i've had a rough day. thinking about π¬π¨ππ!π―ππ¬π¬ππ₯ tonight. not proofread.
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π¬π¨ππ!π―ππ¬π¬ππ₯ who speaks your name like it's an apology he'll spend a lifetime trying to deserve. he doesn't say it often -- not because he doesn't want to, but because he does, too much. he holds your name like a sacred thing, something to be sung or swallowed, never wasted on the mundane. but when he says it? in the quiet, between heartbeat and breath, with no audience but the dark and you? it lands like an offering. like please stay. like i mean it this time.
π¬π¨ππ!π―ππ¬π¬ππ₯ who turns his body to face you in sleep, even if you shift away. there's no performance here. no mask. just the slow, unconscious gravitation toward something warm, something human. the first time you noticed it, you thought it was coincidence -- his arm draped across your waist, his legs tangled with yours under the sheets. but the pattern held. every time, no matter how he fell asleep. like his body knew what his voice hadn't learned to say yet: you're home.
π¬π¨ππ!π―ππ¬π¬ππ₯ who lets silence stretch with you, because he trusts you to stay inside. he doesn't fill it with jokes, or small talk, or noise. there are days where you sit side by side, both of you turned inward, each lost in separate gravity. but his knee still brushes yours. his thumb still taps out an absent rhythm on your thigh. he lets you exist beside him without needing to explain it. and when your fingers graze his without a word, he curls his hand around yours like it's the only answer he needs.
π¬π¨ππ!π―ππ¬π¬ππ₯ who writes fragments of lyrics in the margins of books he lends you, not expecting you to notice. they're never labeled. never obvious. just slipped between dog-eared pages, little ghosts of what he couldn't say aloud. one night you find one circled in graphite: "what if you were the only thing i never meant to survive without?" you don't ask. but you never return the book. and the next time he sees it on your shelf, still spine-worn and resting near your bed, he smiles so faintly you almost miss it.
π¬π¨ππ!π―ππ¬π¬ππ₯ who holds your wrist to his mouth, not to kiss it, but to breathe you in. it happens in quiet moments -- before he leaves, after you fight, or when he's come back from the stage shaking, worn thin by the weight of what he gave away. he lifts your wrist gently, reverently, and presses it to his lips like rosary, inhaling deep. like he's trying to remind his lungs of what still matters. he doesn't ask for comfort out loud. but this is how he finds it.
π¬π¨ππ!π―ππ¬π¬ππ₯ who listens when you speak with a stillness so complete it makes you nervous. his gaze doesn't wander. his hands don't fidget. he holds still like a cathedral holds sound -- not to mute it, but to let it echo. you talk, and he absorbs. you cry, and he swallows it like communion. he's not trying to fix anything. he's bearing witness. and when you run out of words, his arms are already around you, breath warm against your shoulder, as if to say: i heard it all. and i'm still here.
π¬π¨ππ!π―ππ¬π¬ππ₯ who doesn't believe he's worthy of being seen, but lets you see him anyway. not just without the mask -- but with the mask. with the exhaustion. the silence. the unraveling. he doesn't shrink away when you catch him staring out the window at 3am, face hollowed by insomnia. he doesn't flinch when you find him curled in a corner of the green room, headphones in, music too loud to be anything but armor. you see it. all of it. and he lets you. because some part of him, however buried, knows you won't run away.
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π―οΈπ soft!vessel x reader | word count: ~1.3k
requested - "come here, you're freezing. come sit in my lap."
notes: as you can probably tell, i am very excited to finally start on your requests. not only am i putting more effort into writing for you, but i am also putting more effort into the visuals as well, so please let me know if you enjoy it. thank you for the kind soul who requested this, and thank you for being here <3
want to request a prompt? find them here.
The cold had arrived before the leaves fully turned β creeping in like it always did, quiet and presumptive. It was the kind of cold that didnβt look serious at first. The kind that dressed itself in golden sky and crisp wind and fooled you into leaving the house in a lighter coat than you shouldβve. But the second it touched your skin, it turned sharp. Bone-deep. That unshakeable chill that sunk in through your sleeves, your collar, the thin wool of your gloves β and made everything else in the world feel just a little bit harder. Youβd always been sensitive to it. Not just in the way your shoulders hunched or your fingers curled tight in your pockets, but in how it seemed to mute the world around you. The ache in your knuckles, the raw sting in your ears, the way it robbed warmth from even your thickest layers β it pulled at you. Cold made you tired in a way nothing else did. And right now, with grocery bags pulling at your wrists and your nose half-numb, you were already on the edge of done. You didnβt even care that youβd forgotten to double-bag the milk. You just needed to be inside.
Usually, Vessel came with you. Even if it was just a short trip, even if you said you could manage. He liked walking beside you. Liked standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the produce aisle while you debated pasta shapes with a furrowed brow and a quiet hum. He didnβt always answer your questions, didnβt always speak β but he listened. Not to the grocery list, but to you. Today, though, heβd stayed behind. Said something half-mumbled about rewriting lyrics and how the cold always scattered his focus. You hadnβt questioned it. Heβd looked tired lately β not in the surface way, but in that quiet, deep-down way, like someone with too many thoughts pressing against the backs of his ribs. Maybe he needed rest. You wanted to believe that. But when you opened the front door, shaking the frost from your sleeves, you realized he hadnβt rested at all.
The living room was dim, thick with that early-evening quiet that only happened in October β blue shadows stretching across the floor, the sun already folding itself down behind the trees. A single lamp was lit, casting warm light over the edges of the room. The radiator hissed softly, radiant heat buzzing beneath the windowsill. And there β nestled in its glow, beside a folded quilt, sat Vessel. Legs folded, back resting against the wall, sleeves pushed up to the elbows. His hoodie bunched at his forearms, skin flushed faint pink from proximity to the heat. Sheets of paper were scattered around him, curling at the corners like petals, a silent scatter of half-formed thoughts and unfinished lyrics. He looked like heβd been meditating. Or maybe just waiting.
Vessel didnβt say anything at first. He just watched you fumble your way through the front door, arms full of groceries, cheeks pink from the wind. Your hoodie was zipped high, sleeves tugged over your hands β but it hadnβt helped. He could tell. Your breath hitched as he stood slowly, rising in one fluid, quiet motion. Quiet steps across creaking floorboards, the soft brush of his sleeve against yours as he reached to take the bags from your arms β not rushed, just steady. Gentle. One hand grazed your wrist, lingering for half a second longer than necessary, and his fingers were warm. Too warm, almost, like heβd been sitting close to the radiator again, like heβd been waiting for you. Not just to see you β but to be ready. To be the first heat you felt when the cold followed you in. You didnβt say anything. Neither did he. But the silence between you was the soft kind, the kind that felt like a blanket pulled up to your chin. Safe. Undemanding. He didnβt speak β didnβt ask if you were okay, or if youβd made it before the storm hit, or if youβd remembered the oat milk. He just reached for you, hands slipping gently around your wrists to take the bags from your grip. Not rushed. Not transactional. Tender. Like he was helping you carry something heavier than it looked. Then, after setting the groceries carefully on the counter without even glancing at them, he turned back to you. And this time, his hands didnβt stop at your wrists.
They slid up. Along your sleeves. Under your scarf. To your face.
His palms were hot β burning, almost, like heβd spent the last half hour preparing himself to be the first thing you touched when you came home. You flinched at the contrast, not in pain, just surprise, and his thumbs moved in soothing strokes along your jaw. One hand cradled your cheek while the other brushed back the stay strands of your hair stuck to your temple with static. He didnβt say anything yet. He didnβt need to. His face was unreadable, no sign of discomfort at the frigid temperature of your skin, but you felt it in the way he held you. In the reverence of his touch. He had turned himself into a furnace. For you. Not because youβd asked. Not because youβd looked cold. But because he knew. Because this was always how the seasons began for you β chilled to the bone, too stubborn to ask for help, always trying to shake it off.
He didnβt want you to shake it off. He wanted to be the thing that melted it.
His hands slid down again, slower this time β one tracing the curve of your back, the other settling at your waist, nudging you gently across the room. You barely registered the movement. You just followed. There was a quilt spread out in front of the radiator β not just any blanket, but the one. The one from the cedar chest, the one you both always fought over in winter because it smelled like pine and dried lavender and some faint trace of his cologne. He mustβve brought it out just for this. Just for you.
He sank down first, legs spreading into a steady seat. His arms opened without a word. And then, finally, came his voice β low, deep, wrapped in warmth like everything else in the room.
βCome here,β he murmured. βYouβre freezing. Sit in my lap.β
So you did. Your knees hit the quilt, and his arms caught you as you lowered into him β legs folding over his, chest to chest, your body fitting into the space heβd carved out like it was always meant to rest there. His arms curled around you, the quilt pulled up and around your shoulders, tucking in your edges with practiced care. His hand pressed to your back, slow and firm, like he was anchoring you there. You hadnβt even realized how badly youβd needed this β how the cold had been clawing at your bones from the inside out β until you were flush against him. Wrapped up. Tucked under his chin.
His skin always ran cold in bed. You were the heater. The tucked-in warmth he always gravitated toward in sleep, limbs draped over you like ivy seeking sun. But now? He was radiant. Steady. Hands smoothing slow over your thighs, rubbing heat back into your limbs with the devotion of someone restoring life. Every brush of his fingers felt like it was pushing winter out and drawing something softer in.
The radiator kept humming, a soft metallic sound. A steady exhale of comfort. Your groceries sat abandoned on the counter, and you didnβt care. Maybe something would spoil. Maybe the milk had already leaked. It didnβt matter. Nothing felt more important than this β than the way his breath moved against your hair, than the deep thump of his heart under your ear, than the wordless rhythm of his hands keeping time with your pulse. You let yourself melt into him. The last of the cold leaving your fingertips.
And then, as the silence settled like snow, light and holy, he dipped his chin β lips brushing the crown of your head in a kiss too soft to be anything but sacred.
The world needs more soft!vessel π₯Ί that was so sweet and gentle <3 would love to read some more
i'm so so glad to hear that you enjoyed it! honestly, i'm so happy that soft vessel reached so many people, he's not thought about enough.
don't be afraid to ask for anything that comes to mind! i'm more than happy to write out your thoughts <3
how about...
π¬π¨ππ!π―ππ¬π¬ππ₯ who listens to you hum in the kitchen like it's a hymn written just for him. you don't even realize you're doing it -- moving around barefoot, reaching for mugs or swaying a little to music in your head. but he sees it like something sacred. he leans in the doorway, hands in his sleeves, watching you like the moment might vanish if he breathes too loud. he never interrupts. he just listens. and when you finally notice him and smile? his chest tightens like a prayer answered.
π¬π¨ππ!π―ππ¬π¬ππ₯ who leaves the bathroom light on for you when he stays out late. it's never mentioned. never a conversation. but every time he's out past midnight -- rehearsals, writing sessions, the quiet post-show hours when he walks the city to calm his head -- he still thinks of you, making your way to bed in a half-asleep haze. so he flips the switch before he leaves. just that soft glow down the hall. enough to guide you. enough to say i didn't forget you. i never forget you.
π¬π¨ππ!π―ππ¬π¬ππ₯ who reads your texts over and over before he replies, not because he doesn't know what to say -- but because he wants to say it right. even something simple. a meme. a miss you. a bad day in two blurry sentences. he holds the phone like it matters (because it does), rereads every word, and types slowly -- pausing, deleting, retyping, choosing words like threads he doesn't want to snap. and when he sends it -- when he finally finds the right tone, the one that lands gentle and real and you deserve this softness -- he watches the screen until your little typing bubble reappears. like that's the song he needed to hear all day.
π¬π¨ππ!π―ππ¬π¬ππ₯ who writes your name in the margins of his journal just to see it on the page. sometimes nothing else follows. no entry. no lyric. just your name, scrawled in his small, careful handwriting. a tether. a reminder. a way to make something that feels this big feel real. sometimes he circles it. sometimes he underlines it twice. and once, just once, he wrote mine beside it. he closed the book fast after that.
π¬π¨ππ!π―ππ¬π¬ππ₯ who always turns down the volume when you fall asleep beside him. he won't turn it off -- not completely. he still needs the hum, the static, the slow, rhythm of sound. but he reaches for the dial as soon as your breathing evens out. turns it down to a murmur, like reverence. like even the music should be quieter in your presence. he glances at you, lashes soft against your skin, and exhales slowly. the world, even in its most sacred sounds, needs to hush for you.
π¬π¨ππ!π―ππ¬π¬ππ₯ who doesn't say "i love you" often, but writes it constantly -- in the songs he never lets anyone hear. he's a vessel for worship, for loss, for longing -- but you? you live in the lyrics he never finishes. in the chords that linger unresolved. in the songs he plays once and then deletes. because love like this -- the real kind, the quiet kind, the kind that makes him want to stay -- that's not for the crowd. that's for you. and when you ask if the melody he hummed last night was new, he shrugs and looks away. "not really," he says. but he won't meet your eyes. not yet.
π¬π¨ππ!π―ππ¬π¬ππ₯ who brushes his knuckles against your cheek when he thinks you're asleep. it's the lightest touch -- more air than contact -- but it's everything. a graze. a confession. a moment only he's aware of, late in the dark, your breaths soft and even while his are still catching on everything he can't say. his fingers drift back to your hair, your jaw, your shoulder. always slow. always with care. and when you stir, eyes fluttering half-open, he pulls his hand away like he wasn't just memorizing you. "go back to sleep," he whispers. but his chest aches in the most dangerous way.
i saw a reblog where someone mentioned having a hard time in uni, so this is for you. i hope things get easier <3
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π¬π¨ππ!π―ππ¬π¬ππ₯ who doesn't tell you it'll all be okay -- he just lies beside you on the floor and holds your hand until the noise gets quiet again. he doesn't try to fix the stress, or shrink it. he just makes space for it. when your thoughts won't stop racing, and the pressure builds in your chest until even breathing feels like effort, he presses your palm to his heart and keeps you there. feel this instead. slow. steady. real. and when you finally exhale, body sagging into his side, he whispers it again -- not as a promise, but a fact: you're not alone.
π¬π¨ππ!π’π’π’ who walks you home from the library at 1am, no matter how tired he is. he doesn't care if your project kept you late. doesn't care if you insist you'll be fine. the second he sees your name pop up on his phone, he's already halfway there -- hoodie pulled over his head, hands in his pockets, waiting outside the door before you even close your laptop. he doesn't talk much on the walk. just lets the quiet settle, his arm brushing yours every few steps. and when you finally reach your place and mumble thank you, he says always, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
π¬π¨ππ!π’π― who knows the exact moment to pull you away from your screen, press a cup of tea into your hands, and tell you to rest your eyes. he doesn't say it like a command -- he says it like he knows how hard you're trying. how much you're carrying. how little you've let yourself rest. his thumb brushes over your knuckles as he sets the mug down. "ten minutes. just sit with me." and when you do, when you finally let your shoulders drop, he leans in and kisses your temple like he's proud of you for breathing.
π¬π¨ππ!π’π’ who reads your planner over your shoulder, sees how overloaded your week is, and quietly takes something off your plate. laundry? done. dishes? already washed. groceries? he got your favorite snacks, too. he doesn't tell you he's doing it -- doesn't make it a favor. it's just who he is with you. the quiet act of care. the unasked-for backup. and when you notice, when your eyes well up with exhaustion and relief, he just opens his arms without a word. lets you press your face into his chest and breathe. i saw it was too much. so i made it less.
π―οΈπ soft!vessel x reader | word count: ~2000
requested - "i love how you look when you're safe. it's different. softer."
notes: and now, our wonderful vessel, devoted to sleep, finally rests. i hope you enjoy <3
want to request a prompt? find them here.
The rain had eased sometime after midnight, but its scent still lingered β wet earth, asphalt, the ghost of thunder fading somewhere over the horizon. The window was cracked open, just enough to let the room breathe, the curtains swaying with the windβs exhale. The quiet felt new, reassembled. He had come home late β later than planned, later than his voice could carry words β and the sound of the key in the lock had drawn you up from the edge of sleep. When youβd opened the door, heβd been there in the dim hall light: shoulders slumped beneath the weight of his bag, hair damp from the rain, eyes heavy with the kind of tired that lives behind bone. You didnβt say anything then. Youβd only taken the bag from his hand and touched his face, the heel of your palm tracing the stubble that had grown in over tour. His breath had shuddered out on contact, half relief, half disbelief. You led him inside wordlessly, guiding him through the small familiar motions β tea steeping in the kitchen while he stood under the doorway like someone afraid to touch the walls, your hands finding his as you coaxed him out of his coat, his rings clinking faintly as they hit the table. He hadnβt realized how tightly heβd been wound until the moment your fingers brushed his.
By the time youβd gotten him upstairs, heβd gone quiet in that way he always did when exhaustion finally caught up to him. Youβd sat him on the bed, pulled the damp fabric from his shoulders, and replaced it with soft cotton and warmth. Heβd tried to protest when you pressed a mug into his hands, but the heat made his fingers tremble, and that was answer enough. He drank, slow and wordless, while you changed the sheets β the ones youβd washed earlier that afternoon, still faintly smelling of soap and cedar. When you finally eased down beside him, heβd already half-fallen into sleep, the tea cooling on the nightstand, your hand still tracing absent circled on his back. The city hummed faintly outside, a sound too distant to touch this room. Now, with dawn bleeding soft gold through the curtains, he was finally at rest. One arm lay heavy around your waist, his hand caught in the folds of the blanket as though even in sleep he refused to let go. The rhythm of his breathing was slow, even β steady in a way it hadnβt been for months. You could feel each exhale ghost against your skin, carrying the faint scent of chamomile tea.
The morning came in softly, the light too pale to disturb the quiet youβd built around him. Vessel hadnβt stirred much; his breathing stayed slow, deep, the kind that comes only after a body has finally surrendered. You lay still, careful not to wake him, eyes tracing the small, human details youβd missed β his hair now dry in rebellious tufts that stuck slightly to his forehead, the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the way his lips parted just enough to let out the smallest, uneven sighs. His hands were warm where they rested on your stomach, calloused but gentle, the kind of touch that carried both years of music and months of distance. You smiled against the scent of chamomile, the ghost of mint and honey mingling with the smoke that never quite left him. The bed creaked faintly as he shifted, pressing closer, as if even asleep he could sense you watching him.
It was strange, how fragile this peace felt β like one wrong sound might wake the world outside and steal him away again. Youβd spent three months learning the shape of his absence, filling quiet mornings with noise just to keep from hearing the empty space where he shouldβve been. Now, with him pressed against you, that same quiet felt sacred. You reached up, brushing a stray hair away from his forehead, your fingertips barely grazing the skin there. He stirred at the touch, eyelids fluttering but not opening, his mouth twitching into something close to a smile. You could feel him trying to wake but unwilling to let go of this half-dream, that suspended space between sleep and safety. His thumb moved once against your side, tracing a small circle through the fabric of your shirt β unconscious, familiar, home. You thought about all the nights heβd texted from hotel rooms or the tour bus, saying he couldnβt sleep, that he missed the way the air sounded here, the way the dark felt different. And now, finally, you understood the weight behind those words.
He woke slowly, the way people do when the body finally believes itβs allowed to rest. His breath changed first β a deeper inhale, a soft sound caught between a sigh and a hum β and then his fingers flexed where they rested against your side. You felt the smallest tremor of movement, his hand tightening, then easing again as if testing the reality of it. When his eyes opened, the light caught in them unevenly, softening the color into something warmer. He blinked a few times, disoriented, gaze flicking around the room before it landed on you. Whatever heβd been about to say dissolved before it reached his mouth. Instead, he only breathed your name like it was something fragile that might break if spoken too loud.
You smiled, brushing the edge of your thumb along his jaw, feeling the faint roughness of travel still clinging to his skin. βMorning,β You whispered, though it felt too small a word for what it was.
He made a low sound in response, something close to a laugh but heavier with relief. βMorning,β He echoed, voice raw from sleep and silence. You felt the vibration of it where his chest pressed against yours. For a moment, neither of you spoke. He just studied you, eyes tracing the familiar places like he was trying to make sure they hadnβt changed β the slope of your cheek, the corner of your mouth, the shape of the lines beneath your eyes. Then he exhaled, long and slow, his hand sliding up until his fingers brushed your collarbone. βDidnβt dream,β He murmured. βDidnβt have to.β The words were almost lost to the quiet, but they found you anyway, settling somewhere deep beneath your ribs
He stayed close, eyes still heavy with sleep but bright enough now that you could see how much distance they carried. His hand lingered where it rested over your collarbone, thumb tracing the slow, steady rhythm of your pulse. βYouβre warm,β He murmured, his voice quiet, a little hoarse. It wasnβt really a statement β it sounded more like he was testing the word itself, making sure warmth still existed after months of fluorescent lights and cold hotel linens.
You reached up and covered his hand with yours, pressing it more firmly against your chest. βYouβre home,β You whispered, and for a heartbeat his face shifted β like he hadnβt realized until that moment that he truly was. The look that passed through his eyes was too raw to hold for long, a flicker of relief tangled with disbelief. You saw how tightly wound the last three months had made him, how his shoulders still carried the weight of stages and noise and sleeplessness. You smoothed your thumb over his cheekbone, and for the first time since he walked through your door, he let himself soften beneath your touch.
He started to speak, then stopped, the words catching in his throat. βIt was good,β He said finally, though the hesitation made it sound like half-truth. βThe shows. The people. Everything.β His gaze drifted somewhere past you, to the pale gold light spilling over the sheets. βBut itβs strange. You get used to the sound of thousands of voices, and then the quiet feels wrong.β You nodded, not needing him to explain. He turned back toward you, eyes searching your face like he was waiting for permission to breathe again.
βYou donβt have to talk about it if you donβt want to,β You said softly. βYouβre home now. Let the quiet feel right again.β
The smallest smile ghosted across his lips, and he leaned forward until his forehead rested against yours. βI missed this,β He whispered. βI missed you.β The words were gentle, but they landed heavy, full of everything neither of you had said before he left.
You breathed him in. The air between you was warm and quiet, thick with that calm that comes right after truth that has brushed the surface but not yet broken through. His forehead rested against yours, his breath steady, the faint rasp of it brushing your lips. You didnβt move at first β you just let the silence live there, heavy and alive, full of everything neither of you dared to name. When he finally pulled back, it wasnβt far. His hand slid down to your waist, thumb sweeping a slow line over your hip, grounding himself in something real, something solid. He looked at you like he was trying to memorize this exact second: the color of morning on your skin, the faint smile still caught in the corner of your mouth, the soft shape of peace he hadnβt seen in months. You felt his gaze like touch, steady and reverent.
He shifted onto his back, dragging you gently with him until your head rested on his chest. The rhythm of his heartbeat filled the space between breaths β steady, low, the sound of a man finally allowed to be still. You could feel him unwind beneath you in slow increments, each exhale loosening something travel and time had wound too tight. His fingers traced idle paths along your arm, up and down, slow and thoughtless, like he was reminding himself what softness felt like. For a while, you didnβt speak. You just listened to the morning stretching itself awake outside β the distant rumble of a train, the faint whistle of wind through the cracked window, the occasional groan of pipes. Then, quietly, almost like he was afraid to disturb the air around you, he said, βI love how you look when youβre safe.β His voice caught a little on the word safe, rough and reverent all at once. βItβs different. Softer.β
The words hung there β gentle, heavy, unguarded. You felt them more than you heard them, like warmth moving through your ribs, settling somewhere deep beneath your sternum where heartbeat met breath. You didnβt answer right away. The moment didnβt need it. His hand was still on your arm, fingertips tracing the faint goosebumps that rose in their wake, and you thought about how strange it was β to feel so known and still so completely undone by a single sentence. The word safe echoed in your chest until it became something larger than itself. It wasnβt just about now, about the bed or the light or the quiet morning. It was about how he looked at you like you were something heβd finally found after months of being lost. You tilted your head up, met his eyes, and saw it written there β the same thing you felt: I love you. Neither of you said it. Maybe you didnβt need to.
Vessel smiled faintly, the kind of smile that felt shy even though it came from someone who spent every night under lights. βYou always look softer here,β He said again, quieter this time, as if the words had shaped themselves around the truth he wasnβt ready to name.
You rested your hand over his heart, feeling its steady rhythm beneath your palm. βMaybe thatβs because I am,β You whispered. His arm tightened around you, pulling you closer until the rest of the world dissolved into the warmth between you. Outside, the rain started again β soft, forgiving, the kind that whispers instead of falls. You listened to it together, breaths syncing, and for the first time in months, everything felt still. The kind of stillness that doesnβt ask for anything more. The kind that finally, unmistakably, feels like home.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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iβm in love with your soft!token stuff, and i was wondering if you could do soft!token with a neurodivergent reader/partner? the neurodivergence doesnβt have to be specific, but i think itβs a cute idea :)!
hi there lovely! i'm so glad you asked for this! in case we didn't know, i am actually very heavily autistic, and find a lot of comfort in knowing that others would like to see scenarios like this! makes me feel a little less alone. i might have gotten a little carried away while writing, so i hope it isn't too long, but these are very close to my heart so i simply couldn't help myself.
Interestingly enough, i already have a vessel imagine that i wrote on a bad day where i was extremely overstimulated from moving, and you can find that here.
i hope you enjoy the rest of these headcanons <3 thank you for being here.
.π₯ έ Λ
π¬π¨ππ!π―ππ¬π¬ππ₯ who never asks you to explain what you're feeling until you're ready -- and even then, only if you want to. he sits with you in silence, hands resting, palms-up on his lap like he's offering something sacred. when you're overwhelmed, when the world is too loud or too fast or too bright, he becomes the opposite -- a steady rhythm in the static. "you don't have to speak it," he says once, his thumb brushing the back of your hand. "just let me be here." and he is. for however long you need.
π¬π¨ππ!π―ππ¬π¬ππ₯ who notices the way you stim and treats it like second nature -- not something to fix, just something to learn. if you bounce your leg, he adjusts his rhythm to match it. if you twist a ring or flick your fingers, he watches with the same reverence he gives to candlelight or sheet music. and if anyone ever stares, ever whispers, ever asks "why do they do that?" -- he simply says, "because it helps." no shame. no explanation owed.
π¬π¨ππ!π―ππ¬π¬ππ₯ who keeps a quiet record of the things that soothe you -- and learns how to give them without needing to ask. he notices the fabrics you touch in stores. the hum you make when you're calm. the way your shoulders drop when a certain instrument plays. he collects them like sacred artifacts. so on the days your senses are frayed and your chest is tight, he already has the softest blanket waiting, your favorite cup at the right temperature, and a playlist of layered, low sounds looping quietly in the background. he doesn't say "i hope this helps." he just places them in your hands and whispers, "i've got you."
π¬π¨ππ!π―ππ¬π¬ππ₯ who sits behind you in bed while you infodump about something you thought no one cared about. he folds his arms loosely around your waist and rests his cheek between your shoulder blades, nodding gently with every fact, every tangent. he doesn't ask follow-ups just to keep the conversation going. he asks because he wants to know. because watching your hands move and your words speed up feels like watching a sunrise happen inside a person. when you go quiet, embarrassed, he just squeezes your hips and says, "keep going. i like the way you light up."
π¬π¨ππ!π―ππ¬π¬ππ₯ who knows your mask and never holds it against you. he sees when you put on the smile. hears the shift in your tone. watches you nod even when the noise is too much, the lights too bright, your brain too fast and too slow at the same time. later, in the dark, when it's just you and him and no more pretending, he pulls you into his chest and murmurs, "i saw how hard you tried today." not as pity. not as reward. just recognition. and it makes your breath catch, how safe it feels to be seen.
π¬π¨ππ!π’π’ who reads your schedule before his own. he knows routine is your scaffolding -- so he builds around it. texts you reminders before the things you forget. walks you through steps when your executive function flatlines. never makes you feel like you're "too much." and when plans change last-minute, and your chest gets tight with panic, he crouches in front of you and says, "breathe. we'll build a new plan. together."
π¬π¨ππ!π’π’ who reminds you it's okay to not get it right the first time. when executive dysfunction fogs your mind and basic tasks pile up, he doesn't guilt you for dishes left undone or laundry still in the machine. instead, he rolls up his sleeves, presses a kiss to your temple, and says, "let's do one thing. just one. together." sometimes that's enough to break the freeze. sometimes it isn't. but either way, he stays. no judgement, just presence.
π¬π¨ππ!π’π’ who learns the rhythm of your shutdowns like a second language. he can read the microshifts in your posture, your silence, your stare. so when you go nonverbal, or when touch feels like too much, he doesn't push. he moves slowly. texts instead of talks. keeps his distance without leaving the room. and when your fingers twitch toward his later, he's already there, lacing them together like nothing was ever wrong.
π¬π¨ππ!π’π’ who makes lists for you in his handwriting because he knows it calms you down. he doesn't color-code them. doesn't overwhelm you. just simple, grounded tasks in his steady, slightly slanted print:
drink water.
eat something warm.
text me if you get stuck.
remember i love you.
π¬π¨ππ!π’π’ who builds routines around your comfort. he doesn't just follow your structure -- he honors it. "same dinner?" he texts you every thursday before you even remember the day. lines up your vitamins on the counter in color-coded order. never rearranges your desk unless you ask. and when things inevitably shift or fall apart, he kisses your knuckles and says, "let's rebuild it. same way we did before."
π¬π¨ππ!π’π’π’ who treats your special interests like treasure maps. he lights up every time you start info-dumping, even if he doesn't understand a word. he asks questions just to hear you light up. if you love frogs, suddenly there's frog keychains. if you love mythology, he's quoting obscure trivia like it's common knowledge. and when you start to apologize -- "sorry, i'm rambling" -- he frowns like you've insulted a gift. "you're sharing the best parts of your brain with me," he says. "don't stop."
π¬π¨ππ!π’π’π’ who makes you playlists for every sensory mood. "head's too loud?" "lights too sharp?" "need to disappear for a bit?" he's got a queue for that. ambient sounds, soft guitar, fuzzed-out beats -- all stitched together like a safety net. and when he sees your expression shift, eyes glassy, breath caught? he slips your headphones on and rests his forehead against yours until the world narrows to just the two of you.
π¬π¨ππ!π’π’π’ who leaves sticky notes around the house with little drawings of your expressions β the ones you make when youβre overstimulated, when youβre joyful, when youβre about to cry but holding it in. each one has a caption in his messy handwriting: βthis one means hold me,β βthis one means back off (lovingly),β βthis one means I need my playlist and snacks, stat.β he doesnβt make them to tease. he makes them because he watches. because he wants to learn your language when words go quiet. and on days when you canβt speak at all, you just hold one up β and he nods, taps his chest like βgot it,β and moves into action like itβs the most natural thing in the world.
π¬π¨ππ!π’π’π’ who turns your sensory needs into rituals. he lights a candle when the lights are too harsh. keeps your softest clothes in reach. runs the bath before you even ask. he doesn't do it with a hero complex -- he does it because he wants you to feel peace in your own skin. and when you thank him, quiet and raw, he just kisses the crown of your head and says, "you deserve soft things. every time."
π¬π¨ππ!π’π’π’ who doesn't try to drag you out of the spiral -- he jumps in with you. when your thoughts race and stack and crash, when you cry for "no reason," when everything feels wrong and too much, he doesn't go stiff. doesn't panic. he pulls you into his lap, rocks you gently, and says, "okay. we're here. it's spinning, yeah? let's spin together, then stop together." and somehow it always works. not because he fixes it. but because he doesn't leave.
π¬π¨ππ!π’π― who holds space for your silence like it's a love language. he doesn't need words to know how you feel. doesn't flinch when you go still, go quiet, go inside. instead, he offers weight -- his palm on your thigh. his back against yours. a blanket over both your shoulders. he doesn't say "talk to me." he says nothing. and in that silence, you feel chosen.
π¬π¨ππ!π’π― who picks up on your "tells" before even you do. when you're overstimulated but trying to push through, he notices the way your hand tugs your sleeve. the way your eyes start to dart. he doesn't wait for the meltdown. he just slips his arm around your waist and murmurs, "need to go?" and you nod. relieved. every time.
π¬π¨ππ!π’π― who never makes you feel childish for needing comfort. when you curl up with your weighted blanket. when you need the same song five times in a row. when you rock on your heels at the edge of the bed, overwhelmed by the thought of putting on socks -- he never mocks it. never questions it. just joins you there. sits beside you. says, "we'll do it slow. together."
π¬π¨ππ!π’π― who doesn't flinch when your reactions don't look like his. you freeze instead of cry. you laugh at the wrong time. you shut down when things are too much. and he never makes you feel broken for it. never says "why are you like this?" or "you're being dramatic." instead, he watches you with his steady, silent gaze -- and then offers a blanket. or water. or just his lap, open and wordless, until you crawl into it without having to explain.
π¬π¨ππ!π’π― who knows when to push gently -- and when to protect you from the world completely. some days, he'll nudge you to take a break, to eat, to rest. but on the days you're shaking in a grocery aisle, or frozen at the door because you can't face the outside -- he just says, "not today," and steers you back inside. no disappointment. no pressure. just unconditional safety. and when you thank him later, his answer is always the same: "you'd do the same for me."
π―οΈπ soft!vessel x reader | word count: ~800
requested - crawling into bed late after a long day and finding them already there, holding the covers open for you.
notes: this is a smaller one, i know. but i hope you enjoy it nonetheless. for those out there having a rough day, i hope it gets better. i'm holding the covers open for you.
want to request a prompt? find them here.
The house was quiet in that way it only ever is when youβre too tired to fill it. The kind of quiet that hums between the bones, stitched together with the low groan of pipes and the sigh of October wind pressing at the glass. Every motion felt heavier tonight β the turn of the doorknob, the unsteady shuffle of your steps as your body argued against gravity. The cold had settled into you like a second skin, making even the act of breathing feel like drawing air through frost. Your head still pulsed faintly with the ache of failure β exam scores, unfair teachers, a thousand tiny reminders that effort wasnβt always enough. You didnβt even bother to turn on the light. You just followed the faint sliver of warmth at the end of the hall.
And there he was. Vessel β already in bed, faint gold of lamp catching the curve of his shoulder and the pale outline of his mask resting on the nightstand beside him. The rest of him was all shadow and quiet breath. The sheets were pulled back, one arm extended, palm open in invitation, the covers folded like an embrace waiting to happen. His eyes found you first β soft, patient, carrying none of the noise that filled your head.
βCome here,β He said, barely more than a whisper, and the sound alone cracked something open in your chest. You didnβt think. You just went, every ounce of exhaustion tugging you toward him like gravity remembering what itβs for.
The warmth met you before he did. The blankets were heavy, soft with that worn-in weight that makes you feel protected rather than trapped. As you crawled beneath them, the cold youβd carried in your fingers and toes began to dissolve, drawn out by the steady heat radiating from his chest. He shifted just enough to make space, guiding you closer until your forehead brushed the hollow of his throat. You could feel his heartbeat there β slow, deliberate, as if it was trying to steady yours by example. His hand slid up your back in slow circles, not saying anything yet, just letting you match his rhythm. The air smelled faintly of incense and the kind of quiet that only exists when someone knows youβre too tired to speak.
After a while, he murmured something against your hair, low and rough around the edges. βYou donβt have to fix it all tonight.β The words landed softer than a prayer, breaking the tension that had wound itself behind your ribs. You felt yourself exhale for the first time in hours. The failure, the cold, the way your body had rebelled against you all day β it didnβt vanish, but it lost its teeth in his arms. He pulled the covers higher over your shoulders, thumb brushing the line of your jaw before resting again at your waist. The world outside the blanket didnβt matter anymore. It was just warmth, heartbeat, and breath β yours, his, and the quiet promise that you could rest without earning it.
The rise and fall of his chest was the first thing you synced to β the slow, sure cadence that pulled you out of the chaos of your own body. Every shallow breath you took, he met with one deep and steady, a rhythm he offered without words. His thumb traced idle lines along your spine, patient and unhurried, as though he was reminding you that the world didnβt demand movement right now. The lamp cast everything in amber, a soft flicker that blurred the edges of his face and made him seem less man and more warmth shaped into human form. You didnβt realize how tightly youβd been holding yourself until he sighed, the sound coaxing you to finally let go. Your body sank into the mattress, heavy, pliant, no longer braced against the day.
βYouβve done enough,β He whispered, voice a quiet tether pulling you back from the noise. βYou donβt have to fight tonight.β He said it like a vow, like something sacred he intended to keep. His hand found yours beneath the blankets, fingers lacing easily, grounding you in the simple proof of being here β alive, safe, held. When your breath hitched, he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head and let the silence bloom between you again, filled only with the slow percussion of his heartbeat. Your eyelids grew heavy, the ache in your chest softening into something bearable. He stayed like that, unmoving, watching over you with a devotion that didnβt need ceremony. By the time sleep began to take you, the only thing left was his warmth and the steady pulse beneath your cheek β an anchor in the quiet, a promise that you were allowed to rest.
i may be a little obsessed with your soft token series... and if i may request, i'd love to see artist!vessel loving on an artist!reader who had never been someone's muse or the subject of anyone's pieces before... if you don't mind βΊοΈ
much love!! π«Άπ€
hii! thank you so much for this request! you scooped this idea straight out of my brain and i absolutely love having an excuse to write it out. soft!vessel has become some of my favorite little things to write, and i'm glad that it can be of some comfort for you. if you have any more requests, don't be afraid to reach out! until then, here are your headcanons, i hope i did them justice.
thank you for being here <3
.π₯ έ Λ
ππ«ππ’π¬π!π―ππ¬π¬ππ₯ who looks at your art like it's proof you existed before him -- and falls in love twice because of it. he never asks what your work means. never demands an explanation. he just traces the curve of your brushstrokes like he's learning the edges of your voice. "this came from your hands," he murmurs one night, gaze still locked on the half-finished canvas in your studio. "how could i not be obsessed?"
ππ«ππ’π¬π!π―ππ¬π¬ππ₯ who sketches you in the margins of his lyric journals -- not full portraits, just gestures. fragments. echoes. your shoulder. the way your fingers curl when you're lost in thought. the slope of your spine when you're reaching for something. he never shows you at first, but you find them one night -- tiny pencil ghosts haunting his notebook, surrounded by verses about devotion. you trace your thumb over one, heart thudding. and when he notices, he only says, "i didn't want to forget how it felt to look at you." not how you looked. how it felt.
ππ«ππ’π¬π!π―ππ¬π¬ππ₯ who asks you to paint him, once -- not because he wants to be seen, but because he wants to see how you see him. he sits still for hours, masked, quiet, reverent. you expect him to be uncomfortable, but he isn't. he gives you his stillness like a gift. and when you're finished -- breath held, afraid it won't be enough -- he steps closer, eyes locked on your canvas. "is this how you see me?" he whispers. you nod, barely. and then he says it so softly, so utterly full of wonder: "i hope i can live up to it."
ππ«ππ’π¬π!π―ππ¬π¬ππ₯ who kisses the paint off your fingers before he ever kisses your lips. you're a mess -- smeared, smudged, distracted -- and he loves you most like that. when you've forgotten the world. when you've stopped apologizing for the way you disappear into your work. he catches your wrist one night, pulls your hand to his mouth, and brushes his lips over each color-stained knuckle. "you have no idea how beautiful you are when you're doing what you love," he whispers. "you don't even flinch when you shine."
ππ«ππ’π¬π!π―ππ¬π¬ππ₯ who doesn't use the word 'muse' lightly' -- so when he says it, you feel it in your bones. he says it one night, umprompted, as you're both tucked beneath a blanket, your sketchbooks overlapping. "you're my favorite thing i've ever created," he murmurs, voice quiet against your shoulder. "not because you're perfect -- because you're you." and when you laugh it off, mumbling "no one's ever called me that before," he only says it again, firmer this time: "you're my muse. not just for what you make or how you make me feel -- for what you are."
ππ«ππ’π¬π!π―ππ¬π¬ππ₯ who gets reverent when you can't comprehend how anyone would want to capture you. when you say "i'm not that interesting," his jaw clenches, like he's physically resisting the urge to correct you too harshly. he leans in slowly, eyes soft but serious. "the world will make you believe that only the obvious get painted -- the beautiful, the dramatic, the broken." his thumb brushes your cheek. "but i look at you and see a hundred shades of light people miss. a burst of colors, all of them my favorite." his voice drops, barely a whisper. "you're not just worthy of being someone's subject. you're the whole reason someone wants to pick up a brush at all."
ππ«ππ’π¬π!π―ππ¬π¬ππ₯ who can't stand when you diminish yourself -- so he turns your own words into art. you call yourself plain one night, a throwaway comment between sips of tea, and he doesn't argue. doesn't protest. he just goes quiet -- so quiet you almost don't notice. days later, you find a page of a sketchbook placed on your desk. it's you, mid-laugh, backlit by morning light through sheer curtains, every edge of you rendered in color he never uses for anything else. along the bottom, faintly inked in his careful handwriting: "plain does not make the world stop moving to look at it."
ππ«ππ’π¬π!π―ππ¬π¬ππ₯ who doesn't need you to understand why he keeps painting you -- he just hopes you'll let him keep trying. he knows you don't fully believe it yet. that every compliment bounces off your armor before it can land. so he doesn't try to explain. he just keeps creating -- one portrait after another, in pencil, in oil, in ink on scraps of sheet music. different moods, different angles. some from memory. some from dreams. each one a love letter in color. and when you ask why you? he shrugs, quiet and serious: "because you're the only thing i can't stop seeing."
