UPDATE: to my little sweet anons in my inbox I promise I am not ignoring you in any way!! I am just so indecisive on how I want to execute your wonderful ideas but I promise they will be posted💚
MOCHI | lvl 25 (5% completed)
art by @sthefbooh + @cherrysodalite + @cocochoon + @/luvluvluv06 on twttr // icon by @/elyvieen on twttr
mochilist + bookmarks
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wait bc guys, shisui is so the type of partner to cook shirtless… i hc he loves to be in only his boxers at home because he’s usually so lazy coming home from missions and he's tired guys, give him a break.
but bf!shisui donning only an apron on top of his barely concealed form while he’s making you breakfast. you walk into the kitchen to see his ass sculpted even through his briefs, his thighs toned and his back muscles rippling as he whisks at a bowl of eggs.
he so loves it when you come up behind him, slipping your hands under the apron to place them firmly on his abs, sliding them up and down to feel the smooth ridges and the start of his happy trail when you reach the bottom of them.
"mmh, good morning to me." he'd say with a small smirk as you tiptoe to press a kiss to his lips.
"morning, hot stuff." you'd greet him back, all droopy-eyed and your hair a mess, wearing one of his large shirts to bed.
he pours the mix into a pan before adding some leftover rice to it. you rest your head against his shoulder as he cooks, it doesn't take him too long before he's garnishing the dish and placing it on the dining table in the kitchen with you still leaning on his broad and big back.
"you gonna cling to me like a koala or eat, babe?" he asks and you hum, not paying attention to anything he said. he's like a furnace and it's delightful considering the second you left your bed you were met with cool air nipping at your skin.
"in a sec." you mutter against him.
he spins around to cup your face in his hands "come on, love, it's better when the food's warm." he says softly as he trails his hands down to wrap around your shoulders and move you side to side in an attempt to wake you up properly.
your eyes shoot open with a weak glare and he chuckles "there's my princess," he says with a shit-eating grin "let's eat."
you pout, prefering to have slept on his very comfortable body, but concede "fine." you respond "thank you, babe." your hands travel down till they reach his butt and you give them a firm squeeze "keeping it tight for mama?"
Damian showers his girlfriend with gifts because he doesn't know any other way to express affection.
Damian never quite grasped the concept of a “discreet gift.”
When you reached your six-month anniversary, he appeared one morning in the penthouse kitchen with a small black velvet box. Inside was an American Express Centurion card (the black one, of course) with your name embossed in gold.
You blinked.
“This… is a card?”
“It’s yours,” he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, while pouring coffee. “No limit. Use it whenever you want.”
You twirled it between your fingers, laughing.
“Damian, I spend a maximum of two hundred dollars a month on makeup and Shein dresses…”
“Now you can spend two hundred thousand if you want,” he replied, shrugging. “Or two million. I don’t care.”
It wasn’t an exaggeration. Two weeks later, when you casually mentioned that a lavender Zimmermann dress seemed like “a dream,” you found it hanging in your closet that very night, along with fifteen other floral dresses by designers whose names you couldn’t even pronounce. All in pastel shades that looked like they’d been plucked from your secret Pinterest board.
Then came the house.
One Sunday morning, Damian blindfolded you, put you in the Aston Martin, and drove for forty minutes. When he removed the blindfold, you were standing in front of a French-style villa in the Bristol Hills, surrounded by gardens of lavender and climbing roses.
“Welcome home,” he said simply.
You were speechless.
“What do you mean, ‘welcome home’? We live in the penthouse in Gotham!”
“Now we have two homes,” he replied, shoving his hands in his pockets. “This one’s in your name. Yours alone. If you ever get tired of me, you have somewhere to go.”
You looked at him, your eyes brimming with tears, and hugged him so tightly you almost knocked him to the ground.
"I'll never get tired of you, you idiot."
He smiled against your hair.
"Even better. Because I've already bought the one next door too, in case we want to expand the garden."
You currently live together in the 800-square-meter penthouse that occupies the top two floors of Damian's own house. But on long weekends, you escape to the villa in Bristol. There, you have your own walk-in closet the size of a normal apartment, filled exclusively with floral dresses, pleated skirts, angora cardigans, pearl handbags, and kitten heels in every color of the rainbow. Damian hired a personal stylist who comes every season just to make sure you have "everything cute a sunshine deserves."
He also gave you:
- A pink diamond necklace in the shape of tiny flowers, engraved inside with “My only sunshine” (you wear it all the time, even to sleep).
- A pink Mini Cooper convertible with floral interior to match your dresses (he calls it “Barbie’s car” and pretends to hate it, but he takes you ice cream in it on Sundays).
- An additional credit card (this time a Mastercard Black) that he reloads himself every month with a ridiculously small amount “for your silly whims,” as he puts it. You mostly use it to buy him flowers and leave him little notes in his office.
- A white Pomeranian puppy named Marshmallow, who always wears pastel bows to match yours.
This morning, for example, you woke up and found a Cartier box on your pillow. Inside: pearl and diamond daisy earrings.
You, still with sleep in your eyes and your hair a mess, murmured. “Damian… I already have like seven pairs of daisy earrings.”
“These are 3 carats each,” he replied from the bathroom, shaving. “The others were too small. They didn’t do your face justice.”
You laughed, got out of bed in your strawberry-print cotton nightgown, and threw your arms around his back.
“You know I could still love you even if you didn’t buy me anything, right?”
Damian put down the razor, turned, and pulled you into his arms. He still had shaving cream on one cheek.
“I know,” he said, kissing your nose. “But I like to see you shine. And if that means buying half a Cartier, I’ll do it.”
You wiped his cheek with your thumb and smiled at him in a whisper.
“Well, today my treat is for you to stay home with me all day, without a suit, without meetings, and without saving the world.” Just you, me, and Marshmallow watching Studio Ghibli movies.
Damian sighed as if you were asking him for the greatest sacrifice in the universe, and then smiled that smile only you know.
"Deal, habibti. But only if you let me choose the pajamas."
He chose the pink cotton onesie with bunnies that you jokingly gave him for his birthday. And he spent the whole day in it, cuddling you on the sofa while you, of course, wore a matching onesie, and Marshmallow slept between you.
Because yes, Damian Wayne is capable of buying you the whole world… but what he really wants is for you to never stop being his ray of sunshine.
Because it's 1AM Tuesday and it gives off work vibes...and I liked the official artwork of him in a suit
*and omg, it turned out soooooooooo much brighter on here than on my tablet 🤦🏾♀️😂* My bad...my apologies...eek! Like fr fr. It was nice and subtle on the tablet and on here it looks like a solar eclipse 😎
cw: fake dating, wedding cake testing, friends to lovers, mutual pining, so sweet i suddenly have a cavity, oikawa is a big fat nerd pass it on
You don’t think you hear him correctly the first time.
But when he repeats himself, brashly confident and clearly enunciating his syllables between teeth and tongue, you know you’ve heard him right.
You can’t stop yourself from blurting out a genuine, “And why the fuck would we do that?”
Your words are harsh but granted, it is a stupid request.
Oikawa has officially decided the two of you should go to a bakery for wedding cake testing—to pretend to be an engaged couple. In public. As friends. Platonically. For fun.
content: msby!kiyoomi, female reader, established relationship, reader is on her period. word count: 0,9k.
Kiyoomi was washing the dishes when he heard your footsteps shuffle into the kitchen. His head snapped around, a smile already spreading across his face when he saw you in your crumpled pajamas. You looked cute, no doubt about it, but also kind of… dangerous.
“Hey, babe.” He said, his voice soft in a way reserved just for you.
You didn’t respond. No glance, no acknowledgment. You walked straight past him, heading for the fridge like it held the answer to all your problems. The fridge door hummed open, and you poked around with an intensity that made Kiyoomi pause mid-scrub, sponge in hand.
It was one of those days.
Your period had started yesterday, which explained the bad mood that had been building all week. After years together, Kiyoomi liked to think he had learned how to navigate these stormy seas. But the truth? It caught him off guard every time. You weren’t just sensitive—you were sharp, snappy, and downright scary when the mood struck. And the way you ignored him just now? That stung.
What had he done? He ran through his mental checklist. Nothing came to mind, but the tension in the room told him he was still in trouble.
“Hey. I’m home.” He tried again, drying his hands on a dish towel. “I made pasta.”
“I can see.” You muttered, not even looking up from the fridge.
“I got here an hour ago, but you were asleep.” He added, as if offering evidence of good behavior. “Are you feeling better?”
You’d called him earlier while he was at training, your voice strained as you complained about cramps so bad they’d left you bedridden. He’d felt awful for not being able to come straight home.
“No.”
Okay. Honest, at least. He hesitated. Should he just leave it? No, he couldn’t. The air between you was too tense. “Are you hungry? I can serve you a—”
“Kiyoomi.”
That tone. His name. Just his name. No ‘babe’ no ‘love’ no ‘baby’ not even a begrudging ‘Kiyo’. His chest tightened. His stomach sank.
“Yes, baby?” He asked, trying to sound calm.
“Did you eat my chocolates?”
Shit. He froze. The room suddenly felt about ten degrees hotter. For someone as imposing as Sakusa Kiyoomi—a man who made grown athletes tremble with a single glare—it was ironic how easily two things could scare him: insects, and you. Especially you.
“Um. Yeah. There wasn’t much left, so I thought—”
“Why do you always do this?” You slammed the fridge shut with a force that made him flinch, spinning to face him with fire in your eyes. “You always eat my stuff and don’t even replace it!”
“What? I don’t always—”
“First it was my ice cream. Then my oatmeal—you don’t even like oatmeal, Kiyoomi! And now my chocolates?”
“I just wanted to try it.” He muttered defensively, raising his hands as if to fend off your wrath. “I was going to buy more—”
“When? Tomorrow?” You demanded, your voice cracking, and oh no, now your eyes were glistening with tears.
“Baby, no, don’t cry.” He said quickly, his voice laced with panic. “I’ll buy more. Right now.”
“It’s nine p.m.!” You shot back, your voice wobbling but sharp. “Those were from that chocolate shop we like—they won’t be open! What am I supposed to do tonight?”
Kiyoomi froze. You had a point. And the guilt? It was eating him alive. He’d messed up, and now he was watching his favorite person unravel before his eyes.
You sniffled, and that tiny sound hit him like a punch to the gut. Then your face crumpled, and suddenly, you weren’t just sniffling—you were full-on crying. Tears streamed down your cheeks as you gestured helplessly at the fridge. “I just wanted something sweet! And now there’s nothing!”
Oh dear lord. Kiyoomi pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath that sounded like a plea for strength. This was worse than he thought. But despite the chaos in front of him, despite the rising panic in his chest, he still found you… heartbreakingly adorable.
He stepped closer, hesitant but determined. “Okay. I screwed up. I’ll fix it. Just… give me a second.”
You crossed your arms, glaring up at him. “How?”
Without another word, Kiyoomi walked over to the pantry, pulling out the bag of fancy cookies he’d been saving for himself. These were his cookies. The ones he didn’t share with anyone. Slowly, he placed them on the counter in front of you, as though offering a sacred artifact. “Here. You can have these.”
You froze, staring at the cookies, then back at him, suspicion written all over your face. “You don’t even like sharing those.”
“I know.” He said softly, his dark eyes meeting yours. “But I don’t like seeing you upset more.”
That did it. Your lip trembled, and you started crying harder. “You’re giving me your cookies?” You choked out, as if it was the most romantic gesture anyone had ever made. “You love these cookies.”
Kiyoomi exhaled sharply, his hand coming up to scratch the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, you’re more important than some cookies.” He paused, watching you sob even harder as you clutched the bag to your chest and went to hug him. “God.” He muttered under his breath, but there was a faint, helpless smile on his lips as he wrapped his arms around you.
“I’ll buy you as much chocolate as you want tomorrow.” He promised, gently smoothing a hand over your head. “And ice cream. And oatmeal. Whatever you want.”
“You’d better.” You said with your cheek against his shirt. “But you’re still on thin ice.”
He couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips. “I know.”
You looked up at him, eyes still a little watery but filled with affection. “Thanks, baby.”
There she is.
“Always.” He murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead.
