable urge to follow you just to continue the argument. the curse was making everything feel like a personal attack, including the way you were clearly giving him the silent treatment.  

“where are you going?” he called after you, his voice echoing in the sudden emptiness of the kitchen.  

“to bed,” you shouted back, not even turning around. “alone. since you’re clearly too mature and sophisticated to appreciate having someone who gives a damn about you.”  

“that’s not—” satoru started, but you were already disappearing into the bedroom.  

“and don’t you dare follow me,” you added, your voice muffled by distance and tears. “i’m too complicated for you right now. wouldn’t want to burden you with my excessive caring.”  

the bedroom door slammed hard enough to rattle the expensive artwork on the walls—pieces you’d chosen together during lazy saturday afternoons, arguing playfully about colors and compositions. the sound reverberated through the penthouse like a gunshot, and satoru was left standing in the kitchen, surrounded by the evidence of your thoughtfulness.  

the fancy ingredients you’d specially ordered, now sitting in the trash like expensive garbage. the cookbook bookmarked to his favorite recipe, pages already stained from previous attempts to perfect it. the apron you’d been wearing that said ‘kiss the cook’ that he’d bought you as a joke but secretly loved seeing you in. the way you’d lit his favorite candles, the ones that smelled like clean laundry and summer rain, now sitting cold and forgotten.  

he should apologize. he should explain about the curse. he should bang down the bedroom door and grovel until you forgave him. instead, what he actually did was stand there feeling sorry for himself and getting progressively more irritated that you were making him feel guilty for having a bad day.  

the curse twisted his regret into resentment, his love into annoyance. by the time he ordered takeout, he’d convinced himself that you were being just as unreasonable as he was, that maybe you were both just having a bad day and tomorrow everything would be fine.  

the thai food tasted like cardboard. the silence felt oppressive. and every time he heard you moving around in the bedroom—the soft sounds of you getting ready for bed, the way you pointedly didn’t come out to say goodnight—he felt a strange combination of longing and irritation that made his chest tight.  

he slept on the couch, if you could call it sleeping. mostly he lay there staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the city below and wondering why everything felt so wrong. his neck cramped from the awkward angle, and his feet hung off the end of the couch, but the discomfort felt deserved somehow.  

at some point in the night, he heard you get up to get water. heard you pause in the hallway, probably looking at him sprawled across the couch in his wrinkled work clothes. for a moment, he thought you might come over, might cover him with a blanket or wake him up to come to bed properly.  

instead, you went back to the bedroom and closed the door softly behind you. the sound was somehow worse than if you’d slammed it. 

satoru woke up feeling like he’d been hit by a truck driven by his own stupidity.  

the couch had left him with a crick in his neck that felt like divine punishment, and his designer suit—still wrinkled from yesterday’s disaster—clung to him like a polyester hair shirt. he blinked at the ceiling, reality crashing down on him with the subtlety of a meteor. his hair, normally defying gravity in perfect tufts of winter moonlight, now lay flat against his skull in greasy defeat.  

”she hates me,” he whispered to the empty living room, his voice hoarse from a night of tossing and turning on furniture that cost more than most people’s cars but apparently wasn’t designed for sleeping. his fingers clutched the throw blanket you’d probably covered him with at some point during the night—because even when you wanted to strangle him, you couldn’t let him freeze to death. the realization made his chest cave in on itself like a poorly constructed soufflé.  

he fumbled for his phone with the desperation of a man checking his life support systems. the screen blazed to life, and there it was: absolutely nothing. no texts. no passive-aggressive memes about husbands who didn’t appreciate home cooking. no angry face emojis that somehow conveyed more disappointment than actual words ever could.  

this was worse than fighting. this was the kind of silence that preceded relationship extinction events.  

satoru’s brain started spiraling in that particular way that made him question every life choice he’d ever made, starting with the decision to get out of bed yesterday morning. maybe if he’d just called in sick, claimed food poisoning, faked his own death—anything would have been better than whatever possessed him to insult your cooking like some kind of emotionally constipated neanderthal.  

he dragged himself off the couch, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated. his reflection in the hallway mirror showed a man who looked like he’d been put through a blender set to ’existential crisis’—hair sticking up at angles that defied several laws of physics, eyes the color of winter storms instead of their usual clear-sky brightness, stubble making him look less ’mysterious and attractive’ and more ’recently escaped from somewhere with poor hygiene standards.’  

the bedroom door loomed ahead like the gates of judgment day.  

he knocked with the tentative approach of someone defusing a bomb. ”baby?” his voice came out smaller than intended, almost childlike in its uncertainty. the silence that followed felt heavy enough to crush him. ”sweetheart? love of my life? reason for my continued existence on this mortal plane?”  

nothing. not even the courtesy of telling him to go away.  

his ear pressed against the door revealed the soft sounds of you moving around—the whisper of fabric, the barely audible pad of bare feet against hardwood. you were awake. you were choosing to ignore him. somehow, this felt worse than active hatred.  

satoru started pacing the hallway like a caged animal, his hands working through his hair until it achieved new levels of chaos. the motion was automatic, nervous, the same way he’d fidget during particularly boring clan meetings when he wanted to teleport straight through the floor. except now he was fidgeting because his wife—his brilliant, sharp-tongued, perpetually grumpy wife who somehow loved him despite overwhelming evidence that she shouldn’t—was giving him the silent treatment, and he deserved every second of it.  

he caught a whiff of your perfume clinging to the throw pillow he’d been clutching, that familiar vanilla-and-something-else scent that made him want to bury his face in your neck and never come up for air. the smell wrapped around him like a accusation.  

”she really hates me,” he whispered to his reflection, which stared back with the hollow-eyed desperation of a man who’d royally screwed up the best thing in his life.  

that’s when his brain, in its infinite wisdom, decided that teleportation was the answer.  

the bedroom materialized around him in a shimmer of cursed energy, and there you were—a fortress of blankets with only the top of your head visible, dark hair spilling across the pillow like spilled ink. you were curled away from where he’d appeared, and satoru’s heart did something complicated and painful when he realized you’d probably sensed his incoming presence and rejected it preemptively.  

you didn’t flinch. didn’t speak. didn’t even acknowledge that your husband had just violated several laws of physics to grovel in your general vicinity. the indifference was worse than anger. anger he could work with. anger meant you still cared enough to feel something about his existence.  

”hi,” satoru said weakly, his voice cracking like he was thirteen again and asking someone to the school dance. his hands hung useless at his sides, fingers twitching with the urge to reach for you even though he’d probably get his hand bitten off. ”please don’t kill me.”  

the blanket mountain remained unmoved, a monument to his spectacular failure as a husband.  

he sank to the floor beside the bed like a deflated balloon, crossing his legs in the world’s most expensive timeout corner. the hardwood was cold against his tailbone, but discomfort felt appropriate. deserved, even. his brain was doing that thing where it replayed every terrible moment from yesterday on an endless loop, each replay making him cringe harder.  

the way he’d snapped at you for caring. the way he’d dismissed hours of effort like it was nothing. the way your face had crumpled before you’d gotten angry, that split second of pure hurt that he’d caused with his stupid, cursed mouth.  

”okay,” he began, staring at the curve of blankets that contained his entire world. his voice came out rougher than he’d intended, scraped raw by a night of self-loathing and couch-sleeping. ”i was cursed. cursed! and not even in a cool, tragic, romantic way where you have to kiss me to break it or i turn into a beast with fabulous hair. just cursed to be the absolute worst possible version of myself at the worst possible moment.”  

still nothing. the silence stretched between them like a chasm, and satoru felt himself falling into it.  

”i hated everything yesterday,” he continued, his fingers picking at a loose thread on his shirt cuff. ”the elevator music made my teeth itch. my reflection looked like it owed me money. the hallway carpet seemed personally offended by my existence. and your carrots—” his voice broke slightly, remembering the precise way you’d cut them, each piece exactly the same size because you knew he noticed things like that ”—your perfect, beautiful carrots that you cut with surgical precision because somehow, inexplicably, you know that i have opinions about vegetable consistency.”  

he crawled closer to the bed, his knees protesting against the hardwood. the movement felt pathetic, but he was beyond caring about dignity. his hands gripped the edge of the comforter like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.  

”the curse made everything feel wrong,” he said, his forehead pressed against the mattress. the fabric smelled like you, like home, like everything he’d almost lost because he couldn’t keep his stupid mouth shut. ”it took all your thoughtfulness and twisted it in my head until it looked like judgment instead of love. but that’s not an excuse. there’s no excuse for what i said to you.”  

a small shift in the blankets. barely perceptible, but satoru had made a career out of reading the subtlest changes in cursed energy. he knew the difference between sleeping movements and listening movements, and this was definitely listening.  

his heart did something acrobatic and desperate in his chest.  

”i would eat every single curry you ever make,” he continued, emboldened by that tiny sign of life from the blanket fortress. his voice picked up speed, desperation making the words tumble over each other. ”i would drink turmeric straight from the jar and ask for seconds. i would kiss the cutting board you used if it meant i get to hold you again. i would let you practice knife skills on my credit cards. i would learn to appreciate smooth jazz if it meant never seeing that look on your face again.”  

”you said it was just food,” came a muffled voice from somewhere in the depths of egyptian cotton and righteous indignation, and satoru’s entire nervous system short-circuited.  

your voice was rough with sleep and tears and the particular brand of hurt that came from having someone you love dismiss something you’d put your heart into. the sound of it made something crack open in his chest, spilling guilt and regret and desperate, pathetic love all over his ribcage.  

”no,” he said, scrambling to his knees like he was physically trying to climb out of the hole he’d dug. his hands moved frantically, gesturing at nothing, his hair catching the morning light streaming through the windows and turning it into something that looked less like moonlight and more like the aftermath of an explosion. ”no no no. i was lying. that wasn’t me talking, that was the curse and my own stupidity having a baby and raising it wrong.”  

you turned over slowly, like a glacier deciding to shift, and one eye appeared over the edge of the blanket. it was puffy from crying and narrow with suspicion, but it was the most beautiful thing satoru had seen since his own name on a wedding certificate.  

his eyes, normally the kind of blue that made people think of summer skies and endless possibilities, had gone gray around the edges with exhaustion and self-recrimination. they were wide and desperate, pupils dilated like he was in actual physical pain.  

”that curry was art,” he said, his voice cracking with sincerity. ”that curry was love in edible form. that curry was better than—” he paused, his brain catching up with his mouth ”—okay, not better than sex, obviously, because sex with you is like winning the lottery while riding a unicorn through a field of diamonds. but like, tied for second place. with puppies. and that thing you do with your tongue when—”  

”satoru,” you warned, but there was something different in your voice. less ’i want to murder you’ and more ’you’re an idiot but you’re my idiot.’  

he immediately flopped face-first onto the bed beside you, his long limbs arranging themselves in what could generously be called a full-body apology. his voice came out muffled by the duvet, but no less dramatic for it.  

”i don’t deserve you,” he said, and meant it. ”i don’t deserve the way you remember that i like my coffee with exactly two sugars, or the way you buy the expensive vanilla extract because you know i can taste the difference, or the way you cut carrots into perfect little pieces because somewhere in your beautiful, patient brain, you’ve catalogued the fact that i’m a perfectionist about the stupidest things.”  

you shifted again, and he felt the mattress dip as you turned to face him properly. when he lifted his head, you were studying him with that particular expression that meant you were trying to stay mad but finding it increasingly difficult.  

”you smell like takeout and self-pity,” you said, and your voice was still rough around the edges, but there was something softer underneath it. not forgiveness, exactly, but maybe the possibility of eventual forgiveness.  

”do i smell like redemption?” he asked hopefully, lifting himself up on his elbows. his hair was doing that thing where it defied gravity in seventeen different directions, and there was a crease on his cheek from the pillowcase, and somehow he still managed to look unfairly attractive in that rumpled, pathetic way that made you want to either kiss him or throw something at him.  

you studied him for a long moment, taking in the ridiculous hair, the wrinkled shirt, the way he was literally prostrating himself on egyptian cotton like he was worshipping at the altar of your forgiveness. his eyes were doing that thing where they went soft and pleading, like a very tall, very expensive puppy who’d chewed up your favorite shoes but was really, really sorry about it.  

”maybe,” you said finally, your tone carefully neutral. ”if you do the dishes. and the laundry. and never, ever call my cooking ’just food’ again. and if you stop looking at me like that.”  

”like what?” satoru asked, even though he knew exactly what you meant. he was looking at you like you hung the moon and personally arranged all the stars, like you were the answer to every prayer he’d never been brave enough to say out loud.  

”like i’m made of something precious that you’re afraid you’ll break,” you said, and there was a slight flush creeping up your neck that you tried to hide by pulling the blanket higher.  

”but you are,” satoru said simply, and the honesty in his voice made your chest tight. ”you’re the most precious thing in my entire existence, and i almost broke you yesterday, and i’m terrified i’ll do it again because apparently i’m capable of being that stupid.”  

you were quiet for a moment, processing this admission. when you spoke again, your voice was carefully controlled, but he caught the slight waver underneath. ”you’re an idiot.”  

”your idiot,” he corrected, scooting closer until he could rest his head on your pillow. the movement brought him close enough that you could see the dark circles under his eyes, the way his skin was paler than usual, the slight tremor in his hands that suggested he’d been running on anxiety and caffeine. ”forever and always, your idiot.”  

the curry took four hours.  

not because it was supposed to take four hours, but because satoru kept getting distracted by the way you moved around the kitchen, the efficient grace with which you handled knives and spices and the complicated choreography of cooking something properly. he’d stop mid-chop to watch you toast cumin seeds, fascinated by the way you knew exactly when they were done just by the smell.  

”you’re burning the onions,” you said without looking up from the spice grinder, and satoru startled back to attention.  

”i’m not burning them, i’m caramelizing them,” he protested, quickly stirring the pan.  

”those are two different things, and what you’re doing is the first one.”  

”how can you tell without even looking?”  

”because i have functioning senses and twenty years of cooking experience,” you said, but there was fondness in your voice that took the sting out of the words.  

satoru abandoned the onions to wrap his arms around you from behind, his chin resting on top of your head. ”teach me,” he said.  

”teach you what?”  

”everything. how to tell when onions are done. how you know exactly how much salt to add without measuring. how you make everything taste like home.”  

you went still in his arms, something soft and surprised flickering across your face. ”satoru...”  

”i’m serious,” he said, his voice quiet against your hair. ”i want to learn. i want to know how to make the things you love. i want to be able to take care of you the way you take care of me.”  

you turned in his arms, studying his face for any sign that he was just saying what he thought you wanted to hear. but his eyes were clear and earnest, that particular shade of blue that reminded you of deep water, and you could see he meant it.  

”okay,” you said simply.  

”okay?”  

”okay, i’ll teach you. but you have to promise not to get frustrated when you mess up, because you will mess up. repeatedly.”  

”i promise,” satoru said solemnly. ”i will be the most patient student in the history of cooking education.”  

you raised an eyebrow. ”you once threw a tantrum because i asked you to fold fitted sheets.”  

”that was different. fitted sheets are clearly designed by sadists who hate happiness and functional linen closets.”  

”everything is going to be fitted sheets to you when you’re learning to cook properly,” you warned.  

”then i’ll suffer through it,” satoru said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. ”for you, i’ll suffer through a thousand fitted sheets.”  

the curry was, objectively, the best thing either of you had ever tasted.  

maybe it was because you’d made it together, satoru’s hands covering yours as you showed him how to bloom spices, his careful attention as you explained the difference between adding salt at the beginning versus the end. maybe it was because he’d actually listened, asked questions, tasted and adjusted and learned in a way that made your chest warm with something that felt dangerously close to pride.  

or maybe it was just because food always tasted better when it came with a side of forgiveness.  

you sat on the kitchen counter afterward, legs tangled together, sharing bites from the same bowl because satoru claimed it tasted better when you fed it to him. he’d managed to get turmeric stains on his shirt and somehow in his hair, and you had curry under your fingernails and a constellation of spice stains across your apron.  

”this is better than sex,” satoru said solemnly, accepting another spoonful.  

”no, it’s not,” you said, rolling your eyes.  

”okay, you’re right,” he said, grinning. ”but it’s at least in the top five.”  

”what’s the other four?”  

”sex with you, obviously. that thing you do with your tongue. watching you sleep when you don’t know i’m looking. and the face you made when i proposed, like you couldn’t believe i was serious but you were happy about it anyway.”  

your cheeks went pink, and you hid your face against his shoulder. ”you’re ridiculous.”  

”ridiculously in love with you,” he corrected, his arms tightening around you. ”ridiculously, pathetically, embarrassingly in love with you. the kind of love that makes people write terrible poetry and do stupid things like teleport into bedrooms to grovel.”  

”your groveling needs work,” you said, but your voice was muffled against his neck, and he could feel you smiling.  

”i’ll practice,” satoru promised. ”i’ll become the most accomplished groveler in the history of marriage. i’ll grovel so well that people will write legends about it.”  

”just don’t give me a reason to make you grovel again,” you said, pulling back to look at him seriously.  

”never again,” satoru said, and he meant it. ”from now on, i’m going to worship every curry you make like it’s a religious experience. i’m going to appreciate every chopped vegetable like it’s a work of art. i’m going to be so grateful for your existence that it makes people uncomfortable to be around us.”  

”people are already uncomfortable being around us,” you pointed out.  

”then i’ll make it worse,” satoru said cheerfully. ”i’ll be so obviously, disgustingly in love with my wife that small children will ask their parents uncomfortable questions about why that tall man is looking at that woman like she invented happiness.”  

you laughed despite yourself, the sound bright and surprised, and satoru felt something settle in his chest that had been twisted up since yesterday. this was his favorite sound in the world, your laugh when he caught you off guard, when you forgot to be grumpy and let him see the soft parts of you that you usually kept hidden.  

”you’re so stupid,” you said, but you were smiling now, really smiling, and your fingers were playing with the hair at the nape of his neck in that absent way that meant you were happy.  

”stupidly in love with you,” he corrected for the third time, because apparently it bore repeating.  

you kissed him then, soft and sweet and tasting like curry and forgiveness, and satoru thought that maybe being cursed had been worth it if it led to this moment, sitting in his kitchen with turmeric stains and tired eyes and the woman he loved more than breathing choosing to forgive him for being temporarily terrible.  

the afternoon sun slanted through the windows, turning the kitchen golden and warm, and somewhere between the curry and the kissing and the quiet contentment of being understood, satoru realized that this was what happiness looked like. not the big, dramatic moments that people wrote songs about, but the small ones: the way you fit perfectly in the circle of his arms, the way you’d teach him to cook with patience he didn’t deserve, the way you’d choose him again and again even when he gave you every reason not to. it was ordinary and extraordinary all at once, and he was pathetically grateful for every second of it.

[prettytemis]

Take me Home Tonight Masterlist

❤️Chapter 1 ❤️Chapter 2 ❤️Chapter 3 ❤️ Chapter 4 ❤️ Chapter 5 ❤️Chapter 6 ❤️ Chapter 7 ❤️ Chapter 8 ❤️Chapter 9 ❤️ Chapter 10 ❤️ Chapter 11 ❤️ Chapter 12 ❤️ Chapter 13 ❤️ Chapter 14 ❤️ Chapter 15 (Final) ❤️

♡ ♡ Pairing ♡ ♡ Satoru Gojo x Fem Reader

♡ ♡ Content/warnings ♡ ♡ MDNI- Gojo is 28-29 here, reader is like 22 or 23. Nothing too crazy. But is Professor/student forbidden type love. Explicit sexual content, lots and LOTS of smut lol, warnings in each chap. FUN, witty, law cases and law school. Longg chapters.

♡ ♡ Word Count ♡ ♡ 136k- Finished

♡ ♡ Summary ♡ ♡ After passing your LSATs, your friends take you out to unwind. You never go out, so you are awkwardly agree, and you end up in the arms of a super hot man named Satoru. You end up screaming Satoru's name as he drops down on his knees before you, only to lose him in the club. All you have is his first name.

Two months later, in your Criminal Law class, your heart stops. Your teacher? Professor Gojo. Or as you soon call him, Professor Dickhead. You can't fuck up your law school, and he won't fuck up his career, not just because he makes you wet in class, no, he's a dick. Right?

That pout and blue eyes don't wreck you, right?

Playlist for this story:

Moodboard for the reader!

Ao3https://archiveofourown.org/works/56895382/chapters/144669811

Buy me a Coffee ☕️ - Masterlist

[prettytemis]

chrissy pls i just read the most GUT WRENCHING angst fic of gojo where the reader left him because he didn't have freaky time with her out of love, only because he felt like he had to and was only for his own gain (he came from reader didnt, HE KNEW THAT AND DIDNT CARE....) yk and he was always starting arguments

and it was gut wrenching right?

there's gonna be a part two so I was like YIPPEE it'll get resolved

it won't get resolved.

PLS GIVE ME YOUR MOST FAVORITE FLUFF/SMUT FICS OF GOJO THAT YOUVE WRITTEN IM IN TEARS it can be a long story or short pls I'm so sick 💔

pls mama Chrissy I beg of u ☹️

ahhh hi angel!! angst can hurt so bad I have to be in a mood for it lol!

Here are some really fun fluffy/smutty fics of mine (all finished) -

Take Me Home Tonight - after passing your LSATs you go to party, but hook up with a hottie, later you find yourself in his classroom! Professor/student, LONG ONE - 135k

Time after Time - you can't STAND your boss Gojo, he's a spoiled brat and you're overworked! so you have decided to put in your two weeks notice, but he can't let you go - 100k

mini series-

Took you Like a Shot - fratboy gojo and you are enemies, but a drunk night gets you pregnant, so the two of you try to get along before you have this baby - 42k

Would you Come with Me? - your best friend Gojo asks you to fake marry him for just one year, but you can't fake your feelings! (23k)

oneshots-

I'll look After You - sweet fic where Gojo finds out he has a baby with you after a one night stand!! It's SO fluffy and cute

You got me Thinking Nonsense- You're Suguru's little sis and have it bad for Gojo, but then you find out he feels the same!

Figure you out - short oneshot where Gojo plays a guitar like a cutie and ya'll are best friends - college au!

Those should cheer you up hehe, smooches <3

[prettytemis]

Took you Like a Shot Masterlist

Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four - Chapter Five ( final)

Pairings- Rich Frat/fuckboi Toru x Preppy Sorority reader

Summary- One VERY drunk encounter between your greatest rival ever - on your last day of college- leads to you being knocked up. Satoru Gojo, a fuckboy, fratboy, rich little jerk, has been a rival of yours since you all met in College, every damn grade you fought for he got with ease. He crashed every Sorority party you threw. The two of you are so infamous in your rivalry, your friend groups were rivals, and for some reason, life is playing some damn joke on you both. Now... you have to tell him the news - but how Satoru takes it surprises you. Can you both raise a baby together!? And do you even really know each other?

Contents/Warnings- gonna be flashbacks to the rivalry/that night, nerdjo but make him a fratboy, enemies to kind of begrudging partners, but then as the pregnancy progresses, they fall in love hehe- fluffy and smutty, MDNI -will have explicit sex etc, art in the banner by Yuana on X - finished! WC 42k

Playlist -preview below!- headcanons - here & here - Fratboy! Sukuna here

It had been an absolutely filthy night, that led to your doctor coming in and informing you three months later-

'You're pregnant'

You came in for a normal checkup, you're on the pill and you have no sex life, aside from one encounter over three months ago. A filthy, questionable ass encounter with what so happened to be your former 'bully' - rich boy, frat boy, pretty boy, pretentious boy- Satoru Gojo.

For years, the two of you were rivals, not just academic either, since you were both top of your class all through college, but at everything. He'd hold your notebooks high and laugh at you, he'd try to ruin and crash every sorority event he could. Known as the Queen and King of the campus, you ran the rivaling Sorority to his Fraternity. The amount of times you all had gone toe to toe was literally notorious, even your best friends hated each other on your behalf, starting an entire war between you all.

You have no clue how it happened, still, how the two of you had the best sex of your life at that damn party, fueled by drinks but also something you'd never admit- you've always wondered. Hearing those stories about his... skills, seeing his perfect body and the way his pretty lips smirked so cruelly your direction, even after all these years- how it all led to this moment.

'Hah, sweets, ya finally admit I'm good at something?' Satoru had murmured in your ear, while he'd had you bent right over some bed at some party- both of you were seniors in college on your last and final party, finally you thought you'd be rid of him, of this ass of a man. He was going to live the rich life, working for his family, you were moving on to a whole different career.

'One t-thing... that's it...' You had cried out when his cock had shoved in so deep, making you cum all over him, his fingers gripping your hips while he'd pumped deeper and deeper, impossibly until he'd been right on your cervix. 'F-fuck!'

'Fuck... you had a pussy like this and we've been fighting!?' Satoru is whispering, resting his snowy locks against your neck, biting it with sharp teeth as you milk his cock. 'so greedy, huh?'

'S-shut up, mnh- just... keep... there, there shit!' Satoru had slammed right against your cervix, feeling you pulsing around him, it had been too good, too tight, too fucking wet, he'd paused then, looking at your arched ass, your skirt shoved over your hips. 'Keep g-going, please...'

'M'gonna cum, tho-she's too tight- shit can I?'

Your drunk ass had said- sure. You're precise on that pill, every day your alarm goes off in the morning, you take it. How could...

"Pregnant!?" You repeat. Unbelievable. No fucking way. You...

"Yes sweetie I suggest prenatal and an ultrasound, hmm?" The nurse says so sweetly, as you feel sick to your stomach, which your hand goes down to touch.

Pregnant. With rich, notorious fuckboy Satoru Gojo’s baby- now you would have to tell him!?

Shit.

[prettytemis]

Silent Serenades Masterlist

♔ Part One ♔ Part Two ♔ Part Three ♔ Part Four ♔ Part Five ♔ Part Six ♔ Part Seven ♔ Part Eight ♔ Part Nine ♔ Part Ten ♔ Part Eleven ♔ Part Twelve ♔ Part Thirteen ♔ Part Fourteen ♔ Part Fifteen ♔ Part Sixteen (Final) ♔

Alt chapter six

♔ Pairings: Satoru Gojo x you - Satoru Gojo x mistresses, Nanami x you, It's messy and will get messier- MAIN pair is Gojo x reader

♔ Warnings: Sex, infidelity, mentions of past self harm, panic attacks, disordered eating, emotional damage like a mf, emotional abuse, physical abuse, cheating on both ends, cruelty from Duke Gojo. OOC. ANGST, explicit sex, horny ass masquerades, regency era but make it wild, toxic relationships, arranged marriage, SLOW BURN enemies to lovers. Toxic MC (she makes bad decisions lol) Love triangle w/Nanami Gojo is TERRIBLE at first, you're warned- Happy ever after- angst with a good ending <3

♔ Word count 152k FINISHED

♔ Summary: you are the diamond of the season, he is the charming Duke, it’s the marriage of the decade. Prominent families joining, and it so happens that Duke Gojo is gorgeous. But, he doesn't want you at all, leaving you a crying mess on your wedding night, alone. Now you're trapped in a loveless arranged marriage that destroys you from within. Royal AU, Cruel Duke Gojo x reader. OOC Set in 1800s England. Gojo is awful in this. You'll hate Satoru, warning you now. HEAVY angst Basically- Gojo is a royal dick and doesn't wanna marry you

Playlist:

Moodboard for our reader:

Reader inspired art here - Buy me a Coffee ☕️ - Masterlist

Ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58976983/chapters/150345196

[prettytemis]

Imagine being Sylus' non-mc fiance. Hidden Child au.

Imagine meeting Sylus was never in your book. It was something that far from those stories written in a fairytale book. And while it wasn’t the worse. It was not something that you would go out and tell people about. After all, you met Sylus in one of the worst moment of your life.

Imagine you met Sylus in the middle of your job. Working on a night club, being one of the escort and happened to catch his eyes. And after a night together. As you stirr up in your slumber. You wake up with Sylus already dressed up, a stick of unlit cigarette in between his fingers. "I need a lover." Is all he said and stare at you.

Imagine you're still half asleep, completely naked with only the blanket covering your body, half aware of the fact that you are in fact late for your morning class and that you're fucked- quite literally, quite in life. But in those moment, that very moment. As you state at those red iris of his. There was one thing you're very sure of. "Sure." You utter. "I'll be your lover."

"Sylus." "Huh?" "My name is Sylus." "Oh- Mine's-" "(Your name)" He knew. "Well yes-" "Here" He toss you a black card. What the hell? "I'll pick you up in two nights." He bottom up his coat. "Don't forget to quit your job- if you even call that a job. Make sure to do that today." Before you could even speak and reply to him. He was already out the door and you were left with nothing but a piece of black card right on the bedside. "What the fuck?" Maybe you’re still dreaming.

Imagine it was in fact, not a dream. Because at exactly two night later. A knock came on your door and true to his words. Sylus was in fact have picked you up. And at the very least, that was to say the start of your relationship with Sylus. Sylus the leader of Onychinus. Sylus who happened to be the most influential, dominant figure in the N109 Zone, your city. He was also rumoured that he hasn't been seen for a while. But here is that very same man. You don't know if you were extremely lucky or just unlucky as hell. Nonetheless you already knew thag your life has taken a turn of 180.

Imagine being the lover of the Onychinus leader was not something that ever come into your mind. But damn, you no longer struggle to pay your college bills, you no longer live in a crappy apartment let alone have to worry for your meals. Being Sylus lover has it perks. You living your life to the fullest was the proof of that. But it also has its drawbacks.

Imagine while Sylus did ask you to be his lover. You knew it was pure business. You knew that because while he took you out on galas, auction, exhibition and high people gatherings. Sylus never took you out on dates. Sure the two of you would go shopping, that was just you enjoying, he never bothered to pick one or anything, he just pays when drop you off to your now high end penthouse. Sure the two of you eat together. But that was just the two of you minding your own business and finishing the meal right in front of you.

Imagine you understand that. That when he asked for a lover, he didn't actually meant it as lover. He meant it in more like a business terms. You get to be his lover and the privilege that comes at its title. But you should never cross the line behind it. Sure, the two of you occasionally sleep around. But guessing your first meeting, that was something that comes naturally.

but Imagine as years went by, as the two of you spend more time around him. You could not help but to fall for him. You knew it was wrong. While you don't even know why you felt like it was wrong. Probably because you knew he doesn't feel the same way and probably would never. It was probably also due to the fact that you're crossing the line he drew without saying all those years ago.

Imagine being Sylus lover- his now fiance has its perks, that was something you have known all those years ago. But it also has its drawbacks. The constant menacing stares, the occasional kidnappings, the blackmail, the death threats, the poisoning. You got used to it. This is your life now. You remember the first time he actually killed someone in front of you, you cannot sleep for days and now. You won't even bat an eye.

Imagine you knew it was wrong. Falling and staying. You knew it woukd ruin you one way or another. But you were already deep down in love with him. All you have to do was not to make it obvious. Show that you aren't in love with him. Show that it was nothing but business when you knew very well it wasn't. It was the only way you could stay by his side and you're going to keep it that way.

Imagine it was the little thing that made you hope. Hope that he would fall for you too. Those late nights of waiting for him in the couch of his office only to wake up in his bed, bedside empty but still warm. Those nights were you couldn’t stop shaking, remember the lifeless face of the man right in front of you only to feel his presence behind you, as if to say that you are in fact not alone. That he was there. Those times where he manage to save you from your kidnappers and kept you in his arms even for a short moment, telling you that it'll be okay. That you're safe.

Imagine in a world where he was labelled as ruthless, dangerous, heartless, criminal. He was your safe place. Your sacred heaven. In the midst of this shitty world, he was your saviour. He was your light that pulled you away from everlasting darkness.

"Hey Sylus." He did not look up from the reports he was reading but he did humm in reply. "Who's MC?" You meant it as a harmless question. But you saw the way he stiffen for a moment. The way his hand twitch. "Who?" "The artist of that painting." You pointed out the painting on his office wall. The one that has been in here as far as you are aware.

Imagine it was a painting of a flower field, a man resting his head on the girl's lap. You've been trying to figure out the artist because of how wonderful it was. It was only recently that one of the twins accidentally knocked it off the wall that it almost fall of the ground. Luckily you were there to catch it in time, also catch a glimpse of the artist behind the frame. Sylus does once say that his office was off limit, no touching of anything, specially on the wall. While the restrictions in the office has been long lifted. You did not forget the latter.

Imagine the way he sigh. "You touch it?" "No- well yes..." "What did I tell you-" "It was an accident! I didn’t mean to but-" You pause, already about to tell the full story but you also membered the twin begging you not to tell Sylus about the incident. That was his favourite piece after all, is what they said. In the end you couldn't help but to bit your lip. Fuck. If only you don't love those boys. "I see." "Look Sylus- I'm really sorry-" "Get out." You stiffen. "Don't come into my office for a while." When he was looking at you like that. How could you not listen. In the end, you found yourself out of his office, heart dropping.

Imagine a week after that, you found yourself back into his officer bracing for the worst. At the same time you could not help but to notice a very large detail that have changed inside the room. "Where’s the painting?" You didn’t mean to say it outloud but it came out anyway. "I have it removed." "What? Why?" After making all that little guss he's gonna have that removed? "It doesn't fit the style of the room, don't you think?" Your jaw almost dropped. "We-well yes..." His office has dark interior, one that makes you wonder what kind of high level villain did you just walked into.

"Shall we go look for it's replacement?" "I'm sorry- what?" "Replacement. For the painting. Let's look for one." He was replacing the painting... Not firing you. Wait, is firing even the right term for that? "Also Luke and Kieran said there's a new restaurant nearby-" "Sylus are you asking me out?" There was a moment of silence. "Aren't you my fiance?" He raise a brow as if it was so natural. "There’s no need to state the obvious." This time, your jaw dropped.

Imagine Sylus had been acting strangely right now. He was taking you out dates, inviting you out to eat, spending more time with you. "Maybe he's in love with you." Leanne, your friend replied over the phone. "Don't joke around!" "Hey I'm not joking. You had he's been spending more time with you, accompanying you, taking you out on dates, going out for a walk for you. Dude you once told me that guy hates the sun light. He's stepping in the sun for you, honey. If that ain't love, then I don't know." That shut you up.

"I don't know!" You groan. "It's just unbelievable. This has been going on for months." "I don't know bro. Shouldn’t you be happy he's like that? You've been pinning for that man for years." "I just felt weird. After all before everything that happened, he almost got mad at me for a painting. A painting, Leanne, a painting." "A painting?" "Yeah, made a mistake touching it and almost blew up on me. You should have seen his face. He's actually pretty scary when he's mad."

Imagine letting out a deep sigh. "I don't know anymore. I know I should be happy. But something doesn't sit right with me." You pause for a moment. "It felt like the calm before a storm." "You're thinking too much." There was a silence after that. "Yeah, I know." You sigh, frustrated. "Well just you know. No matter what happens, I got your back." You chuckle. "Even if he ended up killing me?" It was a joke, really. "Well he could try." "He-" "He could try and we'll see how it goes for him." Just before you could reply, there was a knock on the door. Sylus. "Shit I forgot were going for a ride tonight. Bye!"

Imagine this went on for another months. And your actually getting tired of it. The mixed signals, the dates, the stares the unsaid words. The way you stood at the edge of the line while he seemed to cross it only to step back and cross it again. So you slam your hands into the table and glare at him in the middle of your dinner. "Sylus." He looked at you unbothered as ever, but you could see the way he looked at you. Over the years, it changed. It changed into something you never even dared to hope.

"What are we?" You asked, tired of all this. "We are what we are. Darling." "I swear so I'm gonna kill you-!" As soon as you said that, he stood up. Marched over you and before you could even react, pulled a gun out of nowhere and place in your hand before guiding it to where the heart- his heart it. "Go ahead darling. It's yours." He smiled at you. His sweet, genuine smile. "It's all yours, love." And you believe him.

Imagine in between sheets, in between heat, as your body tangled across each other. You held into him close and he held you back with the same desperation. Pulling away from the kiss, he looked at you. Red eyes shining upon meeting yours. "I love you." You felt your heart skipped a beat. "I love you." He repeated pressing his forehead upon yours. And closing your eyes. "I love you too." You finally said the words that you wanted to say alongside the words that you've been wanting to hear.

Imagine waking up the day after alone. Like everything that happened the night before was all a lie and a fragment of your imagination. But it was real. You knew it was real. So where the fuck is he?

Imagine coming out of the room only to find everyone chaotic. Not in the way to say that the base way overrun. But in a way that something, something was going on and no one would tell you. No matter who you asked, no one would tell you. Not even Sylus who returned later that night to accompany you in sleep. It was nothing, he says. But you doubt that. You doubt that specially when you catch a sniff of someone else perfume lingering him.

Imagine it was a week of acting like nothing happened. Sylus would spend most of his time with you, sweet as ever as if true to his words that night. But you also notice the times where he seemed to vanished. Not even the twins know where he was in which you doubt. They always know where he was. And Mephisto have been missing for a week now.

Imagine you didn't mean to eavesdrop. You were just walking along the hallway of the base. Trying to find Sylus when you happened to hear it. "So the real mistress it back?" "Shhh! Hey! Lower your voice. Someone might hear you!" "But it's true! The real mistress is back. Didn't the boss bring her back personally?" Mistress? Who? "But if the real mistress is back, what is the boss planning to do with the replacement?" "Are you crazy?! Who are you calling replacement-!" "But it's true. (Your name) has always been Miss MC's replacement. He brought them not too long after the real mistress dead, no?"

"Have you seen them? The boss was just using them for their own gain." "But they're doing very well now a days. And I doubt the boss have seen them as a replacement in the first place." "Are you and idiot?" There was a moment of silence after that. "When was the first report of the real mistress whereabouts started coming?" "... eight months ago." "When did the boss started treating them nicely?" ".... Eight months ago." "He was just being kind to them. He only have a soft spot when it comes to the real mistress." There was a pause. "And now she's back. I heard the boss never left her side whenever she was awake. The boss even brought the real mistress back in her old room when they got her back. You know, one at the end of the west wing..."

Imagine you find your self running, heart beating wildly inside your chest. But you run. You run until you find yourself within the west wing on the base. You run and follow the voices. Voices which leads your right in front of a barely opened door. And you saw it. In that small little gap between doors. Sylus and her, MC. It felt familiar, familiar in a way that it brings back memories of a painting. In a field full of flowers with the sun illuminating both of their features. It was them all along.

Imagine you watch him feed her as she lean against the head board. "I can't keep doing this." He said. Can't keep doing what? You heart was still beating wildly in your chest. "I know." There was a pause as you saw her take his hand. "Everything would be better is they were dead instead. That way you won't have to hide me. That way we don't have to keep hiding." You saw the way she lean in and he did too. "I know kitten, I know. I'll take care of it soon, just be patient. Okay?" You felt the world crumble beneath you.

Imagine you don't know how you manage to make it out. You were pretty sure someone was follwing you. But you manage to make it out, alive. Away from the place you once called home now filled with nothing but lies, heartbreak and the worst of all, betrayal.

Imagine you don't know what went wrong. One second you were safe, riding a damn taxi away from that place and then the next thing you know was a gunshot everywhere and then the car was flipped upside-down. Your ears were ringing. Your head was aching, your vision blurred as you could feel someone dragging you out the car.

Imagine, despite everything. Despite the heartbreak. The betrayal. The pain. You still called out his name. Begging, hoping for Sylus to come. And deep down, you knew he would never come. He might even be the one to arrange this. Still, you let yourself hope. One last time.

Imagine years have gone by.

Imagine Sylus wasn't supposed to be in there. He wasn't even supposed to be in his stupid fucking gala. But he did anyway, wearing a stupid fucking suit that seemed to suffocate him. Or maybe it was something else. Maybe he was just having a bad day. Everyday was a bad day every since that day. Years have passed by and it doesn't get any better. If anything, it got worst and worse each fucking year. He barely sleeps, barely eats. He doesn't even know who he make it this far. Far without-

Imagine on his way out the building, deep in his thoughts. He bumped into something, or rather someone. And it cried. Looking down, he saw a little boy, hood over his head, little hands seemed to be covering his forehead. Turns out the boy have bumped into his knee. And the thing is, he shouldn't have cared. He normally would have turn around and walk away, not caring a damn thing. But then something pulled him.

Imagine something was pulling him to check on his little guy, still sniffling, holding on into his forehead. So he could have ignored the boy, really. But he didn't. He doesn't know what came over him. Maybe it was the lack of sleep. Maybe it was his age and years of work catching up to him. But he kneels right in front of the little guy and as soon as he did. He meet those teary red iris and he froze. Just then he heard a footsteps from afar, familiar.

"Oh my goodness! I'm so sorry is he bothering you? I'm really sorry, I just looked away for a moment and he's gone." There you are. All frantic and running at his direction. And as soon as you did, you kneel beside the boy, pull out the hood revealing the boy's hair color looking exactly like yours. "Baby. Do you know how worried you made me? I've been looking for you..."

Imagine Sylus let it unfold right in front of him. A child looking exactly like him except with your hair. You calling him your nephew. He let it unfold right in front of him, slow and painfully as you look at him, stare at him as a stranger. "Sorry about that. I hope he did not give you a hard time...?" ... "Sylus." "Sylus." You replied. Doesn't ring a bell. "Then if you'll excuse us." You said and turn to look at your nephew. "Are in soooo much trouble young man..."

Imagine Sylus just watch. Watch in horror as he was quick to recognize that child was his. That child was yours. Ours.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025° :D

: went crezy at the end. Sorry.

[prettytemis]

mc is absolutely crazy for this LMAOO

im in TEARS

[prettytemis]

i saw a post while scrolling down your profile and i came up with a req of sleepy sex with seph whos just a super exhausted husband who wants to spend time with his wife but doesn't have the energy to go all out

eeee anon!!! i love this request - i am but a puddle against this man🥺🩷 husband!seph my beloved<3 i hope you enjoy, thank you for requesting this! my heart was all warm writing this🥰💕

sephiroth x fem!reader | 3.3k + words

warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, pre nibelheim seph, soft n sweet, size kink if you squint (i will repeat this man is huge), cream pie

slow and heavy, your eyes blink and through your bleary vision the animated movie about the baby chocobo who ran away from home that you had started about an hour ago continues to play quietly on the television screen. you can hear their small voice, make out the tuft of pale yellow feathers at the top of their head but don’t register what’s being said or what they're doing. 

your thumb fiddles with the band around your finger, the motion trying to keep you awake for just a little longer in hopes you’d be able to wait for your husband to get home. it’s late, with the moon high above your shared apartment on the top floor of the building and the quiet streets below set in the glow of the streetlights that emanate the color of the mako that powers them. 

the world was in a similar state when sephiroth had left early this morning and you suppose you were too. though instead of being tucked into bed that clung with his warmth, wiggling more and more onto his side until you could bury your face in his pillow, you were now laying on the couch in a half comfortable position with a soft blanket wrapped around you. it also happened to smell like him.

blinking again, or what you thought was you blinking, you’re surprised when your eyes open and in the dim light the only thing you see is the familiar dark leather of sephiroths coat against his pale skin, so very close you could reach your hand out to touch him with little effort, could feel his warmth. the apartment is quiet, like you had slept through the rest of the movie even though it feels like only a minute has passed since you closed your eyes.

“welcome home,” you coo, your voice clinging with sleep and happiness.

“i didn’t mean to wake you,” he replies quietly, caring. tired.

“you didn’t,” your assurance is sweet as you stretch out your arms towards him. even kneeling he’s so much larger than you and you have to sit up a bit to wrap your arms around his neck properly, wanting to hold onto him and not the armor he still adorned. he must have just walked through the door. you smile when you look up to meet his shimmering eyes, loving how tenderly they look back at you but there’s no ignoring the dark circles under them either.

bringing him into your embrace, needing no strength or words to do so, large arms envelope around you. he smells like leather and sweat and the flora of his shampoo, an intoxicating combination that has you snuggling closer, shamelessly taking in a deep breath. only a moment passes before he pulls you from the blanket, effortlessly lifting your body and so easily you follow, wrapping your legs around his waist as he stands and starts to make his way to the bedroom. dressed only in one of sephiroths old tshirts and your panties, in the cool air your bare legs break out in goosebumps and you cling to him harder, soaking in his natural heat.

sephiroths hold on your thighs grows tighter. 

“were you waiting for me?” he asks, murmuring softly against the side of your head where his lips place a long kiss but there's a teasing lilt to his tone that makes your heart flutter wildly.

“of course i was, i wanted to see you. didn’t mean to fall asleep,” you mumble the last part, feeling your heart contract.

perfect pink lips still pressed to the side of your head, he hums in contentment at your words. what had he done to deserve you? “i’m sorry to keep you waiting.”

shaking your head, you hug him tighter, nuzzling the tip of your nose into his soft skin. “it’s okay seph. i’ll always wait for you.”

so often you have left him speechless, longing to never let you leave his embrace. he felt the same when he came through the door and spotted your figure curled up on the couch. his little love, so adorable and even more thoughtful in a way he wasn’t sure he’d ever be used to. 

in sephiroths long strides the walk to the bedroom isn’t long but he wasn’t ready to let you go just yet and instead of placing you on your side of the bed and leave you curled up under the blankets to get ready to join you, he sits at the edge of it and rests your legs comfortably on either side of his muscular thighs. perhaps he should have shed his armor before he came over to you on the couch but upon seeing you there, his feet immediately brought him to your side. all he wanted after every day, long or not, though lately they had been constantly long, was to end it with you in his arms.

shifting your weight on his legs, you move your arms from around his neck, letting your fingers roam from the column of the throat, over his exposed collar bone and to his shoulder. he sighs under your touch and you can feel his eyes on your face but your own can’t be torn from the rise and fall of his chest and the milky soft skin you want to kiss over and over again. 

your hands are gentle and delicate as you pull at the straps that keep his pauldrons secured to his jacket and you have to grip each one with both hands as you lift them off his shoulders, forgetting how heavy they actually are. he helps you shrug them off of him and place them at the ground near his feet, one after the other, and as you undo the clasps of his belts, he sheds his gloves and spreads his large hands over the span of the top of your thighs.

he feels lighter, in so many ways and all of which lead back to you; your love, your soft touch, your tender flesh under his hands that were never meant for anything but to be a weapon, a tool, and yet to you they’re nothing of the sort. home, you had once called them so fondly. you had always trusted him to touch you with gentleness he once believed he was not capable of.

“i missed you,” your voice, barely above a whisper, breaks the silence in the room as you undo his jacket, moving onto the suspenders of his soldier uniform that cross his chest. you work on unbuttoning them and look up at him, feeling your body flush with heat under the glow of his mako eyes in the moonlit room and the pulse of his thin pupils that blow wide and return to their normal thin slits at the locking of your gazes.

the warmth of his left palm leaves your leg and his large hand cradles the back of your skull, bringing you to his lips. tips of silver locks tickle your cheeks, act as a sheer curtain of starlight and it is all you can see against the sparkle of the lifestream in his beautiful eyes. “i’ve missed you too darling,” he says lowly, his words spoken on your lips before capturing you in a deep, breath stealing kiss that has you clinging to his chest for purchase and his right hand traveling from your thigh, over the hem of your panties and under your shirt to your lower back to press you against him.

years of training, experiments, mako, have made his body hard, every inch of him defined in thick cords of muscle and scars that you’ve counted and mapped out like constellations and loved endlessly but there’s a distinct press between your legs and with each kiss you share, it only grows harder, more evident and you can’t stop yourself from wiggling your hips to feel more of him.

sephiroth groans against your lips, his fingers flexing and pulling you further into him until there’s nothing that could slip between your two bodies. a languid roll of his hips has you gasping into the kiss and he takes the opportunity to slip his tongue inside, exploring your mouth and bucking his hips at the touch of your tongue against his, so sweet and needy.

you don’t know how long you stay like that, on the edge of breathlessness and pleasure that wasn’t enough and was all you need at the same time but suddenly your world is turning and your body becomes caged between the plush sheets and your husband's firm body. the hand on your back moves to keep him hovering above you, so as not to crush you with his full weight, and your thighs spread instinctively. through your panties his thick clothed cock rubs against your clit, making you gasp.

at the breaking of your lips, you take in cool air that does nothing to quell the heat building inside of you, especially when his own finds your neck and begins to kiss the span of your throat, the tip of his tongue licking along your pulse point, tasting your skin without hurry. but you can’t help the worry building inside of you either. he must be so exhausted. you saw it in his eyes, felt it on his skin and your own longing was a reminder of how much he had been working of late.

“seph- wait.”

he pulls away from your neck to look into your eyes, stopping the soft rutting of his hips. worry flashes through his eyes as he looks down at you, his breath heavy and hot in the little air that surrounds you.

“what’s wrong?”

“nothing,” you’re quick to assure him, bringing your hands up to cup his cheeks. he leans into your touch, long dark lashes fluttering closed. “i just - aren’t you tired? we don’t have to ton-”

your words are cut off by sephiroth bringing a hand over one of your own, holding it there as he kisses your palm and speaks against your skin. “i’m okay. i want you,” another kiss to your palm. “i need you.” as if to emphasize his point, he rolls his hips again, letting you feel just how hard he is for you. “can i have you angel?”

“please.” you all but whimper as you arch into him and your free hand on his face sinks into his silver locks, soft and silky between your fingers. he always asked but he never needed to. “i’m yours seph.” yours for the taking. yours to love. yours for eternity, in every life, in every universe.

“you’re mine,” he says, leaning down to kiss your lips softly while keeping your palm pressed to his cheek. “and i’m yours,” he murmurs against your lips before he’s completely too far away from you, now standing at the edge of the bed while you lay enveloped completely in it.

you can feel your heart pounding in your chest and how it reverberates throughout the rest of your body. you can hear it in your ears, heating you from head to toe, feel its pulse through your throbbing cunt as you watch sephiroth shed the rest of his clothes, starting with his jacket. 

he has always adored calling you angel but you were constantly reminded of his ethereal beauty and were convinced, truly and totally, that he was the actual angel here. or so much more than that, you thought as you watched long and thick fingers against pale skin and dark cloth, pulling down his pants and underwear in the same movement, lifting over the unbelievable length of his cock before sliding down his thighs and hitting the ground with a dull thud.

yes, so much more. your breath caught at the sight of your husband in the moonlight, his flushed mushroom tip leaking on his abdomen, every dip and curve of muscle and inch of skin you know is soft to the touch despite how marred it is from years of war and battle. cat-like eyes that shine and swirl with devouring, all consuming, love and devotion. a god among men but with the way he worshiped you, you were always his equal, regardless of whether you believed it yourself.

even in his much larger grasps his cock looks big and your mouth waters at the remembrance of the weight of it on your tongue as he pumps it slowly once, twice, with heaving breaths as he crawls back over to you. 

truthfully, he is as exhausted as you worry he is. he knows he is but this time apart from you has taken more of a toll on him than the tiredness could. all he wants is to be with you, his precious wife, and now you are finally underneath him, pliant and sweet and needing him just as much as he does you. nothing could keep him from you.

you lift your hips to help him slide your panties down your legs, the wetness of them trailing along your skin and deliciously evident to sephiroth in the dim light.

“so wet for me,” he purrs and sucks in a sharp breath as he taps your clit with his cock head again and again, a wet, lewd, noise filling the air. 

your essence is slick and drooling down his length, onto his hand at the base of his cock the more he slides it along your slit until it catches at your entrance and he sinks into your tight hole just a little more. he nearly collapses on top of you, the last of his weight held up by his forearm near your head and is joined by his other that cradles your cheek and brings you to his lips once more.

he takes his time sheathing fully himself inside your velvety walls, swallowing each of your whimpers and murmurs of his name the deeper he delves into you with each roll of his hips and the pleasurable ache between your legs from the stretch makes your body burst with the flames he controls so well.

the way sephiroth sighs your name as he stills inside of you, now completely enveloped by you and letting his forehead rest on yours, is like the most beautiful and sinful melody. one that stirs you to your core and makes you cling to him like you needed reassurance he was really there. your fingers sink into the soft flesh of his back and the strands of hair that spill over his frame and shoulders, your legs squeezing around his hips so he might not slip from your grasp.

when he finally starts to move, his thrusts are slow and deep, barely pulling out of you before he’s reaching deeper than before, the thick vein on the underside of his cock rubbing and throbbing against your walls. you’re so full of him, in every way you can possibly think of. every thought is only of him, each breath heady with his scent, everywhere your bodies touch pressing you further into the plush mattress and keeping you right underneath him, right where he needs you, where you don’t know where he ends and you begin.

you’re so tight around him, taking him perfectly, and moaning his name with a particularly deep roll of his hips that has him thinking he won't last much longer. you could bring him to his knees with your smile alone but like this..

“oh, seph~”

“say my name again,” his voice is low and husky with desire and laced with tiredness but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t want to stop. he needs to be as close to you as possible.

you do, over and over at the drugging feeling of him making love to you, filling you like you were made for each other, like the missing piece of your soul you couldn’t go without. you can feel the tautness of his muscles when he’s so very deep and your walls squeeze around him in white hot pleasure, pulling him in deeper, begging for more. 

“seph.. mmm.. please -  sephiroth!!”

you gasp his name as he grabs ahold of your leg and brings it up to his chest, still thrusting in and out of you as he easily maneuvers you so you’re laying on your side and without sliding out of you, he takes the place behind you, pressing your back against his chest with the hand that snakes underneath you and presses on the space below your breasts underneath your shirt.

he gingerly guides your leg back down, soaking in the feeling of your soft skin under his palm and this new angle with you in his embrace. his pace remains unhurried and overwhelming at the same time; you whine each time he pulls his hips back, feeling unbearably empty despite how much just his tip splits you open, and cling to his arms around you desperately, mewling and writhing in his hold when he pushes back into you slowly and fluidly, hitting that perfect spot inside of you that has you burning and trembling. 

“look at you.. my beautiful darling.. i love you,” his voice is hot and heavy in your ear, a seductive purr that breaks the hold on the tightness below your belly. a rare curse leaves his lips, “fuck - you always take me so well.” his hold on you tightens, keeping you in place as his thrusts become less paced and more desperate, not able to retract from your heat, but bringing you down on his cock more and more.

your voice cracks around his name on your tongue, your pretty pussy fluttering around his length and he stills inside of you to feel every last squeeze as you milk him for all he’s worth.  

“just like that angel, take me..” 

you’re still throbbing around him, his release plentiful and sticky, unable to be kept all inside of your cunt with you so full of his cock but he doesn’t seem to mind the messiness between your legs and keeps you held close even after you’ve both come down from your highs. 

nuzzling his nose into your hair, you feel his weight sag against you and the expanding of his chest with the deep inhale he takes that’s wafting with sex and your sweet scent and that melts the remnants of his strength, what little of it had been getting him through these last few days. none of it mattered anymore now that he was home with you. 

“seph?” you ask, feeling his breath fall into a steadiness that reminds you of when he’s sleeping in your arms without a worry.

“mm?”

“let me clean us up,” you offer, wanting to take care of him, though he hadn’t had you ever do so before. cleaning you up after was a duty and privilege he took very seriously, as if he needed to care for you in that way.

you try to wiggle from his hold, shivering at the over stimulating movement of his half hard cock still sheathed in your cunt, but he doesn’t budge and you aren’t strong enough to escape, even if you were to give it an honest effort.

“stay like this with me for a little longer,” his voice sounds so full of sleep and boyish. it makes your heart stutter and your cheeks warm.

you can’t deny him. you don’t think you’d ever be able to. so you give in to your own tiredness, fitting perfectly in the curled up space of his chest and thighs when you snuggle closer, letting the weight of him surrounding you, inside of you, drift you into sweet and steamy dreams featuring your soldier.

when you wake, moonlight still fills the room but the mess between your legs is gone, the sheets are clean and your husband holds you so impossible close, the warm metal of his wedding band clinking against your own as you lace your fingers together and fall back asleep to the sound of his steady heart in your ears.

main masterlist

[prettytemis]

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི His⋆♱⋆Affliction ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

snyopsis: The vampire Alucard finds an injured traveler at his doorsteps, and nurses her back to health. Though what happens during your recovery is woefully unexpected, but intrinsically welcomed.

tags: porn w/plot (rare for me lmao), he fell first but you fall harder type trope, yearning, pining, slow burn (i tried), passionate, penetration, cunnalingus, cum eating, fingering, hair pulling, marking, biting, bloodletting, creampie, praise, usuage of “darling”, “dear”, “da draga mea” (“yes my dear” in romanian). L bomb gets dropped bc yk what, hell yeah?, pathetic alucard bc absolutely yes

word count: 11.5k wowza

a/n: a true passion project i love you alucard THANK YOU @cosmicporos for helping me with ideas for this fic mwah and also @eridanusco for informally requesting LMAO. Also sorry i dont know how to end fics pls let me live guys pls i tried :(

(click the title for a playlist! I listened to it a billion times when writing this)

Sounds of a distance neigh grew closer and closer to the ear of the blonde dhampir- who sat desolate inside cold walls. Your loyal steed, galloped you to the tall castle doors, pacing back and forth, whining for attention until The Alucard finally came down and took your lumbering body inside, and your horse to the stable of course, he’s not a monster…as much as he beleive so.

After what seemed to feel like a coma, you open your eyes to the stinging rays of sunlight that pass your eyelids; Waking up to a room unfamiliar and a man even moreso.

Alucard sat in a wooden chair that smelled of the same cedar he tended the fire with.

As the scent and the sight hit your senses, you rustled up and back into the corner of the walls in a hurried panic.

Alucard's eyes widened a bit, surprised by your wake. He gently placed his occupying book down and slowly got up from the chair, holding his hands up as if to show you he meant no harm.

"Easy, easy now...calm down. You're safe."

“Who the hell are you-“ you question in fright at his fanged teeth.

He gave a slight frown, eyes shifting a bit as he studied you.

“This is my home, your wounds…you’ve been here just short of a day.”

He explained, keeping his distance to not further frighten you- pointing to your abdomen.

“You're- a vampire?!!”

He chuckled slightly, not amused by the fear in your eyes but understanding your reaction”

"Half vampire, actually” He went on, “But I mean you no harm, you have my word."

“You could be lying”.

He raised an eyebrow, a hint of irritation in his voice at the accusation

"You'll have to trust me on that, won't you? If I wanted to hurt you, I could've done so long ago. You were passed out and bleeding on your horse's back."

Realization hit you, his arms crossing over his chest as you stay silent in protest.

"You were quite injured, I patched you up the best I could and kept you in this room to rest. Please allow me to heal you back to health completely.”

You stay in the corner of the bed with your hands clutched onto the thick fur blanket. You give him a nod, accepting his proposal, although reluctantly.

He nods back, sensing the fear and uncertainty radiating off of you but appreciative that you aren’t too stubborn.

"It would've been wrong to leave you to bleed out in the woods." He said, slowing returning to the fire and book.

“I didn’t know vampires had morality.” You retort, slipping out of your mouth without much thought.

He but only chuckles, you can almost hear his smile as he speaks, low and soft.

“I’ve had my share of…distasteful humans. But your horse made a good case for you, you know.”

You have to almost stop a smile- becoming more comfortable by the second with his seeming civility.

Not too comfortable, though, feeling the bandages around your waist.

He looks back and sees you touching them through your shirt.

“Can I see them?” He asks, walking closer to you now with a voice of concern.

You nod.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, being careful not to touch you unnecessarily, reaching out and gently unwrapping the bandages, his movements slow and deliberate as he revealed the wounds beneath.

You wince slightly at the cool air hitting your broken skin, your stomach flexing inwards and your lungs expanding.

He pauses for a moment as you flinch, his eyes flicking up to your face.

"I'm sorry, I'll be gentle," he says softly before continuing to unwrap the bandages, revealing the cuts and gashes on your body. His expression hardened again as he took in the extent of your injuries, his fingers tracing lightly over the wounds, gentle and steady.

“How do they feel?” He asks, taking all the bandages off and reaching to the nightstand for more.

“Fine” You reply.

"Are you sure you're feeling alright? I can sense your emotions, you know. And you're not very good at hiding them."

You feel your brows contort into irritation, you dont even know what for- maybe your innate distrust.

"What, you're mad that I can read you so easily?" He replied with a smile, enjoying your annoyed expression a little more than he thought.

“It's a bit annoying…” You say, raising your brows, with a sprinkle of sass.

He smirked again, his lips playful.

"Well, I'm sorry if it's annoying. But you're quite expressive. It's hard not to notice when you look like that.”

“Like what-?” You retort.

“That.” He replies quickly, making you swallow your words.

You watch as he redresses your wounds, taking his time to wrap the bandages around your waist and stomach.

You take that time to look at his face more carefully than before- being this close to a vampire wasn’t something you think you’d live long enough to be able to observe like this.

You noticed his light amber hair, his yellow eyes and long lashes that gave him an epicene charm. You couldn’t keep your curious eyes from wandering over his features, he smelled like oud and iron.

When he was done, you looked out toward the open window, the sill swaying back and forth as the wind dance.

“How long will they take to heal?” You ask as you look back down at his hands.

"It depends. The wounds were quite severe, so it may take a while for them to fully close. The medicine should accelerate the healing process, but it's not instantaneous.”

“Okay- well, if it's fine i'll return to my town then by tomorrow.”

His expression shifted to surprise at your statement.

"You want to leave already? You're not fully healed yet, it's not safe for you to go back out there. They could open, get infection, you could get-“

“I don't wish to bother you any longer- you've already helped me enough.” You state. You’ve been quite wary about vampires- raised to practically believe they were spawns of hell itself.

He raised an eyebrow, his surprise quickly replaced by a hint of irritation

"Bother me? Nonsense. You're a guest in my home, and I don't intend to just let you wander off into danger when you're just as injured as when I found you.”

“It's still an inconvenience…”

He lets out an annoyed sigh, crossing his arms over his chest.

"You're insufferable, you know that?” It's not an inconvenience. You're my responsibility now, whether you like it or not.”

You let out an equally annoyed huff, but you don’t bother to object anymore, clearly stuck and indefensible.

“Fine”. You breathe out.

He gave you a firm nod, satisfied that you had agreed to stay.

"Good. You'll stay here until you're fully healed. I won't have you running off and getting yourself killed out there."

He watched you as you settled back into bed, his expression softening slightly

"I'll be back to check on you later. Try not to do anything reckless while I'm gone." He says, walking out the door.

“Wait!” You shout.

He pauses in the doorway, turning to look at you.

"Yes?"

“What’s your name?”

“Alucard”, is what you hear before the shut of the door.

You hear his descending footsteps on the floor of the castle, plopping your head back into the goosefeather pillows as you stared at the brick ceiling, trying to get comfortable again, as much as you could considering your circumstance.

Hours had passed, and sleep didn’t miss you on its way.

Alucard had come back to your room, opening it after not hearing any confirmation at his soft knocks.

He saw your sleeping state and moved quietly as to make sure sure not to disturb you, scanning over your form, taking note of your condition and whether you were in any pain or discomfort even if your unconsciousness.

He leaned over and placed a hand on your forehead, checking for a fever or sweats.

After making his observations, his eyes lingered on your hair, fingers carefully brushing against a few strands as he withdraws his hand.

He found himself captivated by the color and texture, a hint of curiosity flickering within as the sunlight filtered through the window and casted a warm glow over your skin, the smooth contours of your face and neck.

He looked at your physiognomy in almost jealously, envious of your humanness. The feeling of your warm skin coursing with blood that hadn’t yet gone through the process of death. He brushed his knuckle softly against your cheekbone but quickly removed it once he felt you slowly stir away.

You crack your eyes open and flutter your flashes as the setting sun pokes at your lids again.

“Is it evening already?”

He nods, his voice low and quiet, walking around the corners of the room to light the candles scattered around to offer some light before the moons arrival.

"Yes, it's getting late. You've been asleep for quite a while."

You let out a long drawn yawn and attempt to sit up near the headboard.

He watches, eyes tracking your every move. He can see the pain and stiffness in your movements, a pang of guilt tugging at him for not being able to do anything for you in that moment.

"Careful," he murmurs, voice taint with concern. "You're still injured, remember? You shouldn't be sitting up yet. Let your body heal."

“I can't just sleep all day.”

"Yes, you can”…He continues, trying to push through without the conversation. “You're still recovering. You need to take it easy and let your body heal itself. Sleeping is the best way to do that." He crosses his arms over his chest, a hint of frustration in his voice over your seemingly unmovable persistence.

You frown at his scolding, crossing your arms back.

"What's with the pout? You look like a petulant child."

You scoff, leaning your head back and mouth slightly agape.

“That's rude...”

He chuckles, a smirk growing at your response.

"Is it? I was merely stating the truth.

You're acting like a spoiled brat who doesn't want to listen to their caretaker."

“I'm just tired of sleeping so much...”

“Well I can’t just let you run around and frolick can I?”

You pout again, knowing he’s right but not wanting to agree out of…pettiness.

He shakes his head and sighs, “Stay here, I’ll bring you some food”.

“Yeah sure i’ll stay! No problem Doctor!” You say with fringed enthusiasm. “Can’t really go run and frolick can I…?” You mumble after.

“I heard that.” He says as he walks out, making you chuckle a bit.

As you wait, your stomach growls even more, wondering what kind of food you’ll be given. With all the wealth and luxury displayed in just the small portion of the castle you’ve been limited to witness- you had set your expectations high….unfortunately.

He comes back not more than an hour or so later- hair tied up in a low messy bun and what seems to be flour on his pants.

You see Alucard bring in a tray of a small loaf of bread and a bowl of what smelled like plain chicken stock, small floating pieces of carrot.

He sits down next to the bed, putting the tray on the edge of the bed before helping you sit up just a bit so you could eat.

You look at him and then the food- the silence and your inactive made him scoff.

“Are you hands broken all of a sudden? Do you need me to feed you?” He says bluntly, raising his brows in disbelief of your shamelessness.

You gave him a shrug and innocent expression smile- but he lets himself fall to your poorly executed manipulation.

He tears a piece of the what you can only imagine is some kind of buckwheat bun, as he dips it into the plain soup.

“Fattening me up so you can eat me?” You say as the soup soaked bread moves closer to your mouth.

He rolls his eyes and holds it closer to you to take a bite.

Before you open your mouth to accept the bread, you catch a wiff of the smell and…your head tilts away swiftly.

“Oh gods- you don’t even need to fatten me that’s gonna kill me first!” You say as you shake your head.

“What? Stop being dramatic. It’s just bread, here” He says, tilting your head back toward his face and the bread.

“Where did you get that? Did my horse produce it?!”

Alucard furrows his brows and scoffs.

“I made this…it took a while by the way.”

Your eyes widen- not knowing if you should be surprised and touched that he attempted to make you food or if you should be alarmed at how horribly it went.

“Oh…”

He sighs, “Is it really that bad..? What do you humans even eat besides bread and beer?”

You scoot back a bit, creating a good distance away from the bread.

“Is this- just chicken stock?” You ask, trying to find any kind of compliment to give him.

He looks at you deadpanned, and you have to stifle a smile.

“I should have gave that carrot to the damn horse…” He mumbled before getting up to leave with the tray.

“Wait wait!” You laugh as you protested, waving your arms back up to urge him to stay.

“I’ll try it…since you went out of your way.”

He sighs, giving you another chance and placing the tray back on your lap.

You have to gather more courage than you might have ever before- taking the same piece of bread he tore and counting your blessing before putting it into your mouth.

Truthfully- the chicken stock made it somewhat bearable, masking the stale like gummy texture of the bread…and swallowing it before it could bother you too much.

Alucard watched at the bedpost, arms crossed as he observed your expression.

You look up at him after the first bite, tilting your head back and forth and twisting your arm to try and say it wasn’t too aweful.

He lets outs a chuckle and sits back down on the chair; occupying his earlier read as he waits for you to finish your meal.

As soon as you’re finished, he glances at the empty bowl and plate, a hint of relief in his eyes

"You ate everything, good. It's important to keep your strength up while you're recovering."

You simply nod, not wishing you further frustrate him over his cooking inability.

"Get some rest now. You need it."

He takes the tray and turns to leave, but once again hesitates at the door, as if his body screams at him to stay longer than needed.

Looking back at you; his eyes roaming over your face as if committing it to memory.

“I never got your name, now that I think about it. I think I’d like to know what to address you as.”

You hesitate for a moment- but it’s the least you could offer, formality wise.

“Y/n.” You respond.

He replies in almost a whisper.

"Goodnight, Y/n." He smiles.

He won’t be going to bed anytime soon but he hopes your rest is committed.

“Goodnight, Alucard.”

Again is the shut of the door, and you know you won’t see him again til the next morning.

After he leaves the room, he stand in the hallway for a moment, lost in thought- he feels a heaviness in his chest at the sound of his name on your lips. It’s been a long time since anyone has said his name at all- nor with as much tenderness and void of disdain as the way in which you spoke it.

The next day comes, much like the last in its configuration, just as the next few would likely follow.

Alucard comes in and moves quietly around, tending to the small fire in the hearth and tidying up a bit around your room; keeping his movements soft and silent, not wanting to disturb the peaceful atmosphere while you sleep.

He notices the moment you start to stir, his eyes flickering towards your sleeping figure on the bed. He watches you wake, and a hint of a smile plays at the corners of his lips as he watches you blink sleepily.

“Goodmorning”, you hear from the vampire, chuckling as he sees you stretch. “Sleep well?”.

You reply with a nod, yawning greatly before giving him a “Mhm”.

He feels a sense of relief wash over him, glad that you were able to get some restful sleep. Moving closer to the bed, his eyes scan over you for any signs of discomfort.

"That's good to hear. How are you feeling? Any pain?"

You shake my head, truthfully feeling much lighter than the previous day. You sit up so you can present your wounds to him.

He nods in approval, satisfied assurance while he steps closer to the bed until he sits on the edge, gently reaching out to examine your wounds, his fingers lightly brushing over the bandages that cover your injuries and unwrapping you.

"They're healing well. You're lucky you didn't sustain any serious damage."

He relays, his palms trailing down your sides as he tries to feel for any swelling, and you seem to find your throat a bit dry.

He can hear you gulp, and he reluctantly pulls his hands away and starts to wrap you with new bandages, rolling your shirt back down.

“Thank you”, you reply, trying to fill the empty space between you two, even if it’s just verbal.

He pauses for a moment, surprised by your words. He hadn't expected you to thank him, and the sincerity in your voice catches him off guard.

He clears his throat again, trying to maintain his demeanor.

"You don't need to thank me. I'm just doing what I can to ensure your recovery."

You smile and nod, impressed by his humbleness.

“Do you think, I can go outside now?

Maybe for a walk.” You ask.

He hesitates, considering your request. Youve been confined to the room for almost a week now, and the thought of you getting some sun wasn’t the worst.

"Hm...I suppose it would be good for you to get some fresh air. But only for a little while. You're still recovering, so you shouldn't push yourself too much."

You smile even wider, glad that he wasn’t cruel or unreasonable.

“Thank you, will you join me?” You offer.

He feels his brows contort with confusion, but he can't help the small smile that follows.

"Me? You want me to go with you?"

“Well i've never been to this part of the country- i’m not so used to it.

He chuckles softly, finding your naiveté endearing

"I see. Very well, I'll accompany you on your walk." He replies, coming back to the edge of the bed and helping you up, putting out his forearm for you to hold yourself up with- making sure you don't stumble or fall.

"Take it slow. You might be a bit unsteady at first."

You hold on tight, feeling your limbs finally stretch out after hours of laying down with not much breaks.

He watches you carefully, his eyes following your every move. He notices the warmth of your hands on his arm, gripping and clinging to him so tight, and the closeness of your body sends a current through his body- and he finds himself putting a bit more effort into trying to push down the strange feelings that are bubbling up inside him, because of you.

"Easy there. Don't push yourself too hard."

Once he makes note of your posture, he slowly releases your arm, though keeping a hand hovering nearby, just in case you need support.

“Do you happen to have any clothes?” You ask, wanting to get into something more fresh compared to your tattered and messy clothing.

"Yes, I think I do. Stay here.” He says, quickly moving out of the room to retrieve them and arriving again only minutes later with a neatly folded stack of garments in his arms.

He hands them to you, his eyes flickering over your figure as he does so.

"These should fit you. Let me know if they don't."

You take the small pile with both hands and go to the washroom of your familiar room to change.

Alucard waited patiently outside the door, his mind racing as he imaged you changing inside- hearing the rustling of fabric and wanting to ask if you needed help but he didn’t want to overstep- didn’t want to make you suspect anything more of it all.

Desperately he tried to push the thoughts down into the back of his head, but they keep creeping up, making his heart race and his palms sweat a bit.

When you emerged back out in the clothes he gave you, his eyes almost widened, a faint melancholy in his gaze.

“What…you look like you want to say something.” You ask.

He looks back into your eyes as he’s snapped out of his thoughts.

“Sorry- sorry…no you look fine. It’s just that” He rambled on, “The clothes belonged to my mother, they suite you.”

Your brows rise at the information and your stomach drops a bit- feeling sorrow for him in his dark undertones. But you stay silent.

“Alright”, he continues, draping a red scarf around your neck.

“Keep this on, it’s cold in the mornings.” He says as he pulls your hair up from the scarf and lays it behind your shoulders, fingers brushing your ears slightly as he stands much closer now.

You only nod, allowing him to open the door and lead you out of the room for the first time.

When you step out of your enclosure of a room, you feel the smooth velvet carpet rolling out into the deep hallways of the ancient castle, soothing the soles of your bare feet as you walk alongside Alucard, looking around at the ceilings and the fixtures that adorn the home.

He watches as you take in the grandeur of the castle, a hint of pride in his eyes. He’s lived here for so long, but he sometimes forgets how impressive it must look to outsiders

"It's a bit much, I know. But it's been in my family for generations."

“No, it’s beautiful. Really.” You assure, taking everything in as you finally get to explore the place you’ve been locked up in.

He smiles again at your words, feeling a small swell of warmth in his chest. Expecting you like most people to be intimidated or scared by the castle's size and antiquity, but he can tell you seem genuinely impressed by it.

"Thank you. My father, Dracula, had it built many years ago. He desired opulence." He says with cadence.

As he explains more of the building’s interior, you both finally reach a exit. You can hear the chirping of birds and the wind on the other side as if a portal to an unexplored grove were near.

Alucard pushes the heavy doors open, revealing the sprawling gardens outside. The morning sun is casting a warm golden glow over the landscape.

The gardens- a riot of color, with blooming flowers and lush greenery filling every inch of space.

He watched as you step out into the grass. He can't help but find the sight of you barefoot in the garden endearing, your toes sinking into the soft earth as you breathe in the sweet spring air.

You open your eyes and look up, appreciating the sky from below opposed to the window from a distance as to which you were forced to do for the past few days.

Alucard, though, doesn’t follow your gaze. He instead can't help but admire the way the sun catches in your hair, and on your skin, making you look like you're glowing. A second, much more beautiful sun.

He finds himself staring for a moment, mesmerized by your beauty.

He also notices the way you hold the shawl closer to your body, and he wonders if you're cold or if there's something else you're trying to hide. He tries to resist the urge to reach out and brush a stray strand of hair out of your face again, wanting to feel just an atom of your being, as if to merge them with his.

He step closer, concern etched on his face

"Are you cold?"

You look back at him, your brows contorted and a soft look of vulnerability on your face.

“A little”, you admit.

He sees the goosebumps emerged on your soft and sunkissed skin, and he frowns slightly.

He takes the coat off his back, and drapes it over your shoulders

"Here, this should help." He says as he pulls you closer to him, your shoulders rubbing up as he keeps the draped jacket close around you, a bit too big but enough to warm you.

You give him an appreciative smile, and he returns one right back.

He watches you return your eyes back on the scenery, his gaze softening as he sees the way you admire the beauty of the world around you.

He’s seen this view countless times before, smelled the same air and felt the same breeze pass him by. But somehow, it seems more vibrant with you here with him now.

“Would you like to go back inside now?” You ask.

He shakes his head, not wanting the moment to end just yet.

"Not yet. Let's stay out here a little longer. Is that okay?” He asks softly.

You nod, happy that he’s willing to indulge you in just a bit more time outside.

You can’t help but feel his eyes glancing to you every now and then- and you try to ignore the urge to get closer to him.

Not for warmth, or because of the cold, or anything other than the flickering need to be closer to him.

Something entirely separate, something entirely unfamiliar.

After another few minutes, you two decide to come back inside to prevent any possibility of you catching a cold.

Alucard shows you a few more hallways and rooms along the way, pointing them onto and providing a little history lesson every now and then, not wanting to bombard you with his entire lifetimes worth of stories. When you arrive back at your room, he watches you settle back into the bed. A strange mix of emotions swirling within him. he wants to stay with you, but he knows he should give you some space.

He lingers in the doorway for a moment before speaking up again.

"If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask. I'll be around."

You smile and nod, “Thank you”. You whisper.

“Of course. I'll be in the library if you need me." He hesitates for a moment, as if he wants to say something more, but then he turns and walks away, leaving you alone in the room, leaving the door open this time- as if inviting you to join him.

Maybe you’re just thinking too much into it.

As he sits down on the wooden library chairs, trying to concentrate on the book in his hand and the ink that sticks to his quill, his thoughts keep drifting back to you, wondering what you're doing in your room and if you're comfortable.

He can't shake the feeling that he's being drawn to you like a moth to a flame- in an inseparable trap he set himself. His affliction.

Lost in his own mind, he snaps out of it as he hears a knock at the library door. He looks up, setting his book down to calls out.

"Come in."

You hear his command, opening the tall doors and peaking your head in to find him.

He looks up as you enter the space, his eyes widening slightly as you approach closer and walk down the sparse steps- secretly trying to hide the fact that he was thinking about you just seconds ago.

"Ah, I wasn't expecting you so soon.

Is everything alright?" He asks, feeling his heart suddenly accelerate.

“Yeah, sorry” You reply, handing him back his jacket, “you just forgot this”.

As he takes the jacket from you, his finger brushing against yours for a brief moment that he curses himself for not keeping it a second longer.

He looks at it for a moment before looking back at you.

"Ah, thank you. I didn't realize I had left it behind." He says in a more hoarse tone than usual.

You chuckle and nod, “I also didn't realize.” You say in a lighthearted tone.

He chuckles softly in return, his eyes locked on yours- Acutely aware of the way your scent fills the air around him, intoxicating him with its sweetness.

"I suppose I was too distracted this morning to notice."

He finds it harder and harder to resist the urge to reach out to you, to pull you closer to him with each growing second.

You break the short lapse of silence, your eyes trailing down to the desk full of books and sheets of freshly inked script.

“Reading?”

He also glances at the books on the table, trying to compose himself.

"Ah, yes. I was just doing some light reading. and annotation. Trying to take my mind off things." He says before looking back at you, his gaze lingering on your face. H can feel the tension between you growing, the air heavy with unspoken words and emotions

“What, uhm- kind of things?” You ask, immediately feeling as if you overstepped.

He hesitates for a moment, unsure if he should be honest with you. but he can't bring himself to lie.

"You." He speaks.

You nod, understanding as you touch your wound on your side- Assuming he’s referring to your injuries, knowing how much he cares to treat you. Pushing away the initial thoughts of affection, not wanting to get your hopes up.

He nods, a small sigh escaping his lips. He conflicts with himself- wanting to tell you every preoccupied thought he’s had of you since the moment he found you on the back of his horse.

"Yes, that. And other things." He slips in quietly.

“You should rest, you’re not well enough to be up for so long.” He says a bit more sternly.

You furrow your brows a bit in unease, wishing he elaborated.

“Right.” You respond plainly.

He sees the disappointment in your eyes and immediately regrets his words. He didn't mean to push you away, but he's afraid of letting his guard down, of getting too close to you.

He runs a hand through his hair, feeling frustrated with himself

"I just... I don't want you to overexert yourself."

“It’s fine-“ You reply quickly, not wanting to invest more emotional energy into the exchange, exiting the library and walking back to your room, each step heavy and unrelenting as if your body rejects being away from him.

He watches your back as you leave, his heart sinking at the sound of your steps descending in volume. He wants to call out to you, to tell you to stay, but the words stick in his throat like a lozenge.

He sits there for a moment, frozen in place, before cursing himself under his breath. He knows he's messed up, but he's not sure how to fix it just yet.

Alucard remains in the library, pacing back and forth restlessly, still. He can't focus on anything, his mind consumed by thoughts of you.

He curses himself for being so awkward and aloof, for not being able to express his feelings properly even if they aren’t all fleshed out and appropriate.

He wants to follow you, to make things right, but he's afraid of what might happen if he does. So he stays in the library, brooding and frustrated, feeling more alone than ever.

You on the other hand, stay cooped up in your room. Equally frustrated- pacing around the bed unaware of how similar you both seem to cope.

You stay until the sun sets, wondering if he’ll show anytime soon to check up on you like he has been- angrily ruffled into the bedsheets as you almost wish you never went to the library, wishing you just left it at the peaceful garden walk from this morning.

“Fuck it?” You think to yourself, just go. “Just get up…walk over to him and figure it out? Right?” What even is there to figure, maybe, you were just overthinking.

You put your hand on the doorknob, resting before you swing it open.

As you prepare to take the first step out your eyes widen at the sight of him right infront of you with his hand raised.

He freezes in his tracks, surprised to see you standing in the doorway. He hadn't expected you to open the door just as he was about to knock, and his face looking more pale than before, somehow.

He looks at you, heart racing as he takes in the sight- feeling a mix of relief and nervousness, unsure of what to say or do next.

“…Hi.” You break the silence.

He swallows hard, his palms feeling clammy. He forces himself to speak, his voice sounding hoarse and awkward

"Hey. I was just coming to check on you." He drew on.

“I was also going to find you.” You confess.

He raises an eyebrow, surprised by your words. He hadn't expected you to be looking for him as well, his hopes rocking up.”

"Were you?"

“Yeah well- it's evening so I figured you'd want to check up on me again.” You sidetrack, dancing around the idea of anything else.

He nods, feeling a pang of guilt.

He had been avoiding you all day, and yet here you were, still thinking about him and his routine. Sure, he was too, but he hated the idea of burdening you with such heavy feelings in his care.

"Right, of course. I should've been more on top of it."

You nod, letting him into the room as you go to sit down on the bed as he follows you, his heart pounding in his chest. Why?

He can feel a tension between you two, one that’s been bubbling and thickening like a witches brew.

He tries to focus on the task at hand, but his mind keeps drifting to other things as he approaches you, his hand trying not to linger too long- prudent in his action.

He keeps his gaze clinical as he examines the wounds, rolling your shirt up and unwrapping the bandaged, but it's hard not to notice the softness of your skin beneath his fingers.

He gently touches the edges of the scars, his touch cautious as he checks for any signs of infection or irritation.

He’s aware of how close he is to you, how intimate the situation is, how for the past few days that he’s tried to ignore- scared of pushing himself onto you in any way.

He can feel the heat radiating off your body, and it's making it difficult for him to concentrate as he can see you watching him.

He glances up at you, his eyes locking with yours for a brief moment.

“You look worried....”

He looks up at you again, his expression serious.

"It's just... the scars are still a bit red. I'm worried about infection."

You nod, your expression also turning more stone.

He frowns, his fingers tracing the edges of the scars lightly.

"I'll have to keep a closer eye on them. Make sure they don't get worse."

You nod, wincing slightly as he touches them.

He immediately stops touching the scars, his expression softening.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you." He whispers.

“It's okay- it just stings a little”. You assure.

But he still feels a pang of guilt at the thought of causing you pain, even if it was accidental.

"I'll try to be more careful. I just want to make sure they're healing properly." He goes on, feeling himself open up more- wanting to tell you just how much he cares.

He wraps you back up in new dressing, rolling your shirt down again and leaning down toward you.

“Hold onto me, I’ll help you up.” He says softly, putting his arms around your back as you wrap yours around the back of his neck, holding into him for support as he helps you up onto your feet without too much trouble.

For just a moment your chests press up- but soon letting go.

Alucard steps back, not wanting to cross any lines- but gods is his mind absolute chaos right now.

The feeling of your body closer than it’s ever been- the feeling of almost embracing you was too much for him to handle.

You clear your throat, leaning back against the bedpost, “Earlier today...in the library...”, you go on.

He perks back up, “Yes? What about it?”

“I'm sorry if i seemed too insistent, you probably wanted to be alone”…

He shakes his head, a hint of amusement in his eyes.

"Don't apologize. You didn't seem insistent at all. If anything, I found your curiosity endearing."

He sends you a smile, a softer look.

"And I must admit, it was nice to have some company in the library for once. I've been alone for so long that l've almost forgotten what it's like to talk to someone…”

You smile back, “Me too.”

He returns your easygoingness, “You're not just saying that to make me feel better, are you?"

“I'm not, it's making me feel better too.”

He chuckles, a bit deeper this time.

"I see. So you're not just a beautiful woman with a sharp mind, you're also honest."

“I hope to be”, you reply wittingly.

“Honesty is a rare quality, you know.

Most people will say anything to get what they want, or to avoid hurting your feelings. But you... you seem to speak your mind without a second thought…Especially about my bread.”

You roll your eyes place and scoff, “I’ll never hear the end of it from you.”

“I’m still hurt.” He says, feigning offense.

The two of you exchange a few more pleasantries, both reveling in the fact that your issues from earlier have been mended and quickly forgotten. Thankfully.

Alucard glances out the window, seeing the darkness of the night outside and hearing your yawn.

"It's late. You should probably get some rest, as much as I wish to keep talking.” He adds on quickly.

You nod, opening the door as he walks out into the doorway.

“Goodnight, dear.” He says politely.

You respond with a kiss on his cheek, quick and gentle.

“Goodnight.” You say with a soft smile, and and shut the door on his dumbfounded face.

He stands there for a moment, stunned by your unexpected kiss.

His hand comes up to touch the spot where your lips had been, a look of surprise and... something else on his face. He shakes his head slightly, a small smile playing on his lips as he turns and walks away, heading to his own room and recalling the experience with every step. He tries to tell himself that it was just a polite gesture, nothing more, but he can't help the way his heart flutters at the thought of your lips on his skin. He knows any semblance of sleep won’t be easy- not after your stunt.

You sleep deeply through the night and into first light, unable to hear Alucard knocking at your door.

He knocks a second time, a tray of breakfast food in his hands.

Upon your lack of response, he enters the room quietly, his eyes immediately going to your bed to check on your condition- smiling softly as he sees you still asleep, setting the tray of food on a nearby table.

He walks over to the bed, his footsteps light and quiet so as not to wake you. It’s almost noon, and he wants to make sure you’re not feeling any sort of extreme exhaustion- considering the irregular surplus of sleep.

He continues to watch your face- finding himself getting used to the peaceful sight of your sleeping form.

But he notices a look of distress on your face, becoming concerned. He sits down on the edge of the bed, observing intently, his eyes narrowing as he realizes you're having a nightmare of some sort.

He hesitates for a moment, unsure if he should wake you up, but the conviction on your face convinces him to act.

"Hey...wake up." He gently shakes your shoulder, trying to rouse you from your terrors.

He watches as you rise up in a jerked motion- breathe quick and heavy, pupils dilated and expression that of terror.

He places a comforting hand on your back.

"Shh... it's okay. You're safe now. It was just a dream." He says as he rubs your back in soothing circles, his touch gentle and reassuring. He looks at you with concern, his eyes filled with worry

"You were having a nightmare... do you want to talk about it?"

“I don’t really remember it-“ You say in a defeated tone, more annoyed than anything.

"Okay. But if you do, I'm here to listen."

“Thank you”, you say with a faint smile, his hand now on your shoulder.

"Of course.“ He glances over at the tray of food he brought in.

"I brought you some breakfast. You should eat something. It’ll take your mind off it perhaps?”

You take the tray appreciatively, nodding but still disoriented.

He notices the slight change in your expression. He tilts his head slightly, studying your face.

"Are you sure you're okay? You look a bit... dazed."

“Sorry- i'm just- still waking up”

He chuckles softly, amused by your sleepy state “It's alright. I understand."

He sits on the edge of the bed again, watching you pick up the food, satisfied that you're finally eating something.

He leans back against the headboard of the bed, content to just sit with you for a while.

"How are your wounds feeling today? Are they healing well?"

“Oh- yes I think so”, you say, putting the tray next to you and turning to face him, lifting your shirt up to let him examine them.

He runs his fingers gently over the healing cuts under your bandages, making sure they're not infected or still bleeding

"Good. They look like they're healing nicely. You'll probably be fully healed in a few more days."

“A few more days...alright”. You start to think to yourself, wondering what'll happen then- considering that you’ll have no need to stay here once you’re healthy.

He notices the look on your face, the slight furrow in your brow as you think to yourself. He lowers your shirt, his gaze fixed on you

"Is something wrong?”, he asks, getting closer to you as he tries to coax it out of you.

You simply shake your head.

He raises an eyebrow, not quite believing you. At all actually.

"You know you can tell me if something is bothering you, right?"

“I know…” You say, unconvincingly once again.

He reaches out and gently takes your hand in his, his touch gentle and comforting

"You can trust me, you know. I won't judge you. I swear it.” He says with a gentle expression.

“Yeah- yeah I know.” You say quickly, your face developing a rouge at his sudden act of affection. Or maybe it was just- care, a polite gesture of friendship.

You go back to eating your breakfast, slipping your hand out of his.

Even while enjoying your morning meal, your stomach is heavy with the residual feelings of your nightmare- frustration that you can’t seem to remember what made you feel so ill.

“Do you ever get nightmares?” You ask Alucard.

He looks to face you- a bit unprepared for your question but honest.

“At times, they seem more like recollections than fantasies of my mind.”

You furrow your brows, looking done at your food and playing around with it.

“I can’t remember what I was even dreaming about- but it’s a strange feeling.”

You go on, opening up about the discomfort of your body.

He frowns, feeling a mix of sympathy and concern for you. He pulls you closer to him, his arms wrapping around you in a comforting embrace.

"I'm sorry. I wish I could take it away from you."

You let out a surprised sound- hands hesitating to wrap around him.

He can feel your surprise, unrelenting. He holds you tightly against his chest, one hand gently stroking your hair

"It's okay," he murmurs softly.

"You're safe now. I won't let anything happen to you. Alright?”

You feel your brows scrunch up and your body lighten- as if he’s shared some room in his body for you to lay your afflictions bare. To take some of the pain from you and lock it away in himself.

With contemplation- you hug him back.

He holds you closer, his chin resting on the top of your head

"That's it," he murmurs. "Just relax. Let me hold you."

His words soothe you like a balm, mending together pensive feelings of melancholy you weren’t even aware of before.

You feel warm tears roll down your cheeks, sniffling before he gently rocking you back and forth as he tries to soothe you

"Shhh, it's okay. Let it all out," he whispers, his voice filled with tenderness and compassion.

"I've got you," he continues.

You use every second to try and pull yourself up together- but he wraps around you close, holding you together as you fall apart in his arms.

He continues to whisper words of comfort, his voice low and soothing

"You're doing so well. Just keep breathing. In and out, that's it."

After a few minutes of much needed exhalations, you recover well in the vampires arms.

He feels a sense of relief wash over him as you relax against him. He gently tilts your chin up.

"Are you feeling better now?" he asks gently, his hand still stroking your hair.

You let out a cathartic sigh, nodding.

He cups your cheek in his hand, his thumb gently brushing away the tears from your face

"Good. I'm glad to hear that. You had me worried for a moment there."

“Sorry...I guess I just haven't had someone hug me a long time.”

He shakes his head, his hand still cupping your cheek.

"You have nothing to apologize for.

And don't ever apologize for needing comfort. Everyone needs a hug sometimes."

As you calm yourself more, Alucard decides to give you some space to recollect yourself, clearly needing it.

“I’ll give you some space. I’ll be in the library, if you need anything.” He reminds, before bidding you a goodbye after making sure you ate.

You take deep inhales and deeper exhales, your mind ringing with his voice guiding you through breathes.

The room becomes quiet and dark, you're left alone with your thoughts. The memory of Alucard's touch and his warm smile are all you can think about, and you can't help but wonder what he's doing right now- deciding it’s better to find out for yourself than wonder.

Alucard looks up as you enter the library.

He sets down the book he was reading and smiles softly.

"Feeling better?" he asks.

You smile and nod, walking closer.

"Come here," he says, patting the chair next to him. "You can keep me company."

You gladly take a seat, eyes roaming over the various books and sheets covering the desk- similar to yesterday’s spreads.

He notices how close your face is to his work. He closes the book, gently tapping your forehead with it.

"You're going to give yourself a headache if you keep reading like that," he teases, a playful glint in his eyes.

You pout and rub your forehead.

“Rude…” You say in a whisper.

You scoot closer to get a better look at the writing, your elbows folding on top of the table.

As you observe the scripts, Alucard is more concerned with how beautiful you look- even when you’re concentrated, and he can't help but feel a pang of longing in his chest- quickly pushes those feelings aside, not wanting to ruin the moment with his own desires.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, noticing the pause of his writing and his gaze.

He blinks, realizing he's been caught staring. He quickly looks away, clearing his throat awkwardly.

"Ah, nothing," he says, trying to play it off as nonchalantly as possible.

"Just lost in thought for a moment."

You nod, going back to watching him work, putting your head on his shoulder with the close proximity.

He freezes for a moment, completely caught off guard by your sudden closeness. He can feel the warmth of your body against his, and the scent of your hair filling his senses.

He takes a deep breath, trying to keep his composure, but it's becoming increasingly difficult.

You can’t help but chuckle at his reaction.

He can feel your laughter vibrating through him, and it's a pleasant sensation.

"What's so funny, human?" he asks, playfully.

“Nothing, you've just….been on that page for a while. You can’t read can you? Tell me the truth.” You play around sarcastically.

He glances back down at the book, realizing that he's been staring at the same page for several minutes now, obviously at that.

He lets out a soft chuckle, embarrassed that he got so distracted by your presence once again, finding it to a troublesome, reoccurring issue.

"Ah, I guess I am a bit distracted," he admits, his gaze flickering back to you.

“No no it’s okay, lots of people can’t read you know. Don’t be embarrassed”, you continue with your nonsense joke.

You pretend to look around, your eyes going around left and right as he shakes his head.

He shuts the book, setting it aside and turning his full attention to you as he pushes it away.

He turns his body towards you.

"You're a distraction," he teases, poking your side gently.

“Hey!” You exclaim, “you invited me to sit here”, you digress, poking him back.

He chuckles and dips his finger in a small pool of ink, swiping it on your nose, making you backup a bit and give him more room for defense.

You gasp at the sudden cool touch of pigment- and run after him as he walks over quickly to the books nearby.

“This is not fair at all!” You exclaim, watching him dodge your attacks with ease.

“That seems like a personal issue, yes?” He says as he walks deeper into what seems like a maze of shelves.

As you get more and more competitive- you finally land a hit on him: a decently sized dab of ink landing on his cheek.

As it lands you run off- not wanting another hit of solvent somewhere on your face.

But of course…to your disadvantage, you can’t necessarily outrun a vampire.

Easily, he catches up to you- pinning you against the bookshelf. He stands over you, his body caging you in, as he holds up his finger- ready to mark you with another proof of failure.

"No escape now," he teases, his hand slowly and tauntingly smearing ink around your chin.

You roll your eyes and chuckle- the both of you breathless from the chase.

He can feel your small breathes mingle with his- noticing your chest pressed up against his.

He looks down at you, his eyes locking onto yours, and suddenly the playful atmosphere shifts into something more intense.

He rubs your bottom lip- except you don’t feel anymore ink rubbing into you, just the touch of his skin, his eyes glued to your supple lips as you look at his gaze.

“Alucard…?” You whisper softly.

He doesn’t look at you, eyes still glued to your flushed cheeks and the staggered breathe that escapes from your mouth.

“Hm?” He responds, finally flickering his eyes up to look at you.

“Yes dear?”

As your eyes lock, you feel a force that only pushes you to an immeasurable distance into him- and he responds immediately.

As if endless moments of pining finally meet its destiny- the kiss is tentative at first, a slow exploration of each other's mouths.

He takes his time, wanting to savor every moment of this, wanting to make sure that you're comfortable and enjoying it too.

Your arms wrap around each there- Alucards large frame pressing you into the bookcases behind you as his hands hold your sides- your arms wrapping around his neck to pull him closer.

He groans softly at your hands on him, your tongue meeting his in a heated dance. He's surprised by how easily you fall into rhythm with him, how well your bodies seem to fit together.

He revels in the sounds you're making, the way your body trembles against his. He descends his kisses to your cheek and then neck- feeling your pulse racing under his lips. He continues to kiss and nip at your neck, his fangs scraping gently against your skin as he moves down to your collarbone- the feeling of his teeth grazing your skin absolutely electric.

Your fingers grip slightly at his hair, running through them as he lavishes your shoulder with his sweet kisses.

Your body starts to arch into his touch. His hands on your sides tighten, holding you in place- his breath heavy as he starts to speak between kisses.

“Stop me…please, please stop me if you don’t want this…Stop me, I won’t be able to stop myself.” He pleads, kissing up to your ear as his other hand snakes up to hold the side of your neck, pulling his face to look at you again, his aureate eyes piercing into yours.

You let out deep breathes from your nose, swallowing the lumps in your throat as your half lidded eyes meet his, nodding just enough to assure him before diving back into his lips.

He groans again at the feeling of your lips, his grip on your thighs tightening. He presses his hips against yours, letting you feel the evidence of his arousal.

He breaks the kiss, his lips trailing down your jawline and to your neck once more. He can't resist the urge to mark you, his teeth meeting kisses and sucks at the sensitive flesh.

“Alucard-“ You interrupt.

He growls against your neck, his teeth almost sinking into your skin just enough to leave a mark

"Yes, my dear?" he murmurs, his voice low and yearnful.

“You….can drink, if you want to.” You go on softly, seeing his eyes flicker with an immediate importance.

He lets out a shaky breath, his control hanging by a thread. He can feel his fangs lengthening, his body practically vibrating with need as he gulps.

"You shouldn’t say such things to a dhampir," he growls, his grip on your hips tightening almost painfully.

He leans in closer, his lips brushing against your pulse point once more.

He can feel your heart racing, the scent of your blood is enough for him to go mad- the sound of your blood that pumps through your veins sounding like the perfect symphony.

"Last chance to change your mind, y/n.” He murmurs, his breath hot against your skin.

You shake your head, holding his chin and tangling your fingers in his hair.

“I want to feel it…feel you.”

Your words cause his self-control to shatter. He can't hold back any longer, the need to taste your blood overpowering everything else, any sense of responsibility or moral compass gone- your declaration of want is all it takes.

He sinks his fangs into your neck, a deep moan rumbling in his chest as the taste of your blood hits his tongue. You feel the two long needles puncture your skin smoothly- the pain quickly subsiding as you feel his lips plant themselves on your skin and his breathe blows kisses over your skin over and over- his chest puffing out as he gets closer and more greedy.

You felt his hands clutching at your waist as if his fingerprints could weld onto your skin like iron.

The pain and pleasure mingled, creating a heady cocktail that clouded your senses.

The room spun around you, the world narrowing to the sensations of his fangs in your skin and the blood leaving you and nourishing him, his heart pounding in sync with your own.

You felt his hardened length, insistent, pressing against your thigh, a silent testament to the desire coursing through him while the taste of your blood intoxicates him- the taste like ambrosia, all while he can feel your body trembling against his, can hear the sounds of pleasure falling from your lips.

He can smell your arousal, the scent driving him wild with desire. He drinks deeply, his tongue lapping at the puncture wounds on your neck to encourage the flow of blood.

His grip on you almost bruising as he grinds against you-feeling himself losing control, his body acting on pure instinct as he takes what he needs from you, as if you were providing him with life force.

He finally pulls back, his fangs leaving your neck as he looks at you- your blood on his lips staining them as if he devoured a mound of cherries.

You smear the droplet across the corner of his lip- the red hue replacing what was once ink, pressing your lips onto his.

He moans into the kiss, his tongue tangling with

He carries you over to the nearest surface, which just so happens to be the desk you were just at. He sets you down on it, his body pressing against yours as he continues to kiss you hungrily and messily.

He chuckles against your lips, enjoying the way you groan as he pushes the books off the desk to make space for you. He lifts your hips slightly, grinding his hardness against you through the layers of fabric between you- growling in approval as you open your legs for him, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he presses himself against you even more.

He nips at your collarbone, his lips trailing down to your chest as he begins to unbutton your shirt with deft fingers.

“May I?” He asks before completing removing it at your confirmation.

He pushes your shirt off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor and leaving you exposed to him

"Gods, you're perfect," he murmurs, his hands moving to cup your breasts as he leans down to capture one of your nipples in his mouth, your head tilting back as moans spills from your mouth- his tongue swirling around it before he gently nips at it with his teeth, the small remnants of your blood on his lips painting your chest in blotches.

His other hand moves to your other breast, his large hand almost completely covering it as he squeezes and kneads the soft flesh.

“Fuck-“ You groan, feeling his fingers tweaking at your sensitive buds while you feel him grinding even harder onto you his fingers trace patterns on your skin as he continues to worship your body.

Your fingers deftly unbutton his shirt, letting it fall open - his head perks back up to capture your lips once more.

Your hands trail down to his belt buckle.

He breaks the kiss, his lips moving to your ear as he whispers

"Eager, are we?"

“Can you blame me…?”

"No," he murmurs. "Because I want you to be. I want you desperate and needy for me…burn for me, like I burn for you.” He groans against your ear, his hands trailing up the sides of your thighs and gripping your hips to toy with the hem of your skirt.

“Stay still”, he whispers, his voice much more playful now. “Let me check the rest of these wounds? Yes?” He mentions, slowly letting the tie of your skirt undo itself as he slides it down, humming in approval as you lift your hips for him.

His cold hands touch your bare skin and you almost flinch, but you welcome them.

“Draga mea…you’re stunning.” He groans, looking down to appreciate your skin under the moonlight seeping from the overhand windows of the library.

You feel the light seeping into your skin and more noticeably his hands becoming more

bold, more desperate, and daring. So are his kisses, descending down your neck to the valley of your breast, worshipping your skin as he kneels down to get on both knees while his face is met with your core- your cunt throbbing loud enough that his ears are sure to pick up on it.

He parts your thighs further, his hands gripping them tightly as he continues to kiss and nip at the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.

He's close enough now that you can feel his hot breath on your aching core, but he's deliberately avoiding touching you where you need it most.

“Alucard…please-“

He looks back up at you, cutting you off before you can beg.

“Adrian. I need you to call me that now.” He says, placing a kiss on your core through the fabric.

“Okay?” He adds, waiting for you to nod before he slips the fabric off and finally darts his tongue out to tease the sensitive skin just above your clit, smirking into your folds when he heard your breathe hitch.

He moves his tongue down slightly, tracing around your clit.

He can see how wet you are, your arousal dripping down, tasting it.

He starts to lap at your clit, his tongue swirling around it in tight circles before dipping down to tease your entrance as your moans spill out, hand tangles in the his hair, gripping his golden strands and making him groan into you, eyes darting up to meet yours- lost in the taste and scent of you, completely consumed by the desire to make you feel good.

You feel your hands gripping tighter, the heavy cinch in your abdomen ready to snap.

Minutes that felt like hours of him reverently pleasing you- you tremble and gasp.

He doubles down his efforts, his tongue and lips working even harder to push you over the edge. He can tell you're close, your body trembling and your breath coming in short gasps

“Adrian- I’m-!” You whine, your legs loosening their clasps around his face as you cum on his tongue.

He groans loudly as you cum, his tongue eagerly lapping up every drop of your release. He doesn't stop, continuing to lick and suck at your sensitive flesh even as you ride out your orgasm.

He finally pulls back, his face wet with your juices as he looks up at you. “You’re so beautiful when you cum. I want to make you do it over, and over.” He said, rising up to his feet- resting his forehead against yours as he tries to catch his breath

"You have no idea what you do to me," he whispers, his voice filled with raw emotion, lips brushing on your ear.

“What do I do to you?” You reply, pulling your head back to look up at him.

He gazes back down at you, his heart clenching at the sight of your innocent eyes. His hand cups your face, fingers tracing your supple face.

“You make me want things I never thought I could have. Things I don’t deserve." He admits, almost like confessing a sin to you, leaning in to kiss you again, pressing his lips against yours in a tender caress.

“I almost want to keep you here. Just for myself- look at how selfish you’ve made me, draga mea”. He speaks, a smooth accent painting his last words as he pecks kisses to your jaw, chuckling deeply as he feels your hands unbuckling his belt and letting it fall.

Both of your hands frantically pull at eachother- the innocent chuckles and soft kisses between the seconds it takes for him to undress and spread you apart- ready to give you the attention you need.

He positions himself at your entrance, his cock throbbing with anticipation. He looks into your eyes, his expression filled with desire and possessiveness

"Are you ready for me, love?" he asks, his voice low and rough. "Are you ready to feel me inside you?"

“Yes- please, need more Adrian.” You plead.

He slowly pushes in, his hips moving in a slow, deliberate thrust.

He looks down at you, his eyes locked on your face as he watches your expression

"Relax for me, love," he murmurs, his hands stroking your thighs gently. "Let me in."

You nod, breathing in and out softly as he helps you and reassures you with soft words and gentle caresses.

“You’re doing so well, keep going for me. Breathe…Fuck- just like that.”

He can feel your body relaxing around him, allowing him to slide in further with each slow glide of his hips.

When he finally bottoms out, he feels your walls clenching down on him- making him bite down on his one lil til it bleeds.

The same blood hits your lips over and over on an tangle of kisses, his pace getting faster and more intense as he starts to lose himself inside you- his heart beating in sync with yours as he fucks you on the desk that starts to creak now.

“Fuck- it's so...” You groan, your stomach pooling with the same feeling just moments ago.

"So what, love?" he asks, his voice rough. "Tell me. Tell me how it feels. Tell me everything.”

You whine softly- felling each thrust hammer into you even deeper as he urges you to speak.

“So...fucking good...” You admit, wholeheartedly.

He shudders at your words, his cock twitching inside you. He nips at your ear, his breath hot against your skin

"My perfect little human," he groans, his hands roaming over your body- your walls tightening hearing him whisper to you.

"Oh, you like that, don't you?" he whispers again, his voice low and seductive. "Being told how perfect you are? Hm?”

You can’t reply even if you wanted to- and you most urgently did. Only whines and moans escape your lips.

He chuckles, his smirk widening as he sees the effect his words have on you

"You're such a good girl," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your neck. "So beautiful, so sweet. I wonder how many times I can make you cum tonight."

“So close- Adrian!”

He can feel your body trembling beneath him, your breathing ragged and uneven

“Come for me, darling” he whispers, his voice smooth and sickly sweetened. "I've got you. I'll take care of you."

You look up at him once more- your big pleading eyes grasping for a piece of his soul to gaze into.

Looking down at you again, his eyes meet yours. He's momentarily struck by the vulnerability and trust in your gaze, and it almost brings him to his knees completely.

"God, I love you," he whispers, his voice raw with emotion- almost as if he had no time to think before he spoke, as if it would change anything.

Your heart thumps, unable to tear your gaze away.

“A-Adrian-“ You moan out- his cock still pumping in and out of you and hitting every spot to make you cry out- ultimately making you spill all over him as you cum.

He lets out a shaky breathe feeling you release.

He’s never said those words out to anyone before, never dared to hope that he would ever feel this way at all.

He buries his face in your neck, his movements becoming more desperate as he clings to you, still going even as you’ve finished.

"Say it," he begs, his voice rough. "Please, say it. I need to hear it."

Your thighs twitch around his waist- overstimulated and sweaty, “love you…Adrian-! I love you…” You reply, clawing your nails at his back.

He groans into your neck, his own orgasm washing over him in a powerful wave.

"Oh, gods-" he gasps, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you. He holds you tightly, his body shaking, licking at the wounds he planted on your neck from earlier, wanting to taste the crimson of your being, just a little more.

As the blood draws, each drop hitting his senses, he knows he is binded tightly to a world he cannot live in without your presence. His Affliction.

whimsic4alwasab1 ™ - do not copy, translate, modify, or claim any of my work as your own.

[prettytemis]

Adrian Fahrenheit Ţepeş “Alucard”- Castlevania: Nocturne S2 - Episode 1

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