SkySky

18🫶🏻 Obsessive & Delusional 🌸

[sanzubbg]

𝐓𝐑𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐋𝐑 𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐒 ◑ω◐

𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭: @cursed-carmine

𝐏𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐏𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭:𝐙𝐢𝐳𝐥𝐲

𝐆𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧

𝐀𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐊𝐚𝐧𝐣𝐢 𝐌𝐨𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐳𝐮𝐤𝐢 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐞 𝐠𝐞𝐭 😪

𝐆𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐒𝐚𝐧𝐳𝐮 & 𝐊𝐨𝐤𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐢 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐬

𝐘𝐞𝐬 𝐢 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭

𝐂𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐬𝐦 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐝𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝

𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮!

[claritoru]

summary: established relationship, L comes home to find you curled up after a rough day, watching your favorite comfort show, based on this req

Your eyes are painfully dry, thanks to the fact that you've been crying for what feels like hours. It had been a long day, with nearly everything going horribly wrong, leaving you feeling drained in every way possible. And the worst part? L wasn't home yet.

You sigh and raid the kitchen for your favorite snacks before throwing a fluffy blanket over your shoulders, taking out your sketchbook, and turning on the TV. You settled on Octonauts, because why the hell not. You needed something wholesome after such a rough day, and since L was gone, now was the perfect opportunity to binge your comfort show without anyone to judge.

Still, it was difficult to relax. You try to draw flowers to clear your mind, but they end up as angry shapes and soulless scribbles. You grab your Kwazii plush and turn the volume of the TV up, in the hopes that it could wash out all the stress of the day.

And of course that's when L decided to return home.

Your boyfriend freezes in the doorway, taking in the sight. You're staring at him open-mouthed, eyes still red and puffy. Your knees are pressing against your chest, and you're clutching the plush and sketchbook, which is angled so that he can clearly see the frustrated scribbles. And the TV? It's still playing Octonauts.

You quickly try to hide all the evidence, using the remote to turn of the TV and throwing your plush across the room, but L has already seen everything.

He crosses the room, footsteps gentle, before dropping onto the couch wordlessly. He doesn't ask any questions. Being the greatest detective, he most certainly doesn't have to.

But the way he adjusts your blanket and picks up your plush doesn't scream world's greatest detective at all. It isn't cold or precise when he brings in more snacks for you. And the members of the police force would most certainly never believe that L would reach across you for the remote and turn on the TV, letting Octonauts fill the silence.

He snuggles against you, as if he was the one looking for comfort, not you.

"Is that better?" he asks softly. It's the first thing he's said since entering the room.

"Yes," you say. You lift the blanket so he can join you beneath it, and you also give him a handful of your caramel popcorn, smiling at the way he tries not to show excitement at consuming sugar. (Really, he was the worst sweet tooth.)

You watch several episodes together, with L occasionally speaking up to question the logic of the show, to which you grumpily reply that it's a show made for children. When he falls silent, you glance at him and find that he's leaning forward, eyes unblinking as he scrutinizes the scenes with the precision he reserved for his toughest cases. You smile to yourself. He was completely invested in the show, though he would always deny it.

He wraps an arm around you as he watches the TV, stealing occasional glances at you to make sure you're comfortable. Only when he hears your laughter and sees you smile does he truly relax.

Rough day or not, he will always be there for you.

masterlist

[bigfatbimbo]

Tear the Petals Off of You ˚₊۶ৎ˙⋆

۫ ꣑ৎ a/n detective work during sex is crazy

۫ ꣑ৎ warnings Dom!Reader, Sub!L, NSFW, afab reader, mild praise kink, loss of virginity, NOT PROOFREAD

summary ۫ ꣑ৎ L looses his virginity, and finds it is unfortunately hard to think clearly when being topped at 1000x speed.

L’s body was frail and cold, more fragile seeming-yet when he clattered against the bed with a groan. Without anyway to curl into himself, he lays awkwardly under you, unnatural like a dying bug that can’t seem to coil up and die. He bounced off slightly on impact before you pushed his chest back once again.

“Ow,” He muttered, gazing up at you with deep eyes, now sparking with curiosity.

You lean in to kiss his neck and his breath catches, as you fiddle with the zipper on his pants. “Let’s get these off, yea?” When his breathing doesn’t seem to ever continue, you look up at him. “L?”

His eyes, temporarily locked on your hand, now trail up slowly to meet your own. “Yea, let’s,” He says dazed. You pull back, confused at his reaction.

He seemed nervous, which was contrary to his usually monotone demeanor. He picked at the wall, unsure what to do with his hands, and his legs rubbed together, clearly uncomfortable at the tent in his pants.

“Have you ever… done this before?” You ask slowly.

He thinks for a moment, “That’s a good analysis on your part.” Smartass.

You smile and lean in again, hand grazing over his hardened cock, making him suck in a breath. Your finger traces the head of his dick, and he exhales a whimper.

“Relax,” you said, smiling softly as you brushed his black locks away from his eyes. He shivered “And arms up.”

He lifted his arms up obediently and you raised his white shirt over his head. L shivered when your hands came back down to caress at his sides.

His composure was more fickle than you expected, and he walked a fine line between unsettling calm and visible unease. Most likely, he wasn’t used to not understanding something, and his brain was trying to adjust to the concept of not being the most knowledgeable in the room.

Because with every soft touch on his bare skin, you invited a vulgar sort of sensuality; ‘do you want more?’ it asked him in taunting. Yes, you knew of sex. L didn’t even know about kissing.

You kissed him hard enough to leave a stinging pain on his bit-open lip — the one he tore open earlier while you were flirting with him. Nerves. But still you kissed him, and he froze.

He stayed frozen all except for soft nods at questions like “can I take this off?” L felt out of his body, and yet his brain persisted. Surely he had seen movies… once or twice. He could figure out what to do, it was almost like a puzzle.

When you sank yourself onto his hardened member, he shuddered and cried out. You shushed him gently, “It’s okay, L. I’ve got you.”

The worst part was you knew. You knew he was buzzing underneath you with a brain that was working far more hesitantly than usual.

“Should we— Flip over?” He shuddered when he heard to shake in his voice. And he winced once again when he realized how unclear his vocalized thought was. Should I be on top. He hesitated even thinking it however.

You smiled, before swiftly pinning his hands above his head with your own, and rocking your hips back on forth on his cock.

He whimpered, eyes fluttering under damp locks of dark hair. “Ah—ah… that’s—“

“New sensation, right?” You squinted as you adjusted your pussy around his length. Vaguely, you felt him attempt to answer, but only produce rocky breaths. “Awe, does that feel good?”

He gasped as you humped his cock, and his hands struggled to break free from yours, but you tightened your grip.

Everything going on was new, although it felt good it was almost uncomfortable. Focus, focus, focus. On what, he wasn’t sure. However, his thoughts were foggy, and this caused unease.

You noticed.

“L, sweetie,” You started, “Why do you think I have you pinned to the bed right now?”

He chocked on a moan, gazing up at you with sudden fearful haze in his eyes. “W-what?”

“Being on top is enough to ensure control—especially with a virgin. Why do I make the conscious choice of having you pinned?”

L nearly teared up at the question, it was almost like detective work. He felt the immense pleasure of relief flood him as he tried to think.

“Ungh— Ah! b-because—“ Was all he stupidly managed to get out.

You suddenly sped up vigorously on his dick. “Answer me,” you commanded, before sweetness sickeningly took its place in your voice, “Aren’t you still my smart boy?”

“Y-yes!” He whined, all too fast. “I am— yours, oh god, I can’t thin—nghh—“

Your grip righted on his wrists once more. “Then answer me, I know you can. Why do I have you pinned, right now?”

“B-because—“ He squinted his eyes shut tight as he attempted to organize his fading thoughts “You want— ungh— you want me to fully submit— it’s more than a physical act!”

You leaned into his neck as you continue to bounce on him, nipping at the sweet delicate skin there like a treat. He was almost doll-like in some manners. With the cold skin of porcelain and the dark eyes that only reflect.

“Very good, sweetheart, keep going,” you praise— somewhat lightheaded as you chase your own orgasm.

“It’s more than a physical act because— ah! Because it’s keeping me grounded,” as he came the conclusion, he moaned so deeply as the thought, he almost came right there. “You’re here, you’re touching me. Oh god— i’m close— I can’t—“

He wasn’t in control of a room full of police; he wasnt behind a screen; he was with you. He was with you, with comfort, with safety.

“That’s my smart, sweet boy. I’m so proud of you for that one, baby,” Your voice dripped of sugar and honey, things L loved with his tea coincidentally. “But why am I asking you all of these questions?”

It took almost two minutes of trying not to come to answer you. L squirmed underneath you, this time not away from your grasp but into in. Above him you were an angel, his savior, devoid of all logic but still worth devoting his whole life to worshipping. You were the sun, and L would be lucky to be a comet plummeting into your surface in fiery disarray.

“A lesson—“ He breathed, eyes fluttering shut. He moaned as he thought more about it. You were so smart. You got him. “To show— that i-it’s hard to think during all of this— and I… I… ungh. Please!”

“You should let go.” You finish as his pleading face nearly melts your heart. Instead you give gentle instructions while using his dick like a toy. “Focus on not thinking, baby. Get into that headspace, think about how good I’m making you feel instead, and keep listening to my voice.”

He breathed unsteadily, whines catching in the back of his throat as his hands squirmed uncomfortably. You took the hint and grasped them instead, holding them gently while leaning down to kiss his forehead.

“Such a good, smart boy,” you coo absentmindedly, while taking note of his fucked out appearance.

L’s hair stuck to his forehead, matting itself in the sweat like soaking pieces of fabric. His pale face had gone red at some point, and stayed red, giving him a glow of blush that made your hands feel hot at the touch. His chapped lips were parted, and his eyes were nearly closed, leaving way for the purple craters underneath them to hang low like curtains over a stage.

He moaned at your praise, and muttered your name in fucked out hoarse gasps. “I know, sweet boy, you’re doing so good for me.”

He writhed under your touch with a lack of composure that would give wild animals a run for their money. “Focus on that, listen to my voice. You’re doing so good, and taking it so well. I know those brains of yours are mush by now, baby.”

Something inside him was bubbling up, and he felt his head spinning. “I—I’m so— close— m’ gonna-“

“Do it baby, make me proud.”

And something inside him snapped. He came hard, and with ragged, whiny breaths. You held him close as he rode out his orgasm, and he remained heaving in your arms long after he finished.

He wouldn’t be using his brain for a while, after all.

[draculiette]

⋆𐙚₊˚ pussy inspections with lawliet !

hooking up with your co-worker is probably, most definitely against company policy.. but his moves are so calculated and tantalising that you can't help but bask in the dalliance. he knew exactly what angle to rock his hips at, where you like to be touched, and what he had to say to make your pussy clamp around his cock so deliciously. he's pounding you in missionary, stuttering out a pathetic, "y'feel so good, hnnn! c-can't stop—too good.. aah!" into your ear.

he's a fast learner and it shows. his iq is higher than his libido and the fact that he's the most intelligent person you've ever met is only making you crazier.

loser lawliet fucks with passion. his nose is always buried in a book or some stupid case file, so it's no wonder that he's been going for three rounds with how pent-up he must've been. his swollen tip pounds your cervix at a brutal pace as he lets out a desperate, "ah, ah! 'm cumming, cumming—hnngh!" before spilling his seed inside the confines of your aching cunt.

lawliet cums so much it's embarrassing, using his load from earlier as lube to keep on fucking you over and over again as you moan into the crook of his neck. without warning, he slides out of the comforting warmth of your pussy, leaves a kiss on your forehead and immediately turns his attention towards the mess he's made. "h-huh? eru, what are you—"

he pushes your legs apart, proudly putting your sopping cunt on full display as he watches his own semen leak out. "just checking. your pleasure is important to me," he says bluntly as he buries his face between your thighs. you gasp as he spreads your pussy lips with his thumbs, letting out a satisfied, 'hm' at the sight of his latest assignment. you're so incredibly full of him that it's making you feel bloated.

"you're so sensitive to my touch, aren't you?" he coos, smearing his load all over your clit. you choke out a whiny, "hnngh! eru you're not—aah—done yet?" as your legs flail at the intrusion, feeling his index finger flick your sweet spot. "you see, i don't usually like messy things.." he leans in to take a closer look, inspecting your poor pussy as if it's just another one of his case samples before sticking his tongue into your needy hole.

the sweet tang of his cum hits his tastebuds straight away, paired perfectly with your own juices in an abhorrently lewd taste. the euphoria goes straight to his cock. you shudder at the sensation, screaming out a shaky, "a-ah, ah! fuck, hnngh! eruuu!"

you're crushing his head with your thighs, but the pleasure's so overwhelming that you simply can't help it. your walls spasm around his tongue as he flicks and swirls it around, practically making out with your creamy cunt. "fuck—aah! e-eru, shit, oh my god!" you mewl, tugging on a lock of his jet black hair as you're pulling his face closer towards your heat. he starts to slow down, and it feels like heaven's being stripped away from you the moment he comes to an abrupt halt.

"ah, where was i? oh, yes." he trails off, eyeing a bead of cum racing down your ass. "i'm not a huge fan of messy things, you know." his tongue catches the droplet, lapping it up before spitting it back into your overflowing pussy. right where it belongs. his touch is reverent as he lets his hands roam your body once again, softly caressing your labia. "..but this. this is an exception."

a/n happy birthday to my favourite character of all time!! didn't know how do address him so i hope "eru" is okay, "l" looks so awkward on it's own...

© draculiette ✧ do not copy, modify or repost any of my work.

[sorekuna]

l lawliet with an oral fixation..

he constantly has to have something in his mouth. he usually prefers it to be food, a sweet of some sorts. but ever since you two started dating, you’ve been making your way up his list.

L isn’t really a touchy guy. he isn’t that big on physical touch, especially in public. whether you touch him or not doesn’t matter much to him. but in private, he’s on you often. not usually with his hands, but with his mouth. when he doesn’t have some sort of food on his tongue, you’re the next best thing.

most commonly, it’s your fingers. it’s the most comfortable position for you both. your fingers sitting in his mouth as he occasionally sucks while you both do your own thing, not speaking. it’s a comfortable silence.

every now and then, he’ll get on his knees for you. slowly pulling your panties down, not in a mood to rush anything. most of the time he’ll just stare at your cunt for a bit before he dives in. sometimes you’ll even have to push his head down if he drowns out your desperate pleads for him to please you already. he’s exceptionally skilled with his tongue, as showed. what he likes most about eating you out is the sweet savor of your pussy. the exquisite taste on his tongue is like heaven to him.

but his favorite way for you to occupy his mouth by far, is by sucking on your tits. pushing your shirt over your breasts, as he watches them bounce down from the force. he immediately latches his mouth onto one of your nipples, flicking his tongue back and forth and then going back to sucking. one of his hands flies up to pinch and play at your free nipple, for your pleasure of course. he frequently uses this method to help him fall asleep, as he finds it hard to rest most nights with his mind constantly running. this allows him to only focus on you and your boobs, relaxing him.

do we like small or big font better? sorry this is so short and bad lol

i cringe writing the word pussy

[t0rn-h3artz]

LOCKED IN🪡

I saw a photo of this pose while doomscrolling and couldn’t help myself.

SUMMER IS HERE AND I AM FREE‼️

[bored-storyteller]

Hello, your writing is a pure bliss and I hope Im not late yet, but when I saw your promt and your cute newest work about Uta, can I mabye too have a request about him? He is my favourite anime character. :D And I would like to request the story on a word pancake, please. :D

Ok, I changed this little story you don't know how many times. This is the one that seemed most decent to me! Thank you for your request and for your support dear Anon!🌹

Tokyo Ghoul, Uta x human! Reader

Word: "Pancake"

"Have you ever tried to eat human food?"

Your question hovers quietly in the evening half-light, Uta just pushes his head back on your legs, to be able to look at you.

He lies quietly on the sofa, with his gaze up to that moment lost in an indefinite point of space and his hands folded in his lap.

For a moment the red irises scan the curiosity in your gaze, as if they can't really understand it.

"Why should I do this?" He asks you, and then rearranges himself, looking back at the ceiling.

"Because you are crazy ..." you murmur slightly sulky, looking away too, while your fingers distractedly enjoy the sensation of his shaved hair against the fingertips.

You don't talk much, but you don't mind. It's not like you don't say anything to each other, but you like to take your moments of calm in the evening, with no need for anything other than the two of you.

And when you believe that the topic has simply fallen on deaf ears, Uta sighs softly.

"Only once." He says without giving particular color to his tone, but manages to spark a new curiosity in your eyes; you didn't expect it, you almost laugh at the surprise.

"When?" You ask, because it is inevitable that you do, and your boyfriend knows it.

His eyes roll to signal that he has already regretted having spoken, but in any case he replies: “Do you remember the first times we met? When did you work at that cafe? "

A slight smile crosses your face as you nod softly. You remember the weird guy who walked into the local every week on your shift, all covered in jacket, hat and sunglasses. He always took the usual things, a black coffee and pancakes to take away: the pancakes you made only yourself, however, because according to him they had a "particular aesthetic taste".

That thought made you laugh then as now.

"What did you do with those pancakes actually?"

"I looked at them ... I found them really beautiful."

This time you can't hold back a light but amused laugh. Why does this seem so in line with Uta?

"And then, despite that stench of rancid, I could still smell your perfume."

He is speaking to you with such quietness that he seems almost emotionless, yet for some reason he makes you blush. Though…

"Won't you tell me that ..."

Uta sighs, turning his face back to yours: "Yes, I tasted it, okay?"

You put a hand to your lips to keep yourself at least partially from laughing. You can't tell if you enjoy the fact itself or how embarrassed he seems to admit it.

“However, it didn't go beyond my esophagus. Really unbearable. Stop laughing now. " He tells you trying to be bored, settling down again to look elsewhere.

"I could be offended, you know?"

"It wouldn't be very smart of you since you know exactly who I am."

You smile as you quietly stroke his hair, undecided, however, whether to allay that annoyance of him or to continue teasing him as long as he is on your lap.

"Basically you ate it because you wanted to eat me, then." You murmur more to yourself than to him as a black strand slide around your index finger.

He looks at you, but this time he doesn't find you focused on him, you seem rather lost in your thoughts of that little realization.

"The initial idea was that ..." He reveals in a whisper that he does not know if you are listening, but your smile confirms that he has been heard.

How do you smile at him when he says such things to you, anyway?

"You're a pancake for ghouls."

"Oh well, thanks for your absolutely uncorrupted compliments." You answer him, your amused smile clashes a little with the fake frown on your forehead.

"But that's the truth." He insists, as he gets up just to get a chance to bite your nose slowly.

You just snort in front of his games, perhaps in bad taste or perhaps just very dangerous.

"You are inviting you know? But it would be a real shame to eat you."

"Stop." You tell him immediately, bringing your palm to his lips to silence him. A flash of boredom crosses his gaze, but he immediately frees himself from your grip.

"The official idea was that ..." he resumes, the quiet music of his voice fades slightly "the unofficial idea was ... I would have been sorry to disappoint a certain human being if they had asked me to taste their sweets in front of them. "

It's funny how he tries to be as innocent as possible in front of your doubtful gaze, and whether that's true or not, you sigh complacently as you smile.

"I would never have asked you, I was too afraid of your judgment."

Uta doesn't laugh, but you can feel the fun in his snort escaping his lips as he playfully strokes your head before standing up.

"Luckily I'm a ghoul then, my sweet pancake."

[rhadamanthes]

The keys clatter to the floor as you enter the apartment. Your hands are busy pulling Noel impossibly closer to you.

You don’t want the kiss to end at all.

His hands fiddle with the belt of your coat, soon it falls to the ground, joining the keys. In a burst of audacity, you grip Noel’s jacket harder, pushing him agaisnt the wall, his lips part in surprise, you take advantage of the moment to slide your tongue into his mouth, finding his tongue to dance with yours.

Noel places his hands on your hips, lifting you up to gently place you against the entrance closet. It’s you and him in the corner of your tiny apartment, it feels so warm, it’s all you need. Your lips are drawn in a smile when you part from him, breathless. He is towering over you, hands on the closet door you’re resting on, this sight really is something. There is a faint smile on his face too, his cheeks are rosier than usual. You giggle, placing a strand of hair behind your ear.

« What’s so funny ? » Noel smiles, covering your hands with his as he helps you tucking the stray piece.

« It’s such an honor to put a smile on an eldery person’s face during the christmas season you know ? »

« I’m the eldery person ? » you nod, biting your inner cheek « You do know that this is my natural color right ? » he points to his hair.

« Oh I know, it’s not about the hair » Noel raises a curious eyebrow «  You know when you got up to pay the tab for the whole table ? You knees popped » you put a dramatic hand on your chest « That was very hard to hear » Noel tilt his head, moving his hand down to your collarbone, tracing it with the pulp of his fingers.

« Very hard» he repeats, foot slide between yours, you offer no resistance when he nudge them apart. «We should check if they still work properly»

« We should do that » you nod and he sinks to his knees. His golden orbs are looking up at you and suddenly your glad he’s not close to you anymore, there is a chance he would hear how your heart is hammering in your chest.

His cold finger run up your bare thighs, until they meet your frilly underwear he caress them from under your dress, eyes still locked with yours as his fingers trace the lacy bows on your hip bones. You throat is getting dry. Your panties are definitely not. Before you can complain about the lack of attention, Noel bunches up your dress and pulls the underwear down. You raise your feet to get them out of the way for good, what you didn’t expect was for Noa to pocket them.

A snarky remark is on the tip of your tongue when your clit gets sucked in his mouth. You gasp in shock, hand flying to the wall for balance. His tongue is merciless on you, swiping up and down your bud like he’s actively trying to flatten it up. The back of your right thigh ends up on his shoulder as he press his face deeper against your skin.

His name echoes desperately in the corridor, your eyes are sealed shut under the surge of pleasure coursing your body.

You teased him, that’s what you like to do, you didn’t know he’d actually be good at this, none of the men you’ve been with ever were.

Your hips buck on their own against Noel’s face, his tongue awakening a new type of greed inside of you. Noel growl and it reverberates against in your core.

« F-fuck, Noel » your words are strained, your words are weak the grip he has on your thigh assure you that he won’t let you melt into a puddle on the ground. So you let go, body shaking between Noel and the wall as you beg for god’s know what.

Once you’ve come back to your senses, Noel let your feet rest on the ground as he gets up. His knees don’t crack, but yours are about to give out. He looks overly satisfied, you know what is about to come.

« For someone so young and vivacious you didn’t last really long » he mocks, patting your cheek with the back of his hand, oozing faux sympathy.

« Shut up » you mutter, avoiding his gaze

« But it’s okay, I don’t have to go back to the nursing home until later, we have all the time in the world » Noel kiss your cheek so tenderly, like a snowflake landing on your skin. « Where is your room ? » he asks, taking your hand in his.

« Huuuh » your brain is still foggy with lust, you can’t answer yet.

« Need a minute ? » Noel smiles, caressing your knuckle with his thumb, his tone is so condescending, it makes you snap back to reality.

« When I’m done with you père noël, you won’t be smiling anymore » you walk past him, tugging on his hand as you lead him to the bedroom.

A small present from me to you, Merry Christmas my loves <3

[dreamdragonkadia]

Perfect, perfect man. we ignore the red flag.

Noel Noa was a man of habit.

Anyone could figure that out simply by observing him for a day, by noticing the exactness of his training schedule, the way he arrived at Bastard München’s facilities at the exact same time every morning without fail, or how every action he took seemed guided by quiet efficiency rather than impulse.

His life moved with intention.

Meals were planned, rest was calculated, and sleep followed a structure optimized for performance. Living with him only confirmed what the world already suspected: nothing Noel did was accidental.

So when you officially moved in together, the 5:00 a.m. alarms quickly became the bane of your existence.

Not only because of the shrill sound ripping you from sleep, but because it marked the exact moment the warm body beside you would disappear. Noel woke instantly every morning, no reluctance, no lingering beneath the blankets. The alarm shut off, the mattress shifted, and within seconds the comforting weight and heat beside you vanished.

Winter made it worse; cold air crept into the space he left behind almost immediately, and you would curl instinctively toward the emptiness, half-awake and faintly resentful of a routine you knew you had no right to interrupt.

You never complained. His discipline was part of who he was, inseparable from the man you admired and loved. Asking Noel to abandon such routine would have been like asking him to play carelessly.

It simply wasn’t in his nature.

Still, your body noticed the absence even if your mind accepted it logically. Sleep always felt lighter after he left, thinner somehow, as if rest itself knew something important was missing.

That was why it took you longer than it should have to notice when things began to change.

At first, the difference was subtle enough to dismiss as imagination.

The alarm would ring, you’d brace subconsciously for the familiar loss of warmth, and yet… it never came.

The sound stopped, but the mattress remained dipped beside you. Half-asleep, you registered steady breathing instead of movement, the quiet presence of him still there. You assumed he had overslept the first time (an impossible thought, considering Noel), but sleep dragged you under again before you could question it further.

Then it happened again the next morning.

And the morning after that.

The alarm rang, no movement followed, and instead of being left alone, you found yourself drifting deeper into sleep, comfort settling heavier in your chest. Sometimes you vaguely remembered turning toward him, pressing closer without conscious thought, your hand catching the fabric of his shirt as if anchoring yourself.

Other mornings, you woke already tucked against him, leg tangled with his, with no memory of moving at all.

The strangest part was that his schedule never changed. He still left at the same exact time every day. He still returned from training as punctual as ever.

Which meant the extra minutes you kept half-dreaming through had to come from some sort of dream. Noel Noa did not simply lose time.

The realization finally arrived one morning when you surfaced from sleep earlier than usual, caught in that fragile space between dreaming and awareness.

The alarm sounded at five sharp. You kept your eyes closed, waiting. The alarm clicked off. Instead of rising, there was a slow exhaled breath beside you and Noel settling back into the mattress.

There was a brief pause, as though he were confirming something, and then his arm slid carefully around your waist, careful enough that you felt the intention behind it even through sleep.

Your body reacted instantly, instinct overriding thought as you turned toward him, fingers curling into his shirt while your face pressed against his shoulder.

The movement felt automatic, familiar, like something you had done countless times without knowing. He stilled for a moment, and when you settled fully against him, his hand lifted to cradle the back of your head, holding you there with quiet steadiness.

You stayed like that, wrapped in warmth and drowsy comfort, probably a second from going back to sleep until another (quieter) alarm vibrated some minutes later.

This time Noel moved immediately, shifting up with the efficiency you recognized and gentleness that still surprised you. Your eyes opened slowly, confusion threading through lingering sleep. “…Wait,” you murmured, voice rough, “there are two alarms?”

He paused mid-motion and glanced back at you, expression calm, hair slightly disheveled in a way the public never saw. It was just about time for a haircut with how long it had grown out. “Yes,” he answered simply. You blinked, trying to piece together the pattern your brain had finally caught.

“Since when have you needed two?”

“A few weeks.” The answer came without hesitation, as though the timeline had been carefully tracked. Suspicion crept in as you pushed yourself upright.

“Why?”

Noel shifted, movements unhurried, clearly considering how to phrase his explanation. He rarely wasted words; even conversations followed efficiency. Finally, he said, matter-of-factly, “You reach for me when I leave.” You stared at him, certain you’d misheard.

 “…What?” His gaze flicked briefly toward the rumpled sheets between you, analytical rather than teasing.

“Every morning,” he continued evenly. “Approximately three seconds after I stand up. You attempt to follow.”

Heat rushed to your face. “I do not.”

“You do,” he replied calmly. After a small pause, he added, “You frown as well.”

Mortification settled fully as you pulled the blanket closer around yourself. “Okay, but that still doesn’t explain the second alarm.”

“I adjusted my wake time forward by ten minutes,” he said. “So you would not wake when I leave.” Your thoughts stalled, struggling to process the simplicity of what he’d just admitted.

“…You wake up earlier,” you repeated slowly, “just to make sure I go back to sleep?”

“It is efficient. You sleep more soundly when physical contact is maintained, and I prefer leaving when you remain asleep and not glaring at me like I've wronged you.”

The explanation was practical, almost clinical, and somehow that made it infinitely more intimate.

The fact that he observed a problem and quietly optimized a solution because your comfort mattered enough to restructure his perfectly balanced routine.

“You changed your schedule,” you said quietly, the weight of it finally settling in.

“A minor adjustment,” he replied. But you knew better. For someone whose life operated on being the best, even ten minutes carried meaning. You reached out before he could stand fully, fingers wrapping around his wrist to stop him.

“…You didn’t have to do that.” His eyes met yours, soft in a way reserved only for private moments.

“I know,” he said simply. Not an obligation for him, but a willing choice.

Understanding warmed your chest as every morning you barely remembered suddenly made sense, the lingering feeling of being held, the way he always seemed awake when you curled closer, the comfort that strangely made the absence better when waking up alone. “You found a compromise,” you murmured.

Noel nodded once. “Yes.” A sleepy smile tugged at your lips as you pulled him down just enough to press a brief kiss against his mouth before he left.

“Then stay another minute,” you whispered. He glanced automatically toward the clock, calculating as always. A pause followed. Then he lay back down beside you again, arm settling around your waist.

Exactly one minute.

[itoshiabi]

How dare she steal my baby brother!

2k followers event, request no. 6: Rin has fallen in love and has turned into a softie, which is making Sae terrified. So he starts investigating you like a criminal and then one day comes home early only to find Rin peacefully drooling on your lap on his couch.

The apartment is quiet, which usually means one of two things in the Itoshi brothers' shared apartment:

1. Rin is asleep.

2. Rin is plotting violence against Sae.

And of course, Sae prefers Rin sleeping.

So when he steps out of his room and hears a soft, disgustingly gentle chuckle coming from the living room, he freezes.

Then slowly turns his head.

Rin Itoshi, his younger brother, the same Rin who usually looks like he wants to kill everyone on the field...

Is sitting on the couch with his phone in hand... blushing.

BLUSHING!

He's Not annoyed, angry or murderous.

But he's blushing and smiling.

Sae stares.

"What the hell?"

Rin immediately scowls and turns the phone away.

"What do you want?"

"You're smiling."

"I'm not."

"You look sick."

Rin's face darkenes. "Get lost."

Sae narrows his eyes.

This is bad.

No, this is catastrophic.

Someone has infiltrated Rin's life.

Which means someone has somehow bypassed his hostility, sarcasm, trust issues, emotional repression and terrifying glares.

This person is dangerous, very dangerous.

So to save his brother from this dangerous person, Sae decides to observe Rin for the next two weeks.

And now he is more terrified because— Rin randomly glances at his phone, his ears turns red.

Rin thinks very carefully before sending a text. He types messages then erase them, then types again and stare blankly into space and suddenly smirks.

Rin even HUMS now, while making tea.

Sae nearly called emergency services when he saw Rin doing that.

Also Rin calls that mysterious person "Idiot" fondly.

FONDLY.

Sae slowly sets down his glass.

No, absolutely not.

So he starts the interrogation the next morning.

Sae sits at the dining table like a mafia boss, when Rin enters, half asleep.

"Sit."

"No."

"Who is she?"

Rin stops for a while, then continues walking again.

"No one."

"You're always smiling at your phone."

"You're hallucinating."

"You called someone an idiot lovingly."

Rin turns sharply.

"You were listening?"

"You were loud."

"I whispered."

"You're radiating weakness."

"It's none of your business."

"It is if some parasite is trying to ruin your life."

Rin looks offended enough to stab him.

"Shut up."

"Name."

"No."

"Show me her picture."

"No."

"Give me her social media then."

"No."

"Alright then, what's her blood type?"

"Die."

Rin walks off and Sae rubs his temples.

Fine, if Rin won't cooperate—

He'll just investigate.

➽──────────────❥

The private investigator returns three weeks later.

Sae sits across from him.

"Well?"

The investigator hands over a folder.

"She's clean."

Sae frowns.

"What do you mean clean?"

"I mean normal. University student. Good grades. No scandals. No criminal history. Volunteers sometimes. Buys coffee too often. Once yelled at a guy for making fun of beggar."

Sae blinks.

"That's it?"

"She also seems genuinely in love with your brother. You brother seems to love her a lot too."

Silence.

Sae dislikes that answer most of all.

So he just decides to meet you himself and texts you, he got your number from the investigator—

I'm Rin's brother. We need to talk. Don't tell Rin. Meet me (cafe name) at 5.

You stare at the message.

Then laugh.

But you decide to go anyway.

➽──────────────❥

The café is elegant, expensive and annoyingly quiet. There is no one else besides Sae, so it means he has reserved the whole cafe.

Sae is already sitting on a table when you arrive, dressed in VERY expensive clothes which screams money.

He looks you up and down.

Then freezes slightly.

Because you look... sweet, soft and completely harmless.

And just to prove that, you smile politely.

"Hi."

That somehow makes him trust you less.

"Sit."

"You really are brothers," you mutter.

"What?"

"Nothing."

You sit across from him.

Sae folds his hands.

"I'll be direct."

"I expected nothing else."

"What are your intentions with Rin?"

You blink.

"...Excuse me?"

"If you're dating him for money, status, attention—say it now."

You stare but he continues coldly anyway.

"I'm richer than him. More famous too. If that's what you want, I can provide it."

You smile.

Sweetly, dangerously.

Sae notices that too late.

You slowly pick up the iced drink in front of you.

"Interesting offer, really." You say and pour the entire thing over his head.

Every staff on the cafe gasps.

And Sae?

He just sits there dripping in stunned silence, ice cube sliding down his shoulder.

You stand.

"I hate you."

His eye twitches.

"But I'll still keep this secret from Rin because it would hurt him if he knows."

Sae stares.

You continue, voice sharp.

"You've hurt him enough already."

For the first time, Sae looks genuinely speechless.

You grab your bag and point a finger at him.

"Stop hurting my boyfriend..." You smile sweetly. "Or I'll kill you."

Then you walk out.

The café staff applaud internally.

➽──────────────❥

For several days after that, Sae does nothing but just watches Rin as usual.

Rin seems happier lately.

Still rude, but less tense.

Disgusting.

And every time Sae considers interfering again—

He remembers your smile while assaulting him with citrus.

So he just tells himself: If Rin gets hurt, I'll destroy her life.

Which, for Sae, counts as emotional growth.

But then one evening, Sae returns home earlier than expected.

Thinking Rin is asleep, he unlocks the apartment quietly and walks in.

And stops dead.

Because there you are.

On HIS couch.

And Rin?

Rin is asleep with his head on your lap.

One arm around your waist, mouth slightly open, drooling. You are gently stroking his hair while using a tissue to wipe his chin.

Sae's whole soul leaves his body.

"What th—"

You look up and raise your index finger to your lips.

Sae freezes in disbelief.

Then to make him feel worse, you slowly point to the glass of orange juice on the table. Then to him.

The threat is clear.

Try me.

Sae's jaw clenches but you just smile sweetly.

"Don't wake my boyfriend up."

Rin shifts in his sleep and mumbles, "...stay..." then tightenes his grip around your waist.

Sae nearly explodes.

"That idiot is on my couch."

You whisper back, "No. He's on my lap."

Silence.

Sae feels violence in his bloodstream. But you totally ignore him and resume petting Rin's hair.

"He had training today. He was tired."

"Then put him in his room."

"He chose my lap."

Sae glares at his sleeping brother who's now nuzzling deeper into your stomach.

So you just lean down and kissed Rin's cheek softly, making him smile in his sleep.

Sae sees red.

You look back at Sae.

"Door's that way."

"This is my apartment."

"And yet you're the third wheel."

His eye twitches so hard that it becomes visible.

But you just smile and point to the orange juice again.

Sae inhales, exhales, turnes around and leaves the apartment.

The door shuts loudly behind him.You grin in victory.

Then look down at Rin.

Rin opens one eye immediately.

You gasp softly.

"You were awake?!"

Rin smirks and wraps both arms around your waist.

"Since he said what the—"

"You little devil." You pinch his cheek. "You used me to annoy Sae."

"Mm." He buries his face against you. "Worth it."

You laugh quietly.

"You're evil."

"Learned from Sae."

Then he looks up at you, sleepy and beautiful and unfair.

"Stay the night."

You soften instantly.

"All right."

From outside the apartment door, Sae hears everything.

He stands there in silence and then mutters to himself:

"I hate both of them."

[unknownsvoid]

Rin with an oral fixation!

It started off as stuble – unnoticeable, but gradually after a while, you picked up on his behaviour. He'd literally have anything in his mouth: gum, plastic, the back of his pencil, his nails – nearly everything. It doesn't matter what. He just needs to have something in his mouth.

It's why he adores eating you out so much, and if he could, he would stay there for hours and hours on end. Just with his head buried between your thighs, which are squishing his temples so hard his head could pop.

He would ask you every day to eat your pussy if he weren't so shy about it. Poor guy. He'll ask as much as his nervousness will allow him. It's why he savours your taste every chance he gets. Give him an hour between your legs; he's a happy man.

His fingers tap against his thighs nonstop, keeping his hands nice and occupied while he ravishes you. His tongue runs along your folds until he finds your clit. He gives it a swirl before pulling it between his lips and teeth, sucking on it like his life depends on it. He lets out a satisfied hum like he's enjoying this a lot more than you are, which honestly, it wouldn't brush past you.

He's always been precise with it, perfectly altering between tongue-fucking you or just playing about with your clit with his tongue. Just back and forth. It's surprising how his jaw never gets tired, especially when he's been doing this for over ten minutes now — without a single break.

His hands move from his lap to wrap his arms around your thighs, pulling you closer towards him. His hair tickles your thighs — his breath hot and heavy against your pussy.

He knows you're close. He can feel it – taste it, even.

His tongue moves from your clit all the way down to your hole before he slides it as deep as he can inside you. You cry out, shaky thighs squeezing his head as you cum — soaking his mouth and chin with your juices.

Even after that mind-blowing orgasm, he keeps going. You really think he's going to stop after one orgasm? You're naive.

author's note: this has genuinely just been chilling in my drafts for ages, and i didn't know.

[beardedmrbean]

[theman]

I GOT A FUCKING RAISE THE POTATO WORKED WTF

[tattooedzombigirl]

This potato works. Every. Fucking. Time.

[secondlina]

Reblogging because it’s a damn potato and I want to encourage people to assume potatoes are magical.

[plagued-roses]

MAGIC POTATO GO!🥔

[thaumbody]

here we go again

reblogging the golden potato

hoping it will work

that my life will get a perk

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Always reblog the potato.

[wreneddieilysm]

Rebloged.

[chiara-hotel]

lowkey need luck rn 🙏🥔🥔🥔

[lifequixotics]

Potato of luck make my Japanese test go well

[jurisnow]

potato of luck

[fagcrisis]

i hate the word spicy can we bring back calling things erotic

[maryoliveoil]

rolling up to Wendy's to get an erotic chicken sandwich

[sanzubbg]

Saw a video on tiktok today about a girl having a yacht named after her and i feel like this would be such a kokonoi thing to do 😭

STOPPP IT IS HOLY SHIT 😭😭

[deadrissoto]

aryu’s hands would be all over you at every chance he can get, his touch both reverent and desperate, like he can never get enough of you. he would be so good with his fingers, scissoring you open with the patience of a saint, worshipful and filthy. splaying a hand in the middle of your chest as he pushes you onto your back, gently massaging one side of his favourite part of you before curling his fingers just enough to make you arch beautifully…

[an1m320v3r]

I'm starving for Marc snuffy hcs pls I love your lavinho, pls make one for snuffy 🥺❤️

Terreno Stabile

Steady ground

Blue Lock! Marc Snuffy x Reader

Warnings: Fluff; NOT PROOFREAD!!!

[Google translate was used, Italian readers you have been warned.]

You met him in Italy, but not on a pitch.

It was a quiet café near a training facility in Turin—one of those places that smelled like espresso and toasted bread. You were there first, laptop open, clearly stressed. He asked, very politely, if the chair across from you was taken.

“È libero?” Is it free? he asked.

You nodded. “Yeah. Go ahead.”

He thanked you, sat, and didn’t say another word for a solid ten minutes. Comfortable silence. That was the first thing you noticed.

The friendship started because neither of you tried too hard.

You dropped your pen. He picked it up without a word and slid it back to you.

“Grazie,” you said automatically.

He smiled faintly. “Prego.” You’re welcome.

Later, when you muttered about deadlines and burnout, he didn’t interrupt—just listened.

“Il lavoro ti sta mangiando viva,” Your job is eating you alive. he said calmly.

It wasn’t judgmental. Just observant.

You didn’t know he was that Marc Snuffy at first.

He introduced himself as “Marc.” Nothing more. No ego.

When you casually complained about modern soccer players being treated like machines, he stirred his coffee and replied,

“Il problema non è lo sport. È dimenticare che siamo persone.” The problem isn’t the sport. It’s forgetting we’re people.

You paused. Looked at him. “You sound like you’ve thought about that a lot.”

He shrugged. “Abbastanza.” Enough.

Your conversations became routine.

Same café. Same time. No planning.

You talked about work, stress, expectations—never dreams, never romance, never anything dramatic.

One morning you joked, “You’re weirdly calm all the time.”

He smiled behind his cup.

“Non sempre. Solo quando serve.” Not always. Only when it matters.

The truth came out accidentally.

A TV behind the counter showed a sports segment. His face appeared on screen.

You blinked. Looked at him. Looked back at the TV.

“…That’s you.”

He sighed, like someone caught forgetting to lock the door.

“Sì.” Yes.

You laughed once. “You could’ve mentioned you’re one of the best soccer players in the world.”

He tilted his head.

“Me l’hai chiesto?” Did you ask?

After that, nothing changed—and that mattered.

You didn’t ask for stories. You didn’t fan out.

One day he said quietly,

“Apprezzo che tu non mi guardi diversamente.” I appreciate that you don’t look at me differently.

You replied, “You’re still just the guy who steals my sugar packets.”

He smirked. “E continuerò.” And I will continue.

He respected your boundaries instinctively.

When you were exhausted, he didn’t push conversation.

When you were angry, he didn’t try to fix it.

“Vuoi parlare o stare in silenzio?” Do you want to talk or stay quiet? he asked once.

You chose silence. He stayed anyway.

He never treated you like a distraction—never like an escape.

Just a person.

One evening, as you packed up to leave, he said,

“Domani potrei non venire. Allenamento lungo.” I might not come tomorrow. Long training.

You nodded. “That’s fine.”

He hesitated, then added,

“mi piace parlare con te.” I like talking to you.

Your friendship settled into something steady and unspoken.

No expectations. No labels.

Just coffee, conversation, and a man who believed—quietly, firmly—that before soccer, before success, before anything else…people mattered.

He realized that he liked you on a day that felt painfully ordinary.

You were late. Fifteen minutes, then twenty.

He told himself it didn’t matter—training ran long all the time. People had lives.

Still, he kept glancing at the café door.

When you finally rushed in, breathless and apologetic, you said, “Sorry—work exploded.”

He felt the tension leave his chest so fast it startled him.

He thought, Ah.

Then, quieter and more alarming: Questo non è normale. This isn’t normal.

Liking you didn’t arrive as excitement. It arrived as concern—and stayed.

The confirmation came when he caught himself planning around you.

He turned down an optional sponsor dinner without hesitation.

Later, when a teammate asked why, Snuffy answered flatly, “Avevo un impegno.” I had an appointment.

That night, sitting across from you, he watched you talk with your hands, animated and alive, and realized:

He wasn’t protecting his schedule.

He was protecting this.

“Sei importante per me,” he almost said—then stopped himself. You’re important to me.

He needed to be sure.

It took him longer than most people would expect to ask you out.

Not weeks.

Months.

He treated liking you the same way he treated soccer strategy—carefully, responsibly.

He asked himself hard questions in silence:

Can I be honest? Can I be stable? Can I walk away if this hurts you?

One evening, after you laughed at something small and stupid, he decided:

“Non voglio essere un rischio per lei.” I don’t want to be a risk to her.

Only then did he allow himself to want you openly.

The moment he chose came after a loss.

Not on the pitch—but personal.

You told him you were considering leaving Italy for work. Not dramatic. Just factual.

“It’s probably nothing,” you said.

He went quiet. Too quiet.

Later that night, alone, he admitted the truth:

The idea of you not being in his life didn’t feel professional.

It felt unbearable.

“Basta,” Enough he murmured to himself. .

He asked you out the way he did everything else—directly, calmly, without games.

Same café. Same table. No bandana today.

“Posso dirti una cosa senza rovinare quello che abbiamo?” Can I tell you something without ruining what we have? he asked.

You nodded, cautious.

He met your eyes, steady and serious.

“Mi piaci. Non come amica.” I like you. Not as a friend.

He gave you an exit immediately—because he respected you too much not to.

“Se non è lo stesso per te, va bene,” If it’s not the same for you, that’s fine. he continued.

“Non cambierò il modo in cui ti tratto.” It won’t change how I treat you.

You stared at him. “Is this you asking me out?”

A small smile. Nervous, rare.

“Sì. Con calma. Se vuoi.” Yes. Slowly. If you want.

When you said yes, he didn’t celebrate. He exhaled.

Like a man who’d been holding his breath for months.

“Allora,” he said softly, standing and offering his hand,

“andiamo a fare una passeggiata.”

(Then… let’s go for a walk.)

No grand gesture. No rush.

Just two people stepping forward—deliberately, honestly, together.

Your first kiss didn’t happen when either of you expected it to.

Not on the first date. Not even the second.

It happened after a long walk that turned into sitting on a low stone wall near the river, shoulders almost touching, the city quieting around you.

He noticed the silence first—and didn’t rush to fill it.

You swung your feet lightly, staring at the water.

“You’re thinking too loud,” you said.

He huffed a small laugh.

“Colpa mia.” My fault.

There was a pause where he clearly decided something.

He turned slightly toward you, resting his forearms on his knees.

“Posso chiederti una cosa?” Can I ask you something?

You nodded.

“Se ti bacio… vuoi che sia adesso?” If I kiss you… do you want it to be now?

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “Now’s good.”

He didn’t touch you immediately.

That was the most him part of it.

He searched your face one last time, like checking the field before a pass.

“Dimmi se cambio idea,” Tell me if you change your mind. he murmured.

When he leaned in, it was slow—deliberate.

One hand came up to your jaw, warm and steady, thumb resting just below your ear.

The kiss itself was gentle, almost restrained, like he was proving to himself that he could stop if needed.

You were the one who closed the distance fully.

You leaned in, pressing closer, and he made a quiet sound against your lips—surprised, not upset.

The kiss deepened, still calm, still controlled, but unmistakably real.

He pulled back first. Not abruptly—carefully.

Foreheads touching, breath warm.

“Così va bene?” Is this okay? he asked softly.

You smiled. “More than okay.”

He smiled too—small, genuine, a little dazed.

“Bene,” Good. he said, exhaling.

Then, almost amused at himself:

“Ho aspettato troppo.” I waited too long.

You shook your head. “No. You waited right.”

He took your hand as you stood to leave, thumb brushing over your knuckles.

Not possessive. Just present.

As you walked, he said quietly,

“Non dimenticherò questo.” I won’t forget this.

Dating him feels calm in a way that’s almost disorienting at first.

No emotional whiplash. No guessing games.

He texts when he says he will. He shows up early.

“La coerenza è rispetto,” Consistency is respect. he says once.

Being with him feels like standing on solid ground.

He treats you like an equal, not an accessory.

He asks your opinion—on tactics, on life, on stupid things like which restaurant is overrated.

When you disagree, he listens without interrupting.

“Continua,” Go on. he says, hand lifted gently.

You never feel talked over. Ever.

Affection is quiet but constant.

A hand at your lower back in crowds.

Fingers brushing yours when he passes behind you.

He doesn’t perform love—he maintains it.

“Non devo dimostrarlo agli altri,” he murmurs once. (I don’t need to prove it to others.)

He is protective without being possessive.

If someone crosses a line, he steps in calmly.

No raised voice. Just presence.

“Va bene così,” That’s enough. he says firmly, ending conversations.

People listen.

When he gets jealous, it’s subtle—and rare.

He doesn’t snap or accuse.

He goes quiet. Observant.

Later, alone, he admits it plainly.

“Non mi piace come ti guardava,” I didn’t like how he looked at you. he says.

Then, immediately: “Ma è un mio problema, non tuo.” But that’s my issue, not yours.

Jealousy makes him more attentive, not controlling.

He checks in more.

Sits closer.

Asks, “Tutto bene?” Everything okay? with a softness that means more than suspicion.

He never makes you responsible for his insecurity.

Your fights are quiet—and heavy.

No shouting. No insults.

The tension sits between you like a weight.

He struggles most when he feels you’re minimizing yourself.

“Perché ti sminuisci?” Why do you downplay yourself? he asks, frustrated.

That’s when his composure cracks.

The biggest arguments come from opposite coping styles.

You want to talk things through immediately.

He wants time to think.

“Fammi ordinare i pensieri,” Let me organize my thoughts. he insists.

Waiting frustrates you. Rushing overwhelms him.

When he’s hurt, he withdraws—not to punish, but to protect.

Silence is his shield.

But he always comes back. Always.

“Scusa per prima,” Sorry about earlier. he says, meeting your eyes.

He never lets pride win.

Making up is intentional.

He doesn’t smooth things over—he resolves them.

“Cosa possiamo fare meglio?” What can we do better? he asks.

The fight becomes a lesson, not a scar.

Being with him teaches you something unexpected:

Love doesn’t have to be loud to be unshakeable.

Sometimes, it’s steady hands, honest words, and a man who chooses you— every day, on purpose.

He decides he wants to marry you long before he says the word out loud.

It happens quietly, during an unremarkable evening.

You’re both tired. Dinner is simple. You’re talking about something practical—insurance, work schedules, the future in a very unromantic way.

He watches you explain your thoughts carefully, making room for his opinion without shrinking yourself.

Something settles in his chest.

Questa è la persona con cui posso fallire. This is the person I can fail with.

For Marc Snuffy, that certainty is everything.

The moment it becomes non-negotiable is when he imagines life after soccer—and you’re already there.

Not as a question. Not as a hope.

As fact.

One night he says, almost absentmindedly,

“Quando smetterò di giocare…” When I stop playing…

And then pauses, frowns, and corrects himself.

“No. Quando smetteremo di costruire la nostra routine.” No. When we stop building our routine.

He realizes he’s already planning forever.

He doesn’t rush the proposal.

He prepares the same way he prepares for a match—with intention.

He considers timing, pressure, your mental state.

“Deve essere una scelta, non una sorpresa forzata,” It has to be a choice, not a forced surprise. he tells himself.

He asks you to marry him without spectacle.

No crowd. No cameras.

It’s on a walk—your walk—one you’ve taken dozens of times.

He stops, turns to face you fully. Takes both your hands.

“Voglio essere chiaro,” I want to be clear. he says.

His voice is steady, but his thumbs move against your knuckles. Nervous.

“Ti scelgo. Ogni giorno. Anche quando sarà difficile.” I choose you. Every day. Even when it’s hard.

He doesn’t kneel immediately.

He waits until you’re looking at him, fully present.

“Vuoi costruire la tua vita con me?” Do you want to build your life with me?

Only then does he reach into his pocket. Simple ring. Thoughtful. Practical. Perfect.

“Vuoi sposarmi?” Will you marry me?

When you say yes, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years.

He presses his forehead to yours.

“Grazie per avermi scelto,” Thank you for choosing me. he murmurs.

Your wedding is intentional, warm, and grounded.

No excess. No obligation invites.

People who matter. People who know you.

Italy, of course—but somewhere quiet.

Sunlight. Stone. Olive trees.

He wears his bandana tucked into his jacket pocket, not on his head.

He’s calm the entire day—until he sees you.

Then his composure finally cracks.

His eyes soften. His jaw tightens.

“Sei bellissima,” You’re beautiful. he whispers when you reach him.

It’s the only moment he forgets everything else.

His vows are simple and devastatingly sincere.

“Prometto di non fuggire dal silenzio.” I promise not to run from silence.

“Prometto di proteggere la tua vita, non solo i tuoi sogni.” I promise to protect your life, not just your dreams.

At the reception, he stays close.

Hand on your back. Fingers laced with yours.

No speeches about legacy or glory.

Just gratitude.

“Sono fortunato,” I’m lucky. he tells anyone who listens.

That night, when it’s finally just the two of you, he smiles—soft, satisfied.

Not like a man who’s won something—but like a man who’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

Married life with him is steady, grounding, and quietly intimate.

There’s no dramatic shift after the wedding—just a deepening.

You wake up beside him and feel, very clearly, this is home.

He treats marriage like a partnership, not a finish line.

Shared calendars. Shared decisions. Shared responsibility.

“Siamo una squadra,” We’re a team. he says easily.

Mornings are soft and practical.

He wakes earlier than you most days.

Coffee is already made. Your mug is always the same one.

If you’re still half-asleep, he presses a kiss to your temple instead of waking you.

“Dormi,” Sleep. he murmurs.

He’s more affectionate in private than he ever was in public.

Arms around you while you cook.

Forehead kisses when he passes by.

His hand settles at your waist like it’s muscle memory—because it is.

He doesn’t announce love. He practices it.

Communication becomes even more intentional.

He checks in, especially after hard days.

“Come stai davvero?” How are you really?

He waits for the real answer. He always has time for it.

Disagreements still happen—but they’re handled with care.

He doesn’t raise his voice.

When things get heavy, he suggests pauses instead of distance.

“Torniamo a parlarne tra un’ora,” Let’s come back to this in an hour. he says.

And he means it.

He’s deeply respectful of your independence.

Marriage doesn’t make him clingy.

If anything, it makes him more trusting.

“So chi sei,” I know who you are. he tells you simply.

Jealousy fades into protectiveness.

Not control—awareness.

He stands a little closer in crowds.

Listens a little sharper when someone crosses a line.

You never have to ask him to notice.

He plans for the future constantly—but never alone.

Finances. Health. Life after soccer.

You’re part of every conversation.

“Dimmi cosa vuoi,” Tell me what you want. he says.

And he listens without correcting.

At night, he unwinds with you.

No phone. No noise.

Sometimes you talk. Sometimes you don’t.

His arm around you, thumb tracing slow, absent patterns.

Silence with him feels safe.

On difficult nights, when old scars resurface, he’s honest instead of shutting down.

“Oggi è stato difficile,” Today was hard. he admits.

He leans into you instead of away.

Marriage gives him permission to be human.

Loving him as his wife means being chosen—daily, deliberately, without spectacle.

He doesn’t promise forever loudly.

He shows it, in a thousand small, unbreakable ways.

You tell him your pregnant on an ordinary evening—because that’s how your life together works.

Dinner dishes are still on the counter. He’s reading something on the couch, glasses low on his nose.

You sit beside him, closer than usual.

“Marc,” you say, voice steady but soft.

He looks up immediately. “Dimmi.” Tell me.

You place the test in his hand without ceremony.

“Sono incinta.” I’m pregnant.

His first reaction is silence.

It’s processing.

He stares at the test, then at you, then back again, like confirming a formation on the field.

His jaw tightens. His eyes shine.

“…Davvero?” Really?

When you nod, his breath breaks on the exhale.

He sits the test down carefully, like it’s something sacred.

He pulls you into him—slow, firm, grounding.

One hand cradles the back of your head.

“Grazie,” Thank you. he murmurs into your hair.

Not shock. Not panic. Gratitude.

The emotion hits him in layers.

Pride first.

Awe second.

Fear last—and he doesn’t hide it.

He presses his forehead to yours.

“Ho paura,” I’m scared. he admits quietly.

Then, immediately:

“Ma ci sono. Sempre.” But I’m here. Always.

From that moment on, he shifts into care mode—deliberately.

Not hovering. Not overwhelming.

Intentional.

“Cosa ti serve adesso?” What do you need right now? he asks.

And he waits for your answer.

He becomes obsessively attentive to your well-being.

He researches quietly. Doctors. Nutrition. Rest.

He doesn’t bombard you—he filters information first.

“Questo è utile,” he says, handing you one article.

“Questo no.” This isn’t.

Physically, he’s gentle in a way that’s new even for him.

He walks on the street side of the sidewalk.

Keeps a hand on your back on stairs.

If you wince even slightly, he notices.

“Dimmi dove,” Tell me where. he says instantly.

Emotionally, he anchors you.

On days you feel sick, tired, or overwhelmed, he never minimizes it.

“Il tuo corpo sta lavorando più del mio,” Your body is working harder than mine. he reminds you.

Rest is never framed as weakness.

He talks to the baby before you do.

Late at night. Quietly.

His hand resting on your stomach.

“Ti stiamo aspettando,” We’re waiting for you. he murmurs.

You pretend to be asleep. He knows you’re not.

When anxiety creeps in—for either of you—he names it.

“Non dobbiamo essere perfetti,” We don’t have to be perfect. he says.

Then, softer:

“Solo onesti. E insieme.” Just honest. And together.

Loving you while you’re pregnant looks like this:

Meals adjusted to what you can stomach.

Appointments never missed.

A man who kneels in front of you to tie your shoes without comment.

A hand that never lets go when things feel uncertain.

To him, this isn’t a disruption to his life.

It’s a continuation.

A new role—one he chooses with the same quiet certainty as everything else.

“Prima di tutto,” First and foremost, he says one night, holding you close,

“sei tu. Poi il nostro bambino.” it’s you. Then our child.

[REQUESTS OPEN!!!]

Who's next?

Noel Noa

Chris Prince

Julien Loki

Voting ended onJan 2

•Masterlist•

©an1m320v3r

[itoshiabi]

Gagamaru Gin x You headcanons

When you first met Gin, he noticed you right away. Not because you were loud— but because you were quiet and still managed to stand out. You're short with that deceptively soft face, yet your words can cut sharper than a blade when someone crosses a line. He liked that contrast more than he'll ever admit.

When you first spoke to him, he was startled. He expected you to be shy, but you just looked up at him with that straight, calm face and said something like: "You're tall. Must be hard finding doors that fit you." He was gone.

You're one of the few people who actually gets Gin. You don't force him to talk— you just sit beside him, sometimes throw him a snack and talk about random things. He opens up slowly because you make silence feel comfortable.

You tease him sometimes. Like calling him "wild boy" when or "tree" when he stands next to you— he just tilts his head and smiles, not offended at all.

He calls you things like "shorty," "my cub," or "tiny." You pretend to be annoyed, but you blush every time. He once told you, "You're small, but you take up too much space in my head." You had to walk away because your heart couldn't handle that level of honesty.

You're tiny next to him— he loves that. He'll rest his chin on your head whenever you hug, sometimes whispering random things like "You smell like home."

He has a weird habit of sniffing your hair or nuzzling your neck when he hugs you— it's instinctive, not creepy. He just finds comfort in your scent.

Gin didn't understand the concept of "love" at first — he just knew he likes being near you. You smell good, your voice is calming and when you smile, he gets this strange ache in his chest.

When you tease him he doesn't even get that. "Stop looking at me like that." "Like what?" "Like you're about to eat me." His reply? Dead serious: "Maybe."

If you ever tease him too much, he just picks you up like a cat. You start yelling, "Put me down!" while kicking air and he's just smiling like you're the cutest thing alive.

When you're tired or quiet, he doesn't ask questions. He just sits beside you, lets your head rest on his shoulder and starts braiding your hair clumsily. He just loves your hair so much that he can't stop himself from touching.

He's not great with words, but actions speak for him. You'll find little things: wildflowers left on your desk, his jacket draped over your shoulders when it's cold, or him standing silently beside you like a loyal guard dog.

Gagamaru's love language is touch and presence. He'll sit behind you, tracing shapes on your back absentmindedly, or lean his head on your shoulder like a sleepy cat.

He jealousy is very quiet. He won't say a word— he'll just stand close, eyes sharp and unreadable, until whoever was talking to you walks away. Then he relaxes like nothing happened.

When someone calls you his "lucky charm," he just nods solemnly like it is the most logical fact in the world.

He's surprisingly gentle. His hands are big and calloused, but when he cups your face, it feels like he's afraid to break something precious.

He also loves sleeping with his head on your lap. He'll mumble nonsense in his sleep— sometimes random things, sometimes your name.

He eats your cooking like a starving man. "Good. Very good," he says between bites, looking at you with wide, happy eyes.

He's terrible with phones. Texts like: "u." "eat." "miss." You learned to translate that as "I miss you. Have you eaten yet?"

When you cry, he panicks. He starts offering random things— water, snacks, his Blue Lock uniform, even his soccer shoes.

When he finally says "I love you", it's not planned. He blurts it out mid-hug, half-asleep, then freezes like he said something forbidden. You laugh. He blushes bright red and hides his face against you.