#like being wrapped in a blanket and having a warm cup of tea

[dioslesbianwife]

That one post from a while ago about saving diavolo from the death loop inspired me

Could you do something similar but with Kars and reader who can fly to space (like a stand power or something) and just comes across this weird floating man-like rock and decides to bring him back to Earth?

Could you throw in some domestic headcannons? And how long it would take him to warm up to reader?

sure, kars and diavolo had the worst fates so it's nice to rewrite them a lil haha, anyway hope u enjoy and thank you for requesting <3

🪐

Your Stand lets you defy gravity and fly through space freely, with a little protective aura like your own pressure-safe bubble.

You’re just out there vibing one night, checking out space dust and planets, when you notice this weird rock formation.

It’s humanoid. Naked. Floating. And even though it’s totally frozen and inanimate, it has this weird aura about it like it’s... thinking.

You’re like ‘ok he kinda looks like a hot statue. I’m taking him home.’

You literally just drag his frozen ass back to Earth like a weird cosmic pet rock.

🌍

It takes a while- being trapped for millennia does a number on your body, even if you’re immortal.

He first unfreezes just enough to open his eyes while you’re talking to him like a plant in your apartment. “Well, I don’t know if you can hear me, but I fed the neighbor’s cat today. That was fun.”

His voice is hoarse when he first speaks. “...Who… dares…”

And you drop whatever you’re holding and yell “OH YOU’RE ALIVE?”

Kars is disoriented, furious, confused- but also very, very cold. Literally. You have to heat towels and wrap them around him.

Month 1:

Silent. Watches you constantly. Doesn’t sleep.

Stares out the window like he’s planning to destroy the planet.

You try to make him tea and he glares at the cup like “You dare offer the Ultimate Lifeform chamomile?”

Will not eat unless you bring it and walk away. Hates feeling weak.

He hates everything right now.

Month 2–3:

Starts asking questions. “What… year is it?” “What is… a toaster?”

You catch him watching cartoons at 3 AM because he’s trying to learn modern humanity. He refuses to admit this.

“Do not look at me.” “But you’re watching Clifford and eating peanut butter out of the jar.” “DO NOT LOOK AT ME.”

Begins to realize you're not interested in using him or hurting him. Starts relaxing around you.

Month 4–6:

Speaks more often. Gets curious about you. “Why did you bring me back?” “...You looked lonely.”

Is secretly very touched by that but doesn't know how to express gratitude like a normal person.

Starts following you room to room like a tall, broody cat.

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

He’s obsessed with technology.

Can’t believe microwaves exist.

Thinks your fridge is a mystical cold box.

You show him a hair dryer and he stares at it like it’s a weapon.

Once binge-watched Forged in Fire and tried to recreate a sword in your kitchen. You banned him from metalworking indoors after that.

Tries to help with chores but he’s bad at being gentle.

Sweeps too hard and breaks the broom in half.

He gets really sulky after breaking something, but you just pat his shoulder like “It’s okay. You tried.”

His favorite activity = laying near you like a territorial dragon.

Doesn’t cuddle. Not at first.

But he will sit next to you extremely close like a gargoyle guarding his hoard (which is you).

Eventually… EVENTUALLY… he will rest his head on your lap if he’s tired or overstimulated.

He never says “I love you.” But he says things like:

“You are the only being in this universe whose existence I find tolerable.”

When he’s overwhelmed by the weight of time and identity and immortality, he goes quiet and curls up in the softest blankets in the house.

You find him there, in a nest of pillows, blinking slowly like a very sad, very confused child.

You speak softly to him. Rub his back. Let him hide from the world until he feels strong again.

[coffee-and-geto]

LET ME WARM YOU UP

summary: satoru comes home after an early morning when he went to the bakery to buy you some pastries, frozen to the bone by the biting early december cold. doesn’t he deserve to find you under the warm comforter where your warm presence hides?

cw: fluff, domestic, gojo has his nose pink from the cold, he’s silly, needy and so in love <3, i have put some pastries i know bc i’m french but ignore them if you don’t like croissant (what’s on ur mind) or pain au chocolat (i agree on this).

wc: 721

When Satoru enters the bakery — his body draped in a long coat, head wrapped in a knit cap, and half his face hidden behind a large scarf — the gentle chime of the entrance bell feels like a sweet melody mingling with the warm, sugary scent of the quiet, early-morning haven.

Behind the sparkling glass displays are heaps of pastries that make his mouth water. From chocolate croissants to apple turnovers, the variety of treats teases his senses as he approaches the kind, tiny baker, who barely reaches his chest.

“Good morning, young man,” she coos like a grandmother, tilting her head up to look at him. “Feeling like something sweet this early?”

Six o’clock in the morning — was it too early?

Satoru would camp outside the bakery if it meant sharing pastries with you.

He hums thoughtfully. “I’d like a brioche, a chocolate croissant, a croissant, an éclair, and a strawberry tart,” he says, distracted by the vibrant colors tempting him to buy out the entire bakery.

The baker grabs a bag and carefully places his order inside, smiling warmly.

“Will that be all, young man?”

Satoru nods.

“Alright.” She names the total price and hands him the large bag once he pays. “Are you planning to eat all of this yourself, young man?”

A smile capable of melting ice stretches across Satoru’s face, despite being hidden behind his scarf. “I’ll share it with my girlfriend.”

“Oh, that’s so sweet of you.” After he pays, the baker hands him a blue lollipop, the kind that colors your tongue. “A boy like you, who takes such good care of his loved ones, deserves this.”

Satoru accepts it with a word of thanks before heading home, where you’re unknowingly waiting for him, still tucked beneath the warm covers of your bed.

He enters the apartment silently, closing the door with care and removing his shoes and coat in near-perfect quiet. In the kitchen, he wastes no time arranging a breakfast tray, loading it with the pastries he bought and a cup of tea and coffee.

He performs the task with an adorably proud smile, humming cheerfully at the thought of sharing a warm breakfast with you under the blanket, where you’d thaw his December-chilled body.

With the tray prepared to perfection, he carries it to the bedside table and sets it down gently before slipping into the bed. The combination of the soft blanket and your warmth, still lingering in the sheets, begins to ease the cold from his body. His stiff, frozen arms wrap around you, rousing you from sleep.

“Toru?” you whisper, your eyes fluttering open as a yawn escapes your lips.

“Morning, sweetheart,” Satoru murmurs into the crook of your warm neck.

You shiver at how cold he feels. “Did you go out?” You turn to wrap your arms around him, planting a kiss on his nose, pink from the cold.

“Brought pastries,” he hums. “Wanna eat with me?” He blinks at you cutely, his snow-dusted lashes framing eyes as deep and blue as the ocean.

“You did?” The corners of your mouth turn down as you pull him closer. Satoru’s habit of buying things for you without needing to be asked makes your heart ache in the sweetest way. “Of course, my love.” You pepper kisses all over his face. “Love you so much.”

He grins so cutely you want to crush his head in your arms.

Minutes later, you’re both sitting up in bed, the makeshift tray perched on your shared lap as you indulge in a perfect breakfast.

Through the bedroom window, the first snowflakes of December fall onto the balcony, covering it in a white blanket that matches your lover’s hair. The sky, equally white, might’ve seemed dull and cold, but sitting beside Satoru, who is devouring almost all the pastries, brightens the weather.

Once your stomachs are full, Satoru burrows under the blanket, pressing his face against your pajama-clad stomach. A giggle escapes you, your chest shaking gently with the sound.

“What are you doing?” you ask, raising a playful eyebrow.

“Cuddling,” he mumbles, his voice muffled by the comforter.

“You look more like a whiny cat, you know.”

“If a whiny cat gets cuddles, then I am one.”

Your laughter bubbles over, warming Satoru, who nearly purrs as your fingers scratch at his scalp.

a/n: hello guys :)) i know it’s been like two weeks w/ anything but let’s forget that, hmm? so 1st december is the birthday of my bsf haha and sadly the end of fall for me... (i’m depressed bc of this). but, i’m in the mood to write everything fluffy, etc. (saying this while my brain is mentally preparing a big angsty fic for the coming weeks bwahahaha). hope you guys have a nice week and see you soon <33

likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated <3

tags: @ssetsuka @zara-zara11 @bearwithmoo @elliesndg @lymsfm @mutsu422

@drippymcdrippison @koshhin @v31v3t @wawuwe @cybersomniq @sanemistar

@monokaix

[silksepia]

doctor's orders — joel miller.

pairing: jackson!joel miller x reader

requests are: open!

summary: your period cramps are awful. joel just wants to help because he's so caring, no selfish intentions at all.

tags: 18+ MDNI, established relationship, oral (f receiving), smutty, ambiguous reader (i'm keeping it as vague as possible so y'all can fit yourselves in), period sex, joel doesn't care about blood because he's a #real #man, shy/nervous reader, joel miller eats pussy like his life depends on it

a/n: there's something so amusing about this being my joel miller debut fic on here. this bts photo dropped earlier and all i could think of was this man eating you out, so enjoy!

my masterlist

Your period was always a thing of force -  heavy and physically taxing, the cramps making you curl in on yourself and unable to stand up straight as they pulsed through you in waves. It was four days of suffering, and you refused to take any of the painkillers Jackson had to offer, not wanting to deplete supplies when there was already a shortage of everything. 

You would just have to ride it out, as you always did. 

Joel hated your period. Not because it was something that grossed him out, but because you always withdrew from him when it was that time of the month. It seemed like you were almost ashamed of him touching you, cutting him off when things shifted from an innocent kiss to heavy petting on the couch, when his fingers would start to dip into the waistband of your pajamas. It was a week of not being able to shower with you, not being able to dive between your legs after a long day of patrol, and he could feel his frustrations and desires simmering under his skin. 

The window of opportunity presented itself when he overheard the town doctor telling you that you should “try making yourself feel good. Orgasms can help loosen up those cramping muscles. Don’t shy away from it.” You had broken off from him on your morning walk to the mess hall, eager to find a natural solution to your pain. Joel had lingered, refusing to go anywhere without you, and those words buried into his head, nestled deep into his mind. You couldn’t refuse doctor’s orders. They looped through his brain as you settled in for breakfast, barely releasing their hold on him when you asked him what he wanted to do on his day off. He shrugged noncommittedly, muttering something about a new project or helping the town as he pushed his eggs around on his plate. 

“Joel. Joel.”

His head jerks up. You’re staring at him, head tilted as you frown from across the table. 

“Are you even listening to what I’m saying?”

“‘M sorry, darlin’. Just tired.”

He isn’t though, and he almost feels guilty for zoning out while you were trying to talk to him. Eyes softening, you reach across the table to brush against his knuckles. 

“Why don’t we just spend the day in bed then? I don’t feel too hot anyway. We can just… exist?” 

He turns his hand over, palm sliding under yours, thick fingers wrapping around your wrist to squeeze gently before releasing you. 

“Sounds good to me.” 

Your meals were tucked away quickly, the promises of warm sheets and warmer touches making you eager to get home and into bed. You can feel the dull ache of your cramps creeping in, shifting in your lower back and sitting there, heavy and present. Your shoulders curl inward and Joel automatically pulls you into his side as you make your way back to your home, his thumb rubbing circles into the base of your spine to try and alleviate the ache. 

The silence that blankets both of you is gentle as you enter your home. The kind that comes with knowing that there were no responsibilities calling your name, the world still turning even if you weren’t an active part of it. Your coat slips off your shoulders, Joel hanging it up next to the door as you toe your boots off and shuffle into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. The pain in your back flares and you wince, one hand shifting to cradle your lower stomach. 

Joel is hovering.

His presence is large, taking up the kitchen as you exhale slowly, watching you work through the twinging in your abdomen. His hands drop to your shoulders, kneading at the muscle as you try to settle yourself. 

“Let’s lay down,” He offers, and you try not to melt when his thumbs catch on the knots of your muscles, meticulously working them out. He guides you out of the kitchen and up the stairs, still hovering over your shoulder as you slowly ascend to the top level of your shared house. He ushers you into the bedroom, gentle and firm hands peeling your sweater off, leaving you in your camisole and jeans before he’s settling next to you on top of the covers. You watch him rake his fingers through his hair as he sits back against the headboard before dragging you into his lap. 

“Joel…”

He shakes his head, refusing to hear your protests as he brushes his hands through your hair, moving it out of your face before cupping your jaw and pulling you closer. 

“Jus’ wanna kiss you. Been missing you lately.” 

You can’t help but smile at his softness. It’s a side to him that rarely peeks out, tucked so deeply away that when you first started seeing him, you didn’t think it even existed. Now it shines every time you’re in the comfort of your home together, where the outside world can’t touch the quietness you two built. 

“Alright, one kiss and then we nap.” You grin, leaning forward to brush your nose against his. His mouth quirks into a barely-there smile before he’s dragging you flush against his chest, knees drawing up to bracket you in against him. You slot your mouth against his gently, a whisper of a kiss as your hands land on his chest, fingers twisting in the soft material of his shirt. He lets out a quiet groan, lips immediately parting against yours, the kiss deepening as one of his hands curls around the back of your neck to hold you in place. He licks into your mouth, needy sighs dripping out of you as he pushes further, teeth nipping at your lower lip. You cant your hips down, feeling his growing arousal underneath you as he continues to kiss you senseless.

Joel’s hand glides down the curve of your hip, shifting to your front as he toys with the button of your jeans. He feels you tense above him, can feel your withdrawal before you vocalize it, and pulls back to look up at you. You’re pliant in his lap, cheeks flushed and lips swollen from kissing, eyes glazed over with need. 

“I–  we shouldn’t–”

“No.”

You frown. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

He frowns back at you, hands moving back up to grip your hips. “I wanna make you feel good, sweetheart.” 

“You are, I’m just on my… it’s okay. I don’t–” You flush, and he can’t help but smirk. 

“‘M not afraid of a little blood, baby. Just let me take care of you,” He purrs, gently moving to lay you down on the bed. He shifts onto his elbows, hovering over you as he leans down and presses a kiss against your forehead, and then against your mouth. 

“Doctor’s orders,” He adds, adjusting his weight to smooth a hand down your chest, your stomach, hitting the top of your jeans and flicking open the button. Your eyes flutter closed as he works his mouth against your jaw, your neck, thick fingers hastily shoving the waistband of your jeans down. 

“You don’t have to do this just because the doctor said it’ll help,” You breathe, and he fervently shakes his head. 

“Been thinking ‘bout doing this since the first time.” 

Your thighs clench at his words, hips tilting up so that he can strip you easier, faster. You can feel yourself growing slick from want, your arousal building slowly in your lower belly as his mouth continues to shift down the column of your neck and over the tops of your breasts. He doesn’t bother with taking your camisole off, his impatience leaching into his actions as he pulls the front of your top down and under your breasts, lips greedy as they move across the unveiled softness of you. He works his mouth over your nipples, one hand coming up to pinch and pull as he sucks on the other. There’s a haziness clouding your head, half-formed thoughts dancing around as your desire builds. 

“J-Joel, a towel, we need a towel,” You sputter as he yanks your jeans down your calves. He sits back on his heels, greying curls mussed, cheeks pink, his breathing heavy as he drinks you in. His eyes are dark, pupils blown as they rake over your chest, the way your tank top bunches at your stomach, your underwear that’s hiding your arousal from him. 

He licks his lips and your heart stutters in your chest at his unabashed want. Your eyes flit down, taking in the tent of his jeans, his erection straining against the fabric before flicking back up to his. After a brief staredown, both of you unwilling to interrupt the moment, he sighs. 

“Don’t move,” He growls out, shuffling off the bed and disappearing into the hallway. You listen to him banging around in the linen closet as your breathing slows, eyes focusing on the chipped paint of the ceiling. Your nipples tighten against the cold of the room and you shift, thighs rubbing together in anticipation. It takes him a minute before he’s back, looming over the bed with one of your lesser towels clutched in his fist. 

“Hips up, baby,” He murmurs, spreading the towel out underneath you before nestling himself back between your legs. “Let me take care of you, yeah? Doctor said it’ll feel better, lemme make you feel better. Missed the pretty noises you make when you cum.” 

He’s looking up at you, fingers poised at the waistband of your panties. He’s waiting for the go ahead, you realize, and you reach down to card your fingers through his messy curls. 

“Okay…” You breathe, and Joel spurs into motion, yanking down your underwear and tossing the pair behind him. He groans at the sight of your cunt, glistening pink with the mix of your arousal and blood, his hands coming up to grip the insides of your thighs as he pushes them further apart. 

“Fuck… missed this sweet thing. Making me go a week without tastin’ you, driving me insane. Bet she’s real needy for me too, huh?” 

He slides one hand off your leg, bringing it up to trail a finger through your slick. You twitch, hips jerking from the touch as he watches it cling to his skin, pearlescent and sticky, before bringing his hand up to his mouth and licking it clean. 

“Tastes good, baby. Don’t know what you were gettin’ all shy on me for.” He grins, draping an arm across your stomach to hold you down as he presses his nose against the top of your pussy, inhaling deeply. His tongue darts out, catching on the hood of your clit and you jerk against him, a whimper spilling out of your mouth. 

“Joel, please,” You whine, eager for him to get his mouth on you. Your cramps are still slowly rolling through you, though the weight and warmth of his arm keeps them at bay. He hushes you, pulling back to meet your eyes. 

“You’re gonna let me take my time and enjoy my meal, alright, sweetheart?” His voice is low, rumbling in his chest as he stares you down unwaveringly. You swallow, nodding. 

“Good girl.”

His mouth is back on you before you could get another word out, licking a stripe up your seam as you shake beneath him, fingers curling into his hair and pulling as he works on you. He's a man starved, moaning against your cunt as you tug on his locks, tongue slipping into your weeping hole before moving up and flicking against your clit. He latches on and sucks, the feeling making your back arch off the bed and your toes curl. The hand that isn’t holding you down trails against the inside of your thigh before one finger dips in, pushing and curling to hit the spongy spot inside you that makes you see stars. 

“Fuck…” You moan, writhing against his mouth.

“Yeah?” He breathes, before latching back onto your clit and working a second finger into you. Your eyes squeeze closed, your orgasm building as he curls his knuckles in tandem with his mouth. “Y’gonna come? I wanna see you come, baby, please, let me hear it…”

He sounds as broken as you, voice ragged with need, hips subtly grinding against the mattress as he continues to fuck his fingers into your squelching cunt, the mix of your arousal and blood coating his beard. Your grip on his hair tightens when he crooks his fingers just right, sucking on your clit particularly hard. 

“Joel–!”

Your orgasm rips through you, gasps and moans spilling out of you as your thighs clench around his head. He coaxes you through it, murmuring praises against your cunt. So good, so sweet, so pretty when you come on my tongue like that. He's lapping up your juices as you tremble under him, white spots swimming in your vision, your chest heaving from the sheer force of your orgasm.

Fingers withdrawing, he plants a gentle kiss on your skin, right above your pussy, a soft red print of his lips left behind as he pulls back to look at you.

“Good, baby?” 

He’s a mess, small streaks of blood visibly clinging to his beard and mouth along with the pearly sheen of your come. There’s a visible stain on the front of his jeans where his pre-cum leaked through from him rutting against the bed. You swallow a shaky laugh, nodding as your body settles into a soft hum. A heady feeling nestles in your bones, and you realize that your aches have fully ebbed away. 

“It worked,” You murmur, dropping your head back against the pillows, blissfully fucked out. He grins, pride and satisfaction written across his face as he takes in your satiated appearance. 

“Good.” You hear the familiar cling of his belt buckle, and your breath catches. “Because I’m still not done with you, sweetheart.”

taglist: @psychxbby

[luvbabydoll]

cod men with their wives on mother’s day ₊˚⊹ ᰔ (+graves)

phillip graves

you wake up to the smell of something burnt. your first thought is the boys got into the kitchen again.

you roll over, still wrapped in your lacey cotton nightgown, and find a card on the nightstand with a single daisy tucked inside. the handwriting’s messy — crayon and glitter, a backwards “M” on “mommy.” it makes your chest ache with how proud you are.

then the door creaks open, and there’s phillip.

hands full of pancakes that are half raw, syrup spillin’ down the side of the plate. the boys trail behind him, barefoot and loud, all grinnin’ with syrup on their cheeks.

“look at that,” phillip drawls, grinning like the smugest man alive. “still sleepin’, baby? it’s noon.”

he sets the plate down and leans over to kiss your forehead, then your lips, then lower — a slow line of kisses down your throat.

“got the whole damn house runnin’ around for ya. reckon that’s what happens when you give a man sons and softness and a wife who don’t raise her voice unless she’s got to.”

he cups your face with one calloused hand, brushing your cheek with his thumb.

“you were made for this. don’t matter how dumb you act or how many times you forget where you left the car keys. you’re mine, and you’re a mama. that’s all you gotta be.”

you’re flushed before you even sit up, clinging to the blanket, and he just chuckles.

“eat your pancakes, sugar. and after that, i’m puttin’ another baby in you for being such a good little wife f’me.”

johnny “soap” mactavish

it’s pure chaos, like always.

johnny’s got a toddler slung over one shoulder, another one makin’ a mess on the counter, and the dog’s got the wrapping paper in its mouth.

“oi! that’s mum’s, ya wee beast!”

he snatches the slobbery card out of the dog’s mouth and plasters on a big, cheeky grin when he sees you watching from the hallway, eyes still puffy from sleep.

“well, well, well. look who finally woke up.”

he kisses you hard, grinning into it, his hands already tryin’ to slide into the pockets of your sweatpants.

“y’look like a dream, hen. all sleepy n’ soft. s’good thing you’re pretty, ‘cause yer boys definitely didn’t inherit their cookin’ skills from you.”

you huff, swat at his chest — he just laughs and hands you the mess of a card.

“happy mother’s day, birdie. thank ya for lettin’ me fill this house with gremlins. wouldn’t wanna wake up to anyone else yellin’ at me to stop feedin’ ‘em chocolate for breakfast.”

simon “ghost” riley

it’s quiet when you wake up.

simon’s already up. he always is.

but today, he didn’t leave for a mission.

today, he stayed.

you pad into the kitchen barefoot, one of his shirts hangin’ off your body, eyes barely open. and there he is. your boys in their little chairs, drinkin’ juice, while simon cuts fruit and sets the kettle on the stove.

he turns when he hears you, and his eyes soften.

not a word, not yet. just walks over and wraps an arm around you, kisses your hair, your temple.

“happy mother’s day, love.”

you whisper something back, quiet and sleepy, and he just brushes your knuckles with his lips.

“you made this house a home. all i did was put babies in you. you? you gave ‘em a reason to laugh.”

he pulls out your chair for you. lets the kids pile gifts into your lap. watches with that rare, almost-shy pride in his eyes.

“you look good, y’know,” he says, real low, when the boys are distracted.

“in this kitchen. all soft n’ warm. it suits you.”

john price

“up. c’mon, love. got somethin’ for ya.”

you blink awake to the smell of tea and toast. price is standing by the bed with a tray in his hands and that smug, crooked smile on his face. your youngest clings to his leg, holding a rose that’s half broken.

“got you brekkie. even made sure the lads didn’t set the bloody toast on fire this time.”

you sit up, cheeks warm, and he puts the tray down and cups your face in his hand.

thumb strokes over your cheek. his voice goes quiet.

“never thought i’d have this. house full of noise. woman like you in my bed. little ones screamin’ for your attention. but hell, i’d take ten more of ‘em if it meant you’d smile at me like that every mornin’.”

you lean into his chest and mumble that it’s the best day ever.

he grins against your temple.

“you deserve every minute of it, sweetheart. reckon this house’d fall to pieces without you.”

kyle “gaz” garrick

you’re still in your nightgown, sittin’ on the couch with your knees tucked under you, when kyle comes in holdin’ a tray of pastries and a bright pink mug.

“oi. there’s my girl.”

he kisses the top of your head, sets everything down, and hands you a tiny homemade card signed in three different colors of marker.

“they worked on that for hours. like proper artists. nearly glued their fingers together.”

you laugh, soft and sleepy, and he just watches you with this look — like he still can’t believe you’re real.

“you’ve got ‘em wrapped around your finger, y’know that? you’re like… the sun in this house. they all orbit you.”

he leans down, kisses you slow.

“and i’m not any better.”

he sits beside you, wraps an arm around your waist, and pulls you close.

“happy mother’s day, babe. you’ve given me more than i ever deserved.”

[affableramen]

How they sleep with you (sfw)

 ━─━────༺༻────━─━

Wriothesley

he always comes to the bed after you and tries to move carefully in order to not wake you if you have already fallen asleep

he is a big spoon so he hugs you from behind really nice and comfy

usually very tired of late shifts at work so probably will be dead asleep the next few seconds. You’d pull the blanket over him ensuring he doesn't catch a cold. Oh, he loves when you take care of him :(

he gives out the best hugs and is actually very warm, like a big old wolf can be your personal blanket. Even though you would still wrap the both of you into the fuzzy blanket knowing that this silly man probably doesn't realise that the nights are getting longer and freezing

loves nuzzling into your hair, coz your scent makes him relaxed and he’ll likely have a good night sleep after a sniff of his significant other

Tartaglia

he is actually very sweet and gentle in the bed with you, especially before sleep when the both of you likely end up tired after work

removes his accessories, rings, gloves only to gently wrap his bare hands around you. tartaglia is a big spoon as well. he does not fail to amaze you with how smooth his hands feel against your arm compared to his finesse in a battlefield

loves warm temperature so makes sure both of you are wrapped in huge fuzzy blankets

loves a good mug of hot chocolate or honey herbal tea before sleep and will make you one too!

although loves being a boss aka big spoon, will die for you to lie on his chest <3

Neuvillette

being a small spoon he loves when you wrap your arms around his broad chest, he finds it very comfy and in a way, soothing

Neuvillette is extremely shy and solitary so he won’t usually ask you for something but sharing a nice cup of warm water before sleep with you is his guilty pleasure. There is just something super endearing about sharing his favourite drink intimately with you, under the moonlight and rain…

he takes big pleasure in being undressed by you, he just wants to feel you remove these formal indigo layers from his shoulders. will also let you personally remove his feather hair pin and unclip other accessories from his lavish outfit

even though his eyes look cold sometimes he ensures his significant other doesn't doubt his affection which is showing quite well in how he holds you in sleep

holds your hand in the sleep so tight as if afraid you will disappear the next day. Neuvillette enjoys your company more than he is going to admit. Hard on the outside - sweet inside, he almost innocently kisses your forehead and cheek before sleep so that you almost forget how stiff and rough this man is in court

Pantalone

sleep? doesn’t know him. This man has huge eyebags coz apparently he sleeps in the office… 

his face looks completely different without glasses and you cannot help but be in awe every night, seeing the perfect shape of his eyes clearly and slight hints of exhaustion after the whole CEO work

after having you help him inject insulin, he lets you take his gloves off, and even though he’s been sharing domestic pleasures with you for a while, still wary of showing his bare hands to you every time, coz he has an eczema he finds disgusting. will hum quietly while you spread a gentle cream over his hands as a skincare routine procedure before sleep

he is attached to you more than he initially planned to and it is showing in the way his hands “accidentally” graze yours or his eyes examine your sleepy face before he drifts off too. You’re left mesmerised at how this man, a heartless businessman, treats you so softly and dearly

is actually capable of comforting someone, so will do a great deal of comforting you if something about your mood seems off. He is not very sensitive to emotions but he understands you logically, judging by your body language, routine or the way you talk. Trust me, this man is the gentlest when it comes to your vulnerability, he will ensure 💯 that you feel safe and happy enough, so he will hug you SO tight in the sleep, in order to just soothe you 

Alhaitham

cannot let you fall asleep without night cuddles when he with his muscular chest loves pressing you into the sheets

even though he is grumpy about it, allows you dismantle his clothes. There is something endearing about touching his biceps and chest while you undress him 

Alhaitham loves when you sniff his hair and bury your face into it. He might possibly lay closer to you so that your nose bumps in his head or throat 

turns his relaxing lo-fi kind of music on so that you can enjoy it too and tune into sleep with him

he sleeps very quietly and peacefully but can wake up to a single noise. Be sure to hold him close and not wake him <3

Capitano

loves caressing your soft tummy when you’re in the bed with him

when it’s a cold night and even heating doesn't seem to help, you pull his toned body on top of yours so that he provides additional warmth and comfort. Capitano loves laying on top of you, but concerned he’ll be too heavy for you

he won't let you fall asleep without a night kiss, he’s so addicted to your lips that he just won't allow you go to bed without bringing that sweetest gentlest smooch to your lips

he goes to bed quite early which is understandable for a gentleman coded guy like him. If you are not sleepy and plan to play in your phone he won't have objections to it however. He will pull his blanket up his body and let you enjoy your stuff while he is attempting to sleep 

He is a tea drinker, so herbal tea before sleep is must have for him. One of his personal favourites is - camomile tea

Dottore

he is actually the sweetest when it comes to before sleep procedures. He loves doing domestic stuff with you a whole lot

night time is probably the only way for you to see his face coz he removes his mask. He’s afraid he might hurt you since you sleep wrapping your body around him while he buries his face into your neck from behind

he is very sensitive to your emotions so if you seem upset for the evening he will make jokes (even if unfunny or cringey) to ensure your mood is changed. He can't bare to see you frustrated and wants you to be as comfortable as possible, since you have already given him enough - like trust, patience and affection 

brushing or playing with your hair is his addiction before sleep. He is not exactly the tidiest person around but he loves touching your hair and he even says that you inspired him to take more care of his own

lots of talk talk meaningless talk about his theories before sleep because he loves sharing his personal opinions and ideas with you. He trusts you this much

Dainsleif

cold on the outside, becomes softer the longer you know him, this man being a tsundere king isn't very touchy with you, however during sleep he subconsciously tries to reach your hand, to feel your warmth

you love listening to his stories about his adventures and travels, his experience is sure long and enticing enough for you

is also a tea drinker before sleep. Just imagine pyjamas wearing Dainsleif in slippers as he waits for his tea to be ready

you love ruffling his blonde hair as the both of you lie down. Though he groans in dissatisfaction, subconsciously he loves it too but never admits it

this man loves sleeping only in his boxers so you are for sure going to feel the warmth of his body and smell his natural scent as he is pressed close to the sleepy you

Baizhu

he makes sure he folded every one of his working papers and sorted all medicine bags as he gets into the sheets with you

he is prone to feeling chronically cold, so he will pull you close to get some of your warmth for himself (that’s a bit yandere of him don’t you think)

Baizhu is very tidy and neat so one of your favourite things is touching his silky hair and his clean fingers as the both of you slowly drift away to sleep

he shares one trait with Pantalone - staring at his beloved one’s face until he completely falls asleep limp. He is addicted to you and your face as if your whole presence is some sort of a drug

anxious of discovering an empty bed. he holds you so close as if a single thought of you slipping off his fingers terrifies him. Will be really irritated if you two do not wake up simultaneously 

[mingapace]

𝕿𝖆𝖐𝖊 𝕮𝖆𝖗𝖊

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ꜰ!ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴘᴏʀɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘʟᴏᴛ, ꜱᴍᴜᴛ, ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ, ʙʀᴀᴛᴛʏ!ᴘʀᴀɪꜱᴇʀ!ᴄᴀʀɪɴɢ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜱᴇʀᴠɪᴄᴇ ᴛᴏᴘ ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ ᴇʀᴀ, ᴠᴀɢɪɴᴀʟ ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀɪɴɢ, ꜱᴜᴄᴋɪɴɢ ᴛɪᴛꜱ, ᴍᴏᴀɴɪɴɢ, ᴡʜɪɴɪɴɢ, ᴘʀᴀɪꜱɪɴɢ, ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ, ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ᴅɪʀᴛʏ ᴛᴀʟᴋ, ᴇxᴄᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴇᴛ ɴᴀᴍᴇꜱ.

𝘼/𝙣: 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙤𝙜 𝙖𝙡𝙬𝙖𝙮𝙨 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙨 𝙝𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙤𝙬𝙣𝙚𝙧

𝔹𝕒𝕤𝕖𝕕 𝕠𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕄𝕒𝕚𝕟 𝕊𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕪

ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ: 3ᴋ

Darkness still embraces you when your eyes snap open.

At first, you don’t understand why. The bed is still warm from his body, the scent of moss, rain, and ancient incense lingers in the air like a subtle caress. But then it comes—the sound.

A thunderclap breaks the silence like a broken scream, violent, sudden. The whole house seems to tremble. You tense up, sitting on the mattress with your heart already pounding in your chest.

A storm.

Rain lashes the windows with the fury of a thousand fingers, and the wind howls like a pack of ancient wolves. Shadows dance on the walls in rhythm with the lightning. You rise slowly, your fingers brushing against the cold of the empty sheets beside you.

He’s not there.

You knew that, of course.

Remmick went out, like every night, with that gaze of his veiled by a calm that smells of eternity, and lips that brushed your forehead like a promise.

“I’ll be back 'fore you're up, love.”

He always says that. And he always does. But tonight… something clenches your heart.

You slide out of bed. The floor is cold beneath your bare feet. Every sound in the house is amplified: the creak of wood contracting with the humidity, the sigh of wind slipping under the beams, the relentless drumming of rain on the windows. You pull your robe from the corner of the chair and wrap it around you, but the chill you feel has nothing to do with temperature.

You slip on your slippers in the dark and head down to the living room. The hallway lights he had turned on before leaving are flickering. The steady ticking of the clock on the mantel keeps company with the rumble of the storm.

It’s 3:45.

You approach the living room window. You check to see if he might be outside, like that time a few months ago. You’re sure that if he could, he would’ve torn the door off its hinges or broken a window to get in and avoid being scolded for forgetting the one thing he was supposed to remember—the keys.

But the porch is empty. There is only the fury of nature out there—the world has vanished. The contours of reality have blurred into a shroud of driving rain and shadow. Even the road leading to the clearing is no longer visible. Only a gray, liquid sea swept by wind. The air smells metallic, saturated with electricity and fear.

You clutch the linen robe tighter, trying to contain the shiver running up your spine.

Remmick has told you so many times about his hunts. How he can feel the blood pulsing in the bodies of forest animals, the whisper of arteries, the scent of life. How he could spend hours in the woods. He spoke of it with such passion and obsession that you often feared he might get carried away and forget that the sun, in the end, always rises.

You make yourself some tea—more to keep your hands busy than to drink it. The kettle whines, steam curling into the air like a shy ghost. You pour it into your favorite cup, the one he gave you during your first month together. His hands touched it. His lips laughed when you said it looked like something from another era. But now your hands tremble. The spoon clinks too loudly as you stir.

At 4:30, you’re at the window again. You open it slightly and peer through the half-closed shutters that keep the rain out. You just stare into the night as if you could carve it with your gaze, as if wanting it hard enough would make him appear. The air slaps your face. Forces you to close it.

You begin pacing the house.

In the living room, you stop to tidy the books on the shelf. Pointlessly. Then you adjust the blanket on the couch, fold it, unfold it. In the kitchen, you dry a clean cup. You bend down, pick something off the floor—a dried petal, maybe, fallen from an old bouquet. Every gesture is without purpose, but if you stop… you feel too much. A shadow in the pit of your stomach. A sense of absence pressing against your ribs.

Fucking Remmick and his sense of order.

At five o’clock, you sit in front of the door.

Not in front of the window. Not on the couch. Right in front of the door. On the step before the threshold.

You stare at it, as if it could reveal where he is. Now and then, you think you hear a footstep. A beat of wings. A distant, muffled sound, dulled by the rain.

But it’s not him. Not yet.

You hug your knees and rest your forehead on your arms. The now-cold cup remains abandoned on the hallway shelf.

Once, you asked him if bad weather bothered him.

“Bad weather?” He had laughed, resting his chin on your stomach to look at you. “Darlin', I’ve lived through plagues, revolutions, and over a thousand years without so much as a fire in the grate and you're askin' if a bit o' rain bothers me?”

Then why…? Why was he so late?

Maybe the hunt went long. Maybe he was too hungry.

Maybe he heard a heart beating too loudly and couldn’t resist. And then another. And another.

Maybe he’s still out there, in the forest. With heavy breath, claws and teeth sunk into flesh.

At 5:17, a thud on the porch halts your dark thoughts and lifts your head from your knees. Then you hear the unmistakable sound of keys turning in the lock and leap to your feet before the door even opens.

Remmick closes the door behind him and furrows his brow when he sees you standing right in front of the entrance.

He’s there, soaked, his dark coat heavy with water. One eyebrow arches in a surprised, slightly amused expression.

“Why're you outta bed?” he asks, running a hand through his dripping hair, shaking it out a little. Water slides down his forehead, past his temples, framing that chiseled face—damned as it is desperate for affection.

You just sigh. Slow, deep. Relief bites you gently, but you’re not going to let him off that easily.

He approaches with his usual feline grace, a half-smile curving his lips, a clever light in his eyes. He reaches out to embrace you, but you stop him with two fingers planted firmly on his forehead.

“Not so fast, Count Dracula,” you murmur in a flat tone. “Chair. Fireplace. Now.”

Remmick laughs—a low, hoarse laugh that rises from his chest and dissolves into a smirk.

“You’re heartless. I’ve been trudgin' through muck and thorns for hours, and you go treatin' me like some mangy stray…”

“A mangy stray that reeks of rain and trouble,” you retort, turning away and leaving him with his melodrama. But you don’t see the way he looks at you as you walk off—the look of a man who never really knew what home was until you entered his life.

When you return, you’re holding a white towel and find him already seated by the fireplace, the embers still glowing, casting coppery reflections on his pale skin. He’s taken off his coat, left in a bloodstained shirt, lit by the hallway light.

You slide between his open legs, lying in front of him, without a word.

You start with his head, brushing his skin with the warm cloth, your movements measured, careful. Rubbing his hair to absorb as much water as possible.

He closes his eyes for a moment, as if savoring the touch.

“You were late,” you finally say in a low voice.

He mutters something in a language you don’t recognize, but you’re pretty sure it’s a curse.

“Sure the storm put the fright in all the big ones — deer, boar, the lot of them. I had to go in fierce deep.”

Your cloth stops. You look at him, serious. A faint wrinkle forms between your eyebrows.

He notices. And smirks.

“Ah now, don’t be makin’ that face. No werewolves took a chunk outta me. No forest spirits, no Custodians neither. I’m here—alive, drenched, and still devilishly handsome, as always.”

But you don’t smile.

“You’re ruining all your shirts. That’s the fourth one this week…”

Your irritation is clear.

Your hands keep moving, sliding down his arms, then patting his chest. But you do it with a kind of affectionate harshness, like you’re trying to punish him through the cloth.

The blood had stained it almost to the hem this time, and it didn’t seem like it would come off. And Remmick, stubborn as always, insisted on wearing a new one every time instead of reusing the ruined ones.

“Oh no. The pout,” he snorts. “That grumpy pout’ll be the death of me, I swear. It’s the only thing that ever takes me down.”

Then, as if the punishment wasn’t enough for him, he starts to pinch your waist. His fingers, ice-cold, slip beneath the thin fabric of your robe, seeking out that exact spot where you’re most ticklish.

You flinch. Try to pull away, but not quite fast enough.

“Remmick!” you protest, half amused, half annoyed. “Stop it, you’re getting me all wet.”

And then he begins to tickle you.

Until you squirm, laughing, trying to swat his hands away.

“Remmick—stop it! You’re such a—”

You shove his hands off, but you’ve already lost the battle. The smile tugs at your lips and you hate him for it.

And he sees it. And he doesn’t let it go.

“Ah, you were worried, weren't ya?” he says, teasing but warm, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close. “You thought I got meself lost. Or went a bit mad altogether. Or maybe ran off with a new lass in the woods—some doe-eyed beauty struttin’ around like a queen—”

“Stop it,” you cut in, face flushed. You try to wriggle free, but he’s already quicker.

His hands lock around your hips, holding you to him with a firm yet tender grip.

Suddenly, you’re in his lap, your protest drowned by a kiss that steals your breath before it even forms thought.

Remmick always kisses like he’s proving how deeply he adores and desires you.

His tongue finds yours with wild urgency, and you often struggle to keep up with his pace—but it doesn’t matter. He loves taking control just as much as he loves surrendering it.

You feel your robe shift, the ties loosening until your chest is bare, your skin pressed against the cold, wet fabric of his shirt.

His mouth still tastes of rain and coppery blood. He groans into the kiss with that strange mix of desperation and devotion only he seems to carry—like he never wants to stop, like your mouth is the only thing that can soothe his eternal hunger.

When you pull away, you’re breathless.

“Rem…” you scold softly, sighing and rolling your eyes as you feel his hands slip past the edge of your robe and settle on your hips, clothed only in your underwear.

“Shhh, sweetheart,” he whispers, lips brushing your throat. “Easy now, you’re all knotted up. Let me take care o’ ya.”

His palms are cold, but it only make your skin burn hotter. You gasp softly as he grab you there, possessive, like he needs to anchor himself.

“You can’t always solve everything with sex…” you mutter, though you clearly had no real objections.

“Is that so?” He murmurs, as he brush his lips on your jaw before pulling his back against the chair and look at you with a devil grin on his stupid face.

You’re ready to argue again or punch him in the face when one of his hands leaves your hip and moves up to his mouth. Yours goes dry when you see him lick a long trail of drool off two long fingers and you think it’s the most pornographic image you’ve ever seen.

His hand moves away again and his satisfied smile returns to tease you.

“Do I have the all-clear, then?”

You glared at him but your eyes still dropped, drawn to the slight pull he was exerting on the waistband of your panties, separating it slightly from your skin. A clear request, his fingers slick against the soft flesh of your thigh, waiting.

You didn’t need to speak. The way you leaned into him, the soft hitch in your breath, the way your fingers slipped into his damp curls and tugged just a little—it told him everything.

He used his dry fingers to push your panties aside just enough and you held back a shiver when you felt his cold, wet fingers press against your naked center.

“You’ve always taken care o’ me, haven’t ya? Now let go, darlin'. Let me make you feel good.”

He murmurs sweet words to you when you arch slightly, biting the inside of your cheeks. To him, you are a vision. He will never tire of watching you give in, breaking the mask of indifference and sarcasm you wore most of the time. Unraveling on him, thanks to him.

“It’s late…I have to wake up soon…I—” you try to wriggle away but the hand still resting on your hip wouldn’t let you move an inch. He was always stronger, when he fed.

“Let me, love.” He looks at you with those puppy dog ​​eyes that you can never say no to. “I’ll only use me fingers. Won’t take long, swear it.”

His high confidence in his abilities pisses you off but you don’t have the audacity to argue back. Remmick was really good at what he did.

You nod, leaving a caress behind his head and closing your free hand on his shoulder to steady yourself astride his closed legs.

His knuckles return, but this time, the contact is more concrete. They separate your vaginal lips and rub inside, making you gasp and tilt your hips lower, wanting more.

“There she is, my good girl.” He hums, stretching his fingers into a V and letting them slide out, clearly wanting to torture you some more. But before you could go back to your old self, all bossy and everything, he’s pinched your clit between his fingers, making you throw your head back from the pleasurable discharge along your spine.

“Rem…”

“I know, darlin'. I know. Just be patient for me.”

His gray eyes fall to your breasts and he leans over one of them as he continues to torture you.

You winced at the wet sound and the wave of heat that ran through you as he pressed the flat of his tongue to your sensitive nipple and sucked hard, closing his lips around it.

Your fingers closed in his hair, just the way he liked it, and you tugged a little, making his moans vibrate against your flesh.

He moves a little in his seat, shifting your body with his movements, as if he were seeking relief himself, but he was almost immediately still, continuing to care for you.

“There,” he whispers after pull of your nibble leaving behind a flushed, wet mark. “There. That’s where ye belong.”

You watch him — how his pupils dilated, how his jaw tensed as he starts to push his thumb against your clit, now all wet and ready.

He found it with maddening precision, drawing small, slow circles that made your breath catch in your throat.

“That’s it,” he says, voice low. “Let me feel ye. Let me give this to ye.”

You rock your hips gently against his hand. He groans like you’d hurt him in the best way.

“Always so perfect like this,” he whines. “On me lap. Letting me have ye. Letting me love ye like this.”

You whimper as he slid one finger inside, slow and deep. He kiss your throat, your jaw, your cheek, never once stopping the movement of his hand.

“Gods above, ye're suckin’ me finger right in…” he choks. “Yer body’s so honest.”

You cling to his shoulders, breath hitching as he add a second finger —stretching you just enough to make your legs shake. His thumb finds your clit again, rubbing slow and steady as he curl his fingers just right inside you.

You moan — softly, brokenly — and he groans in response.

“That’s it, darlin'. Let me hear it.”

You couldn’t stop yourself. Couldn’t stop the way your hips moved in tiny, helpless circles, chasing the rhythm of his fingers, the heat blooming low and deep in your belly.

You grip his shoulders tighter, hips jerking as the coil inside you tightens.

“Ye gonna come for me?” he asks, leaning back again to meet your eyes. “Right here, in me lap, so I can feel it?”

You nod, barely able to breathe.

“Go on then,” he stammers. “Let go, princess. Show me how much ye missed me.”

You shatter with a cry, your body trembling as waves of pleasure crash through you. Remmick kiss you through it — holding you tight, grounding you, worshipping every sound you make.

You collapse against his chest, shaking. His fingers stays inside you a moment longer, gentle now, soothing — coaxing you down, back to yourself.

He kissed your hair.

“Did I do good?”

Him and his constant search for approval.

“I can’t fuckin’ think straight…you did just fine…”

You hum, voice ragged.

“Just fine.” He repeats.

You smile, eyes closed. “Mmhm.”

You felt his breath shift. A tiny hitch. Then — nothing. Until suddenly, he lifts you off his lap in one fluid motion, standing with you in his arms like you weighed nothing at all.

Your eyes blinks open, your hands closed instantly at his neck. “What are you-?”

He doesn’t answer.

He carries you — slow, steady, controlled — out of the living room and down the hallway. You see the set of his jaw, the focus in his eyes. That particular expression he wore when he had something to prove.

He kicks the bedroom door open with his foot making you laugh.

“Just fine…I’ll show ya just fine."

[ponderingmoonlight]

I heard ur taking dmc requests I have an odd one I hope I explain well.

So reader is pregnant and with Dante’s bby. Since it’s a Sparda bby it’s really hard on reader and basically a fluffy comforting fic (lil bit of angst pls) of Dante being a caring partner with his usual smugness ofcourse.

I hope I typed it well 😅

The weight isn't just physical. Though, to be fair, your body feels like it’s fighting a war on the inside. Every day is a new ache, a new shift. Carrying a child of Sparda isn't exactly something your human frame was designed for - and your bones, your breath, your everything is reminding you of that fact constantly.

How Dante’s mothers managed to endure that with not only one but two children? The thought alone sends a shiver down your spine.

You wake up feeling like you haven't slept at all. Limbs heavy, skin clammy. Your stomach twists in knots, and your back screams as you try to sit up.

But at least there's Dante.

The second you grunt, he's there - half-dressed, hair a mess, a steaming cup of tea in one hand, and a lazy smirk playing on his lips.

"Morning, sunshine," he drawls, voice still gravelly with sleep, but soft.

Too soft for the man known to dive headfirst into hell itself.

"Another rough night?"

You give him a look, something between a glare and a cry for help. He gets it immediately.

A cup of tea is placed on the nightstand next to you in no time. His hand slides behind your back to support you as he helps you sit up like you’re made of porcelain. Maybe you are now. He doesn’t say it, but you know he worries. You feel it in the way he touches you, like he’s scared you’ll crack.

"You say the word," he murmurs, "and I’ll go kick my old man's ass in the afterlife for giving us these busted-up Sparda genes."

You huff out a breath - half a laugh, half a sob. He kisses your temple like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything. Oh, Dante definitely is everything.

"You don't have to do this alone, y’know," he mutters, brushing your sweat-damp hair back.

"I mean, yeah, I can’t exactly carry it for you, but I am good at carrying heavy things. Guns. Guilt. Demonic responsibility. You."

"You forgot your ego. And your damn shlong that got me into this mess," you mutter.

That gets a bark of laughter from him.

"Damn right. Thing’s bigger than this whole apartment. And you love my shlong."

And yet, when he cups your cheek, when his thumb grazes under your tired eye, his grin fades a little. Just a little.

"You’re strong. I knew that. But… this is different. It’s not just fighting monsters, it’s fighting yourself. Your own body. And to be real, that scares the hell out of me, babe."

You lean into his hand. It’s warm. Solid. Real.

"But I’m here," he adds.

“All in. Hell or hospital rooms.”

You believe him. You always have. After all, he’s been by your side unconditionally for years.

He slips under the blanket beside you, arm wrapping around your waist, careful of your belly. His head rests against your shoulder, and you feel him exhale like this, the two of you just breathing, is the safest place on Earth.

"You think the kid’s gonna have your temper?" you whisper.

"Nah," he breathes against your neck, eyes fluttering shut.

"Yours. With my charm. We’re screwed."

And yet, somehow, lying there with him, heart pounding beneath your ribs and his hand cradling your future like it’s the most natural thing in the world - you don’t feel screwed at all.

You feel like you might actually make it.

[gumisgirlmist]

𝐀𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

𝑀𝑒𝑔𝓊𝓂𝒾 𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽𝓉𝓈…

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 : 𝗛𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗰𝗮𝗻𝗼𝗻𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 & 𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗯𝗳 𝗠𝗲𝗴𝘂𝗺𝗶 𝘄𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝗮𝗳𝗳𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻!

Note :

Reader likes matcha.

'Gumi' is a nickname reader gives to Megumi.

Everyone would say your boyfriend has no real feelings of any sort but you would beg to differ.. ₊˚ ⊹ᰔ ⋆ ࿔ ₊ "Fushiguro since when did you like having sweets? Thought you hated them.." Yuji exclaimed. Megumi huffed but as soon as he could hear the rustling of the wrapping paper, he quickly turned around.

"They're not for you." He grumbled, walking over to snatch the matcha chocolate bar out of his hand before he could have any. He then put it into his pantry, into the small box where all the other similar sweets were.

"Then who is it for!?" Yuji asked curiously. Megumi turned his back to him, walking back to the counter to continue making his tea. "Fushiguroooo i'm talking to you!" Yuji said.

"It's for Y/N. Now leave it alone." Megumi grumbled. Yuji bursted out laughing.

"No wonder you were sooooo defensive over some food" Teased Yuji, who instantly earned a hard punch from Megumi.

₊˚ ⊹ᰔ ⋆ ࿔ ₊

“Goodnight gumi” You say sweetly, looking up at him with a bright smile. Of course you were happy to have a sleepover with him again, you always were and you always felt SO safe being in his presence.

“Goodnight, idiot” He mumbled, pulling the soft blankets a little higher.

You knew you were special because he would never let anyone in his bed, let alone sleep in it. Soon, you fell asleep by his side, facing his shoulder while he turns off the night lights. When he made sure you were asleep, he softly sighed while pulling the blankets a bit higher to make sure you were warm. He would also look at you in the darkness where the moonlight would highlight your face, while he cupped it with his large fingers and kiss your forehead.

“Love you..” He mutters, immediately feeling embarrassed as he would quickly turn to his side, facing his back to you, all while you were fast asleep.

₊˚ ⊹ᰔ ⋆ ࿔ ₊

It was a sunny afternoon, you and Megumi were taking a walk in the park while walking his shikigami dogs. It was peaceful, neither one of you were talking but just enjoying eachothers presence. Until he spokeup.

"I was thinking. Maybe we could have dinner tonight." He says lowly.

"I thought you said you were eating with Yuji and Kugisaki?"

"I don't want to."

You smile.

"Reaaaallyyyy?" You say, giggling.

"Yes, really."

"OHH how much I love my boyfriend" You tease which makes him frown.

"You're embarrassing me." He whispers, gently interlocking pinkies with you which made you give him a smug smile.

₊˚ ⊹ᰔ ⋆ ࿔ ₊

"Hungry?” He asks quietly while walking beside you. The both of you were going out for dinner.

“Yes! I’m really excited” You say excitedly. He nodded, looking at you from the corner of his eye.

“Okay, we should be there soon..” He says, looking down to see you were almost to the point where you were jogging. He forgot. You were much smaller than him and he always took such large steps. He quickly slowed his pace down, then held your hand. You look up in curiosity.

“Hm?” You ask. He looks away, pretending not to notice.

…

At night, you were both cuddling in bed and you look at him.

“Gumi?” You ask

“Yea?”

“Why did you suddenly hold my hand earlier. You didn’t give me an explanation.”

Megumi paused for a good 2 minutes until he spoke up.

“I didn’t want to loose you.”

₊˚ ⊹ᰔ ⋆ ࿔ ₊

If you ever went to class without food, he would always give you his lunch no questions needed. If he didn’t have food, he would get takeaway or take you to a restaurant no matter what because he loved tending to you and always needed to know you were well fed or else it would tick him off.

“Full?” He asks, deciding wether or not he should give you some more food from his plate.

“Mhm!” You say with a satisfied smile. He frowned and quickly slipped a few pieces of sushi on your plate.

“You still have some left..” He mumbled but you didn’t complain.

₊˚ ⊹ᰔ ⋆ ࿔ ₊

Should i make a pt 2?

[beloveds-embrace]

I am absolutely Eating your angsty dukedom 141, I'm just scarfing it down ayejjrnf

But! Suggestion for the drabble of reader slowly fading into the bg without König there;

Hereditary illness exacerbated by stress.

It's mostly fallen into the cracks of reader's family history after her ancestor married into nobility- not a lot to be dangerously stressed about when you're waited on hand and foot by servants, after all.

But then once reader stops making any attempt to leave her room, servants have to start bringing her her meals, and they start noticing that she seems to be getting increasingly thinner despite the meals being at least half eaten. She seems more exhausted, her hands shaky and trembling, embroidery or painting projects left tossed in the corner of her bedroom after she couldn't hold onto the needle or brush, let alone do any precision work.

Gossip spreads through the servants of the Duchess being ill (though none seem particularly caring of this fact) until it starts to reach the boys' ears

Thank you!! I hope you enjoy this!!

The first sign that something was wrong- truly wrong- came when one of the younger maids hesitated outside John’s office. Her apron was wrinkled, and she kept wringing the cloth in her hands until the edges frayed. Kyle, always perceptive, was the one to notice her first.

“What is it?” His sharp eyes pinned her in place.

The maid flinched but didn’t run. Instead, she stepped forward, voice trembling. “I-It’s the Duchess, sir.”

That was all it took for the entire room to still.

John had been in the middle of correspondence, quill poised mid-sentence, but he set it down without finishing the word. Simon’s ever-present stoicism cracked, his fingers tightening around the edge of the table.

“What about her?” John’s voice, though even, had an undercurrent of tension.

The maid looked at him with wide, uncertain eyes. “She’s… ill, sir. She’s not been leaving her room-”

“We know that.” John interrupted, his voice a low growl.

“No- no, sir, I mean really ill. She’s not eating much anymore, but- she’s thinner, sir. Much thinner than before. And her hands shake something awful when she tries to hold a spoon or cup. I saw it myself when I brought her tea this morning… it’s- it’s been going on for a while now, we’ve all noticed but I just couldn’t- couldn’t stand back anymore, I’m so sorry.”

The words dropped into the room like a stone into a pond. And the silence that followed was thick, pressing, suffocating.

John was the first to move, striding out of the room with the others close behind him. The maid was left in their wake, her words repeating themselves in her head as though she’d spoken some terrible thing into existence.

They found you where you always were now- alone in the dim bedroom, wrapped in blankets but still somehow shivering. The curtains had been drawn tight, the hearth left to burn low, and the air was stale with disuse.

You didn’t even stir when the door opened.

John froze at the sight of you, the sharp tang of guilt clawing up his throat. He could see it immediately- the way your cheeks had hollowed, the slight tremor in your fingers as you clutched the edges of the blanket. The soft silk of your gown hung loose at your shoulders, as though it no longer fit the same way it used to. An old one- one you’d worn at the beginning if your marriage, still hopeful for companionship from a husband who didn’t care for you.

Kyle was the first to break from his stupor, stepping forward and kneeling at your bedside. “… Duchess?” His voice was softer than John had ever heard it, but it still seemed too loud in the suffocating quiet.

You stirred then, eyes fluttering open just enough to see him.

“Kyle?”

The hoarseness in your voice struck something in him- hurt him in a way he wasn’t prepared for.

“I’m here, darling,” he murmured. He reached out, gently brushing his knuckles against your cheek, and frowned at how warm your skin felt. “What’s happened to you?”

You tried to sit up, but your body betrayed you, trembling with the effort until Kyle and Johnny had to steady you with firm hands.

“I’m fine.” You said. The words were paper-thin, weak and unsteady.

“You’re not fine.” John cut in, his voice harder than he meant it to be. You flinched, and it made his heart squeeze painfully.

Simon said nothing, but he hovered near the foot of the bed, his sharp gaze flicking over you as if committing every detail to memory. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, but what was there to do or say? He felt like he might break you should he even brush his fingers across your skin.

“It’s nothing.” you murmured, turning your head away.

“Nothing?” John repeated, dangerously low. He stepped closer, dropping to his knees at your bedside, one hand finding yours. “You think this is nothing?”

Your fingers twitched in his grasp, but you didn’t pull away. You couldn’t even meet his eyes.

“I know…” Your voice cracked, and you squeezed your eyes shut. “I know you don’t care. Why- why are you here now?”

It felt like the air had been knocked out of him.

“Don’t care?” John echoed, tinged with disbelief.

“None of you came,” you whispered. “Not once. I thought… I thought maybe it was easier for you that way. You- is this not what you wanted?”

Simon made a sound then- low and guttural- and moved to kneel on your other side, opposite Kyle. He reached for your other hand, lifting it carefully to his lips. His breath was warm against your skin, but you didn’t react.

“I’ll get the doctor.” Johnny said abruptly, spinning on his heel and leaving before anyone could stop him.

Kyle stayed close, his hand never leaving your shoulder, while Simon stroked your knuckles in slow, deliberate motions. But it was John who finally spoke.

“We should have come sooner,” he admitted, voice heavy with regret. “I should have come sooner. Duchess- I’m so sorry.”

You blinked, your lashes damp with unshed tears. “Why didn’t you?”

The words cut deeper than any blade.

He looked at you then, taking in every fragile, exhausted detail- the way your breath came too shallowly, the slight tremor in your fingers, the sheen of sweat on your skin despite the chill in the room.

“Because I was a fool,” he said softly. “Because I let myself think you were fine without us.”

You didn’t answer, but the way your fingers curled just slightly around his told him enough.

When Johnny returned with the doctor, the room erupted into motion. You were carefully propped up, fed broth spoonful by spoonful, your pulse checked, and your temperature taken. The doctor’s diagnosis was both alarming and infuriating- stress-induced illness, made worse by malnutrition and exhaustion. It wasn’t until he began asking about your family history that the pieces truly started to click.

“You’ve been predisposed to this,” he explained, while they watched in silent, setting horror. “It’s genetic, though dormant in most cases. But stress- particularly prolonged stress- can trigger it. I’d wager it’s been simmering for weeks, if not months.”

Months.

Kyle and Johnny exchanged glances, and Simon looked like he was ready to tear someone apart. Mabe himself.

John didn’t move from your side.

“What does she need?” he demanded.

“Rest. Food. Care. But most importantly…” The doctor’s gaze swept across all of them. Rumors flew with the wind, and he was still not old enough to lose his hearing. “No more stress.”

John nodded firmly, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “You’ll have everything you need.” He promised.

But his words held no particular weight to you.

[pitlanepeach]

From Eden | The Epilogue (8/8)

Oscar Piastri x Francesca Gold (OFC)

Summary — Francesca Gold is an introvert with a quiet life and a Youtube channel where she talks about books, drinks too much tea, and rarely ever shows her face. She prefers it that way - tucked into her London flat with her cat, Henry, and safely hidden behind a screen.

Oscar Piastri is a Formula 1 driver. Fast-paced, high-stakes, always on the move. He hasn't read a book in years, but he's watched every single one of Francesca's videos. Just for the sound of her voice.

Following her on Instagram was a moment of weakness. He didn't think she'd notice.

She did.

Chapter Warnings — Mentions of agoraphobia + severe social anxiety. Seasonal Depressive Episodes. So much fluff it’ll rot your teeth. Time skips.

Notes — Not the longest, but I think that it's perfect. You have all shown this fic so much love. Thank you, I hope this ending does their story justice — Peach x

liked by oscarpiastri, hattiepiastri, landonorris, and 102,374 others

bookishgoldie surrounded by so much love

view all comments

user1 henry is like HELL NAH MOM TAKE ME BACK INSIDE RIGHT NOW😭

bookishgoldie he actually loves being outdoors!!!! until he sees people and/or other cats

user03 the texts😌😌😌 ur faves could never

user63 CAN WE HAVE A SEQUEL UPDATE PLS??????

bookishgoldie 😉

user17 are you going to be at the GP this weekend?

user91 she hasn’t been to any of the last 3 😕

bookishgoldie just because you haven’t seen me, doesn’t mean im not there!!🫶 been having a hard time lately so ive just been hiding from the cameras

user91 feel better soon francesca❤️

user60 bf oscar crumbs…. IKTR

user76 you might actually be the prettiest girl in the world. like your HAIR????????

oscarpiastri glad those are the texts you decided to post and not the ones a little further down 👍🏻

bookishgoldie OSCAR

oscarpiastri 🧡

user75 god this feels like watching my parents flirt🤧

user33 new vlog soon? ♥ by bookishgoldie

—

Things always got a little harder to deal with in the winter.

Cold weather, dark, shorter days. 

Oscar, gone more than he was home, spending more time in England than Monaco, preparing for the new season at the MTC. 

Katie arrived after Christmas with sacks full of presents and the intention to stay for as long as she was welcome.

And Francesca let herself struggle.

She didn’t mask it or push it down. She let herself sleep in. Let herself cry into the collar of Oscar’s hoodies. Let Katie wrap her up in blankets and feed her shitty microwavable pasta. She let herself feel the heavy days without guilt.

And then spring came, slow and golden. The sea looked blue again. Henry sat at the window for hours, purring in the warmth.

Francesca curled up in the corner of the sofa, a half-drunk cup of tea resting on the armrest. Oscar stretched out beside her, hair damp from the shower, an arm slung loosely over her shins.

Their bodies were tired, but their faces were soft — content, a little dazed, totally at peace.

There was music playing faintly from a speaker in the kitchen. The balcony doors were open. The scent of jasmine drifted in with the breeze.

Neither of them said anything for a long moment.

Then, without opening her eyes, Francesca whispered, “I think I’m ready.”

Oscar turned his head, brushing his nose against her knee. “You sure?”

She opened her eyes. Looked at him. Smiled. “Yeah.” 

— 

The wedding wasn’t extravagant.

They’d talked about a big one — at home in Monaco, or away in Lake Como, with flower arches and string quartets and draped silk. 

But in the end, the choice was easy.

A coastal garden just outside Melbourne. A warm autumn breeze. Less than fifty guests. A white dress with long sleeves and lace along the hem. A charcoal grey suit with a crooked boutonnière that Oscar kept fiddling with until Logan smacked his hand away.

Katie cried the entire time. Her mascara was streaked halfway down her cheeks by the time Francesca walked down the aisle — Max, seated beside her in an unusually well-fitted suit, held her hand tightly, leaning in to whisper something that made her laugh through her tears. Henry had a bow tie and a seat in the front row, though he spent most of the ceremony asleep in Zac’s lap.

Oscar didn’t stop smiling. Not once.

He cried when she reached him. Not dramatically — just soft, silent tears. 

Their vows were simple. Sweet. (“I’ll never stop choosing you,” he’d said, thumb brushing her knuckles as his voice caught. “In every version of life, in every timeline — it’s always you.”)

After the ceremony, they danced barefoot under fairy lights. They kissed for too long during dinner. Katie gave a toast that quickly turned into a roast, full of sharp jabs and softer edges, the kind only a best friend could get away with. Mark cried during the father-daughter dance — harder than he had the day Francesca first asked him to step in for her absent father. Lando caught the bouquet.

And when the music quieted and the guests thinned, they stayed. Just the two of them. Sitting on the edge of the dance floor, champagne in one hand and her heels dangling from the other.

“You happy, baby?” Oscar asked, nose against her temple.

Francesca leaned into him, her lips brushing the line of his jaw. “Yeah.”

They didn’t rush off on any kind of honeymoon. There was a race two weeks later. It didn’t matter. Wherever they went, Monaco, London, Melbourne, a grid in the middle of nowhere; they had each other.

And that was more than enough.

— 

There were tiny shoes by the front door — worn at the toes, one toppled over like it had been abandoned mid-adventure. A toddler-sized karting suit swayed gently on the balcony, its colours faded slightly from the sun, dancing on the breeze like a memory.

Inside, the apartment held a hush, the kind that settled in the late afternoon when the world was between moments. Oscar was gone — somewhere fast and loud and far away — and her baby girl slept soundly, curled in a bassinet adjacent to Francesca’s desk. 

Francesca sat in front of her computer, bathed in soft light, her fingers moving slowly across the keys. A new manuscript sat on the screen. This one was different. Quieter. Gentler. Woven with the kind of love that had grown slowly over time, deep-rooted and certain. Her tea, long forgotten, sat cold beside her.

Sunlight spilled across the floor, golden and drowsy, stretching toward an old pet bed in the corner. Henry lay there, curled up in a patch of warmth, his ginger fur dulled with age. Curled beside him, a kitten — all fluff and white — snored in perfect harmony, their bodies forming a sleepy, tangled mess.

A quiet rustle, the creak of little feet on hardwood.

Francesca paused, fingertips hovering above her keyboard.

From the living room, the low hum of the television drifted in. The race broadcast, crowd noise swelling like waves. And then, clearer than anything else, a small, delighted voice rang out, “Daddy!”

She was smiling even before she pushed up from her desk. That voice, high and sweet and excited, cut through the stillness like some kind of magic. 

Her little boy was standing in front of the TV, one hand pressed against the screen where Oscar’s face was displayed. His curls were rumpled from sleep, cheeks still flushed, tiny fingers smudging the corner of the screen as if touching his father would bring him closer. 

Francesca leaned in the doorway, one shoulder against the frame, her heart full. 

The race commentary carried on in the background, and her little boy bounced on his toes. 

Her gaze drifted to the balcony, to where the tiny karting suit hung in the breeze; the sleeves smudged with stains, the knees scuffed from victory. It was so small that just looking at it made her chest ache. 

Her little boy had won his first race a week ago. The youngest in his category. Sharp in the corners. Smooth on the throttle. Brave.

It was in his blood.

His father, now a three-time world champion, had scooped him up in the pit lane like he was the one who’d just won a title, not the other way around.

Generational, they called it.

Her little boy caught sight of her in his peripheral and beamed. All toothy grin and sun-kissed cheeks. Without hesitation, he ran to her, arms outstretched. She bent to meet him halfway, grunting softly as she lifted him onto her hip.

He wrapped himself around her neck, squeezing her tight. 

He didn’t have to win races to be held like this. Didn’t need to be the best or the brightest or the bravest. He didn’t have to earn a single inch of her love.

It was already his. Always would be.

She kissed the side of his head, inhaling the familiar scent of sun and sugar and something impossibly sweet.

“You hungry, darling?” she whispered into his hair.

He nodded. “Toast, please. With jam.”

“Coming right up.” She gave him another squeeze before setting him down gently. “You wanna stay and watch daddy?”

He nodded eagerly, eyes sparkling as he twisted his head around to watch the TV screen, where Oscar was currently navigating through an interview.

She carried him over to the couch, his small weight settled against her side as she tucked the quilt around him, the soft fabric a cocoon of warmth and comfort. He curled into it, content and safe.

She took a few steps toward the kitchen, paused, then pulled out her phone and took a photo. 

— 

iMessage — Francesca & Oscar 

Francesca 

*insert photo* 

Oscar 

Thank you

Needed that

Love you

Francesca 

Love you <3

— 

The sun was low in the sky. Francesca sat on a pink towel, legs stretched out, toes buried in the cooling grains. Beside her, Oscar lay propped up on one elbow, his eyes half-lidded as he watched their son dart across the shore, chasing a scuttling crab with wild delight. Their daughter sat nearby, deeply engrossed in her sprawling sandcastle mansion, occasionally glancing up to make sure her parents were still there, still watching.

Oscar shifted slightly, pushing up onto both elbows now, his brows knitting as he stared out at the horizon. 

Francesca moved closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder. “What’s on your mind?” she asked, her voice soft, knowing.

He shook his head a little, a half-smile pulling at his lips. “Just... thinking.”

She raised an eyebrow. “About what?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just watched the sun dip lower. Then, finally, his voice low and sure, he said, “I think it’s time.”

She frowned, confused. “Time for what? To head back? It’s still early.”

Oscar sat up properly now, brushing sand off his palms. He looked at her — really looked at her — and the air between them seemed to hold its breath. He dragged a hand through his hair, fingers lingering at the back of his neck, before resting his gaze on her again. “Time to retire.”

Francesca’s heart stumbled. “Retire?” Her voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible over the sea breeze. “What do you mean?”

He let out a long breath, turning his attention back to their children. Their son let out a triumphant laugh, clutching an empty bucket in one hand, while their daughter patted the top of her castle with precise, serious little chubby fingers.

“Five world titles,” Oscar said. “I’ve done it. I’ve done more than I ever dreamed of. And I’m proud of that. But I think… I don’t need the next ten. I just want this.” His voice softened. “You. Them. No more risks. No more being away. I want to be here.”

Francesca’s chest ached. She’d thought about this moment before — hoped for it, in secret. But he was still so young, only thirty-two. He could have gone on for years. He could’ve shattered more records, chased more championships.

But he didn’t want that anymore.

He wanted to come home.

She smiled, even as her eyes stung. Her lips trembled slightly as she asked, “You’re sure?”

Oscar reached for her, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering at her jaw with a kind of reverence that made her breath hitch. “I don’t think I’ve ever been more sure of anything, ‘Cesca.”

Her hand covered his, grounding herself in the moment, in him. “Okay,” she said, voice thick with emotion. “Okay.”

— 

Laughter rang from the garden just beyond; a bright, bubbling sound that tugged a soft smile from Francesca as she stood on the back porch, watching.

Katie was kneeling in the grass, a crown of daisies crooked on her head, her arms raised in mock defeat as Francesca’s daughter tackled her around the middle with giggles. Her son cheered his sister on from the sidelines, face smudged with dirt, holding a water gun like a trophy.

“You little shits,” Katie cackled, falling onto her back with theatrical drama, arms splayed wide as the children climbed over her triumphantly.

Francesca laughed. She stepped out into the sun, barefoot on warm stone. “You’ve completely lost control of them,” she called out.

“Excuse me,” Katie said, sitting up with a toddler’s arms wrapped around her neck. “I am their queen, thank you very much. This is just… a temporary coup.”

Francesca sat beside them in the grass, brushing a hand over her daughter’s hair as the little girl nestled into Katie’s lap. 

“I hope you know,” Francesca said eventually, softly, “You’re their aunt, but you’re also my sister. The first real family I ever had.”

Katie looked over at her, blinking fast. “Christ, Fran, don’t go saying stuff like that, I’m trying to maintain my badass aunt image.”

Francesca smiled, eyes shimmering. “Too late. You’re a daisy-crowned queen now. Fully compromised.”

Katie laughed, leaning over to bump their shoulders together. “Love you too, dummy.”

— 

Students bustled around them, dragging suitcases, clutching dorm keys, hugging parents goodbye. It was a flurry of new beginnings and tender goodbyes.

Francesca stood just off the main building, one hand loosely curled around her husband’s, the other pressed gently to her sternum, like she was trying to hold herself together from the inside out. Their daughter was walking away with her new roommate at her side, after their teary goodbye’s had drawn to an end.

Oscar watched her with quiet pride, his thumb brushing the back of Francesca’s hand when their daughter turned and waved — eyes bright, a little glassy, but shining with something solid and sure.

“She’ll be fine,” he said softly.

Francesca nodded, though her throat was tight. “I know.”

They lingered, neither of them ready to break the moment. It felt impossibly full — their daughter stepping into her future, their son already chasing his at breakneck speed, halfway across the world, poised to win the F2 title, just a year after securing the F3 championship.

Francesca exhaled a breath that trembled at the edges, her voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t believe all of this started in my tiny London flat.”

Oscar leaned in, pressed a kiss to her temple, and let his forehead rest against hers, warm and steady. “We built a whole life out of that flat.”

They stood together, quiet. Proud of everything they'd managed to create. Two lives made with care. A family grown with love.

“Ready to go?” Oscar asked his wife gently.

Francesca smiled, her heart full. “Yeah. Let’s go see our boy win his second championship.”

[pink-petal-horns]

Threads of Memory

Bob Reynolds x Female Reader

The facility was quiet.

Not sterile like the hospitals you’d known—this one was… soft around the edges. Calming, almost. It was government-funded, sure, but clearly designed by someone who wanted him to feel safe. The hallways were wide and open, the windows tall. Light filtered in through gauzy curtains. But it still couldn’t reach the corners of his room.

That’s where you found Bob most days—sitting in the corner, arms resting on his knees, staring out at the trees like he was waiting for them to disappear.

You’d come every day. They’d called you when he first woke up, unsure if he’d even recognize you.

And at first, he didn’t.

—

He called you “Miss” the first three times you visited.

Not cruel. Not cold. Just careful.

“Miss,” he’d say, that deep, uncertain voice cutting the silence as you placed tea on the little table beside him. “You don’t have to stay.”

You’d smile gently, taking the chair across from him. “I know. I want to.”

His eyes—bright gold beneath the shadows—would flick to you. Study you like a puzzle. You knew he was searching for something. A memory, a flicker, a spark of recognition.

It wouldn’t come.

But you stayed anyway.

—

It was the fifth visit when something changed.

You brought old photos. Printed ones. Glossy edges, a little worn. From before the fall—before the mission where things went wrong, where the Void broke free and Bob was lost inside himself.

You laid them out gently. A small table. Two cups. A photo of the two of you on a rooftop, your head resting on his shoulder, wind in your hair. A rare moment when he’d let you be that close without panic.

He stared at it a long time.

“Is that…?”

“You and me,” you said softly. “We were close. We are close.”

He swallowed. His hands hovered above the photo like he was afraid to touch it.

“I look… happy.”

“You were,” you said, voice thick. “Not always. But sometimes.”

His eyes flicked up. “Did I ever hurt you?”

The question hit like a weight.

“No,” you answered immediately. Then, quieter: “You were scared. But you never hurt me.”

Bob looked down. “I don’t remember being him. The man in that photo. I want to. But it’s just… blank. Like someone else lived it.”

“You did,” you whispered. “You’re still him. He’s still you.”

—

The next week, he sat next to you.

Not across the room. Not in the corner. Next to you, on the couch, barely an inch of space between.

“I keep seeing flashes,” he said. “Tiny things. You—laughing at something I said. A blanket. Music. Your hand in mine.”

You looked at him slowly, heart pounding. “You remember that?”

“I don’t know if it’s memory or imagination,” he said with a soft, strained laugh. “But it’s warm. It feels real.”

You reached out, hesitating.

“May I?”

He nodded.

Your fingers curled into his. He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Feels right,” he murmured.

—

He asked you about the past.

Not the missions. Not the combat. The little things.

“Did I cook?”

“Once. You burned the rice.”

“Did I ever sing?”

“Only in the shower. Terribly.”

“Did I make you laugh?”

“Every damn day.”

He smiled.

And it wasn’t the strained, unsure smile of someone trying to be polite.

It was the first real one.

—

One afternoon, you brought the old hoodie.

His.

Faded black. Smelled like cedar and safety. You’d kept it after everything, not sure why. You didn’t think he’d ever want it back.

He took it in his hands like it was fragile.

“I wore this a lot, didn’t I?”

You nodded.

“Sometimes,” you said quietly, “you’d leave it on the couch just so I’d pick it up and wear it.”

Bob huffed. “That sounds manipulative.”

“It worked.”

His eyes flicked up to yours. That smile again. Softer this time.

He pulled it on slowly, like muscle memory.

When he looked in the mirror across the room, he paused.

“I know that face,” he said.

You stepped beside him, wrapping your arm around his.

“You’re not gone, Bob,” you whispered. “You’re finding your way back.”

—

That night, he fell asleep with his head in your lap.

You didn’t dare move. You just ran your fingers through his hair, watching his breathing slow. His hand was wrapped around yours, like even unconscious, he didn’t want to let go.

And for the first time in months, maybe years, Bob Reynolds slept without waking up screaming.

[softlypossessive]

♡･ﾟ𓏸 Sleeping With Them (Literally) 𓏸･ﾟ♡

♡ Characters: Lucifer, Mammon, Leviathan, Satan, Asmodeus, Beelzebub, Belphegor, gn!reader ♡ Warnings: Fluff, comfort, implied bad dreams, physical affection, mutual pining?? maybe??, Levi being awkward™, clingy behavior, some light tsundere energy, protective vibes, some suggestiveness (Asmo’s default setting), Beel being The Best™ ♡ Notes: This was purely self-indulgent and born from a burst of insomnia and a deep need for sleepy demon boy comfort. No prompt, just vibes. Gender-neutral reader. Each brother reacts in his own sweet, awkward way—and yes, they’re all canonically clingy now. I don’t make the rules.

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

🕯️Lucifer

 You find him still awake in the dead of night, seated at his desk, lit only by the glow of a single lamp

He's reviewing RAD paperwork with the usual stoic focus, barely glancing up when you enter

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice low, a touch concerned despite the neutrality in his tone

You nod, murmuring something vague about a bad dream, and instead of brushing you off, he gestures silently to the small sofa by the window

You sit with your blanket in hand, intending just to be nearby, and he lets you—doesn’t press for details, just returns to his work

Somewhere between the quiet scratch of his pen and the rhythmic turn of pages, your eyes slip shut

When you wake, it's morning. You're not on the sofa. You’re in his bed

The covers are warm, tucked carefully around you, and the scent of his cologne clings faintly to the pillow

His coat hangs neatly over the chair beside you, a fresh cup of tea steaming on the nightstand

He’s nowhere in sight, but you have the distinct feeling he didn’t sleep—just quietly carried you to bed when he saw your head nod

No one says anything about it later, but you catch him watching you a little longer at breakfast that morning

The kind of watchfulness that says: next time, just come straight to me

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

💰 Mammon

He’s already in bed, hair rumpled, one leg kicked out of the blanket like always

You knock quietly and peek in, mumbling that you can’t sleep

His eyes go wide, then he fumbles upright, totally alert

“Wha—? You okay? What happened? You hurt?”

You tell him it’s just a nightmare, nothing big

He softens immediately, scoots over, and pats the mattress beside him like it’s obvious

“C’mon. Ain’t no bad dreams gonna mess with you while I’m here.”

You lie down next to him and he tries so hard to play it cool—arms behind his head, eyes on the ceiling

That lasts five seconds

He shifts closer like he’s not doing it on purpose, like you won't notice him curling toward you

When your hand brushes his by accident, he makes a strangled noise and goes stiff… then grabs it like it’s the most natural thing in the world

“Jus’ so ya don’t get cold,” he mutters, clearly blushing even in the dark

You fall asleep fast, wrapped up in warmth and the quiet muttering of “I gotcha, I’m here” under his breath

When you wake up, he’s out cold, drooling slightly, and clinging to you like a barnacle

You try to move. His grip tightens. You are not escaping

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

🎮 Leviathan

You didn’t even mean to fall asleep

One second you were watching a cozy slice-of-life anime with him, head tipped against the beanbag, and the next, darkness

Levi notices right away

He panics internally. 

Like full-blown “I’m not equipped to deal with this cuteness” meltdown

But you look… comfortable. Peaceful. So he freezes in place

Slowly, carefully, he lowers the volume, gets up, and drapes his hoodie over your shoulders

He debates letting you stay there all night—but what if you get a crick in your neck? What if you wake up cold?

Eventually, he picks you up. Carries you. Cradles you like a rare body pillow

You don’t wake up

He tucks you into his bed, sets a Ruri-chan plush beside you for moral support, and flops onto the floor with a blanket and his headphones

When you wake up, it’s early morning. His lights are dimmed pink, the room is silent, and he’s snoring softly with a controller still in his hands

You stare at him for a long minute, heart aching a little at how sweet he looks like that

You don’t say anything when he wakes up an hour later, scrambling into an apology

You just smile and tell him you slept fine

He’s red for a full day

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

📚 Satan

He’s in his room reading, legs folded under him on the couch, a novel in one hand and a mug of tea in the other

You knock gently, eyes tired, and when he sees your face, he softens

“Bad dreams?” he asks, and there’s no teasing in it—just genuine concern

Without a word, he shifts to make space, patting the cushion beside him

You curl up with your blanket, shoulder brushing his, and he casually pulls another throw over both of you

He doesn’t say much, but his presence is calm, anchoring

Eventually your head tips against his arm and your breathing slows

He waits a few minutes to be sure you’re truly out, then sets his book aside and just… watches you

Not in a creepy way—just quietly fascinated by how peaceful you look, even after the nightmare

When you wake, you’re no longer on the couch—you’re in his bed, under soft sheets

The book he’d been reading is closed beside you, and there’s a little note tucked into the pages with your name on it

You keep it

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

💅 Asmodeus

He’s brushing out his hair at his vanity when you show up at his door, looking rumpled and half-asleep

“Darling, what’s wrong?” he coos, spinning around in a silk robe

When you admit you couldn’t sleep, his whole demeanor changes—still sweet, but softer, more grounded

“Say no more. Come here.”

He leads you straight to his bed, the sheets cool and silky, the scent of his perfume already comforting

You curl up under the covers while he finishes his routine—face mask, lip balm, a quick spritz of sleep spray

Then he slips in beside you, warm and gentle, his arm draped loosely over your waist

He talks to you in low whispers about nothing important—pretty things, soft clothes, silly gossip—until your eyes close

The moment you drift off, he goes quiet, tucking your hair behind your ear and watching your face with a look so tender it almost doesn’t feel like Asmo

The next morning, you wake up to a kiss on the forehead and a softly sung “good morning, sleepyhead”

He never lets you forget how cute you looked curled up against him—but there’s something genuine in his voice when he adds,

“If you ever need me again, you know where I am.”

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

🍔 Beelzebub

It starts with you falling asleep in the kitchen

You’d gone down for a late-night snack, found Beel already there eating cereal straight out of the box

He didn’t say much, just gave you a smile and pushed the box your way

You talked for a while, then leaned against the counter… then slumped onto the bench… and then lights out

Beel doesn’t wake you. Just watches you for a bit to make sure you’re really asleep

Then he scoops you up, careful like you’re made of glass

You wake up halfway through the walk to his room, tucked against his chest

“You looked tired,” he says simply. “You can sleep here tonight.”

His bed smells like vanilla protein powder and fresh laundry. He hands you one of his shirts as a sleep top. It’s comically large

Beel climbs into bed after you and stays on “his side” at first—very polite, very stiff, very big brother energy

But the second you roll toward him, drowsy and half-mumbling his name? He’s there

One arm around your waist, tucking you in close. His chin rests against the top of your head

“I’ll stay up a little longer to make sure the nightmare doesn’t come back,” he whispers

He’s asleep within five minutes

You wake up entirely under him. Full body weight. He's warm. You can't move. He looks peaceful. You stay there

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

💤 Belphegor

You creep into the attic room after a nightmare, not expecting him to be awake

He is

Barely opens one eye, gives you a sleepy “What’s wrong?”

You whisper that you can’t sleep, and he lifts the covers without another word

No teasing, no drama—just the quiet shift of space being made for you

You crawl in beside him, the star-speckled canopy of the ceiling above you

His arms find your waist automatically. He’s already half-asleep again

“You’ll sleep better here,” he mumbles against your shoulder. “I always do”

 Within seconds, he’s out cold

But you’re not. Not yet

You lie there for a bit, warm and stunned, because his breathing is deep and even and his grip is loose but protective

 Eventually, you drift off

When you wake up, Belphie’s draped over you like a sleepy octopus, your legs tangled, his head tucked under your chin

“Don’t move,” he mumbles without opening his eyes

You don’t

You fall asleep again

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

[eclipixels]

Meanie

Rafayel x Reader

Content: Rafayel's brattiness goes a little too far and he makes you cry

[2,026 words]

      It had been one of those days, the kind that felt cursed from the moment you opened your eyes. The kind where every little thing seemed to pile on top of the last, weighing you down until the smallest inconvenience felt like the final straw. And as if the universe hadn’t already decided to test your patience, Rafayel had spent the entire day being an absolute brat.

      It had started first thing in the morning, before you’d even had the chance to fully wake up. You’d stirred from sleep, groggy and aching, only to realize that you were freezing. Confused, you reached down and found nothing but the thin sheet clinging to the edge of the bed. The thick comforter, the one that had been keeping you warm all night, was completely wrapped around Rafayel, who was snuggled up in a cocoon of stolen warmth.

      You shifted closer, nudging him lightly in an attempt to reclaim even a small corner of the blanket. “Raf, share the blanket.” you mumbled, your voice heavy with sleep.

      All you got in response was a low groan, followed by him rolling even further away from you, tightening the comforter around himself like it was a suit of armor. Then, with the kind of sleepy arrogance only he could manage, he muttered, “Figure it out, princess.”

      Your eye twitched.

      Unbeknownst to you, this was his dumb way of wanting you to cuddle him. He assumed you'd snuggle him for warmth.

      Biting back a grumble, you decided to let it go. Maybe he was just half-asleep and unaware of what he was doing. Maybe he’d share once he woke up properly. Maybe—

      Nope. The second you tried to tug the blanket back, Rafayel let out the most exaggerated, drawn-out sigh, like you were personally ruining his entire morning. Then, instead of being a decent human being and sharing, he grabbed your pillow and placed it over his face with a dramatic huff.

      Fine. Whatever. It was probably a good time to get out of bed right now anyway.

      Dragging yourself out of bed, you shivered against the cold air and forced yourself toward the bathroom to do your usual routine. That’s when you realized you got your period. Great. Just great. The dull ache in your lower stomach had begun, and each step sent an uncomfortable throb through your body.

      You headed to the kitchen in search of your favorite tea, knowing it would help. Just the thought of it eased your tension slightly. But as you arrived, the familiar aroma already filled the air. Standing at the counter was Rafayel, cup in hand, his lips curling around the rim as he took a slow, satisfied sip.

      Are you serious right neow. Bruh.

      “Please tell me that’s not the last of my tea.” you started cautiously, eyes darting toward the empty tea box on the counter.

      “Yeah,” he blinked at you, then, with zero remorse, he shrugged. “I can have Thomas get you some more.”

      You took a deep breath. Counted to three. Reminded yourself that murder was illegal.

      He wasn’t trying to be cruel. He was just being Rafayel. A walking headache disguised as a very pretty boy.

      Fine. You’d handle it. You’d push through. You’d make do with coffee instead. It wasn’t what you wanted, but at least it was warm.

      You thought maybe, just maybe, that would be the end of his antics for the day. But no. Oh, no. He was just getting started.

      He spent the rest of the morning flicking the strings of your hoodie whenever he walked past, tugging at them just enough to be annoying. He poked you randomly for no reason and whined when you wouldn’t share your ice cream with him. When you had finally settled onto the couch to distract yourself with a movie, he’d waltzed in and changed the damn thing right as the plot was getting good. And when you glared at him, he just shrugged and said, “It’s not my fault you have bad taste in movies.”

      For the record, your taste in movies was excellent. He was just an insufferable little gremlin.

      You tried, really, really tried, to brush it off. To let it slide. Because normally, this kind of thing didn’t bother you that much. Normally, his teasing was something you could handle, even enjoy in small doses. But today was different. Today, your body hurt, your patience was thin, and everything felt heavier than it should.

      And then came the final straw.

      You had spent the entire afternoon resisting the urge to snap at him, telling yourself that he’d get bored eventually. That he’d stop pushing your buttons and go back to being tolerable. But then, when you were sitting at the dining table, desperately needing just one tiny moment of kindness, you spotted it—Rafayel’s favorite raspberry cream puffs. A fresh, buttery, flaky piece of heaven, sitting untouched with a sticky note of his name.

      You hesitated before asking. He’d already gotten on your last nerve,so maybe he’d take pity on you this once.

      “Raf,” you started, careful, cautious. “Can I have a bite?”

      He glanced at you, then at the pastry.

      For a moment, you thought he might actually say yes. His fingers drummed against the table, and he seemed to be weighing the question in his head. But then, right when hope sparked in your chest, he picked up the pastry, raised it to his lips, and took the biggest, most exaggerated bite humanly possible.

      Your mouth dropped open in disbelief.

      And that was it. That was the moment your already fragile patience snapped like an overstretched rubber band. You didn’t even have it in you to argue. Instead, you felt your throat tighten, hot frustration prickling behind your eyes before you could stop it.

      It wasn’t even just about Rafayel; everything felt overwhelming, and all you wanted was for him to be sweet to you today. The weight of the day had pressed down on you like an unbearable blanket, suffocating in its intensity. It wasn’t just the cramps or the discomfort; it was everything. The hormones, the exhaustion, the world itself feeling just a little too sharp around the edges. And yet, Rafayel had spent most of the day being bratty, teasing, occasionally infuriating in that way only he could be.

      Tears streamed down your face as you froze.

      “Baby…” Rafayel’s voice broke through your spiraling thoughts, softer now, tinged with something almost hesitant. “Are you crying?”

      You turned away from him, blinking rapidly to keep the tears from falling, but it was pointless. He tried stepping towards you but you stopped him.

      “Go away,” you mumbled, your voice barely above a whisper.

      The words weren’t just a request; they carried weight, a command laced with the bond you shared. Rafayel felt it immediately. His chest lit up with the warmth of it, the magic forcing him still, locking him in place as though the universe itself had pressed pause. His lips parted slightly, caught between protest and realization.

      And then, as if the pieces of a puzzle had finally clicked together, understanding dawned in his sharp sunset eyes. He had felt something all day, an ache lingering at the edges of his awareness, but he had brushed it off. As a sea god, human pain wasn’t the most agonizing thing in the world to him. He could experience it, but it never debilitated him. So, he hadn’t paid much attention to the dull cramps, the underlying discomfort. But now, as he took in your curled-up form, your teary eyes, the way you refused to even look at him—he felt dumb. Of course. You were on your period. And he didn’t do a single thing to help you feel better.

      He got so wound up in wanting your attention that he didn’t realize how miserable his attempts were making you.

      “Do you hate me?” Your voice was small, fragile in a way that twisted something inside him. He hated that you even felt like you had to ask.

      “Of course not,” he said, voice rougher than he intended, thick with something unspoken.

      “Then why were you being such a meanie?”

      That nearly made him laugh, but the sniffle that followed kept him firmly grounded in reality. He let out a slow, heavy breath, dragging a hand through his lilac hair as guilt settled deep in his bones.

      “I’m so sorry, cutie. I just wanted your attention.”

      You didn’t respond right away, and for a moment, he thought you were going to push him away again. But you didn’t. And in Rafayel’s mind, that was progress. Carefully, as if waiting for you to stop him, he reached out and wrapped his arms around you. His grip was firm but gentle, protective without being suffocating. He pressed a lingering kiss to the top of your head, breathing you in.

      “I’ll make it up to you,” he murmured against your hair. “Whatever you want.”

      At that, you finally peeked up at him, lashes damp. A spark of mischief danced in your eyes, and your lips curled into the beginnings of a smile.

      “Anything?”

      Rafayel nodded, unwavering. “Anything.”

      And that was how he found himself being dragged around for an entire day of doting on you.

      The moment the words left his mouth, you wasted no time in taking full advantage of his promise. First, it was bubble tea. Not just one, but three different flavors because, in his words, you needed options. Rafayel handed over his black card, watching as you delightedly picked your favorites.

      Then came the hoodie situation. You wanted those fluffy weighted ones. He ordered five because why not? Not just that, he got you a few dresses and accessories too. Of course, they had to be designers, because if he was going to spoil you, he was going to do it properly.

      Your cramps were still bad? No problem. Rafayel ran you a hot bath, complete with rose petals because apparently, a ‘normal bath’ wasn’t enough. He even adjusted the water temperature to be exactly how you liked it, using his evol abilities to keep it warm for as long as you wanted.

      He acted as though all of this was some grand inconvenience, sighing heavily every time you asked for something new, dramatically rolling his eyes, but the twinkle in them never dimmed.

      When you asked him to get you a heating pad, he gave you an offended look. Why were you asking for a heating pad? He was right there? He pressed his palms against your lower abdomen and you felt it start to warm to the perfect temperature.

      While you scrolled through your phone, he sighed. His fingers absently traced circles against your side as he did. “I have become a mere object for your convenience.”

      You grinned, completely unfazed. “Correct.”

      At one point, when you asked him to bring you snacks in the middle of the night, he left and came back with an entire grocery bag full of your favorites.

      “You’re lucky I love you,” he muttered, setting it beside you with a huff.

      You beamed up at him, eyes full of mischief. “I am lucky.” To emphasize your point, you popped a piece of chocolate into your mouth, chewing happily as if you hadn’t been crying just hours ago.

      Rafayel squinted at you, suspicion written all over his face. “You’re enjoying this a little too much.”

      You shrugged, feigning innocence.

      He sighed heavily. so dramatically, as if the weight of the world rested upon his shoulders. Then, with zero warning, he threw himself onto the bed on top of you, arm draped across his forehead like he was in some kind of tragic play. “This is karma, isn’t it?”

      You hummed thoughtfully, pretending to consider. “Maybe.”

      But the truth is, he didn’t mind. Not one bit. Because seeing you go from overwhelmed and teary-eyed to giggling and carefree—seeing you feel loved, taken care of—was worth every second. If spoiling you until he was broke meant you’d smile like this, he’d do it a hundred times over.

[spaceycat]

bucky being a human furnace is so canon, right now im mainly going to be posting drabbles because shit be crazy rn and my schedule is FILLED TO THE BRIM... so we're going on a small little tiny hiatus. enjoy this drabble lovelies <3

this is a fluffy fic!! i'm too tired to write smut and i just needed this rn 😭

⋆★⋆ human furnace ⋆★⋆

♫ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ: dream a little dream of me by the mamas and the papas (3:14)

You were naturally cold, always wearing multiple layers even when it's reasonably warm outside, a blanket always wrapped around you and the heater cranked so high - but that soon backfired on you.

It was the middle of winter, it was actively snowing outside - the streets being flooded with white snow upon parked cars and the side of the icey street outside your apartment. The problem was:

Your heater was broken.

There was nothing you could do about it, you had no mechanical skills and in a way you would make it worse than what it already was. Every mechanical service was down or busy for the holidays, so you just had to sit in your kitchen - using your oven as a makeshift heater while you were drowning in jumpers and blankets.

That's when you heard your front door unlocked, that's when you dragged your phone out from the many layers on top of you - realising the time, the time that Bucky said he would be over to deal with some work with you and just.. hang out? His text messages are confusing sometimes, but you couldn't expect much from the guy who was born during the 1910's.

And that guy was very much in your apartment now, and you're sitting on the floor in your kitchen like some idiot - you pushed the blankets off of you, creating a lump of fabric in the corner of your kitchen as you quickly checked your reflection in the window above your sink, running into your living room and Bucky was there, taking off his jacket and scarf that was covered lightly in snow. He took note of your shivering and the sheer amount of sweaters and hoodies you had on.

"It looks like you just went into a snow storm y'know.""My body is my own personal snow storm." "Mm.." He just simply hummed at that, placing his messenger bag on your couch before he walked over to you - wrapping his arms around you, his warmth surrounding you.

You weren't particularly expecting to do this, or for him to be this warm. You knew he was naturally warm, from light accidental touches or him placing a hand on the back of your chair instinctively. You silently thanked the super-soldier serum that most likely made him the human furnace that he is.

You leaned into his warmth instinctively, wrapping your arms around him in return after a moment. "You're freezing.""I thought you knew that." "I do now.. it finally makes sense why you're wearing jumpers even in summer." You'd pull back from him, his hand resting loosely around your waist. "My heater is shot, had to resort to desperate things." You tilted your head towards the kitchen in a gesture of the blankets on the ground. "Heater's shot?" He raised a brow at you. "Mhm." "Get yourself some tea.. or just-- something, I guess. I'll fix it." "Buck-- you don't have to." "If it means that I won't have to see you shivering all the time, I'll happily do it."

You eventually returned with a cup of tea, the heat from the mug cupped in your hand slowly warming it up from the cold. In the otherhand, a metal box hopefully containing all the tools that Bucky can do to fix your heater.

He took it from you with a simple "Thanks", you watched him tinker with the machine for awhile - it was definitely a sight you could get used to, your hand keeping your head up as you lean against the arm chair of your couch that let you have the perfect view of Bucky. You felt so warm from his presence it almost cured your temperature dilemma.

After a short while, the familiar humming of the heater started up again. Bucky stood up, closing the box of tools - setting it on the coffee table next you. The soft clang bringing you out of your thoughts. "All done." He sat down beside you, a short sigh coming from his lips as he sat. You looked over to him muttering a "Thank you.", a desperate plea in your eyes for him to hold you close again. He looked at you, a small grin forming on his face as he wrapped his arm around your shoulders pulling you closer to him.

You rested your head on his chest, nuzzling into him a little bit more. His hand that was wrapped around your shoulder was now playing with your hair a small amount, almost as it was normal for him to.

You've been working on the heater since the early hours of the morning, it driving you out of your sleep - so it wasnt a surprise for you to slowly fall asleep against the warmth of the man that was Bucky Barnes.

As he heard your soft breaths, he grabbed the blanket wrapped over the couch that was nonetheless a result of your attempt at keeping yourself warm and draped it over you - placing a soft kiss on the crown of your head. Holding you forever closer as he heard the snow slowly fall outside. He could get used to this too.

[rahuratna]

Synopsis: A lover's embrace is often all the comfort one needs. Your companions show you, through their touch, just how much your bond means to them.

[Lae'zel x Reader/Tav, Gale x Tav, Astarion x Tav cuddle headcanons]

Genres: Romance, fluff, humour, angst.

Dividers by: @saradika-graphics

(This turned out a lot more romantic and sentimental than the humour/fluff I'd planned. Either way, hope you enjoy it, lovely readers!)

Lae'zel: Dodge and Feint

In all fairness, you hadn't expected her to be party to softer forms of affection.

When all of this had started between you, it had been the result of a rather bold proposition after a difficult battle. Lae'zel had warmed to your fighting prowess, and your first time with her had reflected all of that desire, and more.

What you hadn't expected was the depth of respect, passion and acceptance you'd received from her, when you considered that in her eyes, you'd started off as a specimen of a weaker species with a nose that was too long for comfort.

If you'd been in her shoes, you're not sure you'd find yourself attractive.

Those thoughts aside, you'd found yourself wondering at times, whether you'd be able to persuade her to appreciate other things too. The softer side of affection, touch specifically, had always appealed to you.

You hadn't dared suggest as such to her yet, but you'd be lying if you hadn't fantasized about her strong arms holding you close, the tickle of her braids over your collarbone, the steady beat of her heart against your back.

But how to proceed?

Lae'zel was a tough nut to crack. You'd considered the direct approach; simply asking her outright for a cuddle. The images your mind threw up as a response made you choke on your tea. She might just coldly turn you down, and somehow, that seemed a lot worse than being punched in the face.

And yet ...

On a particular afternoon, after trekking through the mountains, your exhausted band had camped out on a rocky outcrop. The sky was an embroidered masterpiece above you, adorned with pearly stars stitched by some heavenly hand.

Blanket draped across your shoulders, you'd brought a steaming drink of mulled wine to Lae'zel, courtesy of Gale's stash of recipes. She'd glanced up at you silently, accepting the vessel.

You seated yourself beside her, before inching closer. She showed no sign of feeling the cold.

"The stars look beautiful tonight."

She turned her gaze upward, fingers curling tightly around the cup in her hand.

"I've seen the stars, up close. Most are chunks of cold, empty rock, without even the memory of a single soul's tread. They are beautiful, I suppose, in their loneliness."

Something in her description caught at your mind, causing you to glance sideways at her.

"And once you leave your tread on them? Do you think they retain some fondness of that moment?"

"Stars have no soul."

"And if they did?"

She snorted and took a sip of her drink.

"You ask the oddest questions."

"You seem to like them. Most of the time."

You offer a cheeky grin in response to her sharp look.

"You assume a great deal."

Emboldened, you shift up until your side is pressed to hers, before passing the blanket across her shoulders and tugging the end snugly back towards you, effectively wrapping you both within the soft, comfortable folds.

She didn't move, but raised her eyebrow at your actions.

"I don't recall saying that I was cold."

"Maybe you're not. Maybe you are. It's my job as your chosen partner to wrap you in a blanket either way."

"Hmm. More presumption. What do you gain from this? You'd feel warmer if the blanket was wrapped more firmly around just you."

Your voice grew softer, almost hoping she'd let the comment pass without acknowledgement.

"I like this better."

"This?"

"Being close to you."

She remained still and silent for the rest of the time, but you noted that she'd made no move to remove herself from your proximity.

In the course of your short relationship with her, you'd found that Lae'zel was highly observant, mentally recording a lot of the things you said and did, only to produce that knowledge later in the most unexpected ways.

A few days after that night camped on the mountain, she'd suggested a sparring session, with no weapons involved. You'd eagerly agreed, deciding that your hand-to-hand combat skills needed some practice.

Not that you'd appreciate being flung down into the dirt multiple times, but it was certainly better than being caught lacking in a decisive battle.

And Lae'zel had proven herself an efficient, if somewhat ruthless teacher.

You readied yourself for the session, stretching your muscles and hopping back and forth, limbering up. Lae'zel took a sip of water from her canteen before closing the top, joining you in the open glade near camp that you'd chosen for this session.

She didn't give you the grace of an easy start, as you knew she wouldn't. Her hands darted out, landing a series of sharp jabs against your ribs, so rapid that you didn't feel anything at first, but then the impact kicked in and you winced.

You took courage from the fact that just a month ago, you'd probably have been doubled over in pain. Lae'zel had certainly conditioned you well.

Regaining your balance, you swept your leg out, watching  as she nimbly leapt back. You hadn't managed to knock her over, but you'd put some space between you.

Circling, watching her follow your motions, you felt a shiver pass down your spine. Lae'zel's demeanour shifted, very subtly, during sparring. You gained a taste of the way she faced her opponents in battle, focused, predatory, a born hunter stalking its intended prey.

You feinted high and swung a blow that actually landed on her side. You felt the muscles of her abdomen clench, absorbing the impact before her hand closed around your wrist and she tugged sharply. The momentum behind your swing had you catapulting forward, off balance, right into her powerful hold.

Your feet left the ground, and you heard her grunt as you turned the tables, throwing your full weight back. She went down, but her hold on you never slackened.

Breathing hard, you squirmed in her grasp, but she stayed firm, one arm looped around your torso, keeping your arms trapped at your sides.

You huffed out a frustrated breath. You'd really thought you'd had her for a moment. More fool you.

Tilting your head back against her shoulder, you gave your concession.

"All right, this round goes to you."

"Are you surprised? You shouldn't be. It'll take much more training before you can best me."

"Thought I did get lucky for a moment there."

She remained silent, but you noticed that she hadn't released you from her hold.

"Lae'zel?"

"What is it?"

"Are we ... continuing?"

She didn't answer, but her grip around you loosened enough for you to free your arms. You turned slightly.

"Is everything all right?"

"Of course it is," she snapped.

"Then why have you stopped?"

Her put-upon sigh blew against the shell of your ear, warm, almost gentle.

"I thought you liked this."

"What? Being wrestled to the ground?"

"No, you imbecile! Being close to me."

The pieces suddenly slotted together in your head with stunning clarity.

She'd wanted to offer you physical proximity, and offering a sparring match in a secluded area, away from the prying eyes of others, had obviously been the logical conclusion in her mind.

You almost laughed, but then decided that this would be a very, very bad idea.

Instead, you sighed happily and leaned back in her embrace, head tucking beneath her chin.

"You thought right. I do like this."

"Hmph. So easily pleased. You should be glad I volunteered this training session. Otherwise, you'd just have to go without."

Her triumphant (rather smug) tone sparked a surge of something unbearable in your chest, a yearning you hadn't know you were capable of feeling.

How did she manage to do this to you?

Even with her clumsy, abrupt manner, her biting comments, her quick and sharp reprimands, her stand-offish nature, Lae'zel had somehow rendered herself so vulnerable to you.

You could feel it in the way she pressed her cheek to the top of your head, you could see it in the way she trusted you to lead her. You could sense it in the way her words reached you, always sincere and spoken from the purest of fires that burned within her, a warrior's constant in your cosmic equation.

And when her lips find yours, the latticework of the trees above you seem to open up further, exposing the arch of the sky, and your fingers find their way into her hair, sinking into the sweet hope of traversing that endless plane alongside her someday.

Gale: Materials and Method

"So, I've heard ... "

You downed the last of the healing potion and looked quizzically across at Gale.

He cleared his throat and stirred the pot with a little more vigour.

"I've heard ... no, read, a treatise on the healing power of touch. You know. To make you feel better after ... large and potentially traumatic events."

You grinned at him.

"And where did you find this treatise? Sharess's Caress?"

He shot you a reprimanding look, betrayed a little by the way his mouth twitched.

"Hmm. I don't think we're talking about the same written work on the subject of intimacy, although, dare I say, both have their merit."

You propped your chin on your hands, your breathing now a little easier as you felt the potion go to work on the bruising around your ribs.

The bandits you'd encountered in the hills had gone down fairly quickly to your party's combined attacks, but not before getting in a few blows of their own.

"So tell me, what does your treatise say?"

"Well, it speaks of the psychological benefits, all well researched, mind you, of maintaining skin to skin contact with someone you are already ... attached to. Someone you care for."

"And how are any of these things measurable?"

"Ah, through the release of certain hormones in the blood. Those can be measured."

"Is it really as simple as that?"

He was quiet for a time, gaze distracted.

"There was a time when I thought it was. That perhaps, love could be quantified. That its increments over time could be precisely measured by how much ... one gave. And how much was taken."

"And now?" you prompted him, gently.

"Now, I don't prescribe to the same school of thought."

He turned to you and smiled, that familiar warmth you'd come to associate with Gale's regard passing pleasantly over your features, as if touched by some invisible sun.

"Now ... well, I don't know what I believe. Let's just say that I'm ... open to conducting more research."

"Are you now?"

"Indeed, I am. A fortunate position to be in, don't you think?"

You laughed and watched him stir the stew for a while. You were fully aware of what he had done, setting out the offer for you, waiting patiently for you to turn it over in your hands, consider it from all angles, and decide if you'd give your consent or not.

In actuality, your mind had been made up some time ago.

"So, is there any way I could help you with your research?"

"There most certainly is."

His answer came a little too quickly, and your expression grew sly as you noticed the embarrassed flush steal up his neck.

"All right. Humour me, Master Gale. Where does all research begin?"

"With a question."

"How do I know if I'm asking the right one?"

"You have to refine it. Make it as concise as possible."

"Hmm. Here goes then. Gale, would you like to position your arms around me?"

"That's the wrong question. The real one should be- "

"About the benefits of embracing someone. I'm aware."

"Then - "

"Let's cut to the chase and begin experimenting?"

He uttered a soft laugh, one infinitely full of affection. Rising, he approached you with playful deliberation, pausing before you, one hand on his chin.

"I'm simply taking a moment to check whether you're ... receptive to my experiment."

You drew your knees together and raised your voice in a piteous falsetto.

"Oh, what foul Gods have sent this mountain breeze my way? I am so very cold. If only a warm and toasty man, of the scholarly persuasion, could come by and warm me."

Gale checked off a point on one of his fingers.

"It seems my services are required after all."

He resumed his steady pacing around your form.

"Next, I should observe the reactions before and after an embrace. Does it really have the intended effect, or can my subject survive quite well without it?"

You collapsed sideways across the log you were seated on.

"Oh, I am about to perish from this cold and loneliness. If only there was a man with a handsome beard, smelling slightly of stew, to come by and deliver sustenance to my soul."

"Ah. It seems they are both cold and lonely. A frightful combination, to be sure."

Gale was now right behind you, both hands coming to rest on your shoulders. His touch was light, but the weight of intention laid heavy across you both. He began to move his palms in soft soothing circles, beginning at the tops of your arms and slowly traversing the slope of your shoulders.

"Now, how does this feel?"

"Quite marvelous. I feel like I may be cured in no time."

"Never rush to conclusions like that. A true scholar would question the validity of what they feel in this moment. Does it really make you feel good?"

"Are you ... fishing for compliments under the guise of scientific inquiry?"

"I am merely following the method. Wiser men than me speak for its merits, you know."

"Well, wiser men seem to be beating about the bush an awful lot. It feels wonderful, Gale."

There was a pause before you felt him shift, the material of his trousers scraping across the log as he stepped over it and positioned himself in front of you. You took his outstretched hand, standing to face him.

"Looks like the spirit of experimentation is growing bolder."

He shook his head, shoulders heaving with silent laughter.

"You've played along wonderfully so far. Don't stop now."

"Oh, fine then."

You straightened and met his eye, shivering slightly in anticipation at what you'd seemingly kindled there.

"What next?"

"Put your hands on my shoulders."

When you complied, he stepped into your space, breath fanning along the flesh of your ear.

"And now for the final determination. The proving of my hypothesis, so to speak."

His arms slid around your waist, gentle, enclosing you in everything he was, his hold always considerate, but firm. You felt the light scratch of his beard against the side of your neck and inhaled sharply.

"And what is your hypothesis?"

"That this is most beneficial indeed."

"I have to agree."

You felt the curve of his lips against your skin, the tightening of his arms as he drew you close, enveloping you in his scent. Your hand found the nape of his neck, running up into the flow of his hair.

He inhaled deeply, taking you in, before he froze, gripping your waist and moving you a little further away. In the dim light, his eyes gleamed with amusement and chagrin.

"I do believe, in my desire to test this hypothesis, that I've managed to burn the stew."

Astarion: Practice makes perfect

He was staring again.

You could feel his gaze tracing along your skin, like molten threads of metal through a sword, fresh from the forge.

Making the journey from the Shadow-cursed lands (now no longer under the hold of Ketheric Thorm), had been slow at first. Your party was exhausted after the battle at Moonrise Towers.

Even though you had taken respite afterwards, the imperative nature of your mission to overthrow the Absolute was pressing. You compromised by setting a steady pace towards  Baldur's Gate, frequently stopping to rest and re-supply.

As occupied as your thoughts were with what awaited you in the city, there was another puzzle to be unraveled.

Astarion's recent behaviour.

Since your encounter with the drow blood merchant, Araj Oblodra, there had been some revelations in your relationship with him. Astarion had come clean about his original 'plan' to seduce you, and his own budding feelings that had put an end to it.

As much as you were still processing what it all meant, you couldn't help the spark of hope that

flared every time you looked at him and saw the genuine softness and affection, the well-concealed pleasure he took in your company.

And now, there was something new. This ... watchfulness, for want of a better term.

You couldn't make head or tail of it.

He seemed to be waiting to ambush you at every dark corner in camp, his flowery drawl snaring you every time you passed his tent. He sat with you while you ate, even considering his distaste for regular food. Sometimes, you'd check your clothing and find new embroidery or repairs, probably done in the dead of night.

All this was well and good. You could accept the attention, and lavish him with your own, but he seemed to be ... expecting something from you, and you couldn't possibly make out what it was.

It was obvious that he was growing rather impatient with your lack of discernment. Once, you'd given him a peck on the cheek to say good night and you'd spied the flash of hurt that had lingered in his eyes for a moment, covered up instantly with charm and wit.

It was bothering you to no end.

What did he want from you? Why wouldn't he come out and say it?

On one particular night, the thoughts he'd inspired left you tossing and turning, sleep evading you. Rolling onto your back, you stared at the roof of your tent.

Right. No answers there.

It was then that you heard it; a soft tread just outside. Raising your head slightly, you listened carefully, one hand inching beneath your bedroll for the knife you kept handy there.

The footsteps stopped, then started up again. You realised that the person was pacing. Up and down. To and fro. It went on for some time, with pauses in between.

You put the knife back.

No assassin would be this indecisive. And besides, you recognised that tread. Your senses had all but made it highly familiar.

You called softly into the night.

"Astarion?"

The footfalls stopped abruptly.

"I know you're there. Come inside. It's so cold out."

There was a pause before he pushed the flap aside and crawled in. The dim glow from the campfire filtered into your tent, outlining him in flickering shadow.

He sat cross-legged, silent.

You waited for a few seconds before inching across to him, wrapping your blanket around his shoulders and retreating.

He uttered a small sound of frustration.

"Why do you do that? I'm not made of glass you know."

You frowned. He sounded ... tired. A trifle bitter.

"Do what?"

"You know what."

"Astarion."

You took his hand, feeling his strong, cool fingers clench convulsively around yours.

"You need to speak to me. I really have no idea what's been troubling you."

"You ... it's ... why do you avoid me? What have I done wrong? Are you ... regretting being together with me? Is it not enough? I knew it couldn't be enough. Why else would you ... "

You held up a hand to stem the confused flow of words, bewildered.

"What are you talking about? I've never once avoided you. I love being with you. You know that."

He was watching you again, eyes flicking between yours, as if to catch some hint of insincerity.

He found none, of course. You felt some of the tension leave his body, but your question still remained unanswered.

"You need to tell me. Why do you think I avoid you? And when?"

He shifted, dropping your hand and taking a deep, bracing breath.

"Do you remember the night we ... spoke. After meeting with that drow merchant?"

"Of course."

"Well ... why haven't you come to my tent since then?"

He waved his hands wildly, as if to grasp answers from the air.

"I'm pretty certain that I don't smell bad, for an undead being. And I'm beautiful, that much goes without saying. My hair hasn't been at its best in recent times, I admit, but plant extracts are rather hard to come by in the Shadowlands, darling, and I - "

You snorted incredulously.

"Are you serious? You really think any of that would put me off you?"

"Well, obviously something has. You don't ... you haven't ... "

He cut off, head lowered, hands braced on his knees. This was evidently difficult for him.

Reaching out, you gently stroked his cheek, a flutter of something vital and warm surfacing as he leaned into your touch.

This foolish, foolish man.

But you had to choose your words carefully.

"Astarion, I haven't been avoiding you at all. I was just ... giving you space. You trusted me with the knowledge of everything you've had to endure. I wanted to let you ... come to me on your own terms and ... oh."

As soon as the words left your mouth, you realised what you'd done. Falling silent, you lowered your gaze.

He folded his arms.

"Oh indeed. You're truly dense at times, my sweet."

"But I - "

His finger laid itself across your lips as you opened your mouth to protest.

"Gods, you're the most lovely, silly, frustrating ... idiot I've ever had the misfortune to meet."

You scowled under his silencing finger, but the relief in his voice was so palpable that you couldn't help the smile that bloomed in quick succession. You reached up and caught his wrist, lowering his hand.

"So, you want me to ... not be quite as considerate of your space as I've been."

"One would think you'd get the idea, considering how I've been invading yours. Not your brightest moment, my love."

A laugh bubbled up in your throat.

"So that's what all of that was about."

"I'm so glad you noticed my bounteous desire for your company."

"All right then. Now that we've cleared the air ... what would you like me to do?"

He scoffed, some of his old panache returning. A welcome change.

"Honestly. Can you not remember a thing about that night?"

"Wait, what?"

"The thing you did."

"Eh?"

"Gods below, I've developed feelings for a deep roth��."

"Can you just tell me - "

"This," he hissed, before leaning forward and wrapping both arms around you. He released you almost instantly, observing your face with attentiveness. The firelight turned the ruby hue of his eyes to something darker, more desperate. In spite of his light-hearted banter, he was -

"Astarion."

Your voice was so full of tenderness, so soft, that you saw him flinch from it.

"Why didn't you just say so?"

"Well, it's not exactly - "

It was your turn to silence him, finger lightly grazing his lips. He took a shaky breath.

"What the fuck is this? Why is this so damnably difficult?"

"It's not. We just ... both of us just ... need to learn how to speak about things, I suppose. That's ... simple. Once you get the hang of it."

His voice had lowered to a whisper.

"It is?"

"Maybe. I'm not sure myself. But we'll start with this."

You held out your arms and he approached eagerly, slinging the blanket over both your shoulders. His unusually graceless movement pushed you off balance, and you tumbled back with a huff of amusement, tugging him down with you, his head knocking against the bridge of your nose.

"Ouch!"

"Lae'zel was right. Your nose is too big."

"What are your elbows made of? Gondian steel?"

"All the better to prod you with, my dear."

After a series of scuffling movements, you finally found yourself lying on your back, his head propped on your shoulder, just beneath your chin. Soft curls brushed your cheek as he shifted, his arm curling possessively around your body, leg sliding over yours.

His scent was familiar, breathtakingly so. It pervaded your senses, the sharp stringency of the soap at the Last Light Inn, the faint citrus essence of his hair cream, the smokiness of burning wood from where he'd sat too close to the fire.

You hadn't realised, until that moment, how you'd needed to hold him like this once again, the immediacy of his presence a comfort beyond words.

He raised his head slightly, mouth now on level with your ear. You felt the shift of muscle beneath his shirt, the slide of his hand against your ribs.

"Can we fall asleep like this? Every night?"

"We can."

"You ... really don't mind?"

You turned over, now facing him, your breath dancing across his lips.

In the dark, you couldn't see much detail, but you knew the lie of his features as well as the most well-traced map. Reaching up, you passed fingers lightly over his eyes, mouth, ears, nose, chin.

Your devstatingly handsome rogue. Your shadow dancer. Yours, in all his vulnerability, within these fragile canvas walls.

"I want to wake up to your face. On every morning until ... "

His lips silenced you, opening in unspoken passion against yours. When he parted from you, it was no loss. His entire body was pressed against the length of yours, and your arms had found their way around him again, holding him the way he had desired beyond anything.

"Don't. Don't say more. Just fall asleep with me."

"Just like that?"

You felt him smile into your hair.

"I suppose it''s simple, darling. Once you get the hang of it."

[tangyneon]

lychee pops!

It's Tokyo, summer of 2005, and Gojo Satoru is thriving.

He's free, he's fabulous, he's fifteen—and way too busy being iconic to miss anyone from Kyoto. Like, please.

pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader tags: teen!gojo; teen!reader; fluff; mild angst; humor; gojo and you have been engaged since childhood owing to an agreement between his clan and yours; neither of you really knows what that means now; mutual pining; some might describe gojo's dynamic with you as an unestablished relationship; few might describe it as a long-distance relationship; word count—1794. warnings: malfunctioning cursed charms and kitchen distasters. notes: the jjk hi movie frames have left me terribly unwell. never mind me, though—hope you'll enjoy reading this, babes!! ❤️❤️

Tokyo smells different.

This is the first thing that Gojo notices after stepping off the train and into the hustle and bustle of the city. There's the sharp, biting tang of fuel and exhaust, there's the slightly burnt smell of warm asphalt and the dry undertone of the concrete and dust. There's the cloying blend of perfume and cologne, made far worse when mixed with the stench of sweat and body odour. Even the cursed energy in the air feels quite different—more raw, more chaotic, much less calculated...

Gojo likes it.

Or. Well.

The boy is deciding to like it.

After months of—no, an eternity of—dealing with shouting, threats, three different elders trying to bribe him in three different ways, and one disgustingly dramatic fainting episode by yet another elder, he's finally here. And he thinks it's totally worth it.

His room is small and full of dust, but it is his. His side of the dorm smells like his deodorant and microwave cup ramen. There's a tiny balcony right next to it, that overlooks an alley where he saw a cat fight with a crow this morning. On the other side of his bed, there's Geto, who acts like he is an eighty-year-old grandpa and reads out loud from his philosophy books and acts way too proper in front of their teachers. On the far side of the room, there's an empty bed, in which Shoko crashes once in a while, who drinks cough syrups like herbal tea and smokes cigarettes like hell and has already said she'll kill him, then resurrect him—just to murder him all over again��if he dares to steal her snacks a second time.

It is loud, it is weird, it is likely cursed too—but in all the best ways.

Gojo should be completely, deliriously happy now.

And he is. He really is.

But still, the boy finds himself just lying on the bed, his phone on his chest, his unguarded eyes fixed on the ceiling fan as if it'll transform into a divine messenger any instant now, and drop a divine message or two from the heavens.

Then—the phone buzzes.

Gojo doesn't even need to check the name.

He knows it is you.

It has never not been you.

You always call after dinner. Neither too late nor too early. You always wait until your clan elders are done with their evening work, and your family members have gone to bed, and it's finally safe to whisper. He can already imagine you tiptoeing to the farthest corner of your room with your phone tucked between your ear and shoulder and your ugly pink blanket wrapped tightly around your frame.

Gojo waits for a moment. Then, he flips his phone open, watching its screen light up with the [chatterbox CALLING...].

One ring.

Two rings.

Three rings.

He picks up after the fourth ring.

"Yo," he says, hoping he sounds as nonchalant as he feels right now. He frowns when he ends up sounding a bit too eager, a bit too warm—nearly stupidly so—however.

"Hi," your voice comes through a second later, very soft and just a bit shaky. It's only one word, but you say it like you mean it, like you were not too sure he would answer—which is why Gojo doesn't really mind when he tries not to smile, then fails.

"Took you long enough," he mutters, shifting onto his side so his hair flops back from his forehead—not that it is that long, though—"I was starting to think maybe you forgot your beloved betrothed, left to rot out here in the cursed wastelands of Tokyo."

"You have been there for less than a week, 'Toru," you huff—amused, he can tell. "And Tokyo is hardly a wasteland. Tokyo is Tokyo."

"Which is the biggest lie ever," he says, dead serious, "There are vending machines here that sell hot corn soup. In a can. Can you believe that? Hot corn soup in a can!"

There's a pause. A brief pause.

"...Okay, that is horrifying," you finally reply, sounding vaguely disgusted.

"Right?" Gojo exclaims, almost triumphantly, "I feel cursed just standing next to it. And Shoko drinks it."

"You need to report her to someone."

"I could," he says, but it comes out more like a whine, "but I think she would dissect me if I tried."

You giggle at that—the sound of it barely more than a breath, yet it's real and sweet and bright, and it fills the spaces between and behind his ribs like the warm spring sun. Gojo presses the phone closer to his ear.

"You sound good," you say after a while.

"Why do you sound surprised?"

"I'm not. I just..." He hears you falter for a beat, then speak again—softer this time, "I just—I'm glad. You were so tense before you left. Especially during the ceremony."

He shrugs, only to realise a moment late that you cannot see it. He settles on a careless hum, instead, "Those old geezers were breathing down my neck. Kept saying I would 'dishonour my role' by leaving the estate."

"Dishonour it how? By getting an education?"

"By thinking for myself, apparently."

He gets a sympathetic hum for that. And the quiet that follows feels soft, he thinks—definitely one of the comfortable ones—only for you, ever the chatterbox, to break it not even two full seconds later.

"And, 'Toru," you ask, "did your room end up okay? Is it strange, living with other students?"

"It's fine," he answers easily, "Geto is neat. Sort of a clean freak, though. Shoko is messy—way more than me. I took the bed near the window."

"Of course, you did."

"Of course, I did," Gojo echoes back, grinning at the chuckle you give, "Gotta have a dramatic background for my morning monologues, you see."

You snort. "What, like... 'Alas, o cruel world, my breakfast cereals expired yesterday'?"

"No, like—" Gojo deepens his voice dramatically, "—'The weight of the Gojo clan bears heavily upon my shoulders. Woe is me, for I am but a vessel of power and dashing good looks'."

A loud laugh erupts out of you at that—the sound of it so full and so open, it crackles in his ears and makes his chest hurt in a fashion he isn't too certain he has the training to identify.

The boy does not mind the pain, though. Not really, anyway.

"You're such a drama queen," you gasp out between giggles.

"You love it," he shoots back, flipping onto his stomach and grinning into his pillow.

You suddenly pause. And then—

"...I do."

Gojo almost doesn't hear you at first. But when he does, he thinks it's too soft, it's too blunt, it was said in a way too uncomplicated for it to have been by anyone who isn't you.

His smile stutters. It nearly collapses. He stares down at the triangles on the bedsheets, heart suddenly doing something irritatingly stupid inside his chest.

He changes the subject faster than he has ever teleported.

"So, well, um—what's going on in Boredom Central?"

You snort again. "Besides the elders calling me in for 'refinement sessions'? Nothing much, I guess... I did nearly get killed by a few cursed charms, though—"

"What!?" Gojo chokes.

"Your fiancée was nearly killed by cursed charms this morning," you repeat cheerfully, clearly mistaking his shock for something entirely different, "According to my aunt, I must not have handled them with enough respect. According to me, the charms were clearly made by someone moronic—why else would a charm backfire on its first use, hm? They clearly weren't made well."

"Your aunt's husband is the one who supplied those charms, right?" he asks slowly.

"Yeah, so? My point still stands."

Your reply draws a bark of a laugh from Gojo—the noise of it, short and sharp yet breathless. And it's not until he hears himself that he realises how tightly he has been holding onto his breath ever since arriving in Tokyo.

Not willing to go too much into what it may mean, he sobers himself, and listens as you talk about your day. How you caught your cousins sneaking out of the estate to go to a baseball match. How your mom scolded you for saying "UGH, I hate this," in front of an ancient scroll. How you tried to make his favourite dango, but almost burnt yourself in the process.

Gojo makes the appropriate noises as you speak—laughter, outrage, exasperation—but he mostly just listens. To your voice. To the many small shifts in your voice. To the way it never makes him feel like he's the strongest, or the most important, or the heir saturated with way too much power for only soul to hold.

To you, he is just 'Toru.

And he likes that. Maybe a little more than he ever should.

"...Hey," you say after quite some time, your voice much quieter now, "You're really okay, right?"

"I told you, I'm great," he quips, as casually as ever.

"I know, I know. It's just that... you sound tired, 'Toru."

Gojo falls silent for a beat—then sighs. It's an almost inaudible sound, but he thinks he can feel the weight of it settle some place deep in his bones, if only for a second.

"I think I am," he admits, slowly, softly, "But not in a bad way. Just... new place. New people. New everything. I'm learning how to be me, and not just what the elders want."

You hum in agreement, and a moment later, your voice follows—so gentle, it barely rustles the line.

"You can be you with me too, you know."

Gojo's throat tightens, just a little. "Yeah," he says, clearing his throat, "Yeah, I know."

"Good," you hum, the smile evident in your voice even if he can't see you right now—and then you yawn. The boy grins—suddenly feeling himself back in familiar territory again.

"Falling asleep on me already?" he smirks.

"No, no," you mumble—then yawn again. "'S just warm. And it's late."

Betraying his intention, his smile softens into something annoyingly yet unsurprisingly affectionate. He does not bother to fight it. "Go to sleep then, dummy."

"No... you hang up first, 'Toru."

"No, you hang up first."

"No, you!"

"No, you!"

A sleepy laugh escapes you. "We are ridiculous," you mumble.

"We've always been ridiculous."

A tiny giggle answers from the other end.

There's a beat. Then, your voice drifts back, soft and sleep-drunk, "So... four rings tomorrow?"

"Four rings tomorrow," he echoes, his tone light and easy—before a yawn escapes him this time.

You giggle again, and the line goes quiet.

Gojo stays exactly where he is, phone cradled to his chest, and a soft, contented smile curling at his lips—as if he doesn't want the moment to end just yet.

find the sequel fic here!!!! © tangyneon 2025 || please don't plagiarise, translate or repost this || characters used here aren't mine || header is from pinterest || masterlist.