Eri-itsuki - Eri

Eremite 🌱

忘了发画完的。。。

Live reaction of me reading this:

Just For You

Modern AU, Pâtissier Sunday notices his favorite customer looking a little worse for wear. He has a special delicacy just for you. And you’re a little too smooth in return.

Sunday/Gender-neutral reader.

(This might be an ongoing AU of one-shots; in which Sunday left his position to pursue other ways of providing joy through his creativity. This is fluffy and silly. In no way really connected to canon.)

On AO3 here. Kudos, reblogs, and comments appreciated!

Divider by cafekitsune

You came into his shop one day with stiff shoulders and a clenched jaw, the tension barely perceptible to the customers in line before you. How unfortunate.

Most of your visits were full of wide eyes searching for his latest creations, a smile forming when you found your target for the week, always determined to try something new. Little did you know that it was because of your adventurous nature that he tried to keep rotations of exciting flavor combinations.

What could possibly have such stress radiating off of you in palpable waves?

He would have to remedy that somehow, Sunday mused as he weighed a box of tiny chocolate mousse cups. Thankfully, today was a bit slow. He would have time to dedicate to you.

By the time you reached the counter, your jaw seemed a little looser when you greeted him, at least. A small victory.

“What would you like this week? I tried my hand at a few fun little creatures.”

The Trailblazer recently recounted their excitement on the Herta Space Station and the cat debacle that occurred. He’d felt compelled to attempt tiny cake pops in the shape of the cat cakes described. They were a little unorthodox texture-wise but seemed to do quite well with some children.

Up close, he could see the dark circles peeking through despite your attempts to cover them. You couldn’t seem to keep eye contact, either; in fact, when you attempted a smile, your eyes looked a little glassy, as if…

He remembered those days. Where the cup you held kept overflowing despite trying your best to empty it. One more ask and your cup might just shatter.

No, he wouldn’t have that. He didn’t leave the Family and set out making desserts that made people smile only for tears to spill in his shop. He might not have been able to solve every problem or take away the unjust suffering of existence, Sunday knew well by now. But he could provide a moment of solace, unique and magical…

Sunday gave you a soft smile in return. He tried to keep his wings from fluttering as he thought about the box he set aside in the fridge that morning, just for you. Perfect.

“I know just the thing. Wait here.”

“No, Sunday, I’ll just—“

He turned on his heel before he reached the swinging door. “I must insist. In fact, it would make my day to share this secret with my favorite customer.”

The words spilled out before he could stop them and he turned, stepping into the kitchen just as heat began to creep up your neck. Suddenly, the chilled kitchen felt a little too warm for his liking; a glance at the thermostat as he passed told him it was functional.

Goodness. Acting like a schoolboy.

The chastisement did little to stop his heart from hammering when he opened the fridge and checked the box, finding it perfectly undisturbed. Your favorite type of chocolate, mixed with rose water and a type of berry he’s never worked with before. Entirely new, a prototype to be refined.

Before he left the kitchen, Sunday stopped at the small station set up for boxing and wrapping. He grabbed a ribbon that reminded him of your eyes and made quick work of a bow, perfectly centered.

He returned to the front of the shop and presented the small box from the tips of his fingers. An inhale snagged in his lungs as your fingers brushed his when you took the box. You cradled it close, lips parted in a question.

“How much do I owe you?” you asked.

Nothing, he wanted to say. Your smile and your enthusiasm was always payment enough.

But whatever feelings he held wouldn’t cover overhead.

“My only ask is that you share your thoughts and tell me what would make the next batch better,” he replied.

He swallowed when he saw your eyes glint, the corners of your mouth twitching as the shadow of whatever held you down seemed to peel away. That was better. You looked a little more like yourself.

That creeping flush over your skin came back as you said, “It’s a date, then.”

Sunday’s composure remained intact until the door to the shop closed, the bell jingling happily. Reflectively, his wings folded inwards to cover his cheeks, his face growing warmer still.

He was going to have to come up with something extra special for your next visit.

he think

Source

give stelle a small bird to take care of

she got the bird somehow but what now

BUTTERFLY EFFECT ୨ৎ track one : damage control.

racing grounds — series m.list. ᡣ𐭩 ferrari-racer!gojo x redbull-racer!sukuna x redbull-manager!reader. warnings — sukuna being remotely nasty, gojo being a narcissistic freak - they're practically the same, except one has anger issues, and the other takes it up the ass. cursing, allusions to sex. threats. reader gets called "babe." let me know if i missed anything! (呪術廻戦) : note — chapter one, and i'm locked in. 1.4k+ words.

"alright," you say, smoothing out the silken fabric of your dress. you watch the limousine, a sleek black beast, disappear around the corner, then turn your attention back to sukuna.

you're standing outside the grand, brightly lit party hall, the faint classical music already vibrating through the pavement beneath your feet, alongside him.

adjusting his tie, which seemed to have an inherent desire to strangle him, you look up to meet his eyes. "remember anything i said?"

his answer is curt, a single syllable of defiance; "no."

well, at least he's consistently honest, even if that honesty was infuriating.

"alright," you sigh, the weariness settling deep in your bones. "ferrari's going to be in there, okay? and a few other people who… well, let’s just say they have a history with you."

a grunt, a non-committal sound that did little to reassure you.

"that means no picking fights, no throwing hands. if they play mean, don't indulge. be the bigger person. i don't want a repeat of last time," you warn, your voice laced with a stern edge.

oh, god, just the mere mention of last time was enough to shave off another five years off your already stressed-out life. the chaos, the broken furniture, the… you’d rather not relive it.

"oh, c'mon," sukuna groans, his voice a low rumble of annoyance. "last time wasn't even my fault. they started it."

"no one mistakes 'dapper' for 'diaper'," you mutter, pointedly ignoring the faint pink that crept up his neck and warmed his cheeks.

"whatever." he rolls his eyes, a dramatic flourish that seemed to say he was the victim of some great injustice, and immediately went to loosen the tie you had just painstakingly tightened.

"behave," you scold, swatting his hand away with a sharp, decisive motion. "you're not a baby."

he's got that infuriating shit-eating grin on his face, the one that always made you suspect he was plotting something. "or, what? you'll punish me?"

you click your tongue, a sound of exasperation. "i'm serious, sukuna."

"so am i," he replies, his grin widening, making you doubt his sincerity.

"sukuna."

"alright, alright," he concedes, though his eyes held a mischievous glint that suggested he was far from reformed.

you glance at his hair, previously styled with gel into a sleek, sophisticated look, now unkempt and tousled.

"stop touching it," you add, glaring at the way he tugs his hand through it, effectively dismantling your efforts. "you look like you wrestled a badger, and somehow lost."

"ready?" you asked, turning away from him, the question more a weary exhale than a genuine inquiry.

"you sound like you're asking yourself, more than me," sukuna retorted, his crimson eyes gleaming with amusement.

"be quiet. let's go." you pushed open the heavy, ornate doors leading into the grand hall, a wave of noise and flashing lights hitting you. reporters swarmed, their eyes immediately snapping to sukuna’s vibrant pink hair. you held your breath, scanning for any signs of imminent chaos.

his record, if you remembered correctly, was five minutes. five minutes before he'd launched into a tirade that involved at least three expletives and a threat to "rearrange someone's face." today, you were aiming for a new record: peace.

"mr. sukuna, how are you feeling about the upcoming race?" a woman, her face framed by a meticulously styled bob, asked, her microphone thrust forward.

"gonna fucking beat their asses," sukuna growled, his voice a low rumble.

you forced a strained laugh, leaning into the nearest camera. "yes, uh, he's feeling rather confident. they've all been training hard, so…"

a man with a receding hairline, his tie askew, pushed past the woman. "with gojo constantly stirring the pot, keeping up to date on the beef—"

"not beef," you interjected, your smile strained but polite. "it's all in good companionship."

he ignored you, his eyes fixed on sukuna. you wondered if your intervention had been a waste of breath. you’d seen enough of their practice runs to know the intense rivalry was more than just “companionship.”

"keeping up to date on the beef," he repeated, "do you have any words for him?"

"i'm not a pussy. he's here, ain't he? i'll tell him to his face."

your eyes widened. the reporter, sensing blood in the water, pressed on. "well, tell the viewers, too. don't want to leave them in the dark, right?"

sukuna paused, his lips parting. you quickly grabbed his arm, pulling him aside. "thank you, but that's all he'll be answering for now."

you dragged him to a relatively quiet alcove, your eyes narrowed. "hey, by any chance, do you remember the conversation we had, what? ten minutes ago? about behaving?"

"sure, and i said i would, if you made me. so, why don't you save us the time, and we get—" he waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"sukuna," you said, your voice eerily calm, "this is a thirty-story building with a roof. do not test me, because i will throw you off the top."

"ooh, don't tease. you know i like them feisty."

"sukuna."

he huffed, a petulant whine escaping him. "fine."

"i need a drink," you muttered, rubbing your temples. "if i leave you alone for five seconds, will you get into a bar fight?"

he shrugged. "depends."

you were exasperated. "on what?"

again, he shrugged, a smirk playing on his lips.

"stay. or. else." you pointed a finger at him, the threat clear.

"keep talkin' dirty."

you made a face. "ew." crossing your fingers, you left him behind, heading towards the nearest bar setup. anything, really, to calm your frayed nerves.

gojo and sukuna in the same room together was a recipe for disaster. all you had to do was make it through one night, and then you'd be good.

well, until the next public relations event. but, you'd jump off that bridge when you got there.

maybe, you needed a hobby. no, that was wishful thinking. as if you had time for one. your entire world revolved around the red bull team, and keeping them in check.

you pinched the bridge of your nose, trying to will the migraine away. you didn't need kids, not really.

not when you had sukuna, that toddler in a finely tailored suit.

you practically flagged down a waiter, eagerly grabbing a sparkling water off their tray. your phone buzzed in your purse, and you assumed it was your boss, checking in on the chaos.

drink in one hand, you reached for your device, but—

thud.

your phone went flying, and your drink hit the polished floor, splashing the person in front of you.

your face heated up, and you were quick to respond. so much for sukuna being the only problem. "oh, my god, i'm so sorry! i really wasn't watching where—"

getting up from picking up your phone, they said, "aw, don't fret, babe."

your embarrassment morphed into annoyance. it was a voice you didn't have to look up to recognize.

you took a half-step back, grabbing tissues from a passing waitress. "gojo," you greeted, dryly. "my apologies."

he pouted, flashing his oh-so-charming signature grin. charming to everyone but you. "hey, now, where'd all the groveling go?"

you pressed the napkin to the damp spot on his custom tuxedo. the cold liquid seeped through his expensive fabric, a dark stain spreading across the pristine white.

you rolled your eyes at him, too agitated to be sincere. "sorry about the mess."

"you don't seem too sorry. ah, well, maybe you'd rather show than tell?" he asked, teasing.

you inhaled sharply. "not here!"

"not here? how about a nice hotel?"

one thing about both gojo and sukuna? they loved testing your patience.

"quit that! somebody might hear us."

"you never worry about that when—"

you cleared your throat, loudly, as a couple passed by. "stop acting like we're a thing. it was once. and, i don't even remember it."

you'd yet to decide whether that was a good thing or not, actually. that was the black-out part of black-out drunk. maybe not having those memories ingrained into your brain did you some good.

"well, if you ever want to relive it…" he trailed off, smiling.

"why would i ever want to?"

he laughed, boisterous. "alright, babe. your call. literally." gojo handed you your phone, and you squinted at the screen, which had his number added as a new contact.

"how—?"

"you dropped it unlocked. lucky me," he sing-songed, and you snatched it back, turning on your heel.

you only got a couple of steps forward, lowering your voice as you called back, "if i had any sanity, you know i'd delete it."

sukuna caught up with you after a few minutes, and you sighed, looking over at him. "you good?" he asked.

"never better," you exhaled, clicking your tongue.

your phone buzzed with a new notification, and you made sure you weren't obstructing anyone's path as you checked it.

well, i'm pretty good at driving you crazy.

series taglist (11/50): @jeonwiixard, @paradisestarfishh, @seizecherry, @shinycrybaby, @n1vi, @gojosoups, @poopooindamouf, @susususukanana, @sukubusss, @beereadzzz, @mia-can-yap-too. ask/comment to be added!

I am in love with your writing 🥺

i do (the practice round) — ft. gojo satoru

satoru doesn’t drink often—but when he does, it’s always because there’s something heavy on his mind. you figure out just what it is as you shove a wasted satoru into your car in the middle of the night

before you read: fem reader ; non curse au, suguru never defects ; established relationship ; drunk gojo, mentions of alcohol ; mentions of marriage and proposals ; banter

notes: i am binging jjk season 2 and i think satoru’s bum ass would definitely ruin his own proposal and never even be aware of it

Sometimes, you appreciate Suguru’s company. He makes it tolerable to deal with the handful that is Satoru. With a boyfriend as…eccentric as Satoru is, having someone as a voice of reason keeps you feeling sane sometimes. But sometimes, you also hate Suguru.

Right now, it’s the latter. You wouldn’t consider yourself on the list of his top fans now that he’s left you with a drunk, stumbling, and absolutely difficult Satoru to wrangle into your car and take home.

“Stupid Suguru,” you grumble, “I told him not to let you drink too much.”

Curse Suguru for leaving you for some random woman at the bar, and curse him for letting your lightweight boyfriend drink as much as he has. Satoru doesn’t even drink often—and certainly not this much.

You can’t help but wonder what got him here in the first place.

“Hey,” Satoru snaps, swatting your hand away as you shove his six-plus-foot-figure into the passenger seat, “don’t touch me. My wife will be mad.”

You pause, blinking before looking at him amused.

“You don’t have a wife, Satoru,” you snort. A small part of you thinks he’s an idiot, of course, but another part of you feels a thumping making itself abundantly clear in your ribcage, somewhere deep in your heart.

Wife. You like the sound of that, you think. You walk around the car, entering the driver’s side as Satoru sits and simmers in his despair.

“Don’t rub it in,” he whines, slumping against the dashboard of your car as he groans. “I don’t have a wife yet. Been trying for ages.”

“Trying what—”

“Every time I think v’got the perfect chance, s’ruined by somethin’ or another.”

“What are you talking about—”

He pulls something shiny out, dangerously at risk of dropping it with how wobbly his hands are from the alcohol in his system. You pause. Blink. Stiffen. Sit there in absolute silence as he stares at the ring in his hands woefully.

“Had it for weeks,” he says pitifully. And then, because he’s just as wasted as you suspected, he holds it out to you. You can’t find it in you to move, just staring blankly at it. “Think she’ll like it?”

“Who?” You croak, playing along.

“My girlfriend,” he grumbles. “You’re not very bright.”

“And you’re not very polite,” you snap back half heartedly, ears still ringing from his words just moments ago. Think she’ll like it?

He means you, of course. He doesn’t realize he’s speaking to the very person he’s supposed to present the ring with, but you suppose now you understand just why he’s taken to drinking so much this evening. He must be quite on edge as of late.

“Polite my ass,” he huffs under his breath, pulling you from out of your thoughts.

“You kiss your girlfriend with that mouth?” You challenge.

He does. He kisses his girlfriend (you) senseless quite often, in fact. Maybe more than he should…perhaps even at places he should not.

“I do,” he says haughtily. “My girlfriend loves me. She’s obsessed with me, actually. She couldn’t live without me. She kisses me on the mouth all the time. Among other places too.”

You want to slap his shoulder at that last comment—it just about takes you everything not to. “Your girlfriend is crazy for kissing that mouth of yours,” you tease.

Satoru doesn’t appreciate you talking poorly of his girlfriend (you) like that. It’s offensive. You can tell as much from the purely insulted look on his face as he gasps, “don’t speak about my baby like that! This is why you don’t have a boyfriend.”

“I do, actually,” you grin. He doesn’t believe you—the disbelieving snort he lets out instantly would offend you if it was anyone else, maybe. But Satoru pulls a fond, easy smile across your lips.

It feels like muscle memory.

“You have a boyfriend?” He asks incredulously.

“I do,” you grin.

“You love him?”

“I do,” you confirm. He looks unconvinced, but shrugs anyway.

“Is he a loser or something? Dating you?”

“He is,” you grin wider, “a total loser.”

“Makes sense,” he snickers. And then his attention is back to the ring in his hand, his long, nimble fingers fiddling with it before he murmurs, “I hope she likes it.”

“I’m sure she will,” you say softly, biting your lip as your eyes feel just a bit misty.

You mean it, too. He’ll never know that, but what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

“You really think so?” He asks quietly. Shy. Satoru has never been shy—he’s so many things. Loud. Outspoken. Stubborn. Maybe a little shameless. But shy doesn’t usually describe him.

He seems to unlock a few hidden sides of himself around you. You think you want to unlock a few more.

“I do,” you say for the third time that night.

It’s practice, you think, for the real thing.

Imagine revealing on your tenth anniversary “btw i actually knew you were promising weeks before you did it. You showed me the ring and everything.” He’d claw his eyes out lolll

My new au

"ikaw na ang tahanan at mundo" ; aventurine

requested by anon — “Thinking about welcoming Aven back home after a long day of work. Thinking about telling him to sit down while preparing a bath for him.. (cont.)” premise — he crumbles underneath your gentle caresses and kind touch, of your kisses that soothes him of his burdens and pain, of your words that reassure him ; alternatively, you take care of your tired and exhausted lover after seeing his disheveled state as he comes home from work. content tags and warnings — pairing: aventurine w/ gender-neutral reader | established relationship, aventurine and reader lives together, fluff, domestic, not proofread | wc: 2.0k

note from me — my aven doc file is literally 74 pages long and has nearly 30k words in it jesus

The indistinct noise of the television dances to AVENTURINE’S ears as he pushes the door open and enters. Soft foot falls soon follow after before he finds you peering your head behind the wall, eventually coming to fully reveal yourself as you realize who was at the doorstep.

“Hey,” You greet him, a small smile on your face. Your eyes scan over his washed out form, his face bearing only fatigue as he forces a smile to greet you back—he doesn’t utter a word, just purses his lips into a small line that curves on the corners, but you don’t fret over it. 

It is not a rare occurrence for him to come home after work in quite a disheveled manner: his hair tousled over (probably due to combing through it in frustration), his tie loosened, his coat held in his arms, and his hat nowhere to be seen (you figured he most likely left it behind his car). Yet, the man with golden hair—putting sunlight to shame—still looks beautiful as ever despite the weary lines that are etched into his features.

Aventurine walks to you, dragging his feat, and collapses his form over yours. You easily catch him in your embrace, stumbling back for a little bit. The faint smell of his cologne fills your senses as he buries his face on the crook of your neck, the brush of his hair tickling your skin. 

You pat the back of his head, speaking softly, “Bad day at work?”

The man grumbles, heaving out a sigh, “Mhm, I’m tired,” His tense shoulders loosen underneath the comfort of your touch and he pulls you closer to him.

“Shall we move to the bed then?” He shakes his head as an answer, strands of his hair brushing against you and the feeling makes you laugh. You sense him visibly relax at the sound, letting himself be swallowed and consumed by the warmth of you.

“Do you want to bathe first? I’ll prepare it for you.”

“That would be nice, thank you.”

Soft laughter bubbles from your throat, escapes from your lips, and wraps around the fatigue lines that trace his form like a blanket that soothes him into the kindness of your own. “There’s no need to thank me, I’ll always do anything for you.”

Aventurine doesn’t have to say anything to let you know that he adores you and the way you are able to ease him into letting go of his burdens, to let it spill all over the floor beneath him, forgetting all of his problems behind as you guide him to sit down on the couch while you go and prepare a bath for him. The loss of your warmth, the absence of you in his arms, crashes a wave of dissatisfaction into him, but he doesn’t complain because he knows you’ll be back to him anyways—and so you did, moments later, with a small smile on your face and the lingering smell of lavender on you.

“Sorry for taking long,” you say, a gentle tone as you bent down and pressed your lips on his forehead, cupping his face in your hands. There are stars in his eyes, his cheeks painted in a light shade of red, as you begin to pour soft kisses all over, and he relishes underneath the light you shower him with—eyes fluttering close as he lets himself drown in the waters of your affection.

You don’t wait for a response from him, only letting your hands fall to tangle on his own and usher him to get up from his seat.You bring him to the bathroom where you slowly peel off every layer of his clothing, tossing it to the laundry basket in the corner along the weight of his worries. Your caress is soft, your touch lingering on his skin in a way that softens his edges, and Aventurine basks in this raw and naked moment of vulnerability; you look at him only with affection, with such form of adoration that simply does not need to be described nor be doubted.

(And there was a time when he had bared himself to you, a small voice composed by the songs of his fear and the melody of his anxiety would always echo inside his head: do you find him unsightly? Do you find him bitter and thorned, cold and flawed, boring and horrible? He thinks he is unworthy of your love, that he doesn’t deserve to carry, hold, and drown in the depths of your heart. But you kiss him, tracing the jagged lines, carving out pieces of yourself to satiate the hunger that runs deep beneath his flesh, running threads across his skin and yours.)

There are scented candles lit on the counter—lavender, like the scent that persists on you. The water is dyed in pink, tainted with a few streaks of red that is the same color of his love, and it is warm, gentle, seemingly melting away all of his thoughts. For a moment, he forgets the turmoil that persisted in his mind, wondering why he had come home in such a rumpled state.

“Do you want to talk about what happened at work today?” You gently part the curtain of silence that dawned in the space between you and him, as you begin to wash his hair while he relaxes in the tub. He doesn’t stay anything for a few moments, only watching the rubber duck in front of him as it sails across the calm current.

“Nothing much happened, just a long and exhausting day,” You could sense the hesitation in his tone and you decided not to probe any more; Aventurine doesn’t want to think about it, wants to forget about it, and you figured that it’s better to leave it than force him to hold on to the thorns. You’ve always known him like the back of your hand—it wasn’t hard to understand him, despite how harsh he thinks of himself. 

You massage his scalp, golden threads weaved by sunlight tangled in a bubbly mess by your fingertips as you lather shampoo on his hair. Just as you were about to speak once more, he races you to it:

“And I just missed you.” Terribly, and horribly so. He leans against the porcelain tub, tilting his head back to meet your gaze, albeit your face seems to be upside-down in his view. Your hands pause from its movements and you stare at him for a moment, beaming a bright grin at him soon after.

“I know, and I missed you too. I was really lonely today.”

“Did you not go out and eat dinner with your friends earlier?”

“Well, yes,” your voice trails and you ask him to close his eyes, rinsing his hair with water from the showerhead. You pick up the words you have left off, “But I wasn’t with you.” You wished he was with you and that was the thing. He doesn’t exactly know how to respond without sounding like a complete fool that is utterly and stupidly in love with you, so he just sinks deeper, silently hoping to himself that you’ll see the words he desperately writes into the water.

Moments soon come to pass between you and him, just relishing in the silence. But the shrunken and creased skin on his hands, the once smooth skin shaped by the prolonged embrace of water, tells him that he must get out of the tub. Water cascades like rivulets down his body and you immediately hand him his bathrobe to dry himself and keep himself warm as you walk to the bedroom with him.

“Were you waiting for me to come home?” He asks with worry edging into his tone. It was already past 10 PM when you had greeted him by the doorstep, a time that is much later than the usual time he would arrive home. 

“I always do. Although this time, I really managed to stay awake.” There’s a look of pride drawn all across your face, a warm and bright smile on your lips, and he couldn’t help but to smile upon seeing it, like your happiness was something contagious itself and he’s a willing victim of the disease. Having you here with him right now is quite an unusual scene. After all, he has gotten used to finding you asleep on the couch or in the bed whenever he comes home late. He welcomes whatever you may call this, nonetheless, finding solace and relief in your presence.

“You could have just slept instead, you must be tired.” You don’t fail to notice his conflicted expression and the murky depths of his eyes, his mind becoming clouded by the mud of his thoughts, and you sigh—not out of disappointment or anything of the same cloth.

“I don’t mind,” you reply, picking up the silk pajamas neatly folded on top of the bed, “Besides, I get to take care of you now. Here, let me help.”

(And maybe it’s a selfish desire that claws at his chest; he wishes that you welcome him in your embrace every time, that you caress his weary bones and rid of his exhaustion, that you press kisses all over his face and make him forget of the world around him, that you take care of him always and forever.)

Aventurine watches you with a gaze that holds only the light of his affection within, adoring the way your eyebrows furrow and your hands fumble as you try to button his shirt; he nearly chuckles to himself, but he holds in the melody in between his teeth, afraid that you’ll think he’s making fun of you.

“We haven’t really spent that much time together these past few days.” You utter with a gentle tone, words delicate and soft as to not appear as if you were reprimanding him. Although you know he’s going to utter words of apologies so you immediately cover his mouth with your hand, your eyes seemingly glare at him but your gaze didn’t hold malice nor hatred in it (it never did).

“No.” Was the only thing you said.

“I wasn’t going to say anything.” He says, his voice muffled against your palm.

“You’re a terrible liar, Rine. I know you were going to say sorry.”

He traces his finger across your wrist before weaving his hand into yours, uncovering his mouth that you concealed. There’s a faint smirk dancing on his lips, a subtle shade of red that taints his cheeks; “Wrong, I was going to say ‘I love you.’”

“Cheeky.”

“You adore me, anyways.”

You gasp, acting as if your deepest and darkest secret had been found out by the man you revere the most. “How could you tell?”

The soft sound of his laughter fills the empty space, painting the walls with the hues of his eyes, the song of his heart a veil that envelops you like a cradle. He rubs his nose against yours, breaths mingling so close to each other, but he does not dare to kiss you—he does not have to.

(Forever doesn’t seem that bad with you. Aventurine wants to stay like this forever, he thinks he could stay like this forever. It feels like a sin to be able to hold you in his arms, to have the divinity of the sun and stars locked in his own embrace.)

Too consumed by the feeling of him, by the words of affection that hangs in the air, by the giggles and chuckles that escape from your lips and his, you don’t notice the mattress that bears your weight and the blanket that enfolds you. One moment, you were asking him to bend down so you could dry his still damp hair with a towel then the next, he’s looking for your ticklish spots, ending with your limbs and legs tangled together in a cuddled form on top of the bed.

You feel him nuzzle his face closer to your chest and you play with his hair, combing through the threads of lovely and soft ravels of daylight. 

You call to him in a tender cadence but you receive no response—the dull and relaxed rhythm of his dreams calms the currents of his consciousness as he lays with you. So you whisper, even if it’s only the silence that will hear, your words mingling with the dust in the corner of your room: 

“Welcome home, Rine.”

THIS GOT TOO LONG OH MY DAYSS

© AZULLUMI. plagiarism of any form and type, stealing, copying, translating, reposting my works on other platforms is NOT permitted.