N0-0neeee

| she/her | 20s | INFJ-T | ♒ |

[chastiefoul]

nanami had to work overtime today.

unfortunately that also meant he had missed his wife’s nightly yap session in which you talked his ear off about everything but also nothing — mundanity that nanami insisted was a necessary part of his day.

so instead what welcomed him that day after a late shower was his adorable, sleepy love of his life, five blinks away from slumber as you patted the empty spot beside you, rushing the blond to lie down.

nanami heart swelled two times bigger, the exhaustment that had seeped deep within his bones slowly melted away as he embraced you, filling his entire body with warmth that he knew only you could provide.

“hi there,” he greeted softly, kissing the side of your temple. you hummed a response, the steady beat of his heart lulled you deeper into a dazed state, barely hanging on to your conciousness. “how was your day?” he whispered, couldn’t help but wanting to be in your presence a minute longer. the man had an entirely wrong idea if he thought the comforting low rumble of his voice helped you be awake at all.

“‘s good,” you mumbled through his shirt, the scent of his freshly laundered shirt made you sniff deeper, giddy in having him so close. then you felt his hand rubbed your side, his thumb rubbed a spot just under the curve of your chest.

unexpectedly, nanami started to sprinkle little kisses across your shoulder blade. you let out a low chuckle as his breath ghosted the side of your neck. “stay up a little more for me? missed your voice,” he breathed, resting his head there.

you tried to open your eyes once and stared at him, as he flashed the sweetest smile. “there’s my pretty wife.”

“your flirting won’t get me any less sleepy, silly man.”

“worth a try, don’t you think?” he relented easily, fully under the impression that he will never force you to sacrifice your rest for his selfish deed.

you did not even realize that your eyelids had closed themselves, nanami’s voice sounded like as though you were underwater. and the last thing you registered as he felt like audibly further was a kiss to your nose.

nanami narrowed his eyes affectionately, chuckling to himself as he held his entire world. “sleep tight, love. but you still owe me a talk about how your day went, okay?” he said, to no one particulary as you’re already off to the dreamland.

but it was a small matter, he’ll remind you again tomorrow. and the day after that too.

[n0-0neeee]

💜💜💜

[sixeyesonathiel]

you’d expected her tiny fingers to pull, but not with the sheer force of a miniature tyrant. your scalp prickles with the sting as you gasp out, “ow, sweetheart, gentle—”

“but mama, your hair is being naughty!” your three-year-old huffs, concentrating so hard her little nose is scrunched up. her tiny fists are hopelessly tangled in your strands, wrestling them with the fierce determination of someone trying to tame a wild beast. “it won’t stay!”

a shadow falls over the doorway, followed by a horrified gasp. satoru is standing there, the lazy saturday morning smile completely wiped from his face, replaced by an expression of pure, unadulterated panic. “what—no. absolutely not.” he strides into the room with the urgency of a bomb disposal expert, already in full crisis mode. “princess, release your mother’s hair this instant.”

your daughter looks up at him, her bottom lip immediately jutting out in a weaponized pout she clearly inherited from him. “but daddy, i’m making mommy pretty!”

“mommy is already devastatingly, unfairly, breathtakingly beautiful,” he declares, dropping to a squat to meet her gaze with the intense gravity of a world leader at a summit. “but mommy’s hair is sacred, baby girl. sacred. do you know what that means?”

she shakes her head, her grip on your poor, abused strands unwavering.

satoru takes a deep, theatrical breath, as if preparing to deliver the most important lecture of his life. “it means we treat it with reverence. with respect. with the gentleness of a butterfly landing on a flower.” he demonstrates, his long, elegant fingers—the same ones that can dismantle a curse with terrifying ease—hovering over your hair like they’re afraid to land. “see? whisper-soft touches. like you’re petting a cloud.”

you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from snorting with laughter as he continues his dramatic, heartfelt tutorial.

“your mama carried you for nine months,” he goes on, his voice dropping to a tremulous, stage-worthy whisper. “i watched her suffer through labor for fourteen hours. fourteen! i aged ten years that day! i saw things! things i can never unsee! and now you’re out here treating her precious scalp like a common jungle gym?”

your daughter blinks those big, impossibly blue eyes—his eyes—and her grip finally slackens. “sorry, mama,” she whispers, finally releasing you to pat your head with the careful, hesitant taps of someone disarming a very, very small bomb. “better?”

“much better, angel.”

“can we braid together, daddy?” she asks, and you can pinpoint the exact moment his iron-clad resolve shatters into a million glittering pieces.

twenty minutes later, you’re sitting cross-legged on the floor between them, a living canvas for their combined artistic vision. four hands are working through your hair with wildly varying degrees of skill.

satoru’s side is a perfect, intricate braid that looks like it was woven by woodland elves, each strand lying perfectly flat in a testament to his infuriating, effortless perfection.

your daughter’s side, however, is a chaotic masterpiece of lumps, bumps, and one rebellious strand that seems to be making a break for freedom towards your ear. it’s less a braid and more a suggestion of one, a textural exploration of what happens when pure enthusiasm meets a complete lack of fine motor skills.

“perfect,” satoru declares with a solemn, approving nod, pressing a soft kiss to your temple as he leans back to admire their handiwork as if it were a monet. “a masterpiece of teamwork.”

your daughter beams, clapping her tiny hands together in triumph. “we did it, daddy! mama’s the prettiest!”

you finally catch your reflection in the hallway mirror—lopsided, asymmetrical, a glorious, tangled disaster. you look completely and utterly ridiculous.

it’s the most beautiful you’ve ever looked.

[n0-0neeee]

💜💜💜

[sixeyesonathiel]

the slap echoes louder in your heart than on your cheek. your baby’s tiny palm had connected with your face with all the might of a god in training—soft, pudgy fingers, yes, but wielded with the strength only an infant could mysteriously summon.

“ow—!” you blink, more startled than hurt.

satoru freezes, blue eyes widening as if he just watched a tragedy unfold before him. “did… did you just hit my wife?” he gasps, tone horrified.

your baby—his baby, his precious little bundle of love—just gurgles, waving those dangerous little fists around again.

satoru clutches his chest like he’s been betrayed. “unbelievable. the one woman who carried you for nine months, who feeds you, rocks you, sacrifices sleep for you—and this is how you repay her?!”

you’re laughing now, but he isn’t. he takes the baby from your arms, holding them up eye-level like a man about to deliver a stern lecture. “listen here, kid. i don’t care if you’ve got my genes—especially because you’ve got my genes—you should know better. that’s my wife. my sugarplum, my sweetheart, my absolute angel. nobody lays a hand on her, not even you, my own flesh and blood.”

the baby just blinks, then drools.

you snort. “satoru, they don’t even understand words yet.”

“oh, they understand,” he insists gravely, bouncing the baby slightly. “they understand fear of consequences. i’ll tickle you silly if you ever dare raise your hand at your mama again.”

the baby squeals—half from delight, half from the gentle onslaught of his long fingers wiggling against their belly.

and you, still rubbing your cheek, can’t stop smiling. “sometimes i wonder who the real baby is.”

“no, i’m the best husband in the world,” he corrects smugly, leaning down to kiss your cheek right where the baby had slapped. “and i’ll protect you from anyone. even this tiny traitor i helped make.”

[n0-0neeee]

💜💜💜

[kenntoria-deactivated20250831]

you always wondered what it’d be like to see nanami completely drunk. not tipsy. not that polite one-glass blush he gets after a long dinner. not the loose-tie loosened-smile version of him.

you wanted to see him drunk.

so one slow, rainy saturday, curled up in your apartment with nothing to do and a few bottles of sake on the kitchen counter, you propose it. “let’s get drunk.”

nanami raises an eyebrow. “why?”

“because i want to see you wasted,” you grin, crawling into his lap like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world. “i wanna know if you cry. or sing. or if you finally admit you like those trashy dating shows i watch.”

he groans, but you feel the low rumble of it in his chest, the amusement under his breath. “you’re insufferable.”

“and you’re avoiding the question.”

he sighs like you’re the biggest burden in the world—but an hour later he’s sitting on the floor with you, sleeves rolled up, cheeks already pink from the second round of drinks, and muttering something about how he’s too old for this.

“i can still work tomorrow,” he slurs his words a little. “can still do long division. give me a pen. i’ll prove it.”

you laugh so hard you snort. “no one’s asking you to do math, kenny.”

“good,” he mutters, blinking slowly. “fuck math.”

two more drinks in and he’s properly drunk. soft, golden skin flushed all the way down his neck, glasses abandoned on the floor, and his head lolling onto your shoulder like it’s the only place in the world it belongs.

he’s clingier when he’s drunk—in a sweet, sleepy, murmuring-into-your-neck way. every few minutes he whispers something completely incoherent and kisses your jaw.

“you smell nice,” he mumbles. “smell like home.”

your heart does a little twist.

he nuzzles into your collarbone like a cat and sighs again. “you’re gonna marry me one day, right?”

you freeze.

you’re not sure he even realizes what he said. he just keeps rubbing lazy circles into your arm with his thumb, blinking slowly like he’s fighting sleep.

you finally whisper, “yeah. if you ask me.”

he lifts his head. squints at you. like he’s trying to focus through the alcohol.

then he grins.

and oh god, it’s such a boyish grin—uneven and almost smug, like he’s just won a bet you didn’t know you were making.

“good,” he whispers. “was gonna ask you tomorrow.”

your breath catches in your throat. “you were?”

he nods, then rests his forehead against yours and closes his eyes. “but now you said yes first. i’m lucky.” he murmurs.

he’s asleep before you can even process it.

passed out in your lap, still holding your hand.

and you just sit there in the dim glow of the tv, sake forgotten, stroking his hair with your heart about to burst.

[n0-0neeee]

💜💜💜

[mayweholdhands]

Sleep so good you wake up disoriented

[n0-0neeee]

💜💜💜

[kenntoria-deactivated20250831]

synopsis ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ you talk about your husband like he is a dream and, frankly, your coworkers think that you are making him up. that is until your husband shows up.

you talked about your husband all the time.

nanami this nanami that

“oh, my husband makes the best lunchboxes”

“he stayed up to help me with my report”

“he walks me to the station when i stay late”

you weren’t annoying about it. not really. just a little too consistent. always saying things like “he’ll pick me up after work today, we’re going to get pastries!” and showing off texts that made your coworkers tilt their heads and squint.

kento nanami sounded fake.

a little too nice. a little too attentive.

and when you tacked on the fact that he was hot — “blond, tall, glasses, kinda quiet but really handsome, you know?” — people at work started to think that maybe you were pulling everyone’s leg.

just a little.

not out of malice — no, never that — but maybe you were lonely. maybe you just needed a sweet little fantasy to get you through the day. who could blame you?

because no way someone like nanami existed. not the way you described him. it just didn’t sound real. not in this world. not in this economy.

but you never let up.

you beamed like a lovesick fool when your phone lit up with his name. you refused to make afterwork plans on fridays because that was “friday pasta night with kento.” you sighed wistfully every time someone so much as mentioned a bakery and then whispered, “kento always remembers my favorite,” like you were in some fairytale.

you weren’t smug about it either. it was just… relentless. like you were trying to manifest it into reality.

and maybe it would’ve stayed harmless water cooler gossip — “hey, what do you think her husband actually looks like?” or “maybe it’s just her roommate who makes all the food?” — if you hadn’t mentioned that he’d be picking you up from work one day soon.

“he’s on leave,” you’d said, head bent over a spreadsheet, smiling to yourself. “wants to take me out for dinner. he’ll be here early. maybe you’ll see him.”

you said it innocently. with that dreamy lilt you always got when his name was on your tongue.

but that set off everyone.

bets were placed. theories floated. some said he’d never show. others swore they’d catch you whispering to your reflection in the hallway like a crazy person. one guy from accounting said he saw you with a facetime open to a picture of a k-pop idol and he swore it was nanami. it was all harmless. mostly.

people just didn’t believe it.

until the elevator doors slid open.

and nanami stepped out.

he wore a tan wool coat, fitted slacks, button-up half undone at the throat — all that fine-tuned, elegant masculinity that seemed sculpted into place. hair slicked back, wristwatch glinting, and an expression that was all quiet restraint, the kind that turned heads on instinct.

and his eyes — sharp, deep, familiar — scanned the room once, then softened the moment he saw you.

“you ready, sweetheart?” he asked.

your coworkers went silent.

someone dropped their pen.

you lit up instantly. grinned, grabbed your bag, waved at everyone with a cheery, “see you tomorrow!” like this wasn’t the most monumental moment of vindication in the history of your office.

nanami took your coat from you before you even shrugged it off fully. guided you with a hand on the small of your back. leaned in and brushed a kiss to your temple so naturally that your coworker audibly gasped.

he glanced up then. noticed the sea of frozen faces.

“good evening,” he said politely, like he didn’t just obliterate the collective doubt of your entire floor with one gentle peck.

you left with him. smiling, chatting, looping your arm through his as he opened the door and held it for you.

and behind you — a stunned, stunned silence.

“…so,” someone whispered, finally. “that was nanami?”

“the nanami?” another croaked.

“that man’s real?”

“she wasn’t even exaggerating,” came the hollow, awe-struck reply. “she was under-selling him.”

and in the elevator, nanami turned to you and smiled, faint but amused. “you were right,” he murmured, “they really didn’t believe i existed.”

you snorted and leaned into his side. “i told you. now they’ll think i made you in a lab.”

“i wouldn’t be bothered by that,” he said, tugging you closer, kissing your knuckles as the doors closed. “you did a perfect job, if so.”

[n0-0neeee]

💜💜💜

[moonstruckme]

Hello Mae!! I loooovveee your fics!!

I'm feeling rather sick right now, so I wondering if you could write EMT!Marauders x Sick!Reader (vomiting, passing out, high fever etc)

If not then that's ok, thanks!

Thanks for requesting!

cw: vomit mention (past tense), reader has a high fever but isn't like super super out of it (though it's mentioned some of her memories are a bit hazy)

emt!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1k words

The voices start out in your dreams. Low, indistinct murmurings, in voices that you know instinctively are safe. They’re warm enough to cuddle into like extra blankets. So, you don’t feel particularly inclined to rouse until something starts rubbing your cheek. 

Your lashes peel apart like they’ve been stuck together with glue in your sleep. It’s a herculean effort. Worth it to find Remus on the other side, though. 

“Hi,” he murmurs, thumb still stroking your cheek. 

“Hi,” you whisper back. 

Remus smiles—it’s one of your favorites from him, so tender it’s almost shy, like he doesn’t want anyone to see—and ducks down to kiss the corner of your mouth. Dutifully missing your lips, as your boyfriends have been sentenced to do for the past couple of days. You blink fuzzily. The hall light is on, illuminating dimly your otherwise dark bedroom and Sirius and James peeling off their uniforms. Sirius is typing something into his phone, while James watches you out of the corner of his eye, grinning when he catches you looking. 

It’s possible you’ll never not flush when your boyfriend grins at you while stepping out of his trousers. This may be a life sentence. 

“How are you feeling?” Remus asks. 

You make a sort of humming sound. You’re sick of feeling sorry for yourself and besides that you’re running out of adjectives. First it had been not right, then not very well, then plainly bad. Now you feel distinctly in worse territory, but to voice that feels too much a plea for pitying treatment, and you won’t do it. 

Remus murmurs, “Yeah?” and tsks like he hears it anyway. He lays a hand over your forehead, frowning. 

“What time is it?” you ask. 

“Early,” James says, like an apology. “We just got in.” 

You nod like this is expected. It’s not unusual for your boyfriends to come home from a long shift in the early hours of the morning, but truthfully, you don’t remember exactly when they’d left. You were in a sort of feverish, half-asleep state for most of the evening. 

“Open,” Remus prompts softly. You do, and he nudges a thermometer into your mouth, smoothing some hairs away from your face once he’s done. He looks worried. So many sweet, tender touches. It’d be enough to make you dizzy even if you were fully conscious. 

“Is she warmer?” Sirius asks. 

“I think so,” says Remus. 

James makes a sad puppy noise and flops onto the bed, now in his underwear. “I’m sorry, lovie,” he whines, practically crawling on top of you to put his face in your stomach. “It’s shit to be poorly for so long. Have you been sick again since we left?”

You have to think about it, but shake your head. This seems to satisfy James somewhat. 

“Did you drink your fluids?” Sirius asks. You nod this time. He walks over to the water bottle on the nightstand, giving it an experimental shake. “Still feels full.” 

Remus’ lips twitch at whatever look crosses your face. The thermometer beeps, and he pulls it from your mouth. 

“I drank some,” you defend yourself. 

Sirius gives you a playful reprimanding look, but then his attention is Remus’ as Remus pulls the thermometer closer. “Thirty-nine point seven.” He sighs, bringing his hand to your head again. He pets your hair. “Sweetheart…” 

“Nothing hurts, still?” James asks you. 

“No,” you mumble, contrite. You feel like you’re disappointing them. 

Sirius crouches by the bed, leaning forward to give you a pillowy soft kiss on your forehead. He’s thrown on an old t-shirt of Remus’, worn and with holes in the soft fabric. “It’s okay, baby. It’s not your fault; you’ve always been hot, it’s only getting worse.” 

You give him a dry look. That joke got old within the first day of your fever, but the way he delivers it so solemnly now does make a smile tug at your lips. Sirius bumps his nose into your temple teasingly. 

“Might’ve helped if you drank your fluids, though.” 

“Fuck off,” you murmur. Really, you love having him so close, and Sirius seems to know this. His expression is smug as he gives you another conciliating kiss. 

Remus is looking down at the both of you like you’re his favorite annoyances. “I think it’s time to go to hospital,” he determines. 

You frown. “But you just came from there.” 

“Ugh, I know,” Sirius groans. “The things we do for you, hm?” 

“You don’t seem to be improving,” Remus says. “We need to get a better idea of what this is.” 

“Can’t it just be a stomach bug?” you sulk. 

He hums, sweeping his thumb over your forehead. It’s warm and calloused. “It’d be nice if it was,” he says, “but we ought to know for sure. And this doesn’t quite fit the parameters of a regular stomach bug, dovey.” 

“It’d be helpful to have some bloodwork done,” James agrees, sitting up a bit to prop his chin on your stomach. 

“Bloodwork?” you repeat. 

“I sure fucking hope it does,” quips Sirius. When you still look trepidatious, he laughs and smooches your cheek. “You’ll be fine, my love. We’ll take good care of you.” 

“The best care,” James seconds, sitting up on his haunches to un-pin your stomach from the bed. “C’mon, let’s get up.” 

You eye all three of your boyfriends, but begin sitting up slowly. “You just got home. You really want to go back to work at” —you glance at the clock on your nightstand— “six thirty in the morning?” 

“That’s exactly what we want to do. You’re so smart, baby.” Sirius gives your cheek a pat. You pout at him in response; your head hurts now that you’re upright. “Anyway, I texted Mary at St. Bart’s, and she said we can get in if we go now.” 

Remus kisses Sirius’ head in silent thanks as James gets up to dig through a drawer of Remus’ jumpers for you both to put on. 

“We just love work so much,” he jokes, tossing you one. Sirius catches it before it can hit you. “We can hardly stay away, you know? Plus, bring your girlfriend to work day is a great time, I hear.” 

“So fun,” you sigh, resigned. 

Sirius smiles softly at you as he pulls Remus’ jumper over your head. “That’s the spirit.”

[n0-0neeee]

💜💜💜

[kenntoria-deactivated20250831]

tori’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ just some emotional damage via praise and love because i’m pretty sure nanami is not protected from that

nanami is brushing his teeth when you sidle up beside him in the mirror, stretch your arms overhead, and sigh like a sleepy cat.

“you’re very handsome, you know,” you murmur, voice low and scratchy with sleep.

he blinks at you through the mirror.

you blink back. grin.

“what was that?” he asks, mouth full of toothpaste foam.

“i said you’re handsome.”

he stares for one more second—and then leans over the sink and spits, lingering a second longer than necessary to keep his expression in check.

“why?”

“…why are you handsome?”

“no, why would you say that?”

you raise an eyebrow. “because it’s true?”

he rinses out his mouth like he’s trying to scrub the embarrassment off his tongue. “you can’t just—say things like that. in the morning. while i’m brushing my teeth.”

“i literally woke up and felt overcome with love for your stupid face.”

he covers his face with one hand.

“you don’t like being complimented while you’re… minty?”

he sighs. “i’m not prepared for this level of sincerity at 7am.”

“what is your preferred time for me to express how stupidly in love with you i am?”

“never,” he mutters. “or at least after coffee.”

you lean in, cheek against his bicep, watching him in the mirror as he rinses his toothbrush. “i like your laugh lines.”

“they’re wrinkles.”

“they’re hot.”

he drops the toothbrush. “stop.”

“you have excellent forearms, by the way.”

“what does that mean?”

“and your shoulders? criminal. you should be fined.” your hands fall off of them as he steps away to go get dressed.

“i’m leaving.”

“i’ll miss you desperately, lover:”

he stares at you from the doorway like he’s rethinking his entire identity. then, very slowly, he walks back over and takes your face in his hands.

“listen,” he says seriously. “you can’t just… emotionally ravage me before I’ve had a chance to emotionally armor myself.”

“that sounds like a you problem.”

“it is a me problem.”

you grin. “does it help if i say i’m proud of you and think you’re amazing and love the way you always fold the laundry just how i like?”

his expression crumples.

he buries his face in your neck.

“stop,” he says, muffled. “this is damaging.”

“do you need me to—”

“no. no more compliments. not until at least lunch.”

you giggle, wrapping your arms around his waist. “deal. but at noon, i’m telling you you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

he sighs against your skin. “i’ll prepare accordingly.”

[cr4yolaas]

@mayyhaps for nanami’s wife herself

[n0-0neeee]

💜💜💜

[sixeyesonathiel]

satoru absolutely baby talks you when you’re sick.

not in a mocking way. no. this is full-blown softie satoru, disgusting levels of wife guy activated, baby voice on max, coddling you like you’re the most precious, fragile little thing in the universe—and not because he thinks you’re weak, but because it’s the one time you let him get away with it without putting up your usual walls.

because you’re sick. hot forehead, flushed cheeks, big watery eyes that blink up at him like you’re seeing god—or worse, like you might actually cry if he leaves the room. like you need him. and honestly? that does something to him. wrecks him, even.

and you do need him. you’re fevered, shivering, curled up in bed in one of his oversized shirts, your hair a mess, nose stuffy, brain thoroughly fried. your fingers twitch like you want to reach for him but can’t be bothered to try, lips parted in a weak sigh as you breathe through your mouth. your usual bratty, mouthy, too-proud-for-help self? gone. obliterated. absolutely bulldozed by the flu. all that’s left is a miserable little lump of a wife who clings to his sleeve like a koala and mumbles, “’toru… i feel like a soggy towel…”

his whole body stills. there’s a twitch in his brow, like his heart has physically clenched. his lips part, just a little, before curling up in the softest grin. eyes soften behind pale lashes—just a hint of red at the corners from how tired he is too—but none of that matters. not when you’re looking up at him like that. the corner of his mouth tugs upward, not in amusement—but in something far gentler. reverent, even. and then god. he melts. instantly. his heart shatters into a million pieces and reforms just to explode again.

“awww, my poor widdle baby,” he coos, already pressing a kiss to your damp forehead. his breath is warm, his nose brushing yours. “does my soggy towel need her soup? wanna be spoon-fed by the hottest nurse in the world?”

you don’t even roll your eyes. you nod. actually nod. sluggish, dazed. and then flop into his arms like dead weight, forehead nudging his neck, skin hot against his collarbone. you let him hold you like you’re made of glass.

he almost cries. really. because you’re letting yourself be coddled. cuddled. taken care of. no sass. no biting remarks. just tiny, pitiful sniffles and pouty faces and your arms wrapping around his waist like he’s your anchor. like you don’t want him to go anywhere. like you can’t function without him.

and satoru eats that up like it’s a feast.

“you want juice, angel? how about some water? apple slices? forehead kisses every ten minutes? medicine with a kiss as a chaser?”

“mmm… apple. but peeled…” you whisper, voice small and hoarse, eyes half-lidded and glossy.

“of course, peeled! only the finest fruits for my fevered little dumpling,” he gasps, hand dramatically on his chest like he’s been knighted for a sacred quest. there’s a shine in his eyes—something starry, something stupidly in love.

he tucks you in like a burrito, tugs the blankets up to your chin, and then scoops you onto his lap because apparently that’s where you sleep best. his fingers comb through your hair, slow and tender, while your cheek rests limp against his shirt. he puts on your comfort show, even though you barely keep your eyes open long enough to register the sound.

he hums something soft—tuneless and low—while cradling you like a fevered woodland creature. his tone dips lower when he leans in again.

“do you still love me even if i’m gross and sweaty and my nose is red?” you mumble, lips wobbling, brows pinched like the thought genuinely upsets you.

his hand smooths along your cheek. “i love you way more,” he says instantly. “you’re my sweaty, sniffly soulmate. cutest germ gremlin i’ve ever seen.”

“you’re lying…”

“baby, i would kiss your snotty nose right now if you asked.”

there’s something almost reverent in the way he says it—like it’s a vow. and he means it. he’d do it without hesitation, wouldn’t even flinch. because if it’s you, there’s no such thing as gross. not when he’s this stupidly in love. not when every part of you, even at your messiest, makes him want to wrap you up in his arms and never let go.

you groan into his shirt, muffled and pitiful, and he grins like you just serenaded him.

“who’s the most handsome man in the world?” he asks out of nowhere, fingers curling behind your ear, brushing tenderly as if coaxing the answer out. his voice dips low, honey-sweet and just a little smug. not because he expects the answer—no, he needs it. his entire self-worth depends on your silly little validation right now.

“you are,” you mumble, cheeks squished slightly against his chest, nuzzling closer without shame.

his fingers twitch where they cradle your skull. his whole face lights up like a sunrise. pale lashes flutter, and his pupils dilate like he’s just been told he won a lifetime supply of you.

“louder.”

“toruuuuu… it’s you…”

the pleased little noise he makes is downright sinful. his lashes flutter shut as he closes his eyes in smug bliss, and he tilts his head back like he’s soaking in the warmth of your praise. if he had a tail, it would be wagging.

“that’s right,” he beams, practically preening, fingers now stroking under your chin. “say it again. for my health.”

“you’re the handsomest… in the whole world… even when your hair’s stupid…”

he gasps, clutching his chest with a hand like you just shot cupid’s arrow straight through it. “rude and true. i’ll take it.”

his heart is doing somersaults. he’s convinced there’s never been a more fulfilling moment in his life. not the promotions, not the accolades, not even the recognition. just this—this feverish little version of you, croaky and honest and too tired to pretend you’re not as in love with him as he is with you.

he whispers the dumbest, softest shit while holding you against his chest like you’re something sacred. calls you every pet name in the book and then invents new ones on the spot: baby, sweetheart, princess, dumpling, snugglebug, fever bean, coughy cake, angel face mcsweats-a-lot.

you blink up at him between fits of sleep, lips parted like you want to say something else—but all that comes out is a pathetic little whimper. his hand smooths over your spine again, touch featherlight.

“what was that, baby?” he whispers.

“love you…” you murmur, eyes falling shut.

his heart flips. flips, spirals, and lands in a fucking somersault.

he kisses your temple and you go quiet.

and when you finally pass out, nose smooshed into his collarbone, snoring faintly like the most adorable little gremlin, he exhales like it’s the best moment of his life. like the universe aligned just for this. like his purpose has been fulfilled. his hand never stops moving—stroking your spine, combing your hair, tracing shapes into your shoulder blade beneath the fabric of his shirt.

he lives for clingy, soft, unguarded sick-you. because even though he adores the bratty, sharp-tongued, little menace version of you that picks fights and flicks him on the forehead and makes him earn every kiss—this version? this sleepy, dependent little furnace wrapped in blankets and his love? she needs him.

and satoru loves being needed. loves being the one you reach for, even when you’re half-delirious. especially when you’re half-delirious.

he leans down again, voice barely audible now.

“rest up, baby,” he whispers, brushing your hair from your clammy forehead. “you’ll feel better soon. and then i’ll go back to being emotionally bullied by my beloved wife.”

[n0-0neeee]

💜💜💜

[sixeyesonathiel]

satoru doesn’t mean to smile during arguments. really, he doesn’t. it just happens. you’re standing there, glaring at him like he’s the last brain cell on earth, hands on your hips, voice sharp with all the righteous fury of someone whose husband just loaded the dishwasher wrong for the third time this week. and he knows you’re mad. you’re scolding him, passionately, domestically, like a loving wife with a bone to pick and a kitchen to keep from descending into chaos.

but god, you’re so cute when you’re mad.

like—what is he supposed to do? not smile? not melt a little when you stomp your foot and jab your finger at the detergent pod box like it personally offended you? not get completely deranged over the fact that his wife, the love of his life, the person who picked him, is standing there yelling at him over crumbs on the counter like it’s the end of the world?

so yeah. he tends to smile. a little. maybe a lot. maybe it’s a grin. maybe it’s unhinged. he’s not even sure anymore.

and then you pause mid-rant. squint. narrow your eyes. “what are you smiling for? do you even take me seriously?”

satoru immediately gets full-body emotional whiplash. instant regret. wet cat mode activated.

“no, no, i do, angel, i swear,” he says way too fast, hands up like he’s being held at gunpoint. “i just—you're so cute when you're angry, it’s a problem. a serious one. i’m suffering.”

you don’t look amused. not even a little. he considers diving out the window.

because yeah, he’s bipolar about it. on one hand: you’re mad at him and that makes his chest ache and his brain fuzz and his heart do this panicky do something!!! dance. but on the other hand: he’d literally write sonnets about how hot you look when you're in cleaning gloves and yelling about mixing whites and darks.

it's a tragic situation. he wants to make it right. but he also wants to put a ring on your finger all over again.

because this is married life. this is love. this is you, with your hands on your hips and your brows furrowed, looking at him like he’s both the bane of your existence and the only idiot you’d trust with your forever.

and satoru’s brain just goes, wow. lucky me.

even if he’s currently in trouble for putting the towel in the wrong laundry load. again.

worth it. totally worth it.

[n0-0neeee]

💜💜💜

[luvkimi-deactivated20250626]

satoru gojo—the strongest sorcerer—is an absolute softie when it comes to his wife.

the man could kill everyone in japan if he wanted to, yet when you're around, he's as dangerous as a kitten.

and that confused everyone around him.

how was it that even a murmur of your name would make the famous gojo gush and drop everything to talk about you? he could be in the midst of fighting a curse, but if his phone buzzes and your name is on the screen? that curse might as well accept its fate or be prepared for him to be on call with you for the remainder of the fight.

"toru, are you busy?" "not at all, baby—" his words would be cut off as the curse he was fighting attempted to land a hit on him, and the call would only fill with the sound of crashes before you realized what was happening. "are you seriously in the middle of a mission!?" your question remained unanswered for a second before you heard satoru laugh, "i mean, i was, but did you need something? money? sweets? a photo of your handsome husband?" "SATORU!"

it's clear to everyone that gojo is in love with you. he wouldn't just take a bullet for you, but rather a whole nuclear bomb if needed. he's willing to risk everything for you—even his job.

if he's in a meeting and you call him, he's picking up the phone no matter how many dirty looks he gets. what are they going to do about it? he's the strongest, but with the way he acts around you, you'd think otherwise.

his students have noted that every time you come into his classroom, he'd grin like a high schooler in love. he practically has heart eyes that you can see through his blindfold.

"gojo-sensei?" yuji's voice rang out in the classroom, "yes, yuji?" gojo's tone was filled with boredom as the man was leaning back in his chair—feet on top of his desk while he lifted a finger to pull back his blindfold. yuji was seen with megumi and nobara, and all three of them were pointing at the door. where you, his lovely wife, stood with a bento box. "you forgot your lunch—" "MY WIFE!" the sound of gojo's chair hitting the floor echoed as you took a step back from the doorframe, yet your attempt to move out of the way was pointless as gojo barreled toward you with open arms. his arms wrapped around you in a tight hug, and you let out a quiet sigh as you held the bento box up. "is my beautiful wife here to visit her husband?" "i'm here to give you your lunch, toru." "MY BEAUTIFUL WIFE LOVES ME ENOUGH TO COME VISIT ME!" while gojo continued to ramble with you still in his arms, the three students watched the scene with narrowed eyes. "do you think she ever gets tired of him?" nobara asked bluntly, and yuji only shrugged. they continued to watch as gojo only hugged you tighter, and a soft smile appeared on your face as he continued to talk. "i don't think so..." yuji mumbled before turning his attention back to his phone, and the others did the same thing. except for gojo. because his attention was on you and you only.

comments & reblogs are always appreciated !!

[n0-0neeee]

💜💜💜

[mayweholdhands]

[n0-0neeee]

💜💜💜

[slttygeto]

Gojo (Name) & Gojo Satoru Take A Couple’s Quiz | GQ

pairing: actor! satoru x singer! fem! reader

genre: fluff, slightly suggestive towards the end.

note: its been a whiiiile

📊 Video Stats

12M views | 200K likes | 35K comments

The set that your team had picked for this specific interview had a welcoming vibe to it. A living room set up, with a long creamy beige couch and matching armchairs facing one another. Separating the two was a round dark wooden table, with beautiful pink, yellow and white tulips threatening to spill out of their vase. 

Before the camera starts rolling, you sit on one of the chairs whilst another person shuffles to take a seat on the other. 

No pressure, just have fun

“Hi, I’m (Name),” you lean back in your seat, waving at the camera.

“And I’m Satoru,” the tall white haired man casts you a knowing look, and then you both speak.

“This is the GQ’s Couple’s Quiz.”

One would debate whether or not the latest single from an artist is their Hit song, or if the upcoming movie of a certain actor will have a good roll-out with all the promotion it was getting. But if there was anything the industry agreed on, it was the fact that you and Satoru were THE it couple.

Not just of the year, or the previous or even three years prior—you have been together for more than a decade, and the fact that you kept most of your relationship off the spotlight meant that this interview was a big deal to both of your fans.

Whilst Satoru was a famous, well respected actor in the industry who started out at a very young age, you had chosen singing as your career path. The two occupations rarely ever came together unless it was for fashion week or any other major event like the Oscars or the Met Gala. However, you were very proud to admit that you met your husband under adorable circumstances. 

“Who should start?” You grab the cards from the round table and your husband gestures towards you with his left hand, making sure to flash his wedding ring at the camera.

“After you madame,” he makes an exaggerated bow and you snort. 

“Oh wow, what a gentleman.” You say jokingly and he grins as he leans back in his seat.

You shuffle through the cards, deciding which question to go for first. You trusted your husband, you knew that there wasn’t anything he didn’t know about you. But it was fun to test his knowledge once in a while.

“Oh this is a good question,” you clear your throat. “Dear husband, how old was I when I knew that I wanted to be a singer.”

The white haired male answers almost immediately.

“4 years old.” 

You giggle as you clap your hands. “Good job! You’ll get an extra point if you say which song I sang that made me fall in love with singing.” 

Satoru pretends to be stretching, looking around the filming crew with a raised eyebrow. “Y’all see that? She’s making up her own rules as we go.” 

And the crew laughs when you gasp, hitting him lightly with your cards. “Just answer! I’m giving you extra points.”

“I have nothing by Whitney Houston.” He says without missing a beat before covering his mouth and mumbling to the camera. “A little too ambitious, might I add.” 

“Satoru!”

The two of you share a laugh and Satoru raises his hands to show that he surrenders, grabbing the back of your hand to kiss it. “Just kidding, you sound amazing.”

A decade and two kids later, the man still makes you blush like a highschooler. 

“Okay, next question—oh I like this one!” You turn to the GQ team with a big smile. “You guys really took into consideration all of my questions.”

“And I’ll get it right this time.”

“We’ll see about that,” 

Satoru sees the glint in your eyes and for a split second, his eyes land on your lips before locking with yours again. 

“What outfit was I wearing when we first met?” You hide your face with the question cards, kicking your feet slightly as you watch the wheels in his head turn. 

“Wait–”

“I knew you wouldn’t remember!” 

“I do!” Satoru quickly jumps to defend himself. “Ugh, I’m just hesitant about the colors because it was literally sunset.” 

It was sunset when you first met?

The two of you quickly realize Satoru’s slip, but neither of you is upset about it. All you do is nod before Satoru reaches towards you, grabbing your knee.

“This woman right here–”

“Satoru,” you warn him, but it’s harmless. You’re not actually angry, but you are wondering if it was actually time to share such a significant detail about your story together.

“Stood right in front of the sunset while I was trying to take a picture.” He squeezes your knee as he continues. “At first I was a little annoyed and half wondering ‘who the hell is that?’ and the other half recognized her.” 

You hide your hot face with the cards. 

“Then when I went to look at the picture I took, it was literally magical. She turned around when I said ‘excuse me?’ and my camera had caught the exact moment when she turned her head.”

A synchronized “awwww” echoed through the studio as you tried to calm your beating heart.

And you just happened to be on vacation together?

“Yeah, we didn’t even know. We only found out because of that picture.”

“And the rest is history,” your left hand, adorned with a gorgeous wedding ring, slowly finds his and you squeeze it. 

After a couple of questions, it’s time for Satoru to be the one quizzing you. And he seems to be very excited about it.

“Alright,” he fixes the cards on his lap with a wide grin, casting you a knowing look. “You know what time it is.”

“It’s quiz timeee,” you say half enthusiastically and Satoru throws his head back as he laughs. 

“You don’t sound excited at all!”

“I am! I just want to win!”

Satoru smirks before shuffling through the cards. “And maybe you will,” 

“Please, you’re so competitive you don’t let your own sons win.”

The filming crew share a laugh and Satoru pretends to be offended as he places a hand on his chest. “Accusations!”

“Yeah yeah,” you wave your hands at him. “Go ahead.”

“Alright question number one,” he holds the card up to his face before clearing his throat. “I have always known that I wanted to be an actor, what was my very first project eve–”

“Jujutsu middle school art class project!” You answer loudly, almost jumping off your seat. “You were 12, had just purchased a camera and your teacher asked you to film something that inspired you. He didn’t expect you to include yourself acting in the video, and you ended up using it as your auditioning tape for your first official project ever.” 

You give such a detailed answer that Satoru can’t help but lean in and kiss you all over your face while you squeal.

“My wife ladies and gentlemen,”

“You’re so cheesy,” you laugh as he leans back in his seat.

“Next question!” He shuffles through the cards again before finally landing on a good question. “What is my favorite album of yours?”

“Oh god,” you cover your face with your hands. “I know the answer, but it feels almost self-centered to bring up my music into this.”

Your husband lightly smacks your head with the cards and you chuckle lightly. “I know it’s my third studio album.”

He points towards the camera with a knowing grin. “Tell the audience why.”

And at first you hesitate, your face getting hotter and your hands clammy and sweaty. But eventually you give in with a nervous giggle. “..because you were in the studio with me when I was writing most of the songs.”

Your husband claps his hands, smirking at the camera knowingly. “If you know, you know.”

“You’re unbelievable!” 

🗨️ Top Comments

💬 [satoruthestrongest]: GET A ROOOOOOM  (2.3K likes)

💬 [somuchtosay]: time to relisten to the album…if you know what I mean  (5k likes)

💬 [onehastogo]: I literally felt like I was thirdwheeling the entire time  (7,3K likes) 💬 [(name)ntoru]: I have never in my life been so invested in a couple’s healthy relationship like theirs (1.8K likes)

💬  [sweetnsourchicken] replied to  [(name)ntoru]: me too its actually concerning

💬 [alltheavocadoes]: the way she scolds him but he makes her nervous at the same time????(923 likes) 💬 [albumoftheyear]: satoru looks like he’s plotting baby number 3 with those looks (508 likes) 💬 [cmontryme]: the only couple ever  (392 likes)

2025 © all works belong to @slttygeto. do not repost, translate or steal any of my works.

[n0-0neeee]

💜💜💜

[ilovemitsuya]

He’s so precious ♡

I missed him sm

[ilovemitsuya]

Husband and Wife coded ♡

a win for the zayne lovers

[poisonf0rest]

wrath of the sea god

♱⋅── rafayel x reader

♱⋅── about: Rafayel is a creature worthy of worship. Something born from the deep sea, something incomprehensible, something that should scare you. And yet his siren song only lulls you in closer, and you fear it may be too late to even think about running away. (deep sea monster!rafayel)

♱⋅── word count: 5.9k

♱⋅── warnings: mdni, smut, inhuman raf, possessiveness, overstimulation, worship, breeding kink, tw yandere, tw drowning, tw teratophilia, tw thalassophobia

art credit to @/hcneyvae on x, dividers by @cafekitsune

psst, if you want more monster!raf read this next

What does it mean, to drown in something?

To watch the surface break above you, disrupted by the last bubbles of oxygen leaving your lungs, like a lover’s final kiss. To feel the vicious urge to fight, to struggle, to scream even as you feel your final dregs of strength escape, leaving you cold and gnawing and alone. To not feel fear, because even as your vision goes dark the melody is still there, the voice still singing, cradling you gently as you draw blood. To know, perhaps, that drowning was the only way this story could have ended. 

What does it mean, when I kiss you and finally feel like I can breathe again, even if you were the reason I sank in the first place?

Rafayel has been nothing if not the perfect boyfriend. Clingy, annoying, hopelessly devoted, but perfect for you nonetheless. 

Three months into your relationship, and you’ve begun to notice things that are only just slightly… Off.

For one, Rafayel runs terrifyingly cold, and the baths he gives himself twice a day are even colder than he is, and when he teasingly splashes you with it you scream, complaining he’s soaking in the arctic or the depths of the ocean’s abyss.

But the approach of summer means more baths, more moisturizers, and more of poor Rafayel always complaining about how it’s too hot, too dry. His skin gets bumpy, rough, textured patches growing on the sides of his neck, his arms, down his ribs too. Like something coming to the surface, something cracking through the flesh. 

The list of anomalies goes on.

His joints bend just a little too much, his fingers curving at unnatural angles when he moves quickly or reaches for something. His spine rolls more like an eel or a shark than a human’s, like a creature still adjusting to having bones, something he brushes off as old habits from dance or ice skating. Whenever you take flash photos his eyes come out hollow, even the faintest glimmer makes them shimmer like something not meant for the surface. 

It’s becoming more common to catch Rafayel slipping now, uncanny moments where he fumbles and slows down, repeating certain movements or habits, as though remembering them. Reminding himself of them. 

You’re lounging on the couch in his studio, your legs kicked up onto his lap as Rafayel holds a book in one hand, the other caressing your ankle with the gentle rub of his thumb. Something prickles against the back of your neck and you look up over your phone, expecting to see Rafayel still engrossed in his reading. Instead, he’s staring down at you. Watching you, unblinking, for so long that your skin begins to crawl. 

At first, you don’t really mind— willingly lost in the warmth of his gaze, the way it seems to hold so much unspoken devotion, the way his pupils dilate viciously when you finally meet his gaze. But then minutes pass. He doesn’t shift, doesn’t fidget, doesn’t break eye contact.

"Raf," you say, laughing a little, trying to shake the unease creeping up your spine. "You're staring."

His lips quirk, just slightly. "Am I? Can’t help it, cutie."

You hum, expecting him to look away. He doesn’t. Instead, he tilts his head, something you’ve always considered adorable, the way his full lips pout and innocent doe eyes seem to plead up into yours, studying you with an intensity that makes your chest tighten.

Then you realize what’s wrong.

"Blink," you whisper, suddenly uncertain if he's forgotten how.

He does, slow and deliberate, like he’s remembering only because you told him. And when his eyes open again, they shine, hollow and flat, reflecting the dim light of the room like something that doesn’t belong in the light.

“Shit!” 

This is the last time you cut steak with a dull knife. 

It’s nothing severe, but you must have nicked a vein in your thumb, because the damn countertop is splattered with blood, a thick stream of it nearly at your wrist as you run for a paper towel. 

Rafayel was supposed to be by the stove, tending to the vegetables busy sauteing, but when you move to rip a sheet from the dowel, you find yourself bumping into him headfirst. How did he manage to cross the kitchen so fast?

His gaze flicks to your hand, brows furrowed. You follow it, noticing the vibrant red already soaking through all the layers of makeshift gauze. Maybe you cut yourself deeper than you though.

"It’s nothing, Rafayel," you say, knowing how worked-up he can get when you injure yourself, fully expecting a dramatic lecture later. 

Turning, you step to throw away the bloody napkins when his fingers close around your wrist too fast. Too tight. Rafayel’s pupils dilate, nearly turning his entire eye black as his body physically follows the trail of blood down your wrist, lips parting just slightly as if—

As if he’s tasting the scent of your blood on his tongue.

"Rafayel," you call to him again, voice shaking. Why is your voice shaking?

He blinks, slow, as if waking from something deep. His grip loosens, but his fingers linger, his thumb dragging just barely across your pulse against the inside of your wrist before he exhales a quiet, low sound from deep in his chest. Something between a sigh and a growl.

“You really should be more careful, miss hunter. You could get hurt next time.”

Neither of you notice the slight acrid smell of something burning in the background. 

The next time it happens late at night. 

After spending the weekend lazing in each other's company, the two of you decided to end the day with a movie, drifting from various positions on the couch to curling up against Rafayel’s chest, the soft glow of the TV flickering across the room. The credits are rolling, low music humming beneath the sound of his steady, rhythmic breathing. He’s cold, almost unnaturally so, compared to the sticky, sweltering summer night air, but you can only be thankful for that fact as his chill and the gentle rise and fall of his chest lull you into something hazy, that liminal space where thoughts slip too easily from your grasp.

When suddenly, it just stops. Rafayel’s body goes still beneath your touch. 

No breath. No movement.

Just complete and utter stillness.

It doesn’t register at first, not fully. Still feigning sleep, you fight to keep your own exhales even, purposefully holding your breath to get your heart to calm from its erratic skip, the hairs on your arms prickling, some primal part of you sensing it before your mind catches up. Wrong.

You shift slightly, pretending to be lost in a dream, just enough to press closer to his chest, to feel the gentle rhythm of where his lungs should be. Wrong.

But nothing comes. Rafayel’s chest does not rise, his heartbeat does not echo against your cheek. The only movement is the gentle circling of his fingers against the tender flesh of your ribs, tracing the curve of bone. Other than that, he is completely, utterly motionless beneath you, the kind of eerie stillness that isn’t possible for a human. A stillness reserved for hunters, for predators. Wrong. 

Something is wrong.

Your pulse kicks, a sharp, violent thud-thud-thud against your ribs, under the tips of Rafayel’s fingers, and in that instant—

Rafayel breathes again.

A slow, deep inhale as if rousing from sleep. His arm tightens around your waist, fingers slipping under your shirt as he shifts beneath you, stretching out his long limbs with an exaggerated yawn like nothing happened at all.

“You still awake?” His voice is drowsy, laced with warmth, so natural you almost believe it.

You nod, pressing closer, trying to shake the creeping chill settling in your bones. Maybe you imagined it. Maybe you were too tired, caught somewhere between dreaming and waking, your mind playing tricks on you. You were simply tired from the long week. Simply haunted by nightmares that no longer exist. 

But you feel it. The way Rafayel’s fingers idly stroke over your side, slow and soothing, almost seeking out your own heartbeat as close as he could get to it. The way he breathes too deliberately now, a flawless imitation of what he thinks you expect to hear. A rhythm that’s just a little too shallow, a little too perfect. 

Then, there’s something prodding and coaxing into your brain, and instantly, the feeling of calm returns. But your pulse does not slow, because the thought has already settled in the back of your mind, something cold and certain.

He didn’t start breathing again for his sake.

He did it for yours.

Rafayel must have been sculpted by divine hands. A Greek statue given breath, something carved from impossibly white marble and polished by time itself. 

His is a kind of beauty that isn’t soft or gentle, but arresting, almost violently so. One that makes your breath hitch every time he turns to face you, all sharp cheekbones and full lips, somewhere devastatingly between beautiful and handsome, possessing every muscled curve of a swimmer’s body honed by centuries in the depths. It isn’t just his face, his form, his effortless strength. It’s the way he moves. Angelic and otherworldly— graceful, powerful, always with the effortless magnificence of the ocean itself.

And, of course, his voice.

He hums under his breath sometimes, a habit he seems to be letting slip the longer the two of you are together, barely audible in the quiet hours when you’re cooking or painting or lounging together. At first you mistook it for an old record or the echoing sound of the ocean from the open balcony doors, and when you ask him about if Rafayel simply laughs it off, the sound addicting enough that soon you’re laughing too.

But on late nights after sex you hear him humming again, something absentminded and indulgent, like the sound exists only for his own amusement. And for yours. 

Oh, but when Rafayel sings, it’s something else entirely. It’s after an opera the first time you heard it, and any memory of the show prior is dissolved into a monotonous drivel at the music Rafayel makes. You swear you felt it in your ribs, melody settling beneath your skin, an ancient song that spoke to your soul in ways that left you dizzy and aching and yearning for something you couldn’t name. 

It left you hungry.

And still, Rafayel’s paintings hurt the most.

Each one nearly brought to life with each brushstroke, enough that you swear you can hear the crash of waves or the sharp sting of sea-salt, each one that brings a deep, unknowable sorrow and guilt to your core. Each one hurts to look at a little more than the last. 

There’s one painting in particular that hangs in his studio, larger than the rest. A towering, floor-to-ceiling masterpiece of muted blues and violent reds, brushstrokes slashing across the canvas with all the power of a storm at sea.

At first, you think it’s simply a shipwreck.

Then you’re lured in closer.

Bodies tangled in the waves, limbs limp and reaching. Some still clutching weapons, some are already swallowed by the dark. But every single figure seems perfectly content, relaxed, embracing death as they are lulled—just like you just like you—to the sirens below.

They are not the innocent beauties of fairy tales. They are terrible, glorious, vicious beings. Something between human and god, their bodies half-submerged, lips parted in a song you cannot hear but can still feel, something clawing at your heart, begging you to listen. Begging you to come closer. 

And Rafayel is among them.

It takes you a moment to recognize him, but once you do, you cannot unsee it. The slant of his jaw, the sharp curve of his cheekbone, his lips curled not in hunger, not in rage, but in something unreadable. Something almost mournful.

"Do you like it, cutie?" His voice startles you.

You turn, pulse jumping, but Rafayel’s only watching you with that same lopsided smile, arms crossed loosely over his chest. He looks like part of a masterpiece himself, bare shoulders kissed by the low light, the soft glow catching on his collarbones, his throat, his hands. 

"They were hunted." Not a question.

A laugh. Short, humorless. "Of course they were, don’t you know Lemurians cry pearls?"

Your fingers tighten at your sides, but nothing you could think of saying seemed appropriate. After all, what did you possibly have to offer a mourning god? 

You look back at the painting. "And worshipped?"

Rafayel’s gaze lingers on the canvas for a long moment before sliding back to you, eyes failing to reflect the light of the sun as he tucks himself into your embrace, pulling you close. You swallow hard, body naturally yielding to relax into his embrace. You’re not prey, and yet, something in you screams at you to run.

"Is there a difference?"

You don’t answer. 

You think of the way he moves, the way he sings, the way your breath catches every time he looks at you, the way you could drown in the depths of his eyes, the cloudless blue like the ocean at dawn, stained with a red more vibrant than blood. Like a shipwreck. Like a massacre. 

“Would you worship me, cutie?” Rafayel purrs against the shell of your ear, nipping the tender flesh. Your knees buckle, and you’re already kneeling before him, looking up at those same eyes as he smiles at your answer. 

You already do.

You’ve been noticing gaps in your memory.

Not big ones. Nothing you can really say for certain, just little things, things you used to chalk up to your goldfish memory. Forgetting why you stood up. Losing track of time mid-conversation. Finding yourself already doing something before you even register why.

And it always—always—happens when Rafayel is speaking to you.

It’s never forceful. Never obvious. But there’s always a soft hum in his voice, a subtle pull in the melody beneath his words.

You don’t even remember when he began doing it, and that might be what frightens you most. 

You’ve always been weak for Rafayel, giving in as soon as he pouts and complains about how he might die of neglect, how he just needs you so badly, and how, oh, won’t you do this for him? There’s no command. No sharp pull at your mind, no unnatural force prying into your thoughts. Just his voice, smooth and honeyed, curling around your resolve like the tide creeping onto the shore. Gentle. Patient. And before you even notice, you're waist-deep, sinking into something you can’t quite name.

"Let’s go to the beach," Rafayel suggests, fingers lazily tracing patterns against your thigh.

You frown down at him, in the midst of filling out a hunter’s report when he snatches your computer away, replacing it with his own head plopping down in your lap. 

You glance at the clock, it’s already six pm. Late, not to mention the drive is an hour away. And you have a mission early in the morning.

"I can’t," you say.

He hums, thoughtful. "Mm. No, of course not." He turns his head, pulling your sleep shirt up just enough to kiss your stomach, lips cool against your skin, grazing your hip as he speaks. "But," a pause. A slow, indulgent breath. "Wouldn’t it be nice? Just us. Moonlight on the waves. I could take you out past the shallows, show you things no other human has ever seen."

You close your eyes. You can picture it too easily. The salt in the air, the sound of the tide pulling you both forward. His hands on you, weightless in the water, his voice a hum against your throat. A melody entering your brain. 

"It’s a Tuesday," you murmur, weaker now.

Rafayel begins sitting up, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "So what?" Another to your jaw, "Work is so boring, you don’t need it anymore. Not when you’re with me." You feel him smile, sucking a mark right against your pulse. "It’ll be worth it, promise."

You should say no.

You should.

You should shut out the idea of indulging him, of the welcoming feel of sand beneath your toes and the gentle curl of the tide. And how nice the fading sunlight feels on your skin. Because you’re already standing at the shoreline, waves licking at your ankles, the city far, far behind you. Rafayel’s fingers laced with yours, his smile easy, teasing as he pulls you forward. 

You don’t remember driving here.

Your pulse stutters. "Rafayel."

He turns to you, eyes dark, unreadable, his mouth curving into a wide smile, a sweet gummy one that has too many teeth. Rows upon rows, like a shark’s, gone by the time you blink. "Yes, my muse?"

You swallow hard. The words tangle on your tongue, and you forget, just for a moment, why you were about to say them.

But the worst is when he begs.

Because it doesn’t feel unnatural, it doesn’t feel wrong.

Because it feels good.

You don’t realize how much you’re giving him until your body won't stop trembling, until you’re wrecked and obedient, until he’s cooing praise against your skin like you’re something precious. 

“Can’t–” you sob, barely getting the word out. “Can’t cum again. Please, Raf, Raf, please don’t.”

Your hands scramble for his head, still buried between your thighs, tugging violently against those sweat-slick strands of hair as you all but scream as he whines into your cunt in protest.

You’ve lost track of how many times he’s made you come, lost track of how long you’ve been beneath him, beneath his touch, beneath the spell of his voice. Time means nothing, just a rhythm of sensation and need.

All that you can feel is the hot layer of sweat making the sheets stick to the sharp arch in your back, the painful overstimulation of your clit as Rafayel moves to suckle against it once more, lapping greedily as you kick and push at his shoulders with a cry. You can’t take it, not again, not when you’re already raw and aching and falling apart.

"Just one more time, cutie," he begs, relenting just long enough to kiss your marked-up thigh. "Please? Look s’cute like this, taste even sweeter."

Rafayel’s pale skin glows faintly where his lips brush yours, a ripple of bioluminescence that pulses in time with your heartbeat. The dull blue light blooming along his veins, casting soft, eerie shadows across the sheets, a reminder of the alien beauty woven into his flesh and blood.

You’re sobbing, shaking your head as the entire room spins around you even without the extra stimulation. But Rafayel simply unlaces your poor trembling hands from his hair, unfurling your fists and kissing your palm before intertwining your fingers together, pinning them to the bed as he leans in closer. His hands are cold, an icy restraint to your feverish skin, and you shiver, goosebumps prickling along your arms.

"Last time, promise."

You don’t believe him. You shouldn’t.

But Rafayel’s voice is addictive, liquid gold, sinking into your skin, forcing you to relax against him just enough for his mouth to reacquaint itself with your swollen clit, immediately making you scream again as your hips mindlessly buck, writhing to get away, to find mercy from his touch as you fight to hold onto the last scraps of your fraying resolve.

“Don’t.” His voice is a purr, a low warning against your flesh as his hand tightens, pressing your wrists together, bruising. “Don’t run from me. Don’t make me chase you.”

Your body stills, responding to his command before you can even process what he's said. Surrendering as he hooks your ankles around his neck, forcing you up onto your shoulders as his tongue delves back into your cunt, curling inside you, savoring every spasm, every quiver. It’s a slow, indulgent kiss, his tongue is colder than his lips, drooling and messy as he brings you closer and closer to the edge for the nth time. 

"You’d never leave me right?" His voice once again sings like a promise against your skin. "You can’t. You wouldn’t, she’s too sweet for that—" His nose grinds against your clit and you moan, seizing. "Always so needy, always taking me so well. Practically made to worship me."

You're babbling nonsense now, incoherent. Rafayel coos, kissing you through it, one hand never letting go of yours as the other greedily gropes up the plush of your ass, your breasts, and he watches with rapt fascination as you arch for him. He rolls your nipple between his fingers, and wonders absentmindedly how it is you humans produce milk. How he could get you to do that for him.

A deep trill vibrates through him at the thought, more felt than heard, a sound that curls around your ribs and settles there. 

“You know that you’re mine, don’t you?” he breathes, voice dipping lower, “Mine. Made for me. Nothing else in this world could satisfy you like I do. You’ll never need another god.”

Rafayel’s words slip into you, twisting through your mind, settling like truth in your core. And just like that you shudder, body tensing, and you’re cumming again, hard.

Squirting across Rafayel’s awaiting mouth and jaw as you scream his name like a prayer, cum dripping down his heaving chest. Rafayel moans, lapping at the mess, and you feel his devotion in the way his entire body trembles as he consumes you, as he claims you, his offering, his sacrifice. His beloved bride.

His fingers subconsciously trace your empty ring finger. Worshiping it, memorizing it.

You don’t even realize you’re still nodding as his fingers loosen their grip on your thighs, finally setting you back down on the bed as a pleased little sound spills from his lips. His tongue drags up your limp body, lazy and lingering, kissing every inch of you, bringing your hand up to kiss your ring finger as well.

Nuzzling his face between your breasts, Rafayel looks up at you, eyes glowing, too bright, too colorful, too gorgeously inhuman.

When sensation finally returns to your legs, the haze of pleasure fading and your breath evening out, you’re revolted by the feeling of something releasing its hold on your mind. Shuddering, you press a hand to your temple, trying to shake off the eerie feeling of something slipping out of your head.

Rafayel watches you, tilting his head, his fingers brushing lightly down your arm as he pushes himself up on his elbows. Grabbing your chin, he swallows any questions you might have asked, kissing you with the same reverence he did your clit and every inch of your body before, the taste of you still on his tongue. When he pulls away, his expression is soft, almost tender, even as his hand curls back around your ankle, a possessive shackle.

“You’ll never need another god,” he repeats, the words sinking into your bones, echoing in your mind. His fingers tighten, just enough to make your breath hitch. “Because you’re mine.”

And yet, you’re the one who can’t seem to breathe without him.

You suppose it should scare you, knowing Rafayel isn’t human. Even if you have yet to understand what a Lemurian really is or wants, what Rafayel’s true form really looks like, what or who truly resides in him. 

You suppose it should scare you that despite not knowing any of this, you listen to his every whim regardless. 

The ocean is calm tonight, with the full moon hanging directly overhead and her silver providing the only light over rolling waves. You’re floating on your back, eyes closed, weightless in the gentle pull of the tide, safe knowing Rafayel couldn’t be far away. He never is. 

At least, you can only assume that’s still the case. Since the ocean itself is dark enough that it blends in with the horizon, dark enough that you wouldn’t be able to see your own toes should you stop floating, the only sounds are the gentle crashing of waves on the distant shore. 

Rafayel was untraceable in the water, his powerful twenty-foot-something Lemurian form outpacing yours as soon as he hit the water, cutting through the black waves with a grace that should be impossible for a creature of that size. That was nearly an hour ago, and only an occasional singing that seemed to both surround you and come from deep within the ocean served as reminders that your lover was never far away.

There it is again, that distant sorrowful song, and you try and hum along, not realizing how far from shore you’ve drifted. 

Something brushes your ankle.

Jolting upright, you spit out a bit of salt water from your scare, scanning the horizon as you tread water. Rafayel is nowhere in sight.

Of course you don't even realize he's been circling you, tail cutting above the waves before twisting around your kicking legs. Laughter echoes into the night, sweet and addicting, enough to have your body relax involuntarily into the cold rock of the waves. Enough to send every other sea creature swimming away in terror.

Then, warmth. Hands, familiar and steady, slide up your bare ribs. There wasn’t even so much as a splash as Rafayel swims closer, arms pulling you in tight, nuzzling deep into the crook of your neck as you feel the entire length of his tail tighten like a coil around your body. He could drown you before you'd even remember to scream.

Rafayel kisses up your neck, savoring the taste of sea salt, arousal, and fear against the broad, cold length of his tongue. It feels rougher than usual. 

“Need you, cutie.” A trill, something deep and low, vibrating in his chest as his entire body tightens its grip around you. Grinding up against you. “Need you s’bad.”

His voice is a low, syrupy murmur, words dripping into your ear with the same fluid grace as his body winding around yours. You shudder, pulse thrumming as the coil of his tail tightens, the powerful muscle shifting against your skin, keeping you perfectly in place. The realization should terrify you. Perhaps it should terrify you more that it doesn’t. 

But Rafayel’s still nipping at the delicate skin of your neck and jaw as that soft, mournful hum resonates from his chest. The sound vibrates through your bones, familiar and soothing, seeping into your mind as easily as seawater through the crevices of a sinking ship.

You shiver, the sensation of his touch and the water deliciously cold against the heat pooling in your belly.

“Missed you,” he murmurs, turning you so you straddle only a fraction of his enormous tail, clinging to his shoulders and the scales that now rest there. “Hate that you can’t swim with me, can’t see my home.” There’s a teasing lilt to his voice, the same playful lightness you’ve heard a thousand times. But beneath it lies a deep, aching hunger that has his clawed fingers pressing into your ribs, hard enough to draw blood.

“I-It’s not exactly possible,” you stammer, voice shaking, breathless, the world narrowing to the feel of his enormous body wrapped around yours, the prodding of something slimy and thick between your legs, the soft vibration of his hum still echoing inside your head. “I can’t breathe underwater like you, Rafayel.”

He pouts at that, tail flexing, shifting, and you feel two other appendages begin to caress your thighs, gently snaking around them. Not that you could see what exactly they were, not with how impossibly dark the ocean is, left completely to his mercy. 

“Poor little human,” Rafayel coos, feigning sympathy as his hands begin to wander, cupping and squeezing roughly at your breasts. A constant fascination he excuses for the fact that fish don’t produce milk and thus have no need for such… interesting appendages. “Your silly human body isn’t much fun. Too fragile. I can fix that.”

His words send a chill through you, something prickling at your spine—but then his lips are on yours, firm and insistent, stealing the breath from your lungs as his fingers tangle in your hair. His inhumanly long tongue invades your mouth, rough and tasting of salt and sea, and you melt, hands clawing into his shoulders as he swallows your moan, fucking his tongue down your throat. 

His tail shifts again, something sharp nicking your inner thigh as you gasp into the kiss, only allowing Rafayel to press in closer, deeper, grinding against your core.

Your body reacts on instinct, earning another low trill, hips rolling to meet the pressure, Rafayel’s hands still busy pleasuring your chest as something else forces your legs wider, guiding his cock to grind against you once, twice, fighting the tense ring of muscle as you quiver. 

“Please, cutie. Please let me in, my sweet darling. Please, please,” he’s rambling, begging so sweetly into your lips as you feel the jagged cut of his teeth trace down your neck, collarbone, grazing your nipple, licking up the drops of blood as your flesh splits as easily as rotten fruit on the edge of a knife. “So good to me. Always so good to me.”

You barely recognize the moan that leaves your throat—something needy, desperate. And at that sound Rafayel shudders, something else writhing against your pussy as it suddenly pushes in, thrusting and sucking gently at your entrance before following a rhythm he knows will make you fall apart. 

“Rafayel, wait, cold. It’s cold—” 

“Shh, you’ll warm it up.”

You can only moan in response, clinging onto Rafayel like a lifeline as the ocean surges around the both of you, your limbs trembling and useless as one of Rafayel’s hands goes to circle your clit, matching the tempo of his thrusts as you come undone with a silent scream.

“Say it again for me,” he whispers, reverence dripping from every syllable. His eyes—too blue, too bright—burn into yours, possessive, adoring, hungry. And when he looks at you like that, how could you ever refuse? “You’re mine, aren’t you?”

Your heart stutters. There’s a pull, something deep and heavy, sinking into your chest. The hum returns, curling around your thoughts, coaxing you to say the words, to give him what he wants. What you both want.

“Yes,” you whisper, the word slipping past your lips before you even realize it. “Yours.”

Rafayel’s pupils narrow into slits, and his mouth crashes against yours, hungry and savage. His tail tightens, grinding against you with purpose now, every slow roll of his hips sending another shockwave of pleasure through you, something else beginning to press up against you as well as the first intrusion begins to retreat from your poor overstimulated pussy. 

“Do you trust me?” he asks, teeth scraping against your pulse, marking delicate skin of your throat. Something under the water coils tighter, pulling you closer, keeping you where you belong.

No. 

“Yes.”

His laughter is the last thing you hear, soft and sweet, washing away every other thought before the roar of the ocean swallows you whole.

The cold is instant, biting, sinking into your bones as the saltwater tears into your nose and mouth. Panic claws up your throat as your chest seizes, lungs heaving uselessly, instinctively, drawing in nothing but seawater.

Instinct demands you thrash, but Rafayel is there, hugging around you like a devoted lover, like a predator with his kill. He drags you down deeper, enraptured, scales scraping against your skin as his body locks you against him, pressing you against the seafloor as the two of you hit the bottom, soft sand floating under your back. 

How easy would it be, to leave you full of his brood and writhing, before dragging you to some island far, far away. 

He’s dazed at the thought, still inside you, still thrusting, still playing with your body as if you aren’t suffocating, as if the way you kick and claw at his back, nails tearing into flesh and fins, is only a sign of pleasure. You feel him shudder, and it isn’t just from the tight, helpless way you squeeze around him.

It’s your eyes that Rafayel can’t seem to look away from. They’re wide, wild, locked on his face with desperate, pleading terror. Adoration. Fear. Love.

So human, so fragile, and all you can focus on is him, the rest of the ocean blurring into a black abyss.

Rafayel adores it, finally being the epicenter of your attention. 

A low, pleased rumble vibrates through his chest, pupils blown wide, swallowing the blue of his eyes until they’re black and endless, reflecting your horrified face right back at you.

All the screaming has left you dizzy, and Rafayel moans, pushing deeper, grinding his enormous tail against your overstimulated clit as your throat convulses around a silent moan as you watch the bubbles leave your throat. 

Smiling, Rafayel’s lips curl, exposing sharp, jagged teeth, feeling each shudder, each pitiful, heaving spasm as your lungs beg for oxygen. He wonders how they must feel, those delicate sacks of air tightening, twisting inside you.

Pressing his palm against your chest, right over your heart, Rafayel feels the stuttering beat as it races then begins to falter, slowing to a delicate pulse under his touch. 

He could watch you like this forever.

Your nails rake down his arms, leaving raw, bloody scratches as the world begins to go dark. He shudders, his cock twitching inside you at the sting, the way you keep fighting even as your movements grow sluggish, your limbs growing heavy. Your chest heaves one last time, and then your eyes leave Rafayel’s, rolling back as your lips part in a silent prayer. 

No. No, don't look away from him.

It makes Rafayel frown, wanting your gaze focused on him alone, wanting your attention back. He wants it forever. His tail coils, possessive, hugging you tight with all the devotion of a human lover as he finally, finally leans in, pressing his mouth to yours.

His hands come down to caress your jaw, fangs nicking your lips as he forces them apart, kissing air back into your lungs. 

And you breathe in again, sobbing into the kiss, body trembling, clinging to Rafayel like he’s your lifeline. You do what he knew you would. You kiss him back. Desperate, dazed, pushing closer as though you don't realize there's no where else you could go, the deep, endless dark of the ocean yawning hungrily above you both. 

He's close, so close now. Body nearly aglow with that eerie, deep-sea light, casting shadows onto your body as you welcome him even now, desperate for warmth, for safety, for him.

“Mine,” Rafayel sings against your lips in a language you cannot understand. Savoring the way you still arch up to kiss him again and again, desperate for his air and his touch despite it all. Despite knowing what he is. Despite knowing what he wants. “My mate.”

When he finally cums he feels it breach your womb, he feels you swell with it, feels it stick with how eagerly your body welcomes him, his perfect little human.

And for the first time, you truly wonder if you were meant to survive loving something like him.

[n0-0neeee]

💜💜💜

[ellecdc]

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTLBnwGM5/

Hi there again! I saw this tiktok and it immediately made me think of the boys. Do you think you could write something with Sirius or Remus coming home drunk and just being completely drunken lover boys and just r trying to hold back their laughs but also blushing and completely over taken by adoration of their boy. Hahah any way hope you have an amazing day!

omg babes this is so funny and cute. and I clearly didn't read your request carefully enough because you asked for Sirius or Remus but I gave you both 🫢 terribly sorry, please do forgive me. side note: I'm so pissed because I was going to tag this one poly!marauders fic that had the same premise and James comes home going "I hope she does wake up I missed her so much I think I'm going to throw up" all in the same breath and Sirius just abandons him and Moony in the kitchen to snuggle their girl and I can't find it! I actually scoured all my faves master lists to try to find it for you and I can't 😭 update!: a few followers did some sleuthing and found it, it's this fic by @luveline!!

poly!wolfstar x fem!reader when the boys come home drunk [and in love]

CW: mentions of drinking and drunkeness

You woke to the feeling of the bed dipping gently once, and then much less gently a second time.

“Pads, for fuck’s- Hi dovey.” Remus began hissing at Sirius before you opened your eyes to see him lying before you.

“Oh! Is she up now?” Sirius said approximately three decibels louder than necessary as he threw his heavy arm over your waist and roughly pulled you into his chest.

“Missed you s’much.” He slurred as he shoved his face into your neck. 

“Mm, was boy’s night fun?” You asked through a stretch, sleep causing your words to tumble inelegantly out of your mouth.

“No.” Sirius harrumphed quickly as Remus moved a clumsy yet gentle hand to the side of your face.

“It was fun.” He conceded, earning him an indignant “was not” from your neck.

“Why didn’t you have fun, Sirius?”

Sirius scoffed as if you had asked a particularly ridiculous question. “Uhm, because my best girl wasn’t there?” He muttered into your hair, pulling you impossibly further into his chest.

“You’re gonna squash her, Sirius.” Remus admonished.

“Fine. Roll over babydoll.” Sirius ordered, pulling his arms away only to paw at your shoulder in an attempt to encourage you onto your other side.

You weren’t awake enough for this.

“Siri.” You whined petulantly. “What time is it?”

“Almost three.” Remus answered readily.

“Roll over.” Sirius asked again.

“Why?”

“‘Cause I wanna see your- your beautiful face.” Even through his slurring and hiccups, he still managed to be an incorrigible flirt. 

“No, leave her. I’m looking at her right now.” Remus argued. You had to smother a laugh at how un-Remus-like he sounded when drunk, and made a mental note to tell him in the morning how petulant he was just to be rewarded with that beautiful blush you knew he’d wear. 

“Tough; you’ll just have to look at me.” Sirius countered.

“I had to look at you all night!”

“Had to? Just what is- is that s’posed to mean, Moons?”

“Sirius, knock it - ouch!” Remus reached over you to return a mean pinch to Sirius’ side, causing an all out war to break out between the two.

“Fuckin’ hell.” You muttered as you extricated yourself from the bed. You barely made it down the hall before you heard a painful sounding thump and footsteps chasing you.

“Dovey! Wait!” Remus called, a little more out of breath than the few feet from your bedroom really called for. “You can’t go into the kitchen.”

You felt your face scrunch up in confusion. “Why not?”

“Because Remus broke a glass!” Sirius called, limping over from the bedroom.

“Squealer.” Remus muttered at Sirius as he teetered slightly into the wall beside him. “M’sorry dove. I dropped it in the- in the sink and will clean it tomorrow when, uhm…”

“When the world’s not so spinny anymore.” Sirius finished for him, nodding sagely at his own decree.

“You didn’t hurt yourself, did you?” You asked, looking carefully at his hands for any signs of blood.

“That’s so nice of you to ask.” He whispered in awe, allowing you to manipulate his hands in yours. 

“Don’t act so surprised, Moony.” Sirius slurred. “She’s literally the nicest girl in the world.”

“She really is.” Remus agreed. 

You blushed furiously and continued into the kitchen, mindful of any potential broken glass on the floor - though you were happy to note that it did appear all damage was contained within the sink - to grab three bottles of water from the fridge.

“I actually love her so much.” You heard Sirius whisper to Remus from around the corner.

“Me too.” Remus whispered back. 

“I am so in love it’s actually a little bit embarrassing.”

“Me too.” Remus agreed again.

“Do you think she loves us as much?”

“Impossible.”

“Yeah I don’t think so either.”

“Well that’s not fair.” You interrupted as you rounded the corner again. “No one asked for my input.”

“Sorry, dollface. It’s just, I’m so far gone for you and Remus here is a certified simp so I already know it’s im- impossible for you to love us nearly as much.”

“It’s not a competition, Siri.” You admonished lovingly, handing him a bottle of water before passing one to Remus. 

“You got these for us?” Remus whispered, sounding alarmingly close to tears. You chuckled at him and touched his cheek. 

“‘Course I did, handsome.”

He shook his head as he stared at you in awe. “No; I definitely love you the most.”

“You do not!” Sirius argued quickly.

“It’s not a competition!” You reiterated.

“Fine.” They chorused as they followed you obediently to the bedroom. 

“But if it was, I’d win.” Sirius proclaimed as he fell face first into the mattress. 

Remus snorted before chugging almost half the bottle of water and dribbling some onto his sleep shirt. 

“Did you break the glass trying to get a drink, bubs?” You asked him as you took the water bottle from him to recap it and he fought to catch his breath.

“Yeah.” He admitted looking terribly shamefaced. “I gave up on having water after that.”

You smiled and kissed his forehead before climbing into bed to situate yourself between the two boys.

You pressed your back into Remus in order to face Sirius who was already out cold and snoring lightly.

“You should’ve seen him tonight.” Remus started through a yawn. “Some girl tried hitting on him and he started screaming and asked me to ‘take him home to the most beautiful girl’.”

You held your hand to your mouth afraid that your beaming smile would somehow wake up Sirius for being entirely too bright.

“Yeah? What’d you do?”

You could tell Remus was nearly asleep when he finally answered you, sleep dragging out the syllables as he whispered them into your hair. 

“I brought him home to you.”

[n0-0neeee]

💜💜💜