lazy mornings in bed | solomon x gn!reader
sfw | domestic fluff | wc: 0.5k
You wake up to the sensation of fingertips brushing over the bare skin of your back.
Solomon’s home in the human world—one of many, but the one he prefers to stay in with you—is a relic of times long past. He’s modernized it and used magic to make the old stone building more hospitable.
This part of his home is off-limits to anyone else except for you, however. It’s a series of connected rooms—his private office, his bedroom, his renovated bathroom—that becomes your sanctuary when the unending Devildom darkness starts to weigh heavy on your mind.
That, or when you just really need a break from the demon brothers that always seem to find ways to get into trouble.
His bedroom chambers aren't what you would consider up to code by modern human world standards. There are only two small windows placed up high in the ancient rock walls, and they only let in a meager amount of sunlight. That’s perfect for you, when the bright morning sunlight would normally disturb your sleep far earlier than you would like. Solomon uses magic to create the illusion of floor-to-ceiling windows during the day by making the walls visually transparent. When you sleep, he blocks the sunlight completely so you can rest comfortably.
As the sleepy fog clears from your mind, you can pick up the low, hushed sounds of him humming under his breath. You focus on the gentle touch of his hand, and you can almost visualize the runic circles he’s drawing lazily onto your skin. It feels like a ward of protection, maybe—or perhaps it’s a sigil for good luck? Both possibilities make you smile against your pillow.
“Can’t sleep?” you ask him, voice muffled slightly as you hide your yawn in the pillowcase.
His hand stutters and then he chuckles behind you; his warm breath fans across your shoulder.
“It was one of those nights,” he says quietly.
One of those nights means he was too plagued by memories and fears and worry and doubt to sleep. You roll over and can see the dark circles under his eyes, the weary apprehension that makes him look—not old exactly, but worn.
You forget sometimes that he’s a relic of his time, too.
He throws an arm loosely over your waist, and you let him pull you against his chest for a lazy embrace. You rub your cheek against him, and you can feel his lips brush barely-there kisses against your brow.
“It’s still early,” he murmurs quietly, and his hands are tracing shapes across your back again. “You can go back to sleep.”
But you shake your head and try to stifle a yawn. You feel his chuckle when his chest rumbles affectionately beneath you. “No, we can get up. I don’t think I can fall back to sleep now.”
When you glance at him, he looks a little embarrassed. “I’m sorry if I woke you,” and you know he means it. His eyes light up suddenly. “How about I make breakfast for you?”
You tighten your arm around his waist to prevent him from leaping out of bed. “Wait,” you say quickly, "I have a better idea." You grin at his excitement, and he looks at you so lovingly it makes your heart want to burst. “Let’s make breakfast together.”
