geto having a cute little non-sorcerer wife that he swears he hates.
he only marries you for your father’s riches, and so when you arrive on his doorstep he leaves the maids to tell you where you’ll be staying; the room furthest from his own.
you’ve been instructed not to so much as look at him, but he finds that he hardly sees you, anyway. you’re more like a ghost that haunts the manor than his wife.
most of the time he’ll happen to pass you sat alone in the garden, dressed in pretty kimonos that have most definitely been suited to his tastes. he hardly speaks to you, the only time he has was when the two of you had accidentally bumped into each other when turning a corner.
“watch it, monkey,” he had hissed, before continuing on with his day. he later found himself thinking on the nervous expression and faint embarrassed blush that had adorned your face. he had been tempted to smash his head against the wall to rid himself of the memory, as it plagued him the entire evening.
your father starts visiting and he has the basic decency to at least pretend as though he loves you. it results in awkward proximity and unloving kisses to your forehead, at least until your father leaves.
for some time, geto’s not entirely sure as to why you play along. you could go to your father and ask to leave this loveless marriage, could you not? then it dawns on him; your father doesn’t care, and you already know that. geto doesn’t like how a tiny part of his chest aches when he thinks too hard about that fact.
it’s not as though he leaves you locked up in some basement, withering away. you’re allowed to explore most of the manor, most of your needs can be met by asking the maids and very rarely he will permit you to visit the nearby town marketplace with some guards.
he starts seeing you more. he’ll sometimes find himself out in the garden, pretending that he has any business outside other than to keep an eye on you. he’ll never admit it, but it can sometimes calm him down, just watching you go about your day. to him it’s like watching a pet trot about, not realising their owner is watching with keen eyes. you’re still just a useless monkey, of course.
one day he discovers you crying in the garden you love so much. he’s never seen you cry before, hell, he’s hardly seen any emotions on you.
“what happened?” he finds himself asking before he can stop. you jump in your seat, not having expected him to be beside you.
“nothing, really,” you say, your voice still shaky and your hand wiping away at drying tears, “i’m sorry to have bothered you.”
he frowns, his patience quickly wearing thin. “tell me, now. what happened?”
you sigh, and some part of him can’t help but note how pretty your eyes look, despite the redness around them. he pushes the thought out before it can properly settle.
“my father sent me a letter,” you confess. “he’s… not happy with me.”
he steps closer to you. “why?”
you hesitate, your mouth opening and closing, but the expression he wears has you telling the truth.
“he wishes that i was pregnant with your child. i have told him that i am not, and never will be, and he… well, he’s not happy.”
suguru raises an eyebrow. “never will be… ?”
you blush, looking to the floor. “i know that you hate me. it may be easier for you to have a child with another.”
he scoffs.
“i don’t-“ geto pauses himself. “do you really think i’m the type of man to have a bastard with some whore?”
“w-well, no, but-“
“do you wish to stay married to me?”
you gulp. “no. i don’t.”
he pauses for a moment, seemingly considering something.
“if you give me a child, i’ll allow you to leave. you’ll still be married to me in name, but you won’t have to stay here, and you won’t be tethered to your father.”
your jaw drops for a moment, and then you collect yourself. “will i be able to see the child after i give birth?”
“sometimes,” he tells you. in reality, he doubt he’d ever let you near them, but you don’t need to know that.
“… okay.”
he finds it harder to convince himself that he hates everything about you when he has you beneath him, your ankles on his broad shoulders and your hands pressing against his back. he can’t help but fuck you even faster when hearing you whine and mewl. he wants to lick the expression you have off of your face, but refuses to indulge in the idea.
“su-su-suguru!” you cry. he stills inside you for just a moment. it’s the first time he’s ever heard you say his name. he was beginning to think you had forgotten it.
he grabs onto your wrists with one hand, pressing them above your head and manhandling you into another position, one in which he can somehow go even deeper than before.
he chuckles, low and raspy, “stupid fucking monkey…”
he’s starting to wonder if maybe he needs two kids. maybe four? hm. maybe you do have your usefulness. maybe he shouldn’t let you go, after all.
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Here’s a headcanon I don’t know what to do with:
Once they get together, at the end of nights when Dream visits, Hob will take his hand and say, “Stay?” and Dream without fail will respond, “Yes.”
Now here’s the thing about this little routine. At no point is a full sentence spoken out loud.
So from Hob’s point of view, every night he is asking “Will you please stay?” and Dream is saying “Yes I will stay because you asked me to.” But from Dream’s point of view, Hob is asking “Do you want to stay?” and Dream is saying “Yes, please allow me to stay.”
Both think the other one is doing them a favor. Both think they are the one making a request and the other is the one fulfilling it. They’re both carrying around gratitude towards the other for being kind enough to “indulge” them and spend extra time together.
I don’t know how they would ever find out about this strange ongoing miscommunication or what the reaction would be. I just think it sounds like something that would happen to them. They're both emotionally compromised idiots.
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Untitled Portrait of a Man (I Want to Obliterate Me) by @seiya-starsniper
“You know, when a beautiful man asks me to get naked in his apartment, he’s usually naked with me,” Hob purrs, winking from his position on Dream’s dark green chaise lounge chair.
Dream rolls his eyes from behind his sketchbook and doesn’t rise to the taunt. If he presses his charcoal too hard into the paper as he continues to draw, Hob doesn’t need to know.
Hob laughs at Dream’s silence and leans backwards to rest on the chaise’s armrest, running a free hand through his long, wavy hair. The movement arches his back, and Dream presses his knees tightly together, trying desperately to ignore the painful erection he’s been harboring for over two hours now. Dream cannot deny that Hob is beautiful, it’s the reason they’re in this situation after all.
Dream had stumbled across Hob completely by accident when he saw the other from across the quad, playing volleyball with some other students. Dream liked people-watching on the grassy lawn, the constant whirl of activity gave him far more inspiration for his art than the bored models in his art classes. The volleyball game in particular had been an excellent way for Dream to study movement and muscle tension as the men ran back and forth along the sand covered court.
Then Hob removed his shirt midway through the game, and Dream promptly forgot about the rest of the game. He instead became singularly focused on the broad set of Hob’s shoulders, in the flex of his pectoral muscles each time he reached to return the ball over the net. Hob’s chest is also covered in thick dark hair, clearly soaked through with proof of Hob’s exertion.
Dream does not remember much of what happened once the game was over, he only knew that he had a singular goal of committing the man’s body to paper, and then eventually to a full painting. Before he knew it, he had approached Hob once the man had said his goodbyes to his friends, and from there they had arranged for Hob to come to Dream’s apartment and pose for him.
What Dream hadn’t been prepared for, however, was the excessive amount of flirting and innuendo coming out of Hob’s mouth. Dream has been uncomfortably hot in his own skin despite the air conditioning being at full blast, and Hob keeps wagging his eyebrows at him, and inviting Dream to join him on the chaise.
Dream will not be deterred. He is a professional, damnit, and he will act like one, even if Hob refuses to return the same courtesy.
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