#Falling Head Over Heels

[localplaguenurse]

Falling Head over Heels (Pantalone x Male Reader) pt 7

Beta if you're reading this, I'll see you in a bit!

Notes: talks of ableism and homophobia, it's not reader full blown trauma dumping but he's talking about his experiences as a closeted man with a controlling family. Check masterlist for previous parts.

@thedeimoshimself @eli-chris

Pantalone’s demeanour immediately changes the moment the two of you are finally alone. The air in the room is no longer thick with tension, but as he offers you the last little piece of cake, you’re aware of a looming dread hanging over you. You’re aware the choice to finally stand your ground and defy your parents’ wishes, even if it’s just staying for dinner, will have consequences. Even then, witnessing Pantalone scold your parents like children was immensely satisfying, and makes your moment of recognized agency all the more sweeter. 

Speaking of sweetness, the cherry bublanina is delicious. You hum at the taste, and swallow down your mouthful. “That’s actually really good,” you say, “did your staff make it, or did you get it somewhere?”

“It’s homemade,” Pantalone answers, “but I believe the recipe came from an old cookbook one of my chefs owns. I’m sure it’s out of print by now, so perhaps I can ask them to write the recipe for you.”

“I appreciate it.”

Pantalone looks at you inquisitively. “Say, do you cook?”

“I can, I just don’t do it much,” you answer. “We have a couple chefs, and as you just saw, my mother is very… protective, so she’s never liked the idea of me handling knives or being around stoves.”

Pantalone cringes a bit. “I can imagine.”

“I get it to an extent,” you continue, “not being able to see anything that isn’t directly in front of me has way more disadvantages than advantages, but she acts like I’ll immediately forget something unless I’m looking right at it. I’m losing my vision, not my object permanence, I still know where the stove is because I’m not stupid.”

“Does this sort of… situation happen a lot?”

You furrow your brow. “The object permanence or barging in on my private outings?”

“Both, I suppose. I’m asking if she’s ever been this overbearing before.”

You click your tongue, and turn your head away from Pantalone. You find yourself staring at a painting depicting a field of flowers with mountains in the background. After a moment of trying to make out what the flowers are, you sort of snap out of it and remember he asked you a question.

“Um…” You furrow your brow and think of all the times your mother has been overbearing in your childhood. You count incidents in your teen years all the way until now, and come to a realization. “I think she’s getting worse.”

You see Pantalone open his mouth to respond, and then your words sink in and he remains quiet.

You go on. “Compared to when I was little, she’s incredibly overbearing. I don’t even think it’s like she’s just as protective as when I was little, but now that I’m older it feels suffocating. I think she’s genuinely becoming more clingy with me.”

“I… I see. I’m sorry to hear that?”

“It’s kind of hard to explain,” you say, “and honestly, I don’t really want to talk about my parents right now.”

Your host shrugs. “I suppose that’s fair enough. To be quite honest, I only asked out of courtesy. I put up with your father’s antics and burdens enough as is.”

You chuckle. “I’d tell you you’re lucky you don’t live with him, but it wouldn’t be that different from now, huh?”

“No, it would not.”

There’s a knock on the door, and Pantalone perks up. You hear it open, and hear it’s Fyodor. “Sir, the two guests are having an argument outside.”

You hide your head in your hands and groan. 

“Are they getting physical?” Pantalone asks.

“No, but it’s disturbing the peace and they’re not leaving.”

You hear Pantalone sigh. “If they don’t settle down and leave in the next two minutes, or if it does turn physical, get security involved.”

You presume Fyodor nods before he closes the door. You take a deep breath, humiliation washing over you and sinking into your pores. “I’m sorry, I-I don’t know why I expected them to be normal. I should’ve just declined the invite.”

You hear the scraping of Pantalone’s chair, and the clicking of heeled boots approaching you. You feel him right next to him, and jolt when his hand settles on your shoulder. You lift and turn your head to look at it, and here, you can see manicured nails, shining gemstone rings, and to your shock, how blemished and scar riddled the skin of his hand is. Some of them are small and neat, little cuts and scratches, but some are deep and painful looking, you’re not even sure what would have caused most of them. You can only assume the silvery splits on his knuckles are from old fights. What the hell happened to him?

“Would you care to see the library?”

You tilt your head up and see Pantalone smiling expectantly at you. “Oh, sure,” you answer. Pantalone steps back and lets you stand up from your chair. You push your chair back in before you follow Pantalone out of the room. Trailing behind him like a duckling, you find your pace instinctively slows down and your eyes drift back to the oddly unsettling art pieces he has lining the walls of the hallway. You want to be able to take in the macabre sight of them, which would be easier if you could actually see things normally.

Pantalone’s made considerable distance before he realizes you’re lagging behind. He stops, turning over to see you’ve now fully stopped, staring up at a particularly gruesome scene with some concern and confusion. He chuckles, joining you in staring up at the painting.

“It’s a lovely piece, isn’t it?” he asks.

“Indeed,” you reply, “love the use of red. Some say it’s the colour of warmth and love. I imagine it really puts guests at ease.”

He lets out a little laugh. “You know, perhaps I should have expected an author to have a little knowledge in colour theory.”

“It comes with the territory.”

“We’re almost to the library,” Pantalone states, “though we can stop and chat about art. I’m in no rush.”

You hum. “I’m more curious why all of your art is so… morbid.”

“I enjoy morbid art pieces,” Pantalone answers, “there’s something about the raw and visceral imagery that strikes a chord with me. Do you not enjoy it?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” you reply, “I’ll read books about tragedy and horror every now and then, and I enjoy gruesome depictions in art as much as the next person.”

“But?”

You shrug. “I don’t think I’d put them up in every hallway, but that’s also my personal preference. If you like it, more power to you.”

“I’ve had a few members of staff say they’ve been startled by certain pieces when wandering the halls late at night,” Pantalone comments, “so perhaps that supports your argument better.”

“I mean, I probably wouldn’t even see them if I was walking around at night.”

“Right, no peripheral vision.”

“Oh, not even that.” You turn yourself so you can properly talk to Pantalone. “One of the other symptoms of my condition is night blindness. My eyes can’t adjust to darkness anymore.”

“Ah. I see.”

“Rub it in, why don’t you.”

“What are you… oh, oh.” Pantalone chuckles. “Very funny. I’m sure you make that joke a lot.”

“People take me going blind too seriously,” you say, “they’re always worried they’re going to upset me if they even bring it up. That or they try to baby me like my mother does. If I make fun of it, it kind of puts people at ease.”

“Well, going blind is rather serious, no?”

“I mean, yes, but if I’ve already made peace with it, then everyone else should too.”

The conversation continues as you and Pantalone make your ways down the hall. He glances at you over his shoulder. “Apologies if I’m overstepping, but doesn’t it scare you at least a little bit?”

“I wouldn’t say I’m thrilled,” you answer, “but you have to understand that I’ve known about this since I was eight. I’ve been living like this my whole life. Worrying isn’t going to make my eyesight better again, so I just have to grit my teeth, plan accordingly, and just keep going.”

“Fair enough.”

You follow Pantalone around a corner. “Besides, I can still see. I can’t see well, but I can see things.”

“What do you see, anyways? What does it look like for you?”

��Curl your index fingers and thumbs until they make two small holes, and then look through them. That’s pretty much it.”

“That sounds awful.”

“It certainly is.”

“Oh, here we are,” Pantalone says. He takes a step to the right and immediately disappears from sight. You turn to follow him–

Thunk! “Ow, fuck, shit.”

You hear Pantalone snort before he turns his laugh into a cough. “Are you alright?”

You rub your forehead. “It’s not the first door frame I’ve walked into, and it won’t be the last.”

“That was quite loud. Here, let me see…”

When you feel slim, calloused yet smooth fingers take hold of each side of your face, you immediately forget about walking into the door frame. He gently tilts your head up, and now all you can see is his face, and at this proximity you only see his face. He does not seem overly concerned, and his brow is furrowed in concentration. You nervously gulp, face growing hot. You’ve never had anyone this close to you, touching your face so tenderly, let alone another man. Not a man with striking eyes, with scarred, soft hands. Not a man who smells of black tea and leather scented cologne with notes of something floral. 

Your eyes flick down to his lips, for the briefest of glances, and then Pantalone pulls back with a cheery expression. “You have a slight mark,” he tells you, “but nothing that should bruise.”

You imagine you look incredibly and obviously flustered, and your brain is still reeling at the lingering feeling of his hands on your face. You somehow pull yourself together and clear your throat with the elegance of a brick crashing through a window. “O-Oh, good, that’s good.”

“With that out of the way,” he continues, “this is the library.”

Pantalone steps aside to let you properly step inside. Your head is on a slow swivel, taking in the magnitude of the room. It’s magnificent, truly. Walls with bookshelves packed full of books from the tall ceiling to the hardwood floor. In one corner of the room, you spy a liquor cabinet. There’s also a fireplace glowing red and gold with flames, and two armchairs with an accompanying end table, arranged symmetrically a comfortable distance away from the fireplace. 

“Impressive, isn’t it?”

You’re speechless, in utter awe of the room you’re standing in. You step further into the room, marvelling at the sheer amount of books. It makes the “private library” your parents have at home look absolutely pitiful. 

You hear Pantalone walk off. “Could I get you anything to drink? It’s a tad early for it, but I think we earned it for surviving that whole encounter.”

“Um… Oh, n-no, I’m okay for now,” you reply, still awestruck. “Sorry, I’m just…”

“Enchanted?”

“Yes, thank you.” You turn to the direction his voice came from, and after a couple seconds of looking, you find him looking through his collection. He perks up when you speak. “How many of these books have you read?”

“All of them.”

You laugh. “Really? All of them?”

“A vast majority, at least,” he clarifies, “do you not believe me?”

“Would you be hurt if I said not really?”

“Absolutely shattered,” he teases, “I don’t think I would ever recover from the lies and slander.”

You roll your eyes. “Alright, fine, I believe you.”

“Splendid.” He shuts the cabinet and gestures to the shelves. “You’re free to browse or take a seat. Dinner won’t be ready for hours, so if there’s anything you want to know or do, feel free to ask.”

“I don’t even know where I’d start…”

“I admittedly don’t read much romance,” Pantalone says, pointing to a shelf somewhere behind you, “but I believe I own some of the classics, and a few others.”

“Are any of them books I’ve written?”

“Not yet.”

“I figured as…” You blink. “Wait, not yet?”

He laughs. “I wasn’t aware of your work when I first met your father,” he explains, “in fact, the night I walked into your office was the same night I learned you were an author. I’ve since then heard good things about your writing, yet I couldn’t decide which book of yours I should read first, so I’m waiting for, what was it called again, Plucking Heartstrings?”

You feel your eyes widen and your face flush. “You… You want to read my new book?”

Pantalone gives you an odd look. “Yes? Did you think I sent the manuscript off simply because I felt like it?”

“You gave me this whole speech about using it to gain my trust and make my mother lower her guard, or something along those lines.”

He waves his hand dismissively. “It wasn’t my only motive, and that was before today’s debacle. The point is I’m intrigued by your book.”

You feel your face grow warmer. “You are?”

“You ask that like I’ve said something unbelievable,” Pantalone remarks. “Honestly, I think most people would be naturally curious if someone they knew was related to an author, or an artist, or a musician. What little I’ve read of your draft, the fact it was accepted by the Yae Publishing House, and all this chatter and fuss about how this book is different and how you’d rather write books like this implies this is no low brow, poorly written smut or cliché riddled fairytale.”

“Well, it’s just…” You sigh. “If people saw you read it, they might think you’re gay.”

Pantalone’s laugh is especially loud, given the two of you are standing in the middle of a library. “I hardly see why that matters. I’m the richest man in the world and a Fatui Harbinger. My sexuality would hardly affect how the people already perceive me. Besides, I doubt me reading a book about two men is any more queer than you writing it. Hell, they’d probably assume the same things about either of us if it was a man and woman.”

“I… guess you have a point.”

Pantalone motions to the armchair closest to you, inviting you to take a seat. You do, and he does as well. The chair is rather comfortable, and you settle in nicely. 

“That actually brings me to something I’ve been meaning to ask, but was unsure how or when to bring it up.”

This can only be bad. “Alright.”

Pantalone crosses one leg over the other in his seat. “Aren’t you worried about your family, well, figuring it out when the book releases?” he asks. “I know you said your father won’t read your books, but I imagine the basic premise will make it back to him at some point, and I know your mother is going to read it.”

You feel a twinge in your stomach and an ache in your chest. Truth be told, that’s part of the reason it’s taken you so long to get the story out. You’ve spent nearly four years slowly poking and prodding at the idea before finally dedicating yourself to it because you feared what your family may think, both of the book and of you.

You think the look on your face conveys your worries, as Pantalone shakes his head. “You don’t have to answer, my apologies.”

“I-I had a whole plan,” you tell him, “for when this book released, because I know this will be seen as me coming out by everyone who knows me or reads my books.”

“Which was?”

“I wasn’t going to be in Snezhnaya when it was finally published.”

Pantalone quirks an eyebrow.

You continue. “I love my home here, but it’s just… with how my condition works, it’s a bit of a nightmare sometimes. The constant storms mean there’s not as much sunlight during the day and night seemingly falls faster. It messes with my night blindness. I’ve been saving up so I can move to Liyue, so I can actually go outside and enjoy some sunlight.” You shift in your seat. “I, um, also want to have a proper garden. I know I’m inevitably going to go fully blind, so I want to have something pretty to look at in my memories, and so I can at least enjoy the smell of flowers when I can’t see them anymore.”

At the mention of Liyue and flowers, Pantalone seems to immediately snap to attention. He appeared to be listening intently, but that really caught his attention. “Is that so?”

You nod. “That’s, um, mostly fantasy. It’s been hard saving up. I do have an inheritance from my late grandfather that was supposed to go to an Akademya education or buying my own home, but I also have to account for travel expenses actually moving to Liyue, getting items shipped over and then buying new furniture, buying my own food, and I’m paying for my doctors appointments and treatments to keep myself from going blind faster. As much as I love writing, I’m not at a point where I can actually live off of it.”

“You know, if you need assistance or advice, you can ask me.”

“I appreciate it,” you tell him, “but I shouldn’t trouble you.”

Pantalone lips suddenly curl into a smile. He leans forward in his seat, intertwining his fingers together. “You do realize who you’re talking to, don’t you?”

You look at him oddly, and then you remember Pantalone is literally a banker, and laugh. “Shut up, you know what I mean.”

“I am serious, though,” Pantalone states, “if you’re struggling to come up with a financial plan that fits your budget, that is a service we provide at the bank. If you want me to help you, though, you’re going to have to book an appointment ahead of time.”

You snicker. “Why not now?”

“Just because I like you doesn’t mean I’m going to give you special treatment on my day off,” he teases.

You shrug. “Worth a shot.”

The conversation lulls. You hear the soft crackling of the fire, and find yourself looking around at the shelves again. Obviously at this distance you can’t see what they are, but you’re still very impressed by the collection. 

After another moment of quiet, Pantalone speaks up again. “So, why did you start writing?”

You clear your throat and look back at him. “I loved to read as a child,” you say, “I only had a few friends growing up, not including my siblings, so I spent most of my free time just reading. As I grew older, it grew into an interest in writing.”

Pantalone nods along. “Now, may I ask why romance?”

“I just like romance,” you tell him, “it’s cheesy, I know, but I enjoy stories about falling in love and finding your soulmate. My family would tease me about how they’re more for girls, so I would hide them in the dust covers of other books.”

“Like your reference material?”

You groan. “Yes, like my reference material. It is actual reference material, by the way, b-but I doubt you would believe me regardless.”

“Will it make it into your book?” Pantalone asks, a teasing lilt in his voice.

“No, it won’t,” you answer, “I spent so long trying to figure out how the hell to even write it that it stopped being appealing, so instead it just fades to black. Let the audience decide what happens and it’ll probably be better than whatever I was trying to do.”

Pantalone smiles. 

You sigh. “Anyways, part of the reason I wanted to write romance is that after a few years of reading about blushing maidens and their prince charmings, I realized two things.”

“Which were?”

“Well, one, that I like men.”

Pantalone laughs.

“And two… I couldn’t find any books that were actually tailored for men like me. Nothing that wasn’t egregiously explicit or horribly distasteful, anyways. I figured if I can’t find anything to read, then maybe I should be the one to write it.”

You watch Pantalone’s expression change slowly with every word you speak. He stops looking so amused by your joke, actually taking your thoughts in. His eyes soften, as does his smile, and in the glow of the fireplace, the way he looks at you is so… warm.

“That’s really a lovely mentality,” he says softly, not a hint of condescension in his voice. “I’m sure someone out there will greatly appreciate it, and I’m hopeful that it will be a success.”

Your stomach flutters, and you hear and feel your heartbeat. You can’t help the smile that twitches onto your lips, that stretches across your face. You tilt your head down slightly so his expression doesn’t distract you. “Thank you. It really does mean a lot to hear that.”

“I mean it.”

You feel your heart in your chest and your throat. Why does he sound so fond when he says it?

A knock on the open door causes you to jump, Fyodor’s voice makes itself known again. “Sir, could I borrow you for a moment? The chef has a question for you.”

Pantalone sighs and stands. He smiles down at you. “One moment, please.”

You nod and watch as Pantalone walks across the library to the door. You hear his heels clack against the floor, growing quieter and quieter until they disappear completely. Soon, you are left in the quiet of the library alone.

You quickly bury your face in your hands as realization hits you at full force.

This isn’t a little crush, and it never was. You want Pantalone.

[knizuu]

THE THEM

I quite enjoy their alt outfits UvU

+doodle

[bbtin]

This would be me, but falling over in overwhelmed delight.

[yueebby]

indulge me? — gojo satoru

synopsis you and gojo go on an overnight mission and it goes wrong in every way

contents so. much. pining. (2.8k words of it!?), one bed trope, whipped!gojo, ooc gojo, completely self indulgent, a lot of cardiovascular talk, they’re first years in this!

notes first time i’ve written in AGES. sorry :3 ps this is a little snippet from a satosugu x reader series im thinking about starting. thoughts?

(edit: i wrote a part ii)

Gojo Satoru was born blessed. From birth and to death he will always be honored. It wasn't his fault that the Heavens delighted in him. So when Yaga had announced that he and you would be sharing an overnight mission to Kyushu, he nearly leapt in joy (lucky him)!

You, on the other hand, were less than thrilled to find out that you were going to be traveling alone with Gojo Satoru. For two whole days. It was a death sentence.

“Make sure to text me, so I know you're not dead.” Shoko looks between you and Gojo. Either your head will implode as a result of Gojo, or he is gonna be on the receiving end of your wrath. Shoko can’t wait to see which.

“Do take pictures, I heard the onsens there are incredible.” Suguru slyly adds. Satoru perks up at his comment. The two of them share a knowing look before Gojo speaks up.

“Wanna take a dip with me once we get there, [Name]?” He looks into your eyes, his lips are quirked upwards like he’s up to no good (which he is). “I promise I won’t take a peek!” He winks.

“Keep fantasizing, Gojo.”

“Oh I will.” He hums happily. The smile on his lips is kind of cute, you decide. Just a little.

— — — — — — — 

Kurokawa, you come to find out is a very small town in Kyushu. So when people start to go missing, the entire town falls into shambles. Before your trip, Yaga had made it known the enemy you’d be facing. 

“A common denominator of the missing persons is that they were all young women.” He had warned you and Gojo. “It’s an unidentified curse, but I trust that the two of you will be able to handle it.”

Three missing girls. All under the age of 25. Two of which were locals, one being a tourist. 

The moment you arrive on the island of Kyushu, your guard is higher than ever. This doesn’t go unnoticed by Gojo.

“Don’t tell me you’re scared of some horny curse,” He looks down at you as the two of you make your way down a small street to your ryokan. Kurokawa was a traditional town, its pride resting on the old culture causing it to be untouched by modern architecture.

Unamused by his nonchalant attitude, you decide to ignore his vulgar comment, “What grade curse do you think we’re up against?”

He makes a noise to show that he’s thinking. “Does it really matter? It’ll be no match for me either way.”

You roll your eyes, “Don’t get ahead of yourself, we still have to figure out what happened to the victims.”

“I don’t see why that’s necessary, but okay.” Your snow haired peer dismisses. It makes you a bit envious that he doesn’t have to ever feel fear for his life. Must be nice.

The two of you arrived at your designated ryokan soon enough, it was a small town after all. Gojo leads the way with you following right after. You can’t discern any cursed energy in the building, but you still make a mental note to ask Gojo about it after you both are situated. 

An elderly lady in an orange kimono stood behind the desk, smiling at you and you returned it back happily.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen a young couple here.” She says. That’s right, with the recent disappearance of young girls, there would be a sudden decrease of tourism around this part of town. “You certainly are a beautiful match!”

You gratefully accept her compliment, “Thank you, but we’re not–”

“Thanks granny!” Gojo wraps a strong arm around your shoulder. “I don’t know how I even managed to win her over!” There’s a wide grin on his face that makes your eye twitch. Leave it to him to tell people the two of you were together. Not only that but he totally disrespected the old lady with his informal talk!

“Unhand me, you!” You forcefully whisper at him, while trying to unwrap yourself from his hold. His arm does not budge even as you try to push it off. What the hell is this boy eating? Gojo chuckles with the old lady while you struggle.

“My, the two of you remind me so much of my husband and I in the days of our youth,” She sighs dreamily. Her age must be interfering with her memory because there was nothing inherently romantic going on between you and Gojo. “How long will you be staying here?”

“Only one night,” Gojo decides that he has tormented you enough and lets you go. He slides her his card and she pulls out something from the old wooden counter she stands behind. 

A single key.

Your eyes bug out. Gojo’s eyebrows raise. You laugh nervously, face feeling warmer than it was thirty seconds ago.

“There must have been a misunderstanding. We need two rooms, ma’am.” You hold up two fingers to emphasize your point. 

The smile on the old woman’s face falls, “I’m afraid I cannot do that.” Your jaw drops.

“Huh? Why not?” You press on further. Surely they could not have been booked out of all of their rooms. Tourism is at an all time low after the strange disappearances.

“I’m sure you’ve heard of the strange disappearances in the area. It’s a miracle the two of you have even decided to stay here, which I am very grateful for. That is why I must repay you back by ensuring your safety. Otherwise I must ask you to leave and stay in the next town because I will not allow you to endanger yourself so carelessly.” 

You blink. Neighboring town? That was hours away. The curse was here in Kurokawa. You can’t afford to jeopardize a mission just because of your own feelings.

Gojo’s hand is halfway to the key, but he waits for your approval. You sigh.

“It’s fine, we can do one. Thank you.” You bow your head. She smiled apologetically as she handed Gojo the key. Gojo, unbothered by the revelation, whistles happily as the lady leads the way to your suite.

— — — — — — — 

operation satoru x [name]!!!!

Gojosatowu added getosugu, shoko.ieiri

Gojosatowu You wont believe it!!! shoko.ieiri What the hell is this gc And what the hell is Operation satoru x [name]?  getosugu  how come [name] isn’t in this? Gojosatowu Ladies, ladies, one question at a time please getosugu  Expect a forehead flick for that comment shoko.ieiri  Stfu and just answer the questions Gojosatowu alright alright [name] and i are sharing a room in kyushu!! i may come out of this mission a changed man. shoko.ieiri  someone make sure [name] is still alive and well Gojosatowu I dont appreciate your lack of faith in me >:( shoko.ieiri  Keep a six feet distance from her at all times perv Gojosatowu I might have to for my own sanity. What do you think she wears to bed? shoko.ieiri  You disgust me sometimes getosugu  Only sometimes? shoko.ieiri  Let me correct myself. You disgust me. Gojosatowu Im feeling the love :(

“What are you giggling to yourself about?” You place a hand on your hips as you watch Gojo smile at his flip phone.

“Oh don’t you worry about it,” He closes it. Weird. “What’s the living situation?”

You sigh. “Despite its traditional arrangement, there is a bed.”

Gojo perks up. “Yeesh I’m glad! If I had to sleep on the floor my back would be all sore right on a mission. Y'know how annoying that is?”

You suck your teeth. “Allow me to rephrase myself. There is only one bed.” 

There is an awful silence in the room, save for your erratically beating heart. Of course the old woman decided to place you in a couple’s suite.  

“Heh.” Gojo chortles happily. “Wow, this must be a divine sign from God Himself. I mean, who are we to ignore this?”

“Don’t start,” You hold out an accusatory finger at him. “I’m gonna go request an extra futon.”

He pouts, “Don’t be like that, sharing a bed with me can’t be that bad.”

“I’m willing to bet otherwise.” You walk past him. The white haired boy watches you go like a sad puppy.

— — — — — — — 

You took your time getting an extra futon, using it as an excuse to get all of the nervousness out of your system of sharing the same room as Gojo Satoru. Sharing a room with a boy was already bad enough, but Gojo? Your heart skipped a beat (out of nervousness, you insist!).

By the time you make it back to the room, the lights are out. You assume that Gojo decided to go to sleep early. You don’t blame him. Tomorrow is gonna be a long day of hunting for the curse rampaging Kurokawa. 

The only light source in the room is coming from the bathroom. You sigh. The idiot must’ve forgotten to turn it off. Nonetheless, you were gonna go get unready either way so you make your way to the half open door.

On the sink is a complimentary toothbrush that you help yourself to. You apply some paste and–

There is a sound of something sliding shut from behind you. You look up at the mirror. Standing behind you was Gojo. Wet. And naked. 

“Oh my gosh!” You spit out your toothpaste and ran out of the room. How did you fail to see that Gojo was in the restroom? You blame it on the sliding doors separating the shower from the rest of the bathroom. Oh my gosh. Your face feels like it’s on fire. He has a six pack. And why does his stupid hair look like that when it's wet? Your heart was beating at an abnormal rate. This is so inappropriate.

Shortly after your freakout, Gojo steps out of the bathroom. There was no way you could face him now.

“Aw, don't be so shy now. It’s not like this will be the last time you’ll see me like this.” Gojo stands in the doorway. There is a towel wrapped around his waist, still leaving him indecent in your eyes.

“I don’t like what you’re insinuating Gojo! And lock the door when you’re in the restroom you creep!” You look anywhere but him.

“Hey, it wasn’t my fault, was it? You were taking so long I thought you left me here alone.” You can practically hear him pouting. “Either way, you were the one checking me out.”

Your eyes widen, “I was not checking you out! Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Don’t feel ashamed, this can all be yours,” He gestures down to his body.

“You freak.” you blanch.

He winks at you.

This was going to be a long night.

— — — — — — — 

It takes you about half an hour to calm down from the bathroom catastrophe. By now, you’re situated in your futon while Gojo is tucked on the bed. If you had to guess, it’d be nearing midnight around now. You just need to close your eyes and get some sleep before your mission tomorrow.

Except you can’t sleep.

Every time you close your eyes, your mind betrays you and an image of Gojo post shower illustrates itself in your mind. And it doesn’t help that he sleeps shirtless. You seriously need your mind cleansed.

That wasn’t your only issue. The room was sub zero. Who knew traditional ryokans had such advanced air conditioning systems? All you could hear was the air conditioning machine overworking itself. You could even argue that it was colder than Shoko’s morgue. And your sleep shirt and shorts were doing little to help insulate you. 

“Wanna come cuddle with me?” The last person you wanted to hear from breaks the silence. You pretend to be asleep. “I know you’re not asleep! My six eyes tell me that you’re shivering.” Busted.

“I am not cuddling with you.” You stare at the ceiling above you, arms crossed. How could he even propose such an idea? Has he no shame?

“Well I can’t face the old granny here if my girlfriend ends up dead by freezing!”

“I am not your girlfriend, Gojo. Nor will I die.”

“That’s not what she thinks. Plus we have a mission tomorrow, so I can’t have you getting sick on me now.”

“I’ll be fine, Gojo. Now go to sleep.”

“I run hot when I sleep, y’know. Let me be your personal heater.” You don’t have to see his face to know that he’s grinning.

“I refuse.”

“Well I refuse your refusal.”

You blink.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Now c'mon,” He pats the spot next to him. “I’ll even make a wall in between us.”

You hear the bedsheets shuffle and you have to sit up to see that Gojo was stacking two pillows in the middle of the bed to prove his point. You’re nearly certain that the only thing you’ll be catching soon is a headache if you keep up with his antics. It was a tempting offer, one that you would surely accept if it wasn’t Gojo Satoru.

“Gojo, I—”

“...Please?” His voice is softer than you have ever heard it. It was unfair how Gojo was making it harder and harder to reject his offer.

A silent moment passes by.

“...Fine,” You reluctantly get up from your pathetic excuse of a futon. “But no funny business!” You warn him. 

You see Gojo perk up from the bed. He looks at you with expectant eyes, “You got it!” He gives you a thumbs up. 

Whatever. If Gojo knew what was best for him, he wouldn’t try anything. You take in a deep breath before turning to face the opposite direction of where Gojo laid. 

“Good night [Name],” You hear Gojo whisper. You sigh.

“Yeah, yeah, goodnight Gojo.”

Eyes closed, you pray a silent prayer that everything will be fine for the remainder of the mission.

— — — — — — — 

Ever since Gojo was young, his body has been used to getting little amounts of sleep. Unsurprisingly, that caused him to have a natural alarm. It was always annoying whenever he woke up at the crack of dawn on a day when he didn't need to, but luckily for him, today it proved to be a blessing. There was an unfamiliar warmth radiating onto his body. Satoru opens his eyes.

He thinks he feels all of his six eyes widen when he feels himself wrapped around another body.

There you were, in all your beauty, lying fast asleep. In his embrace. Soft snores were escaping your mouth and there were stray hairs in your face. Did he mention how beautiful you looked sleeping? He might have to ask Shoko about heart disease because of how fast his heart was beating.

Unfortunately for him, you also seemed to be drifting away from dreamland and back to reality. Your eyes flutter and your eyebrows furrow. Gojo takes this to his advantage and does the worst thing he can think of; pretend to be asleep.

When you wake up, your mind is still hazy from the good night’s rest you had gotten, but not hazy enough to realize that your body was tangled with another’s. And you’re pretty sure the pillow you had been laying on last night was not this hard. You try to delude yourself into believing that this is all a dream, but the effects of your sleep were fading.

It takes all the strength in you to summon the courage to open your eyes. To your horror, you were firmly wrapped in Gojo’s arms and your legs were intertwined.

“What the hell?” You pull yourself away from him. On the floor below the bed laid the two pillows that Gojo had set up as a makeshift wall. You stare at them utter shock.

“No, don’t go, I’ll freeze to death,” Gojo whines, miraculously waking up. You glare at him.

“Explain to me what just happened or I swear Gojo, I’m going to–” You try to threaten him, but you can’t seem to formulate anything.

Unlike you, Gojo looked unbothered by the sudden turn of events. He even looked pleased. There was a lopsided smile on his face as he sighed, “What can I say, I guess you subconsciously want me after all.” 

"I do not—"

“But if I had to guess, I’d say the room got too cold and we most likely cuddled for warmth unconsciously.” He shrugs it off like it was no big deal. You note that his hair is tousled from the night before.

You leave the warm bed you and Gojo had made. His theory was probably true, meaning it was neither of your faults. You purse your lips.

“I suppose that makes sense. I apologize for overreacting, I guess I was under the impression that we had done something lewd last night.” With that comment, you make your way to the bathroom to freshen up both your mind and body.

You don’t end up seeing how red Gojo’s face got. It was foreign to feel all the blood rising to his cheeks. He takes one of his hands to slap it over his eyes before chuckling to himself. Yeah, he definitely knows why he likes you. 

All of a sudden Gojo feels like he’s on top of the world. For you, it was just a moment of weakness.

┊⋆｡˚. ੈ ┊

Extra notes:

gojo wished he and you got to go to the onsen together. 

gojo also regretted not taking a photo of you sleeping soundly in his arms. it would’ve been his new wallpaper. 

for the remainder of the trip, gojo was at an all time high, successfully locating and exorcising the curse in less than an hour.

[bluerosefox]

-Slides into DPxDC fandom and slaps down another AU sticky note on everyone's forehead-

Kinda single mom (maybe Queen Regent? if we got Ghost King route) Jazz! to triplets (deaged) Danny, Dan, and Dani! and they all get sent to the DCverse to start new lives.

The three were ditching school, secretly of course mostly to help get money for Jazz and themselves, when they get taken by the Joker because he decides the Wayne bait looking kids would make the most interesting hostages for the game he wanted to play.

Jazz is NOT happy when she senses them in danger. (and it happened during her job hours too so she had to book it out citing a 'family emergency'. She knows she's no doubt going to be fired for leaving the way she did but fine, she hated the job anyways and her boss was a creep.)

Jason falls head over heels when he see's this amazonian tall/powerful woman knock out a good number of Joker's teeth and basically destroys him when he got info of where the Joker was hiding out after the clown kidnapped some kids from his turf.

Speaking of the kids, they are busy cheering their big sister on and hoping she wouldn't be too upset that they ditched school. And...

Was Red Hood a Reverent?! Cool!

[latenightsundayblues]

This idea came to me in a dream and it impacted me so violently i had to sit down for a while

Diana being ADAM'S daughter instead of Lawrence's. Financially struggling single father Adam. Trying-his-best father Adam. Can anybody hear me

[konigsblog]

sleeping beside simon riley... 💤

simon is prone to reoccurring and horrifying nightmares that leave chills running down his spine, despite not being easily scared and desensitised. it could be a saddening and traumatising nightmare about his deceased family members or about something that he'd seen on the frontline, the gory and bloody sight of his teammates bodies, wounded with a bullet through their heart.

to simon, you're his coping mechanism, what soothes and relaxes him. it's not just your softness with him or your gentleness to approaching certain topics, but the sound of your heartbeat rhythm, your loving heart thumping against your ribs. his calloused hands dig into your flesh and hold you still while he breathes out shakily, attempting to calm himself down while tears form in his glistening waterline.

other times, simon finds comfort with your hands wrapped tightly around his lengthy shaft, stroking him while reassuring him that it'll all be alright, to take deep breaths while you roll your thumb over his leaking tip. it weeps and oozes creamy fluids from the head of his meaty, swollen cock, leaving his breathing heavy and his eyes half-lidded, tears staining his fair skin with his body jerking and twitching at your soft words and touch.

[dovewingkinnie]

I like to think that Gangle is so infatuated with Caine that it's enough to shatter her sad mask whenever he indulges her

same gangle

[thapunqueen]

SKIBIDI, MY FRIEND !

[lesbiansanemi]

Somewhere in the universe captain Jack harkness just woke up in a cold sweat and is now beating his pillow with his fist like WHY COULDNT THAT BE ME

[localplaguenurse]

Falling Head over Heels (Pantalone x Male Reader) pt 4

Hopefully third time’s the charm, eh? Apologies for weird formatting, this is all on my phone as my laptop is currently out of commission. I will clean this up after I post just so I don’t have to try a fourth time to post this. Check the master list for previous parts.

Content warnings: alcohol at the beginning, reader being overall miserable throughout.

Despair, agony, misery, you’re not sure what to name the darkness that engulfs you following your book’s sudden rejection. You’ve labelled the aching hollow void in your chest as betrayal for having been turned away by the publisher, despite all your other books having been published through them. A part of you wants to naïvely believe it’s truly a matter of budgeting. Part of you, the paranoid pessimism, wonders if it’s because the premise of this story is a departure from your usual writing, but it can’t be, right? They wouldn’t have let you get so far into the story if they never had the intention to publish it, would they?

The pounding in your head is a hangover. You know that for sure

You grumble, head pulsing with pain and your neck and spine aching with every movement. You’re hunched over, head resting in your curled up arms. When you open your eyes, you are met with actual darkness. You lift your head up and feel the dark sway around you.

Okay, no, you’re actually still drunk. A little bit, anyways.

You try to make sense of your surroundings with the little you have to work with. It’s night, and you’re in your study you think. You think. You move your stiff arms, trying to feel for your lamp. Your hand clumsily bumps something right in front of you, followed by the sound of breaking glass and spilling liquid. When the smell hits you, you realize it’s alcohol you just knocked over, which is really good for the man with zero night vision, no shoes, and is slowly transitioning from drunk to hungover.

You prop your head up, fingers tangling in your hair as you pull it together. No, you’re not going to let a broken bottle of firewater be the straw to break the camel’s back. After the shitty few days you’ve had, you’re not going to let yourself fall apart over this. You’re going to hold it together, the tears you feel welling in your eyes are purely from the pain of your hangover.

You eventually find the lamp, and you pull the string. The click is audible, but there is no light. You pull it again, and nothing happens. The bulb has burned out. You have no idea what time it is, there’s no natural light coming through, and you don’t know your office well enough to walk around in the dark sober.

You’re alone.

You’ll be embarrassed about this later when the alcohol’s out of your system, but right now, there are tears rolling down your cheek as you tack on another failure to your life. You curl back into your original position, hunched over the desk with your face buried in your folded arms, and try to muffle your crying. You don’t know what you’re going to do now. It feels like all your plans for the upcoming future are falling apart, and it’s either Pantalone’s fault or your father’s. Paying for a run in with a harbinger two months ago has pushed back your plans to move out of Snezhnaya, but you figured if you gave it your all with the next book, you’d more than make up for the chunk of money lost. Now they’re just not even publishing you anymore because of fucking budget cuts, if you want to believe that, which you don’t think you do. They only want to publish stories that are going to make them money, so they’re going to cut back on the lesser known and less successful authors and their more obscure stories.

If you remember right, of all the romance authors who got cut, you were the first one they decided to let go.

You’re also the only one writing a story about two men.

No, no that’s not it. You’re deflecting, refusing to take into account that your story just isn’t good. It has to be, right? Again, if they never wanted to publish this, they would have shot you down the moment you presented your outline. It’s just a really unfortunate coincidence, but then again–

“Dear?”

You lift your head up and see the glow of the doorway, and the silhouette of your mother standing within the light. You quickly wipe your eyes, sniffle, and sit up. “W-What?”

She steps forward, ignoring the smell of spilled firewater. The door remains open, giving you a little bit of light. When she rounds your desk, she takes your face in her hands, and though you cannot clearly see her face, you know pity very well. She leans down to kiss your forehead. As much as you hate her coddling, it feels nice in the current moment.

“I heard something breaking,” she says, “are you alright? Are you hurt?”

“No, no no,” you mumble, “just… knocked the bottle over trying to turn on the light.”

“Is… Is this what you’ve been doing since… since your meeting?”

“No, no,” you half lie. Have you spent the last week drowning in liquor and sorrow? No. Did you do that all day and night yesterday or today? Yes. “I-I’m fine, just… just having a bad night is all.”

“Dear, I don’t want you making a habit of this.”

You scowl and pull away. “I told you to stop coddling me.”

“This is the one time I should be coddling you,” she states, “when you’re doing something that will hurt you.”

“I’m not gonna hurt myself.”

She gestures to the floor. “There’s a broken bottle of firewater on the carpet and your breath reeks of it.”

She has a point and you know it. You sigh, slumping back in your chair. “I’m… I’m gonna be okay, just not in a good mood right now.”

“You need rest,” your mother says, “actual rest. No more drinking tonight. I’ll get someone to clean this up, you just come with me and I’ll bring you to bed.”

You allow your mother to guide you by the hand up and out of your chair, out of your study and two doors down to your room. She hasn’t done this since you were maybe eight or nine, guiding you down hallways that were too dark and scary for you to maneuver on your own. Your father used to tell her not to do that, because you had to face your fears by yourself, and your siblings teased you for being a mama’s boy and a scaredy cat, until your diagnosis shut them up. Now she’s making sure her half drunk son doesn’t accidentally kill himself on the way to bed.

You don’t even change into sleepwear. You just kick your pants off and slip under the covers, mashing your face into your pillows. You’re out like a light the moment your swirling head hits the pillow.

——

“I’m going to be honest, you look like hell.”

You set your cup of coffee down. “Thanks, I just got back.”

A server suddenly appears from your blind spot, making you jump. They apologize for startling you, and you assure them it’s fine. Two meals are placed down on the table, and the server leaves you two to your food. Lunch for your editor, Alik, is a sandwich on rye as they’ve always been a light eater. Breakfast for you, hungover and miserable, is a hearty soup and some pirozhki on the side. Alik eyes the pirozhki and you just sigh and hand them one.

Alik bites into the bun before immediately flinching at the heat. You chuckle and bite into the bun you still have, not learning your lesson and burning your mouth on the meat filling.

“You know, you didn’t have to meet up with me today if you weren’t up for it,” Alik says.

“It’s fine,” you reply, head still aching from earlier, “it beats rotting in bed with a hangover.”

Alik takes another bite, burning their mouth again. You put yours down and take baby spoonfuls of your soup. Alik sighs. “I’m… I’m really sorry about the publisher.”

You frown at the subject, despite knowing it was unavoidable. “Did you know?”

“Know what?”

“That they were going under,” you clarify, “or, that they were going to go under?”

Alik clicks their tongue. “Um… I had heard they weren’t accepting new authors because of budgeting issues, but I think everyone knew that.”

“But nothing about them cancelling current books?”

“The only cancelled books I knew about were from authors who were already getting canned,” Alik answers, “like there were already problems behind the scenes leading up to their cancellation and being dropped.” They pause to take a bite of their food, and continue when they’ve swallowed their mouthful. “As far as I knew, they were still going to honour current publishing deals. I found out they changed their minds the same day you did.”

“Fantastic.” You take another bite of your pirozhki. “What about you?”

“I’m… I’m still okay,” they say, “since I’m still, um, editing for the people that… were left.”

“Mm.”

Uncomfortable silence hangs in the air. Well, as silent as it can be in the restaurant at this time. Neither you or Alik speak for a tie, more focused on your meals. You’re maybe halfway through your soup when Alik finishes their sandwich.

“So what are you going to do now?” Alik asks.

“Well,” you say, “I’m going to need to find a real job now.”

“Writing is a real—”

“Don’t,” you snap, “you know what I mean.”

“It’s a good book,” Alik says. “The main character is compelling, his love interest is actually likeable, there’s chemistry, the dialogue feels natural, and the story on its own is great! I know there has to be another publisher that would be interested.”

“You remember my first book,” you retort, “how it took forever to find a publisher, and they wouldn’t approve it until I made it a hundred percent clear the main character was a woman. I left it vague in the original drafts for a reason!”

“I’m not talking about a publisher in Snezhnaya.”

“...?”

Alik gives you a smile.

“No.”

They lose the smile and give you an incredulous look. “What do you mean no? This is the sort of thing the Yae Publishing House would eat up! And imagine how amazing it would be if the Guuji Yae Miko herself approved it.”

You flinch as the sudden rise of Alik’s voice makes your head pulse. You feel like the other people in the restaurant are looking at your table now.

“And, and, you’re always talking about moving out to Liyue or Sumeru once you get your big break. Why not Inazuma? It’s nice and sunny there too, and there’s cherry blossoms! Why have a garden when you could have an orchard?”

“They’re not blooming year round, you know.”

“Semantics,” Alik replies dismissively, “my point is if the Guuji thinks this story is half as good as I know it is, you’ve got your ticket out of Snezhnaya and you’re sticking it to every publisher who turned you down!”

You sigh and shake your head. “I don’t know if it’s to her tastes, you know? A-And I’m willing to compromise on some things in my stories, but this one’s special to me. I don’t know how much I’m willing to change.”

“It’s not like you have anything to lose by submitting your story,” Alik states, “the worst she’ll do is say no, which isn’t that different from what you’re going through right now.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “I’ll... I’ll think about it, but I’m not confident she’ll approve of it.”

“Good enough.”

Alik pays for the both of you once the meal is over, despite your insistance on paying for yours. They brush you off, stating this is the least they can do considering your circumstances. They go to take you by the arm, but you quickly pull back and make your way to the door. The gesture is sweet, but you’re not in the mood to be guided by the hand like a child.

The cold air stings the exposed skin of your face that isn’t covered by your scarf or the hood of your coat. Despite this, you’re feeling physically better leaving the restaurant than you were going in. Mentally, about the same.

Alik is walking behind you as you trek down the snowy sidewalk. “Do you need a ride home?”

“I’m alright,” you tell them, “I think my father was going to visit the bank with my sister today, so I’m riding with them.”

“Oh! I was going to ask about that.” You hear their footsteps and move to the right so they have space to walk alongside you. “Is your family really working with him?”

Alik doesn’t need to elaborate. You nod. “My father’s been sucking up to him so much, it’s like every day he’s either come over for dinner or everyone’s talking about how he’s coming over soon.”

“Have you talked to him? Actually talked to him, not counting when you ruined his suit,” Alik asks, and you can hear the excitement in their inquisitive tone. Always craving for gossip despite pretending they hate it.

“A few times.”

“And? What’s he like? Is he as intimidating as I hear he is?”

You slow your pace so you can think over the question. The simple answer is yes, absolutely. Even if he is kind in the moment, you’re always very aware of his standing in the Fatui and his status among the high class. You’re certain it’s intentional, but it’s not like it would be easy to forget those aspects about him. Charisma and logic come easily to him, important traits for a successful entrepreneur, and fantastic ones for a manipulator.

In spite of this, you’re growing more accustomed to his presence in your life. Simple and meaningless attractions aside, you gradually find yourself less fearful of his presence, and you imagine he’s noticed as well. Conversations, however fleeting, can come naturally now. Small talk is no longer just the weather, but about little things in your day to day lives. He hasn’t let his mask slip around you, but you feel like it could come lose if he felt the time was right.

When you pull yourself from your thoughts, you find you and Alik standing outside the Northland Bank. You move away from the steps leading up to the door so you don’t bump into anyone you don’t see coming. You see Alik staring at you expectantly, eager to hear what you have to say about Pantalone.

You shrug. “Depends on first impressions.”

They groan. “That is such a boring answer!”

You laugh. “I don’t know how else to say it!”

“Can you at least try to be specific?”

“Okay, okay,” you concede. “What to say about the Regrator…” You ignore the sounds of people coming and going from the bank just behind you and choose your words carefully. “He’s definitely intimidating the first time you meet him, and his presence can be overwhelming for all sorts of reasons.”

“Alright…”

You continue. “In my experience, though, he doesn’t make for bad company. He tends to rant and ramble, and it’s hard to follow along if you don’t know what he’s talking about. Still, you listen along anyways because he makes it all sound interesting. I think he’s very polite, and I enjoy his presence more than I’m intimidated by it.”

“Despite, you know… everything else about him?”

“Yes, Alik, despite everything else.”

“That tracks, you look like someone who would be into intimidating men.”

You lightly punch Alik’s arm. “Shut up.”

They laugh. “I’m sorry, it’s not my fault you’re literally describing the prince in your story when you’re talking about Pantalone. Better hope he doesn’t read your book, or he might get the wrong or right idea.”

Despite the cold air, your cheeks feel warm. You hear the doors open behind you, and lower your voice so whoever is passing by doesn’t hear you. “I made him up long before I met Pantalone and you know that.”

“So Pantalone’s the real life version of...” Alik trails off, seemingly at a loss for words. Their eyes are wide as they stare, almost horrified at the sight of you.

When you sense something, someone, lingering just behind you, you realize Alik is staring behind you. The horror on their face is bizarre, until you remember where the two of you are and who owns the building you’re standing outside of. The heat in your face reaches its boiling point when you turn around.

Pantalone’s smile takes up the entirety of your vision.

“Who am I the ‘real life version’ of?”

You stare at Pantalone like a child getting caught with his hand in the cookie jar. His smile doesn’t waver, and the longer you look at him, the harder it is to talk, yet you can’t look away. How much of that conversation did he hear? What should you say?

Alik saves you answering. “Oh, we were joking about how one of the main characters in my friend’s book acts similar to you,” they say, even though this book is… is it three or four years?”

You snap out of your daze and quickly turn to Alik so you don’t have to look at Pantalone’s knowing, smug face. “T-Technically, I think that character’s been around for six years? He was based off that rival prince character I ended up scrapping.”

“So way before you met the Regrator,” Alik says, and you nod.

Pantalone chuckles. “Interesting how these things work out, hm?”

“Yes,” you force out.

“If I may, what brings you two to the Northland Bank?” Pantalone asks.

“I’m on my way back to my office,” Alik answers, “and my client here is waiting on his ride, right?”

“Oh, right!” You turn to Pantalone. “My father and sister were meeting with you today. Are they still here, by chance?”

Pantalone sighs dejectedly. “Unfortunately, you just missed them. I believe they left maybe five minutes ago?”

“In that case,” Alik says, “I’ll give you a ride back when we get to my office.”

“There’s no need,” Pantalone states. He tilts his head to look you right in your eyes, his lips curling back up into a smile. “Your timing is perfect, actually. There’s something I need to discuss with you.”

Your eyes widen, and you feel your brain fill up with all the good and bad reasons Pantalone wants to meet you specifically. “With me?”

“Who else?” He beckons for you to follow him. “Come now, I don’t have all day, and it really is quite important.”

Nervously, you follow Pantalone up the steps with Alik right behind you. You mentally go through everything that’s happened since you two last talked. You don’t think you’ve done anything to offend him, which makes this sudden invitation even weirder. What purpose does he have with a failing, legally blind author?

Like a gentleman, Pantalone opens the door for you. Warmth blows past you as you step out of the cold. You turn back around to Alik, and before they can pass the threshold, Pantalone stops them.

“I’m afraid this is a private meeting,” Pantalone states, “I’m sure you understand.”

“I-I…”

You give Alik a reassuring smile. “It’s fine. I’ll talk to you next week, okay?”

Reluctantly, Alik nods. Before you can properly say goodbye, Pantalone shuts the door.

He’s still smiling, and gestures to a flight of ornate stairs. “Let’s continue this in my office, shall we?”

[toneelspeelster]

i can't talk to anyone else like i talk to you.

[thinwhitedoc]

SHERLOCK | Martin Freeman as John Watson

[bird-inacage]

Love Sea Trailer | Tongrak x Mahasamut "I don't believe in love"

Is it me or does Mahasamut look like he's been crying in the third gif, especially with the way Tongrak kisses him so gently?

[godofstory]

what's the best way to calm down an angry but horny prince?

a few hours later..

[shima-draws]

God I love watching the sports festival arc AKA the Tododeku enemies to lovers speedrun