#overwhelmed reader

[leviraaaaaa]

Here it is safe. (Levi x reader)

Slight, very slight mentions of anxiety attacks? Idfk. Basically reader often gets overwhelmed and hides, guess who's there to help?

Levi knocked at your door, not surprised when he didn’t get a response. But he waited nevertheless. He tapped against the door a few more times until he reached for the doorknob and twisted it, cautiously pushing it open. Also not to his surprise, your office was empty, not a hair of you in sight. Seemingly. If not for the fact that he’d seen you entering here just two minutes ago and if not for the fact he’s been here way too many times to know better. And so he found himself slowly stepping in, soundlessly shutting the door back. Light on his feet, he approached the desk standing near the back of the room and peered down. “Hello.” You whispered when his silver eyes found yours. It was rather unusual to find most people crouching beneath their desks, was it not? Levi thought so too, the first time he found you here. He remembered being so confused, watching you as you curled up in a ball, rocking back and forth. He remembered being clueless, wondering if you were sick, wondering if he should call Hange or Nanaba, wondering if he should just leave you alone. But time has passed since and he’s learnt a thing or two. That everyone gets overwhelmed sometimes. Levi sighed.

“What are you doing?” He asked softly. “..hiding.” You mumbled, avoiding his gaze and pulling up your knees against your chest. You drummed your fingers anxiously on the floor. “So I’ve figured.” He nodded. “From what exactly?” "I.." You cringed a little. "..don’t know?” “Come out please.” You hesitated, meeting his gaze. It was soft. Warm. Understanding. Safe. But yet, the world was far scarier still. You glanced back at the floor.  “I don’t want to.” “It’s alright. Come out please.” You shook your head. Levi exhaled. “That’s okay,” He said, shifting. “I’ll just come down then.” Before you could even respond to that offer, he was already squatting down, slipping himself into the small space under the desk that could barely even fit you. But he settles in anyways, leaning back opposite of you, your knees touching his. You smiled, letting your hand find his and hooking your cold fingers through. In response, he rubbed circles on your palm with his thumb, squeezing gently. For a moment you just simply sat there, feeling gratitude flood your thundering heart as it quiets, the tension leaving your body and everything wrong in your mind eases away. In that moment, there was only you and him. You could finally breathe again. “You don’t have to do this every time, you know?” You told him. “What would people say?” He raised a brow questioningly. “Your reputation would be so screwed if people find out you hide under tables like a little child.” You shook your head, trying to explain. “Just because I’m weird, doesn’t mean you have to be too.” “You’re not weird.” “Levi.” “What?” ‘“You don’t have to do this. I’ll be fine in a bit.” “I know.” “So why?” You demanded. He looked at you and shrugged. “Because you needed me.” That’s all he says.  “You needed me." He repeated softly, "And I’ll stay as long as you need me to.”

[latehere]

back to business with some good ol alien

[pythonmoth]

cw: violence. torture. waterboarding. hurt/no comfort.

> i haven't written in a long time. it's good to be back.

× framed traitor f!reader x lt ghost. poly tf141.

Part 1

Traitor.

That's what Price thinks as Simon and Soap drag you from the table, nearly choking on your food as they give you no time to understand what's going on.

Alarms ring in your ears as you force the piece of stale bread down your throat, trying to stand on your feet but they're taller than you, so your feet end up dangling, useless. You take a deep breath, your voice shaking as much as you are.

"What's going on? Is this some kind of sick joke?", you ask, looking at Simon, desperate to find an explanation for this other than the anger and torment in his eyes.

Simon doesn't answer. Nobody does. Soap's grip tightens, but he doesn't say anything, his expression hard.

No.

No.

You can tell they are not joking when you realize they're taking you downstairs. Sweat rolls down your face, fear creeping from the base of your neck to your toes, making you snap. You beg them to tell you what's going on, to explain why you're being dragged down there. You kick and struggle, a sob ripped deep from your chest as you start screaming, begging for a reaction. And then, pain.

Tears fill your eyes when it's Simon who hits your stomach with his fist, effectively shutting you up. You can smell the blood from past tortures mixed with bleach, and, distantly, the scent of forgotten wet rags. There's something salty in the air, and that's when you freeze, the pain in your stomach becoming nothing compared to the fear that grows in your chest.

They know you.

You've been with them for nine years. They know your fears.

"No. No. Please. Simon, Johnny— Please, please, please" you beg, sobbing as you can't do anything but go limp and heavy in their grip, doing the best you can to keep them from tying you to the chair. But it's useless.

Stars and colors dance behind your eyes as a fist connects with the side of your chin. You wonder if it would be better if they made you pass out right now. Maybe if you bite your tongue, it could—

"Gag her" Price tells them.

He's trained you for nine years.

He knows you.

You try to bite down on Johnny's fingers as he stuffs your mouth with an old rag, but it's difficult when your senses are unfocused after such a hard punch. The rag wet and disgusting, the scent and the taste making you sob again, shaking your head, your eyes big as you look at Simon.

Please.

Then a wet rag is pressed to your face. You inhale sharply as cold buckets of salty water are dropped right on your face, the cloth making it impossible for you to breathe. Salty water fills your lungs, making you choke and cough around the gagging rag.

You can hear questions, accusations, but you're paralized with fear, with pain and grief.

Grief.

They've been your friends, your family for so long. It's impossible to tell if you'll live through this. It's impossible for you to think of them as anything but monsters.

You know they usually did this with traitors, with enemies when it was necessary.

And you know they never enjoy it.

You've scolded Simon for smoking so late at night, you've had so many drinks next to him when he can't even speak. Simon often flinches awake from nightmares, startling you and then sharing quiet nights side to side.

You know this.

But then Simon hits your face again, taking the rag out of your mouth, and you can't find the love you have for him. It's expelled from your body with each hard cough, with each drop of blood falling from your nose.

"Did you not hear me?" Price demands, his arms crossed. "I'll ask one more time, then."

Smack.

Your chest is heaving, the fear so paralizing you can't even feel each punch as much as you should.

"What did you tell them?" Price continues, not looking one bit anxious for you to answer. He stands in front of you, his feet dry despite the salt burning your lungs.

"I don't know what you're talking about" you manage, looking up at Price, your eyes wide and bloodshot.

With a hard yank on your hair until your head is thrown back again, you're gagged once more, and the rag is pressed to your face. The salty water keeps on filling your lungs, unable to breathe, unable to cough around the gag.

You can't say anything. You truly don't know shit.

Hours later, when it becomes clear you won't speak, Price kicks you across the chest, hard, and the chair flips back.

You're tied up to the chair, exhausted and wet, your lungs burning with salt.

Memories of you as a child, nearly drown to death by your cousins, fill your mind. It had been a good day, until it wasn't.

Simon had held you when you told him, kissed you, and tucked you in for a good night sleep.

Johnny managed to make you crackle when you told him, patting your head, and saying your cousin had awful skills.

Now, there's nothing. Nothing but pain, and the burning in your lungs.

The door springs open, and the three men leave.

Only then do you close your eyes, passing out.

Masterlist | Part 2

buy me a coffee

[kirishwima]

JJK guys when you see them with someone else (but it's a misunderstanding, really)

Part 1 ft Gojo, Toji

Gojo:

Toji:

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

I'm back in the Tigers cage again.

(You too can join in on throwing a Rat Of A Man into a Tiger cage by reading Tiger Tiger)

[tojisun]

john price x reader; minimal plot but it’s daddy issues and making out and just yk the sorts; mini religious analogy

it starts with a tap to the mouth—john's thumb rough against your glossy lips. he tips your head up just enough so that you can meet his eyes, crinkled in his deep smile and shining with the depths of his desire.

his adoration is palpable, rippling from his body in burning waves. it makes you feel small in the softest of ways; like you are being tucked into the pockets of his chest, wedged within the spaces of his ribs.

it makes you ache, your body racked with shivers.

no one has ever loved you this way. no one was ever this devoted—all-consuming and scorching in the way it strips the world into nothing, leaving it bare, all for you to use. to yield. to pick apart and abandon, as you see fit.

john looks at you like you're all that matters.

the tears spring up before you could stop them, prickling the backs of your eyes until they trickle down the slopes of your cheeks. you hear john's breath stutter, his hand twitching from where it's cupping your jaw, before it drags up to the side of your temple, thumb swiping at the patch of skin just underneath your eye.

"shh," he rumbles, a gentle coo. "y've got nothin' to be sad about, sweetheart."

you sniffle, ducking your gaze away, turning shy. it makes him chuckle, his voice passing through his teeth with such fondness, it fills you up with warmth; cascading down your spine, setting you ablaze alive.

“now, then,” john says, tapping the apple of your cheek. “won’t you come here an’ kiss me?”

his voice is thick and sticky with his own need, rumbling in that sort of tone that always makes your thighs squeeze shut. you nod, not knowing what else is there to say, and slide to his lap. he helps you throughout—rough palms perched on your hips as he pulls you close, adjusting ever so slightly, until your chest is snug against his and his breaths are hitting your chin.

john is so warm like this, or is it you? burning with the fever of your own desires that it buzzes into your skin and etching him with it?

whatever it may be, he presses close, dragging his palms from the meat of your hips to your back, mapping along the expanse of your skin like he’s truly feeling you; like he’s truly grounding himself through you.

you let out a shaky breath. john mirrors it.

and, finally, the two of you meet in between. the kiss is soft, careful, then it is cataclysmic. he devours your every gasps, his beard scratching against your chin as he kisses and nips and licks.

it is so debauched; sinful in the way you moan into his mouth and john swallows it whole; destructive in the way that his kisses chase the burn from your lips and force them through your synapses, leaving your nerves to moan a song until the pleasure burrows in your core—thrumming and building, your nub hardening slowly; teasingly; more.

more. moremoremore—

“john,” you gasp out, fingers tugging at his hair. “john, i want–!”

“shh,” he rumbles, pulling away just enough to press his forehead to yours. “i’ve got you, peanut. i’ve got you.”

his words douse you in the holy flames because you feel—

absolved.

you feel forgiven. you feel loved.

oh.

“please,” you hiccup, crying out again. and john pulls you in, even closer, and closer, until you no longer know where you end and where he begins.

please—

“i’ve got you,” john repeats like it is a prayer; a testimony. “i’m here f’r you.”

and you fall into him, so trusting. so faithful.

so devoted.

so small in his greatness.

[fixyourwritinghabits]

Also, to be clear, I don't think fanfiction is to blame for the overwhelming amount of meh cosy fiction or romance out there. Fanfiction and the folks who write it aren't doing anything wrong. I think it's due to the publishing industry's desire to sell you something you would otherwise be reading for free.

That's my ultimate hot take.

[wolverinesprincess]

oh to curl up in logan’s arms as he hides you from the rest of the world 🫂

any version of him 🫂

[cookiebean2019]

HI ITS ME THE ANON WHO ASKED ABOUT REQUESTS IM BACK

could I request shadow milk comforting a sad yn who’s going through a lot?? If that’s ok with you ofc, you don’t have to draw it if you don’t want to!

also I saw more of your art and you’re actually so talented like wtf.

LIKE I ADORE YOUR ARTSTYLE HOW ARE YOU NOT FAMOUS YET

Sorry for the bother!!!

Shadow Milk isn't the best at giving comfort, but he really is trying his best-

(He lied saying not to get used to it, he totally would do this all the time if asked)

Never a bother! In fact I needed this as well- 😭💖

Thank you for being my first request, it means a lot to me!!! Hopefully this is on the lines of what you wanted!

[dreamyblanket]

Imagine sheep (idk lol) y/n dragon meeting longan I bet longan would be wondering "how come the dragon kind has been reduced into this... so cute and floofy?!!"

I do a whole bunch of rambling in the tags for this one ^^u But! Dragon y/n would ask them so many questions about the time when dragons were common!

[ruesol]

Grumpy mechanic Simon and single mom reader who live in a small town where everybody has been rooting for them to get together.

Everybody knows Simon is about to arrive whenever the atmosphere of the local diner turns grim. Loud chatters turning into hushed mumbles, focused stares turning into cautious glances.

Simon always came in for one thing—a cup of coffee. And it was his unlucky day that the diner owner was running out and you had ordered a cup around the same time, not knowing that the town behemoth was not to be messed with.

As he slowly turns his head to see who dared interrupt his carefully curated routine, his eyes immediately soften when he notices you holding a small girl by her hand close to you. You don’t notice everyone staring at you, much to frazzled for a kick of caffeine so you can send your daughter to school on time for her first day.

The scene in the diner is exactly like a movie. Everyone watches with bated breaths, wondering what will happen now that the rude mechanic has taken notice of you.

Nothing. He says nothing all the way until you leave the cafe and walk across the street to jump into your jeep and try to start it. And while Simon stares, the diner owner whimpers out of an apology, stating that another pot will be ready soon, but his words fall deaf to Simon’s ears because all the mechanic can think about his helping you kickstart your car.

The patrons at the diner can only hope that your interaction with the mechanic sparks some much needed romance in his lonely life.

[yuwuta]

katsuki might be a little rough, brash to those who don’t know him, he might bluff with fake threats but even then it’s all talk and much milder when directed at you than at his friends. because katsuki is kind, he’s reasonable, he’s gentle, he’s a lover through and through. he doesn’t even ever really get mad at you, and when you’re mad at him, he doesn’t let that be either. the only time he’s mean is when he’s being nice to you; when he’s being so gentle and willing and willing and willing to be kind to you even amongst your frustration that it feels smothering, almost as if you’re undeserving of his rationality and patience. he doesn’t think so, and he won’t change his mind on it, either. he loves you and you’re precious to him so you’re going to have to get used to it and get over it because he won’t stop

[polutrope]

I had a thought about kudos on AO3. I know fic writers frequently express how much we love comments, and I really do love and cherish comments.

But kudos are also pretty amazing. A kudos means that somebody, more often than not somebody I have no personal connection to at all, found my fic out of thousands of others and chose to spend their time reading it. Bookmarks too are amazing, even the ones that are just marking an intention to read later. Just knowing someone wants to read my fic is flattering!

Even one kudos means that someone took a chance on my writing and spent precious time reading it, and I'm truly grateful for that, and honoured.

[snail-day]

Anal prep with SatoSugu is such a tender thing. Suguru’s voice low and calm as he reminds you to focus on Satoru, who’s nestled between your thighs, mouthing at your clit with soft, eager licks. His hands grip your thighs just tight enough to keep you still while Suguru gently works one finger in, slowly easing you open. “Just focus on how good he’s making you feel,” Suguru murmurs, kissing the curve of your back. “Don’t worry about the stretch, angel.” Maybe tomorrow you’ll be ready for two of his broad fingers, but you know how careful he is with prep. He takes his time, and Satoru could stay down there for hours, happily lost in you. So better buckle up buttercup, it's going to be a long night!

[earthsparked]

Pareidolia

Your skin is too small for how big you feel inside. The world is too loud. Every horn honk from the traffic going by your workplace, every shuffle of paper from your coworker is like sandpaper against your senses. The phone rings. Your email inbox dings. The caffeine isn't helping. You berate yourself for even drinking it today, when you knew you were already overwhelmed. You've been trying so hard not to snap at anyone. They don't deserve your short temper because you're fitting at odd angles to the rest of the world, again.

It gets like this sometimes. You feel as if you could walk out of the door and into the nearest ocean, and never come back. Grow gills. Make some remora friends up close and personal. It would be quiet, or at least quieter. The soft blue wobbles of ever-changing filtered light would embrace you the way LEDs never will, in their everlasting and un-relatable constancy.

Maybe the slamming of a drawer is the last straw, or maybe you have had a Gävle goat's worth of last straws and are ready to light a match. I'm going for a walk, you say in desperation, grabbing your bag and hurrying out the door before anyone can stop you.

Setting foot outside helps a little. Having a broad, cloudy sky above you and fresh air in your lungs helps, too. It unravels a few of the thready stitches that feel like they're holding shut some vital part of you that yearns to spring into the sky.

You walk and walk until you reach the park. It's only a little one, with rundown swing sets without any seats and the kind of hot metal slides that scream "tetanus jab." There's never anyone here, and that's why it's the perfect place for you to have a little breakdown. So when you round the corner and see a car parked by the hoopless basketball court, you light the damn match. Tears of frustration well up. You furiously wipe them away and stride angrily past the car, which doesn't have any tags and no driver in sight. In the moment you hate that car like it owes you money, like it ruined your nonexistent wedding photos and called your cat ugly. You want to be alone. You are going to go, you don't know, punch a tree or something - !

Are you all right? Your aura looks dreadful.

You curse and trip on an uneven bit of sidewalk, stumbling right onto the hood of the fancy white and red sports car (which you despise). Up close it's almost too fancy, as if it wasn't ever meant to be touched by human hands. It's too crisp, too clean, like it just rolled off a factory floor on Coruscant or something. You feel like you're sullying it just by your already very wrong, cattycorner presence. This is not helping literally anything. There's also the small matter of it having just spoken to you.

You push yourself off in a hurry and stumble backwards, only to cry out when you trip over the same damn chunk of busted concrete in reverse this time. Your ankle gives way in a flare of pain. You wobble and flail around like a wacky waving inflatable tube man, and resign yourself to eating playground dirt. But you never hit the ground. There's a sound like a blender pretending to be an old dialup modem, and something impossibly strong, impossibly fast, just - impossible all around, catches you.

You look up into the face of a giant metal being, surrounded by a halo of grey clouds that make its white coloration look even more unnaturally perfect. Pareidolia, your mind ever-so-helpfully suggests. Humans have a way of seeing faces where faces aren't, a side effect of having survived as a species only through empathizing with the Other. Seeing the Other as One Of Us. Making you apologize to the coat rack you accidentally bumped into. Or something like that.

This ain't a damn coat rack, and it's not some trick of psychology or the light or even your over-caffeinated nerves. That's a person writ in metal, their face a novel of concern, their hand bigger than your body with room to spare. Cupping you, not closing around you. Supporting, not grasping.

The strength of it is like nothing you've ever experienced. It's not like another human lifting you with effort, with the strain of tendons and muscle. It's a little like floating in an ocean, but steadier and warmer. You're a feather drifting on the waves at best.

I frightened you, they say, sounding genuinely remorseful. They shift around a little to kneel. It's like being in an MRI scanner: powerful pieces of machinery twisting and moving around you, brought to life by a mysterious power that you can name but can't explain. You flinch as their noticeably five-fingered hand reaches down toward you. Is there a word for seeing human hands in things that aren't human hands?

Their blue eyes go a bit wider. Their hand stops, and they open the palm as if that makes them any less dangerous or threatening. The hand you're lying on does not move an inch. Easy, human. I only want to help. Please, let me make up for causing you more pain? You were suffering enough as it was.

You don't know what to make of any of this. Who are you? What are you?

You're lying nearly flat on your back with his fingers curled protectively around you, after he caught you like some fainting romance novel heroine. He could crush you and drop you to the ground like one of the countless cigarette butts that litter the park. But his earnest plea tells you he would never. You meet his eyes, searching for truth, and the moment becomes unbearably vulnerable. You get the feeling he sees a lot more of you, than you do of him. Considering how god damned over-sensitive and anxious you are about literally every aspect of life, that's quite a feat.

You look away first.

My designation is Drift. What I am is not important. May I help you up?

You nod, but still hold your breath as he gently tilts you upright and back onto your feet. You grit your teeth and gingerly test your ankle, only to hiss a breath and grab onto Drift's fingers for balance.

Drift, I'm getting your finish dirty. You're as white as an albino polar bear in a blizzard, and I'm - You hiccup a choked sob. Have you noticed you're a, a giant robot?

He smiles, showing sharp teeth. What does a robot need teeth for?

You're the color of a storm over a turbulent sea, he concludes for you. A bruised spark. Lightning looking for a cloud. I could feel you from a block away. That's unusual for an organic. But I can't say if it's unusual for humans in general. I've only been on your planet for a few - weeks, I believe you call them. I've never been so close to one of you. You're quite an experience, little one.

You take that in. You're an alien. And I'm a storm over a turbulent sea.

He nods seriously. I am a mech, yes, from another planet far away and very much unlike yours. I've never seen a place so full of life.

He tilts his head, that intense but gentle look returning. With your out-of-sorts-ness still on full overdrive, you can feel his attention like a pressure, but it doesn't hurt. Doesn't push.

Your aura is ...I could tell you were deeply distressed. And then I brought fear and pain into the mix. I ask your forgiveness. He actually bows his head before you.

This guy talks like - like freaking Aragorn or something. A knight of the round table. You'd ask if he's about to try and sell you essential oils from his Facebook page, but you don't want to hurt his feelings.

You're forgiven, Drift. And I was just having a bad day. Don't worry about me. You try and brush it off, put the wrong shape back into the right hole in the world that's supposed to be you. Could you help me over to the bench? I don't think my ankle's broken, just twinged. It happens. If I can rest it a while, it should be fine.

He does, letting you lean on him rather than trying to lift you. When you sit on the bench, he turns and sits beside you. He has to draw his knees up to squeeze under the tree branches, but he's sitting with you, looking out on the same world as you are, if from a different angle. You get the feeling he's done this on purpose.

Thank you. For allowing me to help, and for the gift of your presence. As I said, I haven't had much opportunity to speak to any of your kind. I've been watching, learning.

He does what seems for all the world like a deep, cleansing breath, looking out over the terribly unimpressive park. I understand I am a being far beyond your experience. But know that we are both equal in the ways that matter. You humans must have sparks as much as we Cybertronians do, or you wouldn't burn so brightly. Or be such a vast storm, he adds, glancing down at you.

I was thinking the same thing about you, you confess. You explain your thoughts about pareidolia, hold out your hands and compare them to his. He extends one in the same way you hold yours outstretched, and for a long, quiet moment, you both just exist together in a universe where two beings could be so different and so similar. You look up at the same time he looks down, and your smiles meet like the edges of the ocean and the sky.

So auras are a real thing, huh? You don't have any evidence of this, but he's a giant alien mech. If anyone's going to know about something like auras, it would be Drift.

Yes. Though I understand it's about as rare for your people to be able to see them, as it is for mine.

But you can see them.

I learned, he says, simply. He waits for your question. He already knows you're going to ask him. But it says something about him that he gives you space to say it. And it's that more than anything that gives you the courage to speak.

Could you teach me? If you're going to be on Earth a while?

He looks, in a word, delighted. Like he hadn't actually dared to hope...

You deeply regret ever hating him, even briefly, when he was just a car. You kind of love him right then and there. The Other, as One Of Us. Or maybe just Ours.

I would be honored to have you as my student. I believe you would be the first not of my own species I have ever known to learn the lessons of spectralism.

Something else occurs to you then and you sit up with a frown of concern of your own. Drift, do you have a place to go?

He's a little cagey at first. I have many places to go. ...But if you mean, do I have a base of operations, no. I'm somewhat stranded here. At the moment, my ship is out of communication range. I thought discretion the better part of valor, given I'm an uninvited visitor to your planet, so I've been moving around.

Drifting? you suggest, with a quirk of your mouth, a raised eyebrow. He chuckles. Now you're getting it. You're a fast learner.

You feel a need to offer something else in return for his kindness. I could, um. Give you a..car...wash? You probably don't need to treat him like an amphibian who will desiccate from your skin oils, but you still feel wrong about greasing him up.

He smiles, as if he understands the things you're trying to say no matter how badly you're saying them.

There is…one thing. If I may ask it of you. But it is hard to explain in words. I have to ask another way.

And then something in him reaches out to something in you. It's new, different, but not frightening. You clumsily reach back with hands that aren't hands, but are very, very human. It's alien but instinctive: to look for faces where faces aren't. And you feel.

You feel held. Cherished. Lifted up and wrapped in light. The few clumsy stitches cut loose, the lightning reaching for the cloud. You want to be closer, and so does he. His friends are so far away, and this planet is strange.

You open your arms in invitation. He scoops you up and holds you close to his chest. Two feathers on the waves of a universe that's so much bigger than either of you.

What color am I now? you murmur to him. You'd bet in the moment that he's a golden glow. You can't see it, yet, but you can feel it. He strokes down your back with the tip of a massive finger, contemplatively.

You're a storm over a turbulent sea, he says. With light coming through the clouds.

[celestialowlbear]

Just Gale romance things.

Waking up to the aroma of freshly cooked breakfast, which he brings you in bed.

Laying his head in your lap as you play with his hair, asking you about your day.

Cozy evenings reading by a crackling fire, sitting in comfortable silence.

Gale softly reciting poetry as you lay in bed together, holding you close, his intimate words only meant for your ears.

Watching the sunset over a glass of good wine as Gale tells you about a new spell he’s learning.

Gale’s hand always finding yours, squeezing gently and finding it hard to let go.

Playful kisses on the cheek when you aren’t expecting it.

Bookstore dates, thumbing through old texts and buying way more books than you could ever read.

Gale smelling of leather and well-worn pages of a book as he kisses you in the back of the shop.

Catching Gale staring at you, his eyes full of warmth and awe at you, even when you’re doing the most mundane things.

Trying new recipes together, laughing in the kitchen.

Gale whispering between passionate kisses that he wishes he could marry you again and again and again, how his love for you goes beyond all planes and dimensions, your love so profound not even the most prolific poet could put on paper.

Dozing off in one another’s arms, Gale’s heart beyond full, knowing you loved him for him, He could be his true self, the real Gale Dekarios with you.

And he wants nothing more than you and him, like this, forever.

Help, I love him.