synopsis. Gojo Satoru carries you to bed when you fall asleep on the couch. You mumble "love you," in your half-asleep haze. He doesn't forget. The next morning, he teases you about it â and you both end up laughing, blushing, and tucked back into each other's arms.
pairing. gojo satoru x f!reader
content & warnings. pure fluff, established relationship, domestic fluff, soft gojo, teasing, kisses, forehead kisses, pet names (angel, love), sleepy confessions, no angst, happy ending!! <3
series. part 8 of "Satoru as Your Boyfriend" series!! all parts will be found here!
word count. 0.6k+
A/N. EKEKSKEK HE'S SO ADORABLE BRO đđ was kicking my feet the whole time writing this
The movie was something with explosions. You'd stopped paying attention twenty minutes in, lulled by the warmth of the couch and the low rumble of the sound system.
Satoru noticed immediately. Your breathing shifted, going soft and even against his shoulder. Your head had gradually migrated there, heavy and trusting, and he went completely still so he wouldn't disturb you.
He'd been waiting for this. Not in any weird way, just... he knew you. The way you always fought sleep like it was losing some battle, stubborn even when your eyes were drifting shut. The way you'd only ever let yourself go completely when you felt truly safe.
He loved that. That even after all this time, after sleeping beside him more nights than he could count, you still trusted him with that vulnerability.
It still got him. Every single time.
Satoru waited another ten minutes, watching the light from the screen flicker across your face, memorizing the way your eyelashes looked against your cheek. Then he hit pause, gentle and slow, and shifted to gather you up.
You were lighter than he expected. Or maybe that was just adrenaline, the familiar spike of being trusted with something fragile. Your head lolled against his shoulder, and he felt your breath warm through his shirt.
"Love you," you mumbled, not quite awake, not quite asleep.
He stopped walking. His arms tightened, pulling you closer, and he couldn't help the smile that broke across his face. His lips found your forehead, soft and deliberate.
"I love you more, angel," he whispered.
You made a small sound, something between agreement and protest, and he kept walking, heart full, carrying you through the dark hallway to your bedroom.
He lowered you onto the mattress with ridiculous care. Pulled the covers back, tucked them around you. Slid in beside you and fitted himself against your back, arm wrapping around your waist, hand over your heart.
You pressed back into him, already half-gone, and he buried his face in your hair.
"Sleep," he murmured, and you did.
Satoru woke up first, sunlight filtering through the curtains. You were still tucked against him, exactly where you'd fallen asleep. He watched you breathe for a while, cataloging the moment, the weight of your words still warm in his chest.
You stirred eventually, blinking awake with no idea where you were or how you'd gotten there. You rolled over, confused, and found him watching you with something soft and knowing in his eyes.
"Morning," he said.
"Did youâ" You looked around, piecing it together. "Did you carry me?"
"Mm." He brushed hair from your face. "You said something, too."
Your eyes went wide. "I did not."
"You absolutely did." He was grinning now, unrepentant, eyes crinkled at the corners. "Something about loving me? Adoring me? Can't quite remember, you were pretty incoherent. Mostly just 'Love you, You're perfect, Never leave meâ'"
"Stop it!" You buried your face in the pillow, groaning loud enough to wake the neighbors. "Oh my god, you're the worst."
He laughed, full and delighted, and pulled you back against him before you could escape. "Am I, though? Because I'm pretty sure I'm the one who tucked you in like a princess and stayed all night to make sure you didn't float away."
"Youâ" You tried to glare at him but you were smiling, cheeks flushed pink. "You're never letting this go, are you?"
"Never." He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then the corner of your mouth. "I'm gonna bring it up at our wedding. First toast. 'Remember when she confessed her undying love and didn't even remember?'"
You groaned again, but you were laughing now, and you let him settle the covers around you both, let him tuck you back against his chest.
"For the record," you mumbled into his shirt, "I definitely don't sound like that."
"Sure, angel." He squeezed you tight, still smiling against your hair. "Whatever helps you sleep."
A/N. cred to @xinwntr for the div !! :D
Plagiarism not authorized. Do not feed my work to AI. Feel free to req!! <3
I do believe I have done so previously, but I have expressed the absolute love and adoration that I feel for Lilia the way you write him, and I was wondering if you would be alright with writing a small scenario where we are spending some time together and we (the reader) are falling asleep around Lilia (something I think would already be a huge thing because of the trust needed to be that vulnerable around him), and we absentmindedly say âgoodnight my loveâ or even just look at him as say âmineâ and then just fall asleep. I am so curious to see how your wonderful mind would spin this and make me fall ever deeper for this man.
The evening had started with laughter and ended somewhere much quieter.
Diasomnia dorm at night was its own countryâstone corridors washed silver by moonlight, ancient tapestries holding secrets in their threads, the faint hum of magic so old it had become indistinguishable from silence. You had come to visit. That was all. A simple visit that had stretched from afternoon tea into evening conversation into something neither of you had named, sitting cross-legged on the floor of Lilia's room while he showed you a worn deck of cards and told you stories about each one that you were half-certain he was inventing on the spot.
"âand this one," he said, flipping a card with a theatrical flourish, "was won from a sea witch in a game that lasted three days and cost me my favorite hat."
"You don't wear hats."
"I did then. I was going through a phase." He grinned at you, all fangs and mischief, the kind of smile that had charmed kingdoms and terrified generals. "I've had many phases."
"I can imagine."
"No." His head tilted, the movement fluid and strange, like a bird considering something from an angle that shouldn't be possible. "You really can't."
The words hung thereânot defensive, not guarded, just true in a way that made your chest ache. seven hundred years of phases. seven hundred years of hats and wars and people loved and lost and buried. You let the silence sit between you, comfortable as a shared blanket, and he let you let it.
That was the thing about Lilia. He never filled silences that didn't need filling. For someone who had lived through so much noise, he understood quiet better than anyone you'd ever known.
The fire in his hearth had burned low. Embers now, pulsing faint orange in the dark. You hadn't noticed when the room got dimmer. Hadn't noticed when your body started to feel heavy in that specific, sweet way that meant sleep was creeping up on you like a cat.
"You're tired," Lilia said. Not a question.
"I'm fine."
"Your eyes have been closing for the past four minutes."
"They've been resting."
"Mm." That smile again, but softer at the edges. "They can rest more efficiently horizontal."
You made a noise that was meant to be dismissive but came out closer to a hum. Your body was betraying youâshoulders loosening, chin dipping, the reflexive fight against gravity becoming a losing battle. You'd been tired before you came. You'd known you were tired. You'd come anyway, because being here, in this room, with him, was more important than sleep.
That realization should have alarmed you. It didn't.
"Come here," Lilia said, and his voice had dropped half an octave into something that wasn't quite a whisper but lived in the same neighborhood. He'd shifted on the floor, leaning back against the side of his bed, one knee drawn up, his arm resting along the mattress behind him in a way that created a space. An invitation. Not demandingâLilia never demandedâbut offering, with the casual confidence of someone who knew the offer would be accepted even if you pretended to think about it.
You thought about it for approximately one and a half seconds.
The distance between you and him was small. You closed it carefully, deliberately, settling against his side the way you might lower something fragile onto a shelfâmindful of the placement, aware of the value. Your shoulder fit into the curve of his arm. Your head found the space between his collarbone and his jaw, and when you exhaled, it was the kind of exhale that carried tension out of the body like smoke.
Lilia's arm settled around you.
Not quickly. Not possessively. With the slow, deliberate care of someone handling something they'd been waiting a very long time to hold and were afraid of breaking. His palm came to rest on your upper arm, fingers curved lightly, thumb finding a position against the fabric of your sleeve where it could move in small, absent circles if it wanted to.
It wanted to.
The thumb moved.
"You know," Lilia said, and his voice was right beside your ear now, close enough that you could feel the shape of the words as much as hear them, "there was a time when falling asleep beside me was considered a supremely unwise decision."
"Mm."
"I'm told I was quite frightening, in the old days."
"You're still frightening."
"Am I?"
"Your ears are weird."
A laughâsurprised, genuine, vibrating through his ribcage and into your body like a warm current. "That is the least romantic thing anyone has ever said to me in a moment like this."
"You asked."
"I did." His thumb kept moving. "And I'm delighted."
The fire pulsed. Somewhere in the dorm, a clock you couldn't see marked time you weren't tracking. Your eyelids were heavyâimpossibly heavyâand the world was softening at the edges, colors bleeding into each other, sounds becoming round and distant.
You were falling asleep.
You were falling asleep beside Lilia Vanrouge.
The thought should have snapped you awake. It didn't. Because underneath the thought was a deeper one, a foundational one, the kind that lives in the body before it reaches the brain:
You are safe here.
Not safe because he wasn't dangerousâhe was, enormously, in ways that most people would never understand and he would never fully explain. Safe because you knew it the way you knew your own heartbeat: without evidence, without proof, with the animal certainty of a creature that has found the exact right place to rest.
His fingers had stilled against your arm. You felt him shiftâbarely, a fraction of an inchâand realized he was looking at you. Not glancing. Looking. With the kind of attention that centuries of life had refined into something almost tactile, like fingers trailing over your face without touching it.
"You trust me," he said. Quietly. Not surprised, exactly. Something else. Something deeper than surprise.
"You make it easy," you murmured, and the words came out slurred at the edges, sleep pulling them down into softness.
The silence that followed was so long that for a moment you thought he might not respond. Then his hand movedâfrom your arm to your hair, slow as sunrise, fingers threading through the strands with a gentleness that made something behind your ribs crack open like a window.
"No," he said, and his voice had gone to a place you'd never heard it go beforeâbare, and raw, and stripped of every performance. "I don't think I do, actually. I think you simply choose to be brave."
Your eyes were almost closed. The room was almost gone. There was only warmth and the scent of something herbal and faintly sweet and the impossible softness of fingers in your hair.
And thenâ
Not a thought. Not a decision. Something older than both. Something that bypassed the brain entirely and came straight from the place where love lives before language catches up.
You turned your faceâjust slightly, just enoughâinto the warmth of his neck. Your lips brushed skin, not a kiss but something more innocent and somehow more devastating: a nuzzle, a burrowing, the gesture of something small seeking shelter in something vast.
And you spoke.
One word. Barely audible. Shaped by a mouth that was already three-quarters asleep, carried on a breath that was more sigh than voice.
"Mine."
Then nothing. You were goneâslipping down into dark, warm silence like a stone dropped into still water, unconscious before the ripples had finished spreading.
You didn't hear the sharp, soft intake of breath above you.
You didn't feel the hand in your hair go completely still.
You didn't see the expression that crossed Lilia Vanrouge's faceâan expression that seven hundred years of life had not prepared him for, that no war, no loss, no triumph had ever put there.
He sat perfectly, impossibly stillâthe kind of stillness that was not human, that belonged to creatures who had learned patience in geological timeâand stared at the ceiling of his own room with wide eyes that saw nothing at all.
Mine.
The word echoed. Not in his earsâin his chest, in the hollow spaces between his ribs, in the ancient chambers of his heart where he kept the things he couldn't afford to feel during daylight hours.
Mine.
Such a small word. Two syllables. One vowel. A sound that children made over toys, that lovers made in the dark, that kings made over kingdoms. Spoken in a voice already half-lost to sleep, without emphasis, without intention, without any awareness of what it had done.
That was what undid him.
Not the word itselfâthough the word was a blade, sharp and precise, cutting through centuries of careful architectureâbut the casualness of it. The way it had fallen out of you like an exhale. Like it was so obviously, fundamentally true that it didn't need to be announced, only accidentally acknowledged.
You had said it the way you'd say the sky is blue or water is wet. As a statement of fact so self-evident that wrapping it in ceremony would have been absurd.
Mine.
Lilia's hand was still in your hair. He realized, distantly, that he should move itâthat continuing to touch you while you were unconscious and unprotected was, by any reasonable measure, an abuse of trust. But his body refused to obey the thought. His fingers stayed exactly where they were, curved against your scalp, trembling.
Trembling.
Lilia Vanrougeâwho had faced armies without flinching, who had held dying friends in his arms and not broken, who had smiled through grief so immense it could have swallowed continentsâwas trembling because a half-asleep person had called him theirs.
He looked down at you.
You were so soft like this. Not the softness of weaknessânothing about you had ever been weakâbut the softness of surrender. The way your face had gone slack, the way your lashes fanned against your cheeks, the way your breath came slow and even and completely unguarded. You had dropped every wall, every defense, every carefully maintained boundary, and fallen asleep against him as if doing so were the most natural thing in the world.
As if he were safe.
He wanted to laugh. The urge was right there, bubbling up from somewhere between hysteria and devotion. Safe. Him. The thing that mothers warned their children about. The creature that had inspired stories designed to keep people awake at night. Safe.
And yet.
Here you were. Asleep. Breathing. Trusting.
He lifted his free handâslowly, so slowlyâand hovered it over your face. Not touching. Just... mapping. Following the architecture of you with his palm held a centimeter away, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off your skin, far enough to maintain the fiction that he wasn't committing this to memory with the precision of a general surveying a battlefield.
Your brow. The bridge of your nose. The curve of your cheek. The slight part of your lips.
He'd seen beautiful things before. Had lived long enough to see everything beautiful, probablyâhad watched sunsets over lands that no longer existed, had heard music composed by people whose names time had eaten, had held flowers that bloomed once in a century and then never again.
None of it had made his hands shake.
Mine.
The word again. Refusing to leave. Settling into him like a splinter, too deep to extract, working its way toward something vital.
He thought about what it meant, coming from you. Not the possessive claim of someone who wanted to own himâthough he would have let you, God help him, he would have let you own every ancient, broken piece of him if you'd askedâbut the tender claim of someone who had simply recognized him. Who had looked past the masks and the performances and the carefully cultivated whimsy and seen whatever was underneath and said:
That. I want that. That's mine.
No one had everâ
No one had everâ
His throat closed.
He tilted his head back against the bed frame and pressed his eyes shut and felt, with the full catastrophic force of seven centuries of suppressed want, exactly how much he had wanted someone to say that word to him.
Not in a hundred years. Not in two hundred. Not ever. Not once in the entire unbearable span of his existence had anyone looked at himâhim, not the general, not the diplomat, not the ancient fae of terrifying power, but him, Lilia, who was tired, who was lonely, who loved so fiercely and so quietly that it had become indistinguishable from breathingâand said mine.
And you had done it without even knowing you'd done it. Had done it in your sleep, like a confession pulled from the unconscious mind where truth lives when the conscious mind is too afraid to hold it.
Which meant you meant it.
Not as a gesture. Not as a performance. Not as something you'd constructed and presented for his consumption. You'd meant it in the marrow of your bones, in the place where you kept the things you didn't know you kept.
Mine.
He opened his eyes. Looked down at you again.
You had shifted in your sleepânot away, but closer. Your hand had found the fabric of his shirt near his ribs and curled into it, fingers loosely gripping, the way a child holds a blanket. Your face had pressed more firmly into his neck, and he could feel your breath nowâwarm, slow, rhythmicâagainst the column of his throat.
If he had been a lesser creature, he would have wept.
Instead, he did something he hadn't done in decades. He let the mask fall. Not dramatically, not all at onceâthe way a wall doesn't fall in one piece but crumbles, brick by brick, until there's nothing left but the open air behind it.
His expression smoothed out. The perpetual playfulness drained away like water from a glass, leaving behind something raw and unguarded and so old it hurt to look at. His jaw unclenched. His shoulders dropped. The tension he carried in his body like armorâmaintained so seamlessly that even people who knew him well rarely noticed itâreleased, and he looked, for the first time in maybe a century, like exactly what he was:
Exhausted.
Not from lack of sleepâthough fae needed less of it than humans, and he often gave himself less than he neededâbut from the sheer, accumulating weight of being Lilia Vanrouge for seven hundred consecutive years. The humor. The mischief. The carefully constructed image of someone who had made peace with his past and his nature and his immortality.
He hadn't. He hadn't made peace with any of it. He'd just gotten very, very good at pretending.
And now you were asleep on his chest, holding his shirt like you'd die if you let go, and you'd called him yours, and the pretending felt suddenly, impossibly, like too much.
"I don'tâ" His voice cracked. He stopped. Swallowed. Started again, barely above a whisper, aimed at the top of your head where no one would ever hear it. "I don't think you understand what you've done."
You didn't respond. You were asleep. You were gloriously, trustingly, maddeningly asleep.
"I have lived a very long time," he continued, and his voice was the voice of someone talking to themselves in the dark, which was exactly what he was doing. "Long enough to know that people don't say things in their sleep that they don't mean. The mind is too honest when the mouth isn't watching."
Your fingers tightened on his shirt. A small, unconscious movement. Probably nothing. A dream, maybe, or the random firing of a sleeping nervous system.
It nearly broke him.
"I have been called many things," he whispered. "General. Monster. Fae. Friend. Father. But no oneâ" A breath. "No one has ever called me theirs. Not like that. Not like it was the most obvious thing in the world."
He pressed his lips to the top of your head. Not a kiss, exactly. A seal. A promise. The kind of gesture that in fae culture carried more weight than any vow, any contract, any blood oath.
You said mine. I say yours. And if you try to take it back in the morning, I will simply have to be very.... persuasive.
The thought had a ghost of his usual humor in it. He clung to it like a raft.
Then he settled back, adjusted his arm around you with the precision of someone who intended to hold this position for hours, and let his own eyes close.
Not to sleep. Fae didn't need to. But to restâto exist in this moment without performing, without protecting, without being anything other than a person holding a person who had called him mine.
The fire died.
The moon moved across the sky.
And Lilia Vanrouge held perfectly, wonderfully still, and felt, for the first time in longer than he could remember, claimed.
First: warmth. A particular, specific kind of warmthânot the generic heat of blankets, but the living, breathing, pulsing warmth of another body. Wrapped around you. Under you. Everywhere.
Second: sound. A heartbeat. Slowâslower than a human's, steady as a drum in a temple, rhythmic and deep and alive beneath your ear.
Third: the realization that you were not in your bed.
Your eyes opened. Unfocused. Blurry. The room was dimâgray-blue pre-dawn light filtering through curtains you didn't recognizeâand you were horizontal now, not on the floor, but on an actual bed, and there was an arm around your waist, and the heartbeat you were hearing was under your cheek because your cheek was on someone's chest, andâ
Lilia.
Everything came back in a flood. The cards. The fire. The way you'd sunk into him like you'd been designed to fit there. The heaviness of your eyelids. The warmth of his fingers in your hair.
And thenâ
Oh no.
Oh no, no, no.
"Mine."
You had said mine. Out loud. To Lilia Vanrouge. And then you had fallen asleep.
Your entire body went rigid.
You tried to pull backâto sit up, to create distance, to find some shred of dignity in this catastrophic situationâbut the arm around your waist tightened. Not forcefully. Not alarmingly. Just enough to communicate, with devastating clarity: no.
"Don't," said a voice above you, and it was sleep-rough and low and so unbearably soft that it hit you somewhere below the sternum and stayed there.
"Liliaâ"
"Mm."
"I need toâ"
"No."
"I said something last night, I didn't mean toâit just came outâI was half asleep andâ"
"Yes," he said. "You did."
You froze. Not because of his words but because of his toneâthere was something in it you'd never heard before. Something stripped and honest and so far from his usual playful deflection that it barely sounded like the same person.
"Youâ" Your voice was very small. "You heard?"
"I heard."
A pause that lasted approximately ten thousand years.
"Are you going to pretend it didn't happen?" you asked, barely audible. "Because I can work with that. I am very good at pretending things didn't happenâ"
His hand moved. From your waist to your chinâslow, deliberate, giving you every chance to pull away. You didn't pull away. His fingers tilted your face up, and you were suddenly looking at him in the pre-dawn gray, and his expressionâ
His expression.
The playfulness was there, but underneath itâvisible now, like stars behind cloud cover that had finally thinnedâwas something vast and serious and hungry in a way that had nothing to do with food. His eyes, usually bright and teasing, were dark in the low light, and they were looking at you the way someone looks at the last good thing in a world that has run out of good things.
"If you want to pretend," he said quietly, "I will pretend. I am very good at it too. Better than you, probably. I've had more practice."
"I don't want you to pretend."
The words came out before you could stop them. They hung in the air between you, naked and trembling, and you watched something shift in his faceâwatched the last of the mask fracture, watched the cracks spread like frost on glass, watched the person behind the performance lean forward as if drawn by gravity.
"No?" he said, and his voice was barely a whisper now, and his thumb was moving against your chin in a small, slow arc, and you were absolutely, catastrophically going to die.
"No."
"What do you want, then?"
You.
I want you.
I want you the way the ocean wants the moonâconstantly, helplessly, whether it's there or not.
I want you in the morning when you're making tea and being insufferable.
I want you at night when the masks come off and you forget to smile.
I want the seven hundred years of damage and the sharp edges and the loneliness you pretend isn't there.
I want all of it.
Mine. You're mine. There , I said it because it's true
and I'm terrified
but it's true.
What you actually said was:
"I don't know."
Lilia looked at you for a long, breathless moment. Then he smiledânot the sharp smile, not the performative smile, but the one you'd only seen fragments of before, the one that was small and real and slightly crooked and made him look his age for once, which was to say: ancient, and tired, and still somehow grateful to be here.
"You know," he said. "You just don't want to say it yet."
"That'sâ"
"Fine." He said it like a benediction. Like a gift. "It's fine. You said it once. That's enough for now. I can be patient." A pause. A glimmer of the familiar mischief, but warmer now, edged with something tender. "I've had seven hundred years of practice at patience."
"That's not comforting."
"It wasn't meant to be." His thumb traced the line of your jaw, slow as honey, and his eyes followed the path it made with the focus of someone memorizing a map. "It was meant to be a warning."
"A warning?"
"Mm." He leaned closer. Not kissing youânot yet, not quite, but near enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath, near enough that the world had narrowed to the space between your mouth and his. "You called me yours last night. Do you know what that means, in fae tradition?"
Your heart was beating so hard you were sure he could hear it. Could feel it, probably, through your chest, through his chest, through the negligible space between.
"No," you whispered.
"It means you've claimed me." Each word was careful, deliberate, placed like a stone in a river. "Not temporarily. Not conditionally. In the old tongue, in the old ways, to call a fae yours is to bind them. To say: I see what you are, and I am not afraid, and you belong to me, and I belong to you in return."
"I didn't know that."
"I know you didn't." His smile widened, just slightly, and there was something devastating in itâsomething that was equal parts tenderness and triumph and the kind of desire that had been patient for centuries and could afford to be patient for centuries more but didn't want to be.
"That's what makes it real. Unknowing claims are the only kind that can't be revoked."
"Liliaâ"
"Shh." His hand moved from your chin to your cheek, cradling it with a gentleness that made your eyes sting. "I'm not going to hold you to an accident. If you want to take it backâ"
"I don't."
The words fell out of you like they'd been waiting their whole life to be said. You felt them leave your body and didn't try to call them back. Didn't want to. For once in your life, you didn't want to take anything back.
Lilia went still.
Completely, utterly still. The kind of still that wasn't human. The kind of still that a statue achieves, or a held breath, or the moment between lightning and thunder.
Then he exhaledâshakily, imperfectly, in a way that wrecked every illusion of composure he'd ever builtâand pressed his forehead to yours.
"Oh," he said, and his voice was wrecked, was the voice of someone standing at the edge of something they'd been walking toward for seven hundred years and had finally, finally arrived. "Oh, you sweet, foolish, brave little thing."
"I'm not littleâ"
"You are." He was smiling against your foreheadâyou could feel the shape of it. "You are the smallest, most terrifying thing that has ever happened to me, and I have fought dragons."
"That's notâI'm notâ"
"You fell asleep on a fae." He pulled back just enough to look at you, and his eyes were bright in a way that might have been laughter and might have been tears and was probably both. "You fell asleep on me. With no enchantment, no protection, no guarantee that you'd wake up as yourself. Do you know what that means?"
"That I was tired?"
"It means you looked at something that every story in every world has told you to fear, and you thought: yes, I'll nap on that. " A laughâbroken, beautiful, real. "You impossible creature."
"I trust you," you said, because it was the simplest truth you knew, and you were tired of making simple things complicated.
Lilia closed his eyes.
When he opened them, something had settled. Some ancient, restless part of him had stopped running. You couldn't see itâyou couldn't have named it if you triedâbut you felt it, the way you feel a storm passing, the way you feel the moment the wind changes direction.
"Then I suppose," he said, and his voice had found a new registerâquiet, certain, warm as embers, "that I am yours."
He said it simply. Without drama. Without flourish. As if he were telling you the time, or the weather, or any other plain and obvious fact.
And then, because he was Lilia Vanrouge and he had never in his life been able to resist the theatrical, he added:
"You may want to document this. It's not every day someone manages to tame a fae general with a single syllable."
"I didn't tameâ"
"You absolutely did." He was grinning nowâfull, fanged, radiantâand there was something wild and joyful in it that looked like it had been locked up for a very long time and had finally been let out. "One word. Asleep. No effort at all. I'm almost offended."
"I'm going to leave."
"No, you're not." His arm tightened around you. "You're going to stay right here while the sun comes up, and then you're going to have breakfast with me, and then you're going to say it again while you're awake this time, because I want to hear it properly."
"What if I don't want to say it again?"
"Then I'll wait." He said it with absolute, maddening serenity. "I've gotten very good at waiting."
"You're impossible."
"Yours, actually." The word rolled off his tongue like it was the most natural thing in the worldâlike he'd been saying it forever and would keep saying it until the stars burned out. "Yours. Apparently. Irrevocably. According to ancient fae law that you triggered by accident."
"I'm going to scream."
"Please don't. Malleus is a light sleeper and I'd rather not explain this to him before breakfast."
You buried your face in his chest to hide the fact that you were blushing so hard your entire face was radiating heat, and he laughedâa real laugh, full and warm and young somehow, despite everythingâand his hand came up to rest on the back of your head, and he held you there.
Not tightly. Not possessively. With the kind of care that someone uses when they're holding something they know they don't deserve but are going to spend the rest of their immortal life trying to.
The sun came up.
It came up slowly, as suns do, painting the room in gold and amber and soft rose, and it caught the edges of Lilia's hair and turned them to flame, and it found the curve of his cheek where it rested against the top of your head, and it made everything look like a paintingâsomething precious and fleeting that should be preserved in a frame and hung in a museum where people could look at it and feel something they couldn't name.
"You're staring," you mumbled into his chest.
"I'm appreciating."
"That's the same thing."
"It absolutely isn't. Staring is rude. Appreciating is an art form." His fingers traced idle patterns on your shoulder. "I have had seven centuries to perfect my appreciation technique. I refuse to have it cheapened by comparison to staring."
"You're insufferable."
"Yours," he corrected gently.
You lifted your head just enough to look at him. In the morning light, he lookedâdifferent. Softer. The sharp edges were still there, would always be there, but they were gilded now, warmed, like a sword displayed in sunlight rather than drawn in darkness.
"Say it again," you whispered. Not because he'd asked. Because you wanted to. Because you'd spent your whole life being careful with words and this one, you'd learned, deserved to be said as many times as possible.
He looked at you.
Really looked. Past the surface, past the morning blur, past the vulnerability of just having woken up in someone else's bed. Looked at youâthe you that lived underneath all the layers, the you that no one else had ever quite managed to reach.
"Yours," he said.
And then, softer. Sweeter. Aimed at no one in the world but you:
Somewhere in Diasomnia, Malleus Draconia woke to an unfamiliar warmth in his chest and the faint, inexplicable sense that something had shifted in the foundations of the world.
He lay in bed for a moment, frowning at the ceiling.
Then he smiledâsmall, knowing, genuinely happyâand went back to sleep.
Note: Apologies if there are any mistakes. They are most likely going to be mistakes like commas, dashes, etc.
Sleepy Sam needs your help to make it into the motel room after a long hunt. Thinking heâs dreaming, he says some things he means.
warnings: drowsy confession. dean leaves to get food as usual. use of y/n. fluff. idiots to lovers. friends to lovers.
"You are so much heavier than you look."
Outside the door of a trashy motel room, Sam has his face buried into the nape of your neck. One of his hands is braced against the brick wall while the other is secured loosely on your waist while you fiddle with the room key.
The entirety of his weight has been on you since you tugged him out of the passenger seat, barely holding him up as Dean drove away under the ruse of grabbing some food. His lazy ass just wanted to make you carry his brother to bed-- not that you could complain, being this close to Sam was heaven.
You've only been traveling with the brothers for a few months, but you couldn't help the gnawing feeling of a crush whenever you looked at Sam for too long. It was like a breath of fresh air, standing beside him in the darkest of moments and feeling safe even though you know you shouldn't.
With a hip on the door, you bite your lip, willing yourself not to think about the position you are in. It reminds you of college-- watching drunk couples struggle to get inside their dorms late at night when they couldn't decide between making out or properly opening the door.
But you and Sam weren't a couple. And he wasn't drunk, just tired.
"'M sorry," he murmurs, voice barely audible and kind. His hot breath tickles your skin. Heat rises to your cheeks and you're grateful that his lanky body has created a shadow over you to hide your blush.
"It's okay," you chide, trying to focus your attention on the tricky lock rather than brushing the hair covering his slow-blinking puppy dog eyes. "Just try to stay awake for me until we get you in bed. Okay, Sammy?"
Softly, he releases an agreeable hum into your shoulder. The vibrations send a pleasurable chill down your back. Goosebumps form on your arms.
The blue neon Motel sign flickers. In the split second of darkness, with pure luck, you finally probe the key into the lock and twist.
Pushing the door open with a harsh kick, you're surprised Sam doesn't completely collapse as you walk. Instead, he holds onto you desperately as you help him to bed.
Blood and grime are buried underneath your fingertips as you maneuver the vomit-beige comforter over top of him, yanking it up past his jeans and to his chest like you're tucking in a child. You can't help but smile down at Sam adoringly. Honestly, you feel like a creep, but when else would get the chance to stare at him so blatantly without him noticing or Dean's tease.
You wrinkle your nose at the clinging feeling of fabric and sweat on your back and reluctantly turn away from Sam to go take a shower. A hand wraps around your wrist weakly yet surprisingly firm. Sam murmurs something in audible, tugging your wrist.
âHey, sleeping beauty," you whisper, giggling.
His eyelids flutter, barely opening as he sighs when he sees your face, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. âY/N.â
âHi,â you breathe, titling your head at the exhausted and strangely worried expression on Samâs face. He yanks your wrist, and you stumble, letting out a small curse as you catch yourself on the side of the mattress. âNo, Sammy. Iâve gotta shower.â
âPlease.â
His little whine has your heart breaking into shattered little pieces. It takes a lot for you to escape his grip, physically and mentally. Pursing your lips, you will the pounding of your heart to calm down.
âOne sec. Iâll be back before you know it, I promise.â
There's a pregnant beat of silence as you force your feet to move rather than stay looking at Sam -- you don't know if you'll be able to look away if you keep staring. The quiet is filled with the idle clapping of your shoes and the small creak of the bathroom door as you take one half-glance back at Sam before you step past the threshold, slowly shutting the door as to not make any noise and wake him from his oncoming slumber.
Then, you hear it, muffled through the white-painted wooden door. They're small and sound slurred together, but you hear them and you're unsure if you're the one dreaming.
âI love you.â
For a brief moment, youâre frozen in place, making eye contact with your wide eyes in mirror where youâre holding your breath. The bathroom door whips open, silver handle knocking against the eggshell white motel walls.
Pulse in your ears, you exit the bathroom, breathless. âWhat did you say?â
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
The three words ring in your ears like a new form of tinnitus, forsaking your traumatic days and replacing them with something much scarier.
You feel pale as a ghost, but you can feel the heat in your cheeks, as stark contrast to the blasting AC that was determined to freeze your bones.
Immediately, your gaze finds Sam, begging him to respond.
The tips of his eyelashes are prodding into his cheeks, his lips gaping. Chest rising and falling in even breaths. Heâs asleep.
âNo, no, no.â You rush to the bed, not even flinching when your knee bumps into the corner of the frame. Leaning over Sam, you repeatedly pat his cheek, urging him to wake up. His skin glows pink under your feverish touch. âYou canât go asleep on me, Sam! Wake up.â
He sits up, eyes darting around the room, confused, voice rasping with sleep, almost raw. âWhat?â
One look at your face and heâs placing a hand gently on your forearm. It sets your skin on fire. âWhatâs wrong?â
âSay it again,â you demand. Say it to me so I can say it back.
His brows furrow. âSay what again?" His thumb starts to rub circles on your arm. Sam looks so beautiful you feel like you might die. "What happened, baby?â
Baby.
Your stomach flutters. Swallowing, you plead for your throat to wet so the words will come out without burning. âSay you love me.â
His eyes widen, the whites of his making his hazel eyes stand out even more, the raw lighting in the motel makes it looks like hearts are forming in the highlights of his eyes.
His lips part, head tilting, and his eyes flickering across your face, as if he's trying to commit you-- this moment -- to memory. They pause at your lips then they're back at your eyes.
âI love you.â
Instantaneously, your lips find his.
His find yours.
The kiss is helpless and sloppy. Each of your lips plump and lazy with sleep, tongues peeking for a taste, hands searching for anything that would provide stability. Somehow, you make your way into his lap, arms thrown around the back of his neck, hanging onto the headboard.
Sam breaks away from you, but not for long. Forehead resting against yours. Him panting. âI thought I was dreaming.â
You cannot stifle a giggle, pecking his lips, relishing in how his chase after yours. âYeah? You dream of me often, Sammy?â
âWhen Iâm lucky.â
iâm gonna be honest, iâve only watched like ten episodes of spn and read a bunch of ffs so if this inaccurate iâm so sorry. But these puppy eyes have been haunting me
Wasn't able to find what your ocs names were but please!! Do tell me about them and what a sleepy confession from one of them would look like!
Iâm actually not sure if Iâve posted there names before- wow. Honestly itâs ironic considering their names are technically their given titles by society. âAbyssâ(whose name I had technically stole forever ago so I had to change their name shh) âThe Librarianâ and âThe Butcherâ. And as slight background context first, these ocs come from a world/town thatâs shockingly similar to the town in welcome to nightvale (a fictional podcast I hadnât even known about when I made my main ocs world lmao)
Abyss doesnât sleep nor do they really need sleep but they can get âsleepyâ. If they use to much of their power or spend a lot of time struggling to keep form -their bodyâs made of shadow- then they get tired basically. And when that happens they basically turn into a sleep deprived person. And I feel like some confession from him when like that would just be like âOh yeah I accidentally killed a dog earlier.â But said casually. Abyss is - well a child, so they donât have a full concept of death, especially with the way their world works and death isnât always permanent. He wouldâve learned to keep dark stuff to themselves, but they totally would just sleepily be like âI killed a dog on accidentâ and ruin everyoneâs dinner lmao
We're filling the square "sleepy confession" now. :)
Multiples - Obi-Wan in ROTS
Anakin and Obi-Wan have just landed aboard the Invisible Hand to rescue Chancellor Palpatine when suddenly, four other versions of Obi-Wan appear with them. One Obi-Wan is hard enough sometimes, but five? That is a whole other story. It doesn't help that they're not terribly fond of each other⊠or that the eldest are hiding things about the future.
Omg sorry. I mean a prompt. If one of them decides to confess her love for the other while the other is asleep.
Who would do it? I think it would be Kara while Lena is deep sleep, but thatâs just me.
I love that idea. And not after a special night or anything. It'd be the wee hours after a movie night, and Kara finds herself awake on the couch while Lena sleeps all cuddled up against her. Kara might lean her head into Lena's, maybe press her lips into Lena's hair.
Maybe I love you issues more as a thought, than an actual whisper, her tongue barely moving around the syllables lest she wake Lena up.
Even so, Lena seems to sense it, and shifts in her sleep to snuggle all the closer, wrapping her arms around Kara's waist like she would a teddy bear.
But then again, we could both be full of it. What do you think?
When Jumin walked out of his back office to find MC and Saeran passed out on the couch together, credits to some movie scrolling on the screen, a flood of emotion filled his chest. What that emotion was, he really didn't know how to describe.
On one hand, he was happy for his roommate. Saeran had been dealt a horrible hand in life, and if finding love with MC was the way to find happiness, Jumin wasn't going to say anything. On the other hand, he was jealous. Horribly, tremendously jealous. Of which person, he wasn't sure.
With a small sigh, he walked over, turning off the TV and focusing his attention on the two. He planned on waking them up just enough to get them to move into an actual bed. His couch was nice, but he knew it didn't sleep as well as a bed.
However, as he walked near, they both stirred slightly, and Saeran's eyes slit open slightly before a sleepy smile appeared on his face.
"Jumin." There was a rasp in Saeran's voice, and the way he seemed to savor the way he said Jumin's name sent heat right to his gut.
"Join us~" She suddenly spoke, and to Jumin's surprise, held out her arms for him. To top it off, Saeran did the same, and something in Jumin broke.
"Please. Please don't do this." Jumin whispered. In an instant the other two were awake. If he'd still been looking at them, he would have seen their concerned panic. "I... you don't know what you do to me."
"Jumin." Saeran's voice was soft, and suddenly there are hands on him as they stood in front of him. Both she and Saeran were holding tight to him. "I'm sorry. Please... look at us."
"We should talk." She said lightly, and the two of them angled him to sit back on the couch between them. They both held his hands, and Jumin had no clue what was happening.
"You know how Saeran and I are together?" She asked softly. Jumin nodded slowly, the lump in his throat growing thick.
"We're missing something." Saeran said, softly squeezing Jumin's hand. "And that something is you."
"What?" Jumin looked at them both in surprise, and they both suddenly looked nervous.
"We talked, and we realized that both of us... we love you. A lot." She said.
"And wanted to see if you could love us in return." Saeran said quietly.
"But if it makes you uncomfortable, we totally get that, and we're super sorry and-" Jumin cut her off, pulling the both of them to his chest.
"No. It's okay." Jumjn said softly, letting them pull back from him, unable to mistake the looks of hope on their faces for anything else. "I... I would like to try. If that is okay."
Almost simultaneously, the two began to cry, hugging Jumin tightly.
"Yes! It's more than okay." She said, smile clear in her voice. There was a feeling in Jumin's chest again as he held the two close. These feelings he could explain. Joy. Contentement. And if he could dare to name it, love.
This was my first ever entry for the Drarry Discord Drabble Challenge.
November's Prompt: Potions. Word Count: 394. (Get it, get it??!! đđ)
Rating: General
Warnings: None
Read on Ao3
----
Harry stumbled in through the fireplace feeling tired and sore.
âHarry, is that you?â called Draco from the kitchen. âYouâre home early⊠Uh, what happened?â Draco stopped short as he took in his boyfriendâs form in front of him.
Harryâs eyes were puffy, his nose red, it looked like he had a terrible cold.
âDonât worry, it's just a cold, nothing I canât handle, Robards sent me home though,â mumbled Harry.
Draco rushed toward him and put an arm around his shoulder. âJust a cold! Harry, you look terrible and youâre burning up, you have a fever. You get in bed right away and Iâll get you some hot soup.â
Draco got Harry changed into soft pajamas and settled into bed. Then he started preparing soup. He also grabbed a vial of the flu potion he brewed in his shop.
Draco gently roused Harry from his sleep. âCome on love, have some soup, and then this potion, youâll feel much better.â
Harry had some soup and then the potion. It tasted minty and had a bit of a bitter aftertaste. âIt tastes terrible,â said Harry.
âHmm, but it's effective. Itâll make you drowsy too but after a good nightâs sleep you'll be good as new,â replied Draco.
âMmm okay, cuddle with me please?â
âPotter, I donât want to catch your germs.â
âPlease,â whined Harry.
âOh, alright,â Draco gave in with a fond smile.
Draco got into bed and they snuggled close; Harryâs head on Dracoâs chest.
Draco ran his fingers through Harryâs messy but surprisingly soft hair. It was one of his favorite things to do.
âThis is nice, keep doing this,â purred Harry. The potion was already making him drowsy.
âI love you so much, Draco,â said Harry sleepily.
Dracoâs hand stilled in his hair. They had never said these three words to each other and he wondered if this was just a potion induced haze.
Suddenly Harry looked up and Draco couldnât hold back. âCould you repeat that please?â
âI love you, Draco Malfoy, with all my heart,â smiled Harry.
âOh⊠this isnât just the potion talking?â
âWhat? No!â
Draco couldnât contain the beatific smile that took over his face. âI love you too, Harry, more than words can say,â he whispered.
Harry looked at him with stars in his eyes as Draco leaned down to press a kiss to his forehead.
