A Likes You

Call me A. 26 She/Her I’m archiving thing that I like

[bigtrashland]

✮⋆˙ satoru cums in you for the first time in front of the city view MDNI

On Friday nights, people either go out partying or stay home and chill, doing what they enjoy. That’s something you liked to do, but that all changed when you ended up in a relationship.

You and Gojo have been on a movie marathon since 5PM, and it’s well past midnight now. Let’s just say the Netflix ‘Are you still watching?’ question has been on your TV screen for the past three hours.

Currently, you were getting fucked so hard, bent before the vast glass window overlooking a city alive with lights. Although your attention wasn’t on anything outside, it was on your boyfriend's girthy dick plunging in and out of your gummy walls.

It was Gojo’s idea to fuck you in front of the window. His words were: “I want everyone to see my pretty girl and how she takes this dick.”, and without a second thought, you agreed.

Your back was against his chest, both hands on the now foggy window. Meanwhile, Gojo couldn’t get enough of you—his hands roaming all over your body. Gripping your waist, while the other moved up toward your tits, giving them a harsh squeeze, which had you whimpering in return.

“Taking this dick so well, you’re so fucking perfect. God, I love you.” He rambled on completely out of his mind. His praises made you look up at him, your head resting on his shoulder.

His eyes were half-lidded, staring directly into your soul. The kind of look that always had your stomach tingling and the wetness between your thighs growing more.

“Please, please. Don’t stop,” you whined, pushing your hips back into him. The tip of his dick kissing your cervix.

Gojo’s eyes rolled back into his skull, his plump lips parted—panting so hard, it sounded as if he just ran a 20-mile marathon. “Ngh- baby, if you do that, I might actually cum inside you.”

You turn your attention back to the city, and then an idea of something completely new to you pops inside your fucked out brain. “Cum inside me, in front of the—Fuck just like that—city.”

After being together for nearly a year, he still hasn’t been able to cum inside you. You both just didn’t want to risk having a kid, but how hot he was looking and the feeling of his thrusts against you had you not caring about anything.

He quickly snapped his eyes open; his hips fluttered for half a second as an eyebrow raised. “You… are you sure?”

“Please.” You nodded immediately, licking your lips. “I need it.”

With that, his dick twitched inside you. One of his hands moved to the back of your spine, bending you down into a biggg arch. Your legs wobbled beneath your weight; the left side of your face squished against the cold windowpane.

He bit his lip at the sight of you, both hands now gripping your waist as his pace began to fuck you harder and faster. You cried out, nails digging into the window. Probably leaving scratches- not like you both cared anyway.

“Yeah? You want my cum inside you?” His gaze dropped down, watching his cock slide in and out of you, then glancing back up. “My needy girl wants my cum dripping from her pussy, huh?”

“Mhm!” You couldn’t mutter a single word. You were starting to feel so overstimulated with how full you felt, plus you both have been fucking like rabbits—without taking a single break.

He leaned over, his chest against your back. He sank his teeth into your neck, leaving yet another mark on your delicate skin. His eyes didn't look away from your face.

You turned your head as far as you could, your lips puckering in a silent invitation for him to kiss you. He met your lips right away; it was a sweet kiss you both shared over the years.

He bit your lip hard enough to draw the slightest amount of blood. You moaned against his lip, your lips parting. He slid his tongue inside your mouth instantly; the feeling made your head dizzy.

It’s surprising to this day how good he can kiss. Even though you were his first girlfriend, his first kiss. First everything in general, but honestly you loved every bit of it.

And as time went on, the kiss became deeper. Tongues fighting for dominance, with each of you refusing to give in. Gojo’s hand traveled up to your neck, his large palm settling against your skin before his fingers squeezed firmly.

He pulled away from the kiss, just enough to speak. Both of your breaths were mixing together as you looked into each other’s eyes.

His eyebrows furrowed up, and you could tell he was trying his hardest not to roll his eyes back into his skull again. You also know he was so close to cumming.

“You gonna cum, baby?” Your voice was in that sweet tone that had him whimpering in response. You lifted your hand from the cool window, moving your arm behind you until your fingers disappeared into his messy white hair.

His thrust grew sloppier with each move, his thighs hitting the back of your ass. Gojo moved his hand down your body, feeling you up before landing between your thighs. His middle finger rubbed against your clit, fast.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, yes I’m gonna cum.” He grunted, throwing his head back, eyes closing tightly, mouth gapped open. The grip on your waist tightened enough for his knuckles to turn white.

His throat bobbing, hips meeting your ass as his cum spilled all over your walls. Painting your insides white. The new sensation of being filled to the brim made your own release wash over you. Your legs became weak as tears began to form in the corner of your eyes.

“Fuck!” You cried out, slamming your hand back onto the window. The contact made a big bang, which, surprisingly, none of you noticed.

Your mind was absolutely scrambled, lost in the orgasm he just gave you. Probably the best one you've experienced together, and if it wasn’t for his arms holding you up, you would’ve fallen to the ground.

He held you close to his chest, panting into your ear. Overcoming his own release. Then he slowly pulled out of your pussy, watching as his dick fell out. “holy shit.”

You turned your head to face him. “Hm?”

He leaned down, cracking a hand over your plush cheek. You whine out at the contact, but he doesn’t take any of notice of it, his attention stuck on him spreading your ass cheeks apart and watching as his cum drip out of you, “This is the hottest shit I’ve ever seen.”

“Stop! You’re gonna get it on the carpet.” You complained, slapping his shoulder. He shook his head, chuckling—not long before running his finger between your slit, gathering up every drop of the white liquid that slipped out of you.

He stood up to his full height, moving his finger to your lips. “Open.”

You locked eyes with him, slowly opening your mouth and sticking out your tongue. With that, he stuck his finger into your mouth. Immediately, you sucked on it, whining at the taste.

His dick got hard right away. He pulled his fingers out, leaning down, meeting your lips in another harsh kiss. The taste of both of you lingering on his tongue drew a low groan from him against your lips before he slowly pulled away.

”Just letting y'know, i'm cumming inside you all the time now.”

sorry if this is ass, i have no clue what i’m doing 😣.

[alikesyou]

Yesyesyes

[enjinsdoll]

꒰ ᴏxʏɢᴇɴ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ you safe enjin.

enjin didn’t even remember anymore when his oxygen tank broke. hell, at some point he might went unconscious from coughing his lungs out.

but he knew when he felt your hand close to his face, and how you became firm with him when you… when you pressed your fucking mask over his mouth and nose. panic had flooded through him - more than the lack of air ever could - as he had tried to push it away.

“no. stop,” he had rasped, chocking. “what are you doin’? you’ll—“

“shut up,” you had snapped, your own breath already uneven. “just breathe.”

he hated how calm you sounded. hated it more when he realized you weren’t letting go. one hand firmly pressed the mask to his face, the other had grabbed the back of his head.

no, no, no. the mask was yours, your supply.

his lungs burned, vision swimming black at the edges. the survival instinct kicked in hard, because he wanted to live… but not like this. not at your fucking expense.

he couldn’t deal with this. please, don’t make him to.

that’s why he had tried to fight you. he was stronger after all, and should easily manage to overpower you and gave you the mask back. right?

wrong.

enjin shoved weakly at your wrist, fingers that clawed at the strap desperately. he might’ve called you an asshole for doing that to him. you were stronger and you didn’t fucking budge. if anything your grip tightened.

“don’t be stupid,” you muttered, strained. “you pass out, you die. i’m not dragging your ass out alone.”

“we’ll both die like this,” he shot back, the words muffled behind the mask you forced onto him.

you didn’t answer right away.

later he’d replay this silence over and over again, obsessively. the look in your eyes that screamed determination, and love.

“then don’t waste it,” you said quietly.

and then you pushed the mask harder against his face.

he remembered trying to count your breaths after that. he didn’t know why. maybe it was panic. maybe it was desperation. maybe it was the only way he could convince himself you were still there, still fighting.

your breaths grew shallower while his steadied. it made him fucking sick to his stomach.

he tried to angle the mask, tried to share and press it between you both, but you caught his wrist immediately.

“no,” you rasped, coughing hard enough your whole body jerked. “don’t.”

“we can make it,” he insisted, even as doubt clawed up his throat. “we just—”

“enjin.” your voice cut through him, sharp despite the weakness creeping in. “for once, listen.”

your eyes met his then. fuck, he wished they hadn’t, because there was no fear in them. you looked so stubborn, and soft in a way that made his chest ache in a way the toxins never could.

“you’re not dying here,” you said. “so breathe.”

he hated you for it. hated the way his body obeyed, dragging in oxygen while yours struggled. hated the way your hand never trembled, even as your strength clearly faded. hated that you chose him so easily.

he didn’t deserve that. he never would. you did. fuck, you deserved the world.

what he failed to realize was that he was your world.

the next thing he remembered was waking up.

clean air surrounded him, voices. light that didn’t sting his eyes. blinking tiredly he immediately looked around to search for you.

it took him a moment to realize that you weren’t there.

panic hit him before reason could. raw, ugly fear clawed at his throat. this couldn’t be. this was a joke, right?

he tore the medical mask from his face and sat up way too fast. his vision started spinning.

“hey. hey, easy!” gris grabbed his shoulders, forcing him back down. “you’re alive, idiot, don’t undo that.”

“where is she?” his voice came out in frantic gasps. “where is—”

“she’s alive.”

everything narrowed down to these words.

“what?”

“barely, but yeah.” gris paused before he smiled. “you got lucky.”

lucky. the word felt wrong - disgusting. you almost lost your life to save his. how dare gris to talk about lucky?

“take me to her,” he demanded.

you had been treated in a separate room so you could sleep in peace, without the usual commotion of the infirmary.

fuck. you looked so small, enjin thought as he shuffled inside the room.

you, who had stood over him in a cloud of poison and toxin. an unshakable force and now you looked so small in that bed. the blankets almost swallowed you and you wore this big oxygen mask that covered your face.

enjin’s chest tightened so painfully and he bit back the tears.

carefully, so he won’t wake you, he approached the bed. terrified that you’d fall apart if he walked too fast. absolutely unreasonable, but made a lot of fucking sense to him.

your breathing was uneven. probably your lungs were damaged and it sounded like every inhale hurt you.

that was his fault.

“hey,” he said quietly, pulling a chair closer and dropping into it. his voice didn’t feel like his own. “you idiot.”

no response. normally you’d scold him now and then try to wrestle until he kissed you until you forgot why you were mad in the first place.

he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at your hand where it rested limply beside you. it had been so strong before - strong enough to hold his life in place.

“you weren’t supposed to survive that,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “do you get that? that was—that was a one person deal.”

his throat tightened. he swallowed uncomfortably.

“you don’t get to make calls like that. not for me.”

silence filled the room again, heavy and suffocating in a different way. he reached out before he could stop himself, his hands hugging your smaller one.

it was warm and alive, and for now that was enough. his grip tightened.

“i would’ve died,” he admitted quietly. “and that would’ve been fine.”

that was kind of a fucking lie. of course he would die for you if it meant you stayed alive. but he also wanted to live so he could have more time with you.

fuck, he wanted to grow old with you. he wanted to fucking marry you, and maybe have a kid on his own.

“you don’t get to decide i’m worth more than you.” his voice cracked then, frustration bleeding through. “because i’m not.”

there was this ugly urge to yell at you. but before the urge could take over your fingers twitched weakly in his grasp.

enjin froze.

“shut up,” you mumbled hoarsely, and wrecked beneath the mask.

he stared at you, something sharp and fragile cracking open in his chest. “you’re awake.”

“unfortunately,” you breathed, the ghost of your usual tone slipping through. “and you’re still yappin’.”

he let out a shaky laugh, half relief, half disbelief. “yeah. guess i am.”

your eyes opened just enough to look at him, tired but unmistakably you. it made his heart thump wildly.

“good,” you murmured. “means it worked.”

his smile faltered. guilt surged back instantly, heavy and relentless. a guilt he wouldn’t get rid off for a long time, even after you were nursed back to health.

“don’t,” he said, sharper than intended. “don’t say that like it was a good thing.”

you studied him for a long moment, then your gaze softened.

“you’re alive,” you said simply.

like that was enough. like that justified everything, and what you had done. he tightened his grip on your hand, jaw clenching.

“yeah,” he whispered.

never again. he swore that to himself. if such a situation would ever occur again he’d fight you until his last breath. or the best would be if you stopped going out with him and the others.

for now he had to live with that… until he found a solution.

[ambiguousdog]

This is the money butt.

It only appears every 124078932423 posts. Reblog in 12 minutes, and money will make its way to you in the next 48 hours.

[corncobjelly]

money butt god bless

[justchisa]

I have never seen a money butt before

[erflump]

All hail Butt Money

[mortalsfool]

*le gasp* The money Butt?!?!

[madpanda75]

It’s not everyday you get to reblog a money butt!

[alikesyou]

mmmmm money butt

[kisa-strawberry]

There is something exceptionally unique in how avoidant Qifrey and Easthies are compared to Utowin, Olruggio, and Luluci.

Qifrey, in all his charm and grandeur he presents to his family of apprentices and friends, shudders and flinches at your touch. Who moves away from you when you shuffle next to him and recoils as though you've wounded him when you go to touch him. Do not take this for fear or disgust, however, as he seems to be a glutton for suffering. He will recoil but just as quickly chase your affection. Your quickly withdrawing is one he will jump at to grab and hold, your shocked expression smoothed over with a hand to the cheek or a forehead touch.

Olruggio, on the other hand leans into touch. Completely melts onto you should you fiddle with his clothes or tassel; finding ways to lean along your shoulders and dip his head in the curve of your neck to simply breathe you in. He tries his best to act unaffected and uncaring, but the moment you are out of his sight he can't help but fiddle and flutter about with utter worry; laying upon his pillows and hammock and dreaming of you, you, and you. He is, and perhaps always should be known as not Olruggio of the Torch, but the bearded puppy in the way he tails you like a duckling.

Luluci is perhaps a special case in that her affection, though hard earned, is perhaps the calmest of these bunch. A soft squeeze of the shoulder when passing by or smile when you happen to make eye contact. This affection and care is not in the absence or excess of affection, but rather a completely different form altogether formed through loyalty and trust. Her affection is certainly hard earned, but her reliance on your presence is one most needed.

Utowin, on the other hand, can only ever be described as a nuisance. His affection is one not commonly sought after, but when it is obtained and mutual he can flip from arrogant man child to loyal caretaker. His care is not in his untruthful words and fake bravado but rather the meals he keeps warm when you arrive home despite his schedule. Random gifts and treats left in your bags and pockets when you aren't looking soon become a commonality with this man but never approach him about it or else he'll fluster and blunder.

Easthies. His love is one hard earned and never truly followed through. His fear and subsequent depression regarding his actions and reality make him lethargic, moody, and avoidant. His love, or perhaps rather yearning is characterized in his hidden but intense stares and his random appearances and acts of oddly goodwill towards you. Perhaps his dreams— or perhaps nightmares— will cease as soon as you leave his underwater city of El Dorado. Or perhaps not, his mind can't seem to ever stop coming back to you no matter how far you are.

[thesilverwoodpubes]

[deepseapotato]

In honor of his anime debut gaslighting us for good.

(Before we move on to the horrors)

[aneurins-barnard]

BRAVE (2012) Dir. Mark Andrews & Brenda Chapman

[pepminttea]

rb with your most common recurring theme in your nightmares. mine is pregnancy

[alikesyou]

new username who this???

[aimeisan]

fun police in action

[lim3s]

Tense

Qifrey x reader

cw: slightly suggestive? imo it's pretty tame

AN: writing this as chill as possible as if I wasn't begging my mutual to write this scenario 🤞 @omniprescent

The stories about Brimhats were always the same: dangerous, deceptive, consumed by forbidden magic and darker paths.

You had long stopped caring. Let people whisper. Let them stare. Still, out of everyone, one person's judgment irritated you more than it should have. Qifrey. Calm, intelligent, endlessly composed Qifrey with his gentle smile and eyes that seemed to see right through people. He looked at you with caution every time your paths crossed, and you found that expression increasingly irresistible to ruin.

Your meetings became strangely frequent after the first one. Forest paths, market corners, quiet villages at dusk—it was almost ridiculous. Every time, Qifrey would stop, his shoulders tightening ever so slightly at the sight of your broad brim hat and dark cloak. Every time, you'd catch that little pause before he remembered to look annoyed. And every time, you smiled. "You know," you told him once, leaning lazily against a tree while evening light filtered through the branches, "you stare at me an awful lot."

"I absolutely do not."

"Oh? Then perhaps I've imagined it every single time."

"You have."

You grinned. "Liar."

Qifrey narrowed his eyes immediately. "You enjoy provoking people."

"No," you corrected smoothly, stepping closer. "Just you."

Silence. Wonderful, wonderful silence. Because for a split second he looked completely caught off guard before his expression hardened again. Yet despite all his irritation, despite every sharp response and sigh and glare, he never walked away first. Never. And you noticed things. The way his posture shifted when you stood too close. The way his eyes flickered away before returning. The way his patience around you seemed stretched thinner and thinner each time.

That evening beside the old river bridge, violet twilight spread across the sky while cool wind danced through the trees. Qifrey stood with his back partially turned when he heard your footsteps, and the look he gave you over his shoulder nearly made you laugh. Immediate irritation. Immediate defeat. "You again."

"You sound disappointed." "I am." "Liar."

His eyes narrowed. "Stop saying that."

You hopped down from the bridge railing and walked toward him slowly. "Why? Because I'm right?" You stopped directly in front of him, close enough now to see the faint tension in his shoulders. "You keep acting like you can't stand me, but somehow you're always here."

"You assume too much."

"And you avoid too much."

For a moment neither of you moved. Wind brushed softly between you, carrying the scent of rain and distant flowers, and Qifrey's gaze held yours steadily. There was frustration there. And something else. Something that had been growing for weeks, maybe longer. You looked down briefly then, eyes catching on the belt around his waist, and before he could question the look on your face, you hooked your fingers there lightly and tugged.

Just enough. Qifrey stumbled half a step forward. Suddenly there was almost no space left between you. You felt him freeze instantly.

His eyes widened. Just slightly. Enough.

Enough for your smile to slowly spread.

"Oh?" you whispered softly. "Interesting."

Qifrey stared at you.

You could practically feel the tension snapping tighter and tighter between you, his composure hanging by threads. Yet you only tilted your head and smiled wider. "What's wrong?" you murmured. "You look flustered."

"I'm not."

"No?" You leaned in just slightly closer. "Then why haven't you moved away?"

Silence. Absolute silence. Then suddenly his hand caught your wrist. Not rough. Not angry. Just certain.

His eyes searched yours for a long moment, and for the first time all evening, there was no irritation there. No careful distance. Just something startlingly honest breaking through all those walls he kept around himself.

"You never stop," he said quietly.

Your smile softened. "No."

Another beat of silence passed.

Then Qifrey sighed—small and defeated, like someone finally losing an argument he'd been having with himself for far too long.

And before you could tease him again, before another smug remark could leave your mouth, he leaned forward and kissed you.

Not because he planned to.

Not because he meant to.

Because after all that tension and frustration and denial, there simply wasn't room left for anything else.

For a split second you forgot how to think entirely. Then your eyes slowly closed.

And somewhere beneath violet skies and river light, Qifrey finally realized—with complete horror and absolutely no hope of denying it anymore—that he had made a terrible mistake.

Because now you were smiling against the kiss.

And that meant you were never letting him live this down.

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[alikesyou]

Seen that post flowting around too and tee-hee this is even cuter than I expected (#^.^#)

[knifefightscene]

[havinganormalone]

Fanfiction is insane. You can write porn so good you make friends.

[alikesyou]

THISTHISTHISTHIS☝️☝️☝️

[curoopeez]

himmel the hero set an unrealistic standart for all fictional love interests. the guy spent his entire lifetime making sure his crush would feel his love for centuries and he didn't even see her for most of it. his love was so truly unconditional that he didn't even need to be loved back, he did it all so she could see it after his passing. at his funeral frieren lamented not even knowing him much. years later she's looking for his favorite flowers because that madman played such a long con that he managed to rizz up an immortal from the grave

[procrastinationstationxx]

girls who are unapologetically horny you are my heroes 💐🌷🌹🌺🪻🌻 flowers as a thank you for your service

[yokolate]

Qifrey (キーフリ) Witch Hat Atelier (2026) — 1x05 Kamome Shirahama

[alikesyou]

I’m afraid NOTHING will ever compair to the high of seeing this scene for the first time🤧

[lim3s]

So are you

Olruggio x reader

cw: none

AN: I haven't been seeing a lot of Olruggio fics and since the anime came out a few days ago I wanted to do him a bit of justice 🖤💙

The workshop was quieter than usual tonight, the kind of quiet that felt like it was holding its breath rather than resting. The lamps burned low, their golden light pooling over scattered papers and half-finished diagrams, and the faint scent of ink and parchment hung in the air. You sat near the long wooden table, carefully tracing over a circle you’d already redrawn three times, trying to steady your hand—but your focus kept drifting, pulled instead toward the soft, rhythmic sound of someone turning pages behind you.

Olruggio had been there for hours.

He always worked like this—silent, precise, completely absorbed—but tonight there was something softer about him. Maybe it was the way his shoulders weren’t as tense, or how he occasionally paused, not to correct something, but simply to think. Or maybe it was just the quiet itself, wrapping around the two of you like a shared secret.

You didn’t realize you’d stopped drawing until his voice broke the stillness.

“You’ve been staring at that same line for quite some time.”

It wasn’t teasing.Olruggio rarely teased, but there was a faint warmth beneath the observation. You turned, startled, only to find him already looking at you over the edge of his book. His eyes, sharp as ever, softened just slightly when they met yours.

“I… was thinking,” you said, which wasn’t entirely untrue.

“Mm.” He closed the book with a gentle thud, setting it aside. “Your thoughts seem to be interfering with your work.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, setting down your pen. “You make it sound like that’s unusual.”

“For you? Not particularly,” he replied, rising from his seat. There was a faint rustle of fabric as he moved, slow and deliberate, until he stood beside you. “But usually, your distractions are more… animated.”

You tilted your head. “Animated?”

“You talk to yourself when you’re thinking too hard.”

Your cheeks warmed. “I do not.”

“You do,” he said simply, though there was no judgment in it; only a quiet certainty that made it impossible to argue. He leaned slightly over your shoulder, his presence close enough that you could feel the faint warmth of him, the subtle scent of something herbal and clean clinging to his robes. “This circle—your spacing is uneven here.”

His hand reached past you, long fingers gently guiding yours as he adjusted the curve. The contact was light, barely there, but it sent a small, unexpected flutter through your chest.

“There,” he murmured. “You were overcorrecting.”

“I was not,” you insisted, though your voice came out softer than you intended.

“You were.”

You turned your head just enough to glance at him, and immediately wished you hadn’t, he was closer than you expected, his expression calm but attentive, as if he were studying not just your work, but you. It made your breath catch for a moment.

“…You’re doing that thing again,” you said.

“What thing?”

“Observing me like I’m part of an experiment.”

A pause. Then, almost imperceptibly, his expression shifted.

“If you were,” he said quietly, “you would be a very difficult subject to study.”

You blinked. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“It is a statement of fact.”

You couldn’t help it—you smiled. And for a brief moment, something in his gaze softened further, as though the sight of it settled something in him.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It stretched gently, comfortably, until you found yourself leaning back slightly in your chair, your shoulder brushing against his arm. You half-expected him to step away—he was never one for unnecessary closeness yet he didn’t. Instead, he remained where he was, steady and quiet, as though your presence there was… acceptable. Wanted, even.

“You should take a break,” he said after a moment.

“So should you.”

“I am not the one redrawing the same line repeatedly.”

“And I’m not the one who’s been reading without moving for hours,” you countered.

“…Fair.”

You turned fully this time, resting your elbow on the table and your chin in your hand. “Come on. Just a short break.”

He hesitated. You could see it—the brief internal calculation, the weighing of tasks and time and priorities. But then his gaze flickered back to you, and something in it shifted again, quieter now, more personal.

“…Very well.”

It felt like a small victory.

You stood, stretching slightly, and motioned toward the side room. “I made tea earlier. It should still be warm.”

He followed without protest, his steps soft against the wooden floor. The side room was dimmer, lit only by a single lamp, and the kettle sat where you’d left it, faint steam still curling from its spout. You poured two cups, handing one to him.

“Careful,” you said. “It’s still hot.”

“I am aware,” he replied, though his fingers brushed yours briefly as he took the cup, and he didn’t pull away quite as quickly as he could have.

You both settled onto the low bench by the window, the quiet outside pressing gently against the glass. For a while, neither of you spoke. You sipped your tea, letting the warmth settle in your chest, and listened to the soft rhythm of his breathing beside you.

“…You were distracted,” he said eventually.

You sighed lightly. “I told you. I was thinking.”

“About what?”

You hesitated. Then, softer, “About… this. Being here. With you. All of it.”

He didn’t respond immediately, and for a moment you worried you’d said too much. But then he set his cup down carefully, his movements precise as ever, and turned slightly toward you.

“…And what conclusions did you reach?”

You looked down at your tea. “That I like it. More than I expected to.”

A quiet pause.

“…So do I.”

You blinked, glancing up at him. “You do?”

His gaze met yours, steady and unguarded in a way you didn’t often see.

“Yes.”

That was all he said—but somehow, it was enough. The simplicity of it, the certainty, made your chest feel warm in a way the tea never could.

You smiled again, softer this time. “…You’re not very good at saying things like that, are you?”

“No,” he admitted. “But I am trying.”

“That counts.”

Another pause, gentler now. And then, after a moment of quiet consideration, he reached out—slowly, deliberately—and rested his hand over yours where it lay on the bench. His touch was warm, steady, grounding.

You stilled, your breath catching slightly, but you didn’t pull away.

“…Is this acceptable?” he asked, his voice quieter than before.

You laced your fingers with his.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “It is.”

And in the quiet glow of the lamplight, with the world outside held at a distance and the workshop forgotten for just a little while, the two of you stayed like that—close, warm, and quietly, undeniably happy.

The warmth of his hand lingered, steady and grounding, your fingers still laced together as though neither of you quite wanted to test what would happen if you let go. The quiet in the room felt different now—not just peaceful, but full, like something gentle had settled into place between you.

Olruggio didn’t move for a while. He rarely rushed anything, but this time it felt more deliberate, as if he were carefully memorizing the moment—the weight of your hand in his, the way your shoulders had relaxed, the soft, almost sleepy look in your eyes.

“You’re quieter now,” he said softly.

“So are you,” you replied, a faint smile tugging at your lips.

“…I suppose I am.”

You shifted just slightly closer without thinking, your shoulder brushing more firmly against his. He didn’t pull away—if anything, his fingers tightened just a fraction around yours, subtle but unmistakable.

The tea had long since cooled, forgotten on the small table beside you.

“You know,” you murmured, glancing down at your joined hands, “if someone saw us right now, they’d probably think something strange was going on.”

“Strange?” he echoed.

“Mm. You, willingly taking a break. Sitting this close to someone. Holding hands.”

“…Is that so unusual?”

“For you? A little.”

He seemed to consider that, his gaze lowering briefly to where your fingers intertwined. Then, almost absently, his thumb brushed against the back of your hand, a small, tentative motion, like he was testing something new.

“I do not find it unpleasant,” he said.

Your heart gave a soft, traitorous flutter. “…That’s a very Olruggio way of saying you like it.”

“…I believe I already stated that.”

“Yeah, but this is different.”

“How so?”

You hesitated, searching for the right words, then laughed quietly. “It’s just… softer, I guess.”

He went quiet at that.

For a moment, you wondered if you’d said something wrong—but then you felt it: the way his hand shifted, the way his posture changed ever so slightly as he turned more fully toward you.

“…Then I will try to be softer,” he said, almost to himself.

Your breath caught, just a little.

“You don’t have to try so hard,” you whispered. “You’re already—”

You stopped, suddenly aware of how close he was now. At some point, without either of you really noticing, the distance between you had nearly disappeared. You could see the fine details of his expression—the faint crease between his brows when he was thinking, the way his gaze lingered on you like he was trying to understand something important.

“…Already what?” he asked quietly.

Your voice came out softer than intended. “…Already enough.”

Something in his expression shifted again—not dramatically, not suddenly, but like a slow, careful unraveling. The guarded edges of him softened, just enough to let something warmer through.

His free hand lifted slightly, hesitating in the air for the briefest moment before coming to rest gently against your cheek.

The touch was careful. Almost reverent.

You stilled completely, your breath catching as his thumb brushed lightly along your skin. His hand was warm—warmer than you expected—and steady, though you could feel the faintest hint of hesitation in the way he held you, as if he was giving you every chance to pull away.

You didn’t.

Instead, you leaned into it, just slightly.

That seemed to be all the reassurance he needed.

“…May I?” he asked, his voice low, quieter than you had ever heard it.

Your heart was beating too fast now, your thoughts slipping over themselves, but you nodded anyway.

“Yes.”

It happened slowly.

He leaned in with the same careful precision he applied to everything else, as if even this—especially this—deserved his full attention. His fingers tightened just slightly where they held yours, his other hand still cradling your cheek, grounding both of you in the moment.

For a brief second, you could feel his breath, warm and close—

And then his lips met yours.

Soft. So soft it almost didn’t feel real at first, like the gentle press of warmth rather than something solid. There was no urgency in it, no rush—just a quiet, tentative affection that made your chest ache in the best way.

You felt him pause, just barely, as if making sure you were still there with him.

You were.

Your fingers tightened around his, and you leaned in just a little more, returning the kiss in a way that made his breath hitch—soft, but certain.

That seemed to undo the last of his hesitation.

The kiss deepened, just slightly—not overwhelming, not intense, but warmer now, more sure. His hand against your cheek shifted, his thumb brushing gently along your skin as if he couldn’t quite believe this was happening either.

When he finally pulled back, it was slow, reluctant.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

You stayed close, foreheads nearly touching, your breaths still uneven in the quiet space between you.

“…I see,” he murmured after a moment.

You blinked, still a little dazed. “…You see what?”

“…Why you find this… preferable.”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed softly, the sound warm and a little breathless. “That’s your conclusion?”

“It is an accurate one.”

You smiled, your hand squeezing his gently. “…You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet,” he said, his voice softer now, “you remain.”

“I do.”

A quiet pause.

Then, almost shyly—something you never thought you’d associate with him—he leaned forward again, just enough to press a second, lighter kiss to your lips. Quick, but no less gentle.

This time, when he pulled back, there was the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“…We should return to our work,” he said.

You raised an eyebrow. “After that?”

“Yes.”

A beat.

“…Perhaps after a few more minutes.”

You laughed again, leaning your head lightly against his shoulder. He didn’t hesitate this time—his arm came around you, careful but sure, holding you just a little closer.

And for a while longer, the workshop, the studies, the responsibilities waiting for you both… none of it mattered.

There was only the quiet warmth between you, the soft brush of his hand against yours, and the unspoken promise that this—whatever it was—would continue, steady and certain, just like him.

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The Aquarian Tarot Deck by David Palladini, 1970.