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superficialdomina · 1 year

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Devoted

A/N: My humble contribution to @sarahscribbles Big Follower Celebration!

Prompts: Rooftop, rain

Warnings: Smut. 18+; minors DNI. Sub!Loki x Domme!reader; established D/s relationship. P in V. One slap. Loki is a good boy.

WC: 2456

Loki knelt on the rooftop terrace, eyes closed, concentrating. He noted the dull ache that had crept up his back, the pain of the hard surface beneath his shins, the strain on his neck from the weight of his bowed head. He felt the tickle of his long curls as they caressed the side of his face in the gentle breeze, and fought the urge to brush them away. Breathe, he told himself. Concentrate on your breath.

“Don’t move,” you had said, placing a gentle hand on Loki’s lowered head, softly catching his hair in your fingers and giving a gentle tug, the way you might reassure yourself that a rope was secure. And then you had walked away, back behind the glass doors of the covered rooftop.

Don’t move, you had said, and the words crashed through his mind again now. Don’t move.

And he hadn’t.

It was a test. He understood that. And he relished the chance to demonstrate his devotion to you.

The discomfort was challenging, but nothing he couldn’t overcome. You had taught him that. Use it, you had said. Meditate on it. Pain is a delightful, hypnotic force; let it guide you, feed you. So he had.

And in that meditation, he had found himself.

Where once anger would have risen at this feeling of powerlessness, he now felt determination. Where once he may have flushed with humiliation at the mere thought of your command, here on his knees in the cold evening light, instead he felt his body flush with arousal. With pride. With devotion.

You had taught him that, too. Don't you tire of it, pet? You had said. Of feeling nothing but anger? Wouldn't you like to know the fascinating spectrum of emotions that you are capable of?

And he had found it to be true; without the mask of rage and bitterness, he had discovered the freedom and beauty of his emotional range. In the safety of your embrace, there was no need to be afraid of his feelings. Indeed, they could be quite exquisite.

His cock gave a small twitch, but he urged it to still; that was not why he was here.

Instead, he focused on the points of discomfort, each one a reminder of his place in your world. He belonged to you. Every hurt, every pain, was a gift you had given him. You accepted him, they told him. His devotion. His submission. And most powerful of all: through your acceptance, he could accept himself.

In return, he would give you this simple offering; his eternal, unwavering devotion.

With that mantra, the pain receded, replaced by a joyful, empty sensation. His skin tingled, his breath slowed. Yes. The intense, primal arousal of submitting to your will. This.

Rain began to fall. Softly at first, so that he heard the gentle pitter-patter before he felt the first drops. But it quickly grew to a downpour, soaking his clothing, plastering his hair to his face. Endless rivulets streamed over his eyes, nose, mouth. But there was no urge to wipe them away now.

He still did not move. He knew he wouldn't, until you released him. Here, on the dark rooftop, in the falling rain, he would prove his devotion to you.

***

You watched Loki from just inside the glass doors, your pride and affection growing with every moment he remained perfectly still on the hard floor. Rain soaked his clothing, his hair; a puddle had formed around him as water ran off his large frame. You watched as a strong breeze tugged hard at his hair, knowing how it must sting as it whipped across his face.

But he didn't move. He remained frozen in place, kneeling awkwardly on the wet concrete, exactly as you had left him.

For you. Because he belonged to you.

Your body reeled with the heady flush of desire and power at his incredible demonstration. You had never doubted his sexual submission to you; you knew that in the peak of arousal, he loved nothing more than to be dominated by you. For his pleasure to be determined by you.

But this… Was different. This was more than the fleeting pre-orgasmic thrill of relinquishing control.

Devotion.

You smiled, feeling delicious, dominant energy imbue your body with a deep inhale. It's time.

Lustful and power hungry, you walked through the glass doors to the open rooftop.

***

You slowed as you neared him. He must have heard your footsteps approaching, but did not raise his head. “Such a good boy,” you murmured softly, and the slightest clench of his jaw, the merest flutter of his eyelids, told you he had heard you.

The heavy rain soaked you, but you didn't care - you would be dry again momentarily. When you finally reached him, you paused for a moment to admire him one more time. His chest heaved with every inhale, his wet shirt plastered to his sculpted torso, still regally tucked into the slutty waistband of his soaked leather pants. His back remained beautifully straight, hands clasped behind him, his head perfectly bowed. He's been practising, you smiled to yourself.

Finally, you reached out and tapped his shoulder twice, your wordless instruction to raise his head. And at last, he looked up at you, his eyes dark and blown wide. Fuuuck, you thought, realising the depth of his reverie, and you felt yourself brimming over with pride. With love.

"Sweet Prince," you gushed, praise spilling out of you. "You have done so beautifully. So perfectly." You stroked his soaking hair, your eyes never leaving his, as you gently cleared the strands that he had toward for so long from his eyes and face.

"Are you pleased, Goddess?" His voice was low and trance-like.

"So pleased, my darling," you crooned. "So very impressed. So proud." He didn't quite smile, but you watched his features shift, relaxing, peaceful, as he gave a long, slow exhale. Your own breath came ragged in response, desire running hot through your body. You forced yourself to breathe deeply. "Rise," you commanded gently.

He did so slowly, aching muscles stinging as blood rushed back into them, but he made not a sound of complaint. You offered him your arm to steady himself; when he was securely on his feet, you spoke again.

"Take us somewhere warm and dry, pet."

In a moment, the rainy rooftop melted around you, a transitional fog quickly replaced by the dark of Loki's quarters, complete with luscious furnishings and decadent comforts. A fire gently burned on the hearth, casting warmth and light across the room.

"Beautiful," you murmured softly. You knew how much Loki loved to be praised. And he deserves it, you thought, eyes returning to his perfect face. “But, my darling, I am still quite damp.”

“Forgive me, Goddess,” he uttered quickly, the intimate tingle of his seidr passing over you briefly before you were once again perfectly dry, wrapped in a beautiful satin robe of his conjuring. You momentarily relished the sensation of the soft fabric on your otherwise bare skin.

You were about to share your admiration, when you noticed a familiar scent about you; wattleseed and… petitgrain. You quickly ran a hand through your hair, finding it soft and clean.

You gave him a look of utter delight. “Did you wash my hair?”

“Oh… yes, Goddess,” he replied, lowering his eyes and blushing sheepishly.

Desire crashed over you anew, your blood running hot at his small act of servitude. In two steps you were next to him, hands grasping his still-wet shirtfront and pulling him towards you, kissing him hotly. “Dear heart, that was so thoughtful. You are so talented,” you gushed between aggressive kisses, loving the joy that radiated from his face as you praised him.

“I know you like it when I… Take initiative,” he stammered over your assault on his mouth.

You had to stop yourself growling in response. Instead, you gently pushed on his chest, encouraging him backwards with the slightest force; he responded perfectly, yielding to the meagre pressure like a well-trained pony. One step, two, until he found himself tumbling backwards onto his own lush bed.

"You are overdressed, sweet,” you said softly, standing over him, and marvelled at his power as green light flickered around him. His wet clothes vanished, and suddenly his glorious naked body was displayed before you. "Sit up."

He came to a seated position as you slid your body astride him, the satin robe falling open, and your head swam in the glory of his admiration as he devoured your exposed body with his eyes.

“Good boy,” you murmured, twisting your hands in his hair and pulling it back, lifting his chin to expose the soft skin of his long, strong neck. His hands grabbed at your thighs, and you felt his cock swell beneath you as you placed slow, sucking kisses along his sharp jaw, his hips gyrating as he tried to grind against you. “So needy, pet,” you whispered, your lips at his ear, and were delighted by the whine he gave in response. But you weren’t done controlling his body.

“Stay still,” you commanded, and he stopped moving instantly. “Gooood boy,” you praised again, gently prying his hands from your hips and coaxing them behind his back. "Now - keep them there."

You lifted your body slightly, lining up his hard cock with your soaked, waiting entrance.

"Not a sound, sweetheart," you said darkly. "The next words out of your mouth will be those begging for my permission to come." Oh divinity, to have this tremendous, powerful God completely at your mercy. His eyes never left your face as you steadily lowered yourself again, slowly impaling your wet cunt on his Godly cock. He remained perfectly still, perfectly silent.

Perfect.

You began to move, slowly rising and falling, twisting and gyrating, taking your own pleasure from his body. Chasing every delicious pressure that his cock could give you, gliding satin-smooth inside you as you rode him. His eyes flickered briefly to your chest as your bare breasts heaved and bounced in rhythm with your body. A visual he would delight in, you knew. One hand still in his hair, you pulled tightly, knowing he would love it, knowing how hard it was for him to continue his silence.

And yet, he did not make a sound, did not move a muscle. He had a task to perform for you, and as with everything he did for you, he was going to excel at it.

The rain continued to lash at the windows.

"Do you like that, my needy kitten?" You growled at him, not slowing in your movements, your face barely an inch from his. "Do you like the way it feels to have me ride you? Use you?" He remained steadfastly silent, though you could hear his ragged breath through his slightly parted lips.

"Ng-aaa, it feels so good to fuck you, pet," you continue, "so good to pleasure myself on your cock." The hand not twisted in his curls ran softly down his broad chest, catching his smattering of body hair. "Your beautiful, perfect cock."

At your praise, he let out a tiny moan. It was only the smallest whimper, but his eyes widened and he pressed his lips together, waiting apprehensively to see if you had heard him.

Your free hand came up fast, slapping him hard across his razor-sharp jaw, his face jarred by the impact. As he turned back to you, your hand found his neck, fingers wrapping deftly around his throat.

"I said, not a sound, pet," you hissed, pressing your palm into his soft flesh. "Do you understand?" He met your eyes, but did not speak. Momentarily uncertain, you leant into his ear and murmured softly.

"Colour?"

"Green, Domina," he breathed, so quietly you almost missed it. You smiled. Good boy.

You tilted your hips forward, slightly changing the angle at which he entered you, grinding your clit against the root of his huge, hard cock. With total control over the speed and depth of his penetration, you quickly discovered the inevitable path to your own orgasm, finding ultimate bliss at the friction and pressure of his movement inside you, against you. And yet, your eyes on his as you tightened your hold in his hair, the overwhelming lust and physical arousal that came from his following your meaningless commands, all exposed your deepest truth; that no physical stimulation could surpass the bliss, the beauty, the intimacy that was his glorious, perfect, complete submission.

"U-uh," you groaned as you ground your cunt onto him, "that's it, that's it." So still, so silent. So perfectly devoted. "I'm going to ride you until I come, pet. I'm going to fuck your perfect cock until it gives me the release I crave." His breath was fast and messy, his face taut with fierce concentration. "I'm - uugh, Gods, I'm going to ride you…Ng-aaa, until I…come-"

With ferocity, orgasm crashed over you, the intensity flooding your whole body. You felt it flush all the way to your fingertips, still wrapped in his hair, your breath coming in gasps as you pulled each inhale deep into your lungs. Lazily, you pulled his lips to yours, kissing him deeply, and were thrilled that, even now, he would not move to kiss you back.

Barely lifting your mouth from his, you released him. "Move".

The assault from his tongue was immediate, pressing into your mouth like he had never before desired the taste of anything as much as your kiss. His hands, suddenly freed, grabbed needily at your waist, holding you as his hips rocked into you, finally letting go of his self control.

"Speak."

"Goddess," he gasped, his voice hoarse, "please, may I come?"

You gazed at him lovingly, meeting his wide, desperate eyes. "My sweet pet, of course you may."

With a roar, he came, his precious seed erupting into you, his body shuddering violently from the force of his release.

You held him close as he continued to shake, his head pressed into your chest, whispering a stream of sweet praise into his ear.

"My darling," you smiled, "my sweet kitten. What a beautiful gift you have given me tonight." You stroked his hair lovingly, hands tracing patterns of nonsense on his firm, muscular back, waiting patiently as he slowly came down. "Such unwavering devotion you've shown me. I'm so proud of you, my perfect boy…"

Gently, he lifted his head, his eyes filled with a deep conviction as he met yours.

"I belong to you, Goddess," he murmured softly, smiling gently. "I will always belong to you."

"You will always belong to me," you whispered back, taking his beautiful, smiling face in your hands. "Always."

Loki fic tags:

@lokisgoodgirl @gigglingtigger @coldnique @holymultiplefandomsbatman @peaches1958 @chantsdemarins @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @vbecker10 @currish-rosewolfe @muddyorbsblr @so-easy-to-love-me @villainousshakespeare @caffiend-queen @peachyjinx @thomase1 @holdmytesseract @fictive-sl0th @simplyholl @mochie85 @lokischambermaid @cheekyscamp @sarahscribbles @joyful-enchantress @lovelysizzlingbluebird

@give-me-a-moose @maple-seed

#loki smut #sub!loki #big follower celebration #sub!loki/female reader #sub!loki/domme!reader

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riaki · 5 months

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after party | satoru gojo x reader

gojo wanted to help you prepare a friendsgiving dinner, but he's a little tired n a lot tipsy.

cw: non curse au, everyones alive, shoko typical smoking, drinking, you’re married to gojo wc: 3.3k

this was supposed to be short but it just spiraled n i kind of hate it b i technically posted on the 23rd so it counts !! not proofread!

business dinners with satoru are exhausting, to say the least—you start the day early to the scent of coffee through a filter and a fresh breeze through your open window, sending your husband off to work with a hug and a kiss—maybe a promise of more if he pulls the 'five more minutes!' on you.

this one is special, though; old friends from freely youthful highschool days gathered around your dinner table on the mats of your living room floor catching up over cans of beer cold with condensation, the sound of can tabs popping and the fizzling of bubbly spirits over tables of warm food in tin containers.

geto, the tall man with dark hair and gauges, talks about how his two daughters are adjusting to city life, occasionally interrupted by cheerful brightness never dampened by adult years from haibara, an apprenticing entrepeneur under nanami who's got a thing for girls with big appetites. shoko and utahime are having a drinking contest, and mei mei's too occupied with her phone; checking stocks as her tacky nails click against the glass screen.

satoru can't cook. there's a reason why he always buys takeout when you're too busy to provide or you've already gone to sleep— he should be the picture perfect husband, because you deserve that and everything more. his only (self-perceived) flaws are his lack of alcohol tolerance and his inability to master the frying pan.

you always tell him he doesn't have to be a michelin chef— but with the way he's constantly sneaking a chocolate graham cracker from your muji snack bag or snagging the sour gummy between your teeth from your lips, he feels like he should compensate. so on this special november evening, when the hum of the city life outside your balcony gets drowned out by the cheerful mirth of a warm dinner table, he had decided to help you.

the warm kitchen had become a foodstained disaster— but with tearful round eyes and a hand tugging on your shirt, you'd resigned to helping him conquer the task of simple packaged noodles and soft-boiled eggs. he'd cut his finger— even the most capable teacher found his shortcomings against a blunt kitchen knife. needless to say you'd peppered it with kisses before wrapping a rainbow hello kitty bandaid around it.

and that brings you to the present: the result of your extensively hard work; a few soggy noodles collected at the bottom of porcelain bowls painted red on the insides in a lukewarm puddle of soup, full stomachs and a loose and welcoming atmosphere. you wouldn't trade it for the world.

you're fishing a pickled radish slice out of your bowl when satoru leans over, removing the arm that was snaked around your shoulder to drape himself on your lap, lying down on the floor with his knees propped up and his soft cloud-white hair sprawled over your thighs. geto makes a distasteful face when satoru's black socks brush against his leg. across the table, shoko knocks shoulders with utahime as she lights a cigarette; the latter's face flushes as smoke drifts past her lightly flushed face into the open window city night air overhead.

"hey, you. what's up?" you asked softly, chuckling to yourself as you set your chopsticks atop the rim of your bowl, leaning back on your arms to look down at him. he adjusts himself a little, wiggling on your lap as you caught a whiff of his beer breath and scrunch your nose.

"hiii, baby," he drawls, giggling a little to himself. his smooth, usually playful voice took on that deep tone he used whenever he was being serious, and it sent an involuntary shiver down your spine, so you hugged him closer and ran a hand through his soft white hair, brushing your fingers against the black cloth of his blindfold. "what'cha doing?"

"i was eating. you put too much pepper in the broth, 'toru." you smiled softly, tracing the line of his jaw slowly with one finger in the way you knew he liked so much; it was obvious from the way he sighed contentedly and tilted his head into your palm. whether it be from that unfathomably sweet smile or the tender way you held his face in your delicate hands, that was up to him to ponder. next to you, haibara makes a joke— something about mei mei's stocks, and she quips a snarky retort that has him laughing raucously while nanami makes a face.

"i tried!" he protests, almost a whine as he sighs; a hand sneaks up to lift the edge of his blindfold up so his eyes meet yours, and you're left breathless. it catches you off guard every time— those endless pools of swirling blue that stare straight through you, sifting through your thoughts like a scholar annotating an open book, all heart-shaped sticky notes and bright highlighters when it came to thinking about him.

"not hard enough, clearly. but it's okay; we'll do better next time."

he just frowns again at that, sticking out his lower lip in a little pout that makes your heart squeeze. your stomach is full with noodles and broth; you don't think you could stomach another bite if you tried, and you're not one to drink especially if everyone else is. so, you let yourself indulge a little— snake a hand on the back of satoru's neck and tilt him up until he's sitting halfway up and you can easily meet his lips in a kiss.

he reciprocates immediately, hungry like he was waiting for you; you notice that he hasn't eaten much of his food yet, so maybe he was. or maybe he knows how bad it is. either way, his tongue darts out from his parted lips to flick against your own for a moment, before he sinks his teeth into your bottom lip and draws out a teasing whine that you have to stifle because "we have company, 'toru," you have to breath as a reminder. he just laughs breathily against your lips, tasting like bitter beer and buttery vanilla as he shifts to practically sit on top of you, hands on your shoulders as his thumbs brush over your collarbone where the edge of your shirt fails to cover tantalizing skin; he's taller and eventually ends up bringing the both of you toppling down onto the mats.

your back hits the floor and a little gasp leaves your winded lungs— but satoru eagerly catches it with his lips and swallows it, like he's intent on getting drunken off his ass from you (as if he wasn't already tipsy) when he smashes his swollen lips to yours again. your hair is splayed out against the tatami mats like you're trapped in some marine watercolor painting, and for a split second satoru thinks if mermaids were real you'd be the most angelic he'd ever seen as his calloused fingers curl into the strands.

you're about to hook a leg around his waist when a shout catches your ear and you part lips with a gasp, sucking in greedy breaths as satoru promptly sits on your stomach. you let out a stuffed oomph from his weight, and watch as he slides his blindfold back on to look over at the rest of the table who're staring at the two of you like they're watching some forbidden steamy movie scene that's meant to be shielded from children's eyes.

“don’t kiss him while he’s drunk. it’s like rewarding a brat for bad behavior,” shoko says. you sit up with much effort, straining under satoru’s weight as you reach up to grab his shoulders. you miss, but he takes your hands and pulls you up, wrapping his arms around you to keep you from falling back down as you rest your head on his shoulder. utahime has her arms lazily draped over shoko; you assume she’s drunk from that, but if you were to inspect her for long enough you’d notice her can of beer was almost completely full.

“oh, i guess you’re right.” you remarked, frowning a little and biting the inside of your cheek as you pull away from satoru and glance at him. all of the sudden he looks like he’s ready to keel over; the shadows beneath his eyes are reinforced by the alcohol in his system and it looks like he’ll need to tape his eyes open lest he passes out right on top of you. you want to avoid that, so you gently push him off, sighing to yourself.

“don’t listen to her, sweetheart. you can kiss me all you want,” he smirks, a flash of pearly white teeth that would’ve been on your neck a moment ago if not for the interruption. you just shake your head with a breathless laugh, giving him a quick flick to the forehead. before you can pull away, though— he catches your hand, bringing your wrist to his glossy pink lips and giving your pulse a quick peck. “no, she has a point.” you hummed. overhead, the light flickers a little; a moth that had flown in through the window danced about the bulb. the faint sound of car horns filters through the window along with the breeze, recycled laughter and lively chatter from bars a few stories down carried in the cool wind.

you mill about for another twenty minutes or so, content to just listen in as old friends shared anecdotes and funny stories from separate paths of life; you soon learned that nanami was planning on moving to malaysia, and shoko was due to renew her medical license this year. the beer cans built up, mixed in with crumpled napkins that had penned doodles on the rough surface and paper chopstick wrappers. somewhere along the line, satoru had fallen asleep— you had to push his unfinished ramen bowl out of the way before he knocked his head against the wooden table and spilt his meal. you frowned a little at the sight of it— you knew he'd complain about his soaked noodles and limp seaweed sheets later on. you found yourself slinging one of your jackets over his shoulders, fingers lingering over his neck, where the scratchy hair of his undercut met soft warm skin.

soon enough, dishes are piling up in the sink and calling your name; the kids see themselves home via train station, spouting something about a late night pit stop in sendai for the mochi that 'our teacher likes so much'. you consider asking them to bring some back for satoru, but you decide you'll enjoy a laugh when he tells you about how he went to school the next morning to find out for himself, and the stab of hurt that will pierce his full heart in two when he hears the news. even then, you have to shush them as they show themselves out; you can tell from the way satoru's eyebrows knit together beneath his blindfold and the pinch of his jaw that he doesn't appreciate the noise, no matter how blacked out.

the conversation dies down a little, and soon enough, everyone takes their leave one by one. it's only when you settle back down after cleaning up the bowls and putting away the cups that satoru stirs, waking up with a mumble and a huff. his hair is a disheveled mess, and there are sleep lines on his face, but he's still handsome as ever.

"baby?" his voice is hoarse with sleep and dehydration. there's a dull ache between his eyes, feeling like he'd just ran a circle around the world. you answer from the kitchen, calling his name. it's late; past midnight now. the window's still open and satoru's can of beer is still on the table, almost completely empty.

"how long did i sleep? shit, did everyone go home? 'm sorry," he groans, standing up and stretching his arms out. his shirt rides up on his shoulders, exposing the arch of his hip just above the edge of his pants. "don't worry, 'toru." you hummed, washing your hands in the sink as you look over at him. he just nods, grabbing the can and crumpling it in his hands before tossing it in the trash.

"you okay? got a headache?" you asked as he walked over to you, careful not to hit his head on the arch that connected the living room to the kitchen. when you'd first moved in with him, you had to pin a strip of bright yellow caution tape to remind him to duck his head. you smiled as you reminisced over late nights, tucked in his arms as he mused about demolishing the wall there just so he could be rid of the bruise on his temple. then again, as long as you were waiting for him to kiss it better at the end of his nine to five, he didn't mind.

he nods, and watches as an easy smile stretches across your lips; they look infuriatingly kissable under the warm glow of the hazy kitchen light, shining off the porcelain cups in the sink. he leans against the kitchen counter, cold marble feeling through the thin fabric of his shirt as you take his leftovers from the fridge and heat them up in the microwave, standing before the black glass as you watch the little plate spin inside.

there's something about moments like these; so sweet and easy with you after everyone's taken the last train home and all that's left are empty beer cans and extra bowls in the dishwasher for two people with matching rings on their fingers to take care of.

he walks up to you, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his head on your chin. he smiles when he feels your hand cup his cheek, and he turns his head instinctively to meet your lips in a slow, sweet kiss; a muscle memory tango between familiar lovers. when he pulls away to catch his breath, tongue swiping across his bottom lip, you're already there with your fingers, pulling his blindfold down to rest around his neck and gently rubbing the spot beside his eyes, alleviating the tension behind them. it's unspoken moments like these that he loves the most in your relationship. making a mess in your kitchen is a close second.

it's a slow, easy night after a special get-together when the microwave beeps and you take his noodles out, bringing them to the table as you sit down next to him and rest your head on his shoulder, letting him tuck you into his side as he gets a bit of breaded tonkotsu crumbs on his cheek and insists you wipe them off for him like he's some oversized baby. you wash some cherries in a green plastic bowl, competing to see who can spit the pits into the trashcan without missing. in the end, he lost the game of rock paper scissor and was resigned to pick up the missed pits on the floor.

he's still wearing your jacket like a cape and even though it's far too small for him, he insists on keeping it with him when you go out onto your balcony to finish the last of a bottle of sake together, listening to the melody of the wind in the trees that line the sidewalk and the permeating hustle and bustle of the city, even when it's so late at night it could be considered early morning.

he swipes the cold bottle from your hands, finishing the last drops from the matte glass before letting it dangle between your fingers. and you're expecting it when he catches your arm to pull you into another kiss; he tastes like peaches and wine and a little bit of soup broth. it's slow, and easy, because being with him has always felt as natural as breathing, and being with you has made it easier for him to breathe, like the iron weight on his lungs melts away in the face of your unconditional warmth and care. the cool wind blows your hair in front of your face, and he laughs that charming boyish giggle as he tucks it behind your ears and scoops you up in his arms.

"i don't like sharing you with a sake bottle," you said, pointedly looking at the glass in his hand. he just grins, looking down at you for a moment. he can almost see it again; you, in that gorgeous white wedding cloth. he was carrying you bridal style in the same way now, when you'd decided to grow old together and host special business dinners as a couple in your shared apartment.

"don't worry, love. you're sweeter than any spritz," he laughs, stepping inside again and closing the door behind him.

it's routine, and it's easy, getting ready for bed with him, laughing when he pushes his hair back with a headband, looking like a pretty little princess. you suggest him getting a mullet, and he shushes you by shoving your toothbrush on your tongue, getting a mouthful of mint. the warm water rushes over your fingers before you dry yourself off, wiping your face and putting the towel away only to be met with the equal warmth of his lips on your forehead, peppering you with kisses.

you slip into the covers, still pleasantly cold as you watch satoru sit up and take his shirt off. he lets you peel the rainbow bandaid on his finger off, tossing it in the trash before pulling you into his arms, right where you belong the closest to his heart. "don't cut yourself like that again, okay?"

"it was an accident, baby." he chuckles, and you just roll your eyes. he reaches over to ruffle your hair affectionately and makes a joke about having you suck his blood like a vampire, tooting about how sweet it would be. "besides, i don't need to be careful if you're there to patch me up, pretty. shoko has nothing on you!"

he plays with your hair as you catch him up to the conversations he'd slept away; mei mei had left early when you'd given him your jacket to envelope him in your scent, muttering something about cheap perfume and worthless soggy noodles. he likes to play with your jewelry, you notice— fiddles with the ring on your finger, cupping your hands in his palm as he tucks his face into the back of your neck.

at one point, he asks you to do his hair, so you oblige, rolling him over onto his stomach and clambering on top of his waist. you braid his white strands into cute little pigtails best as you could manage as he tells you about his dream; something about harassing nanami in malaysia and a sunset kiss under crystal clear beach water. it sounds nice, and when you're done with his hair you find it easier to just massage his shoulders and listen to the smooth droning of his voice.

soon enough, you're both warmer than the lukewarm buzz of beer in your veins, and he doesn't remember if he fell asleep first or not, but the gentle melody of your voice haunts him in his dazed sleep as he curls around you.

business dinners really are exhausting— he's left wondering how you pull it off the morning after when he's hungover and the cut on his finger is infected— clearly, the hello kitty bandaid wasn't enough to cut it. the only reasoning that he explains to you as you take your morning shower together, fingers running through your hair, is that you didn't kiss it enough. maybe that's why his soup had too much pepper and he didn't know how to cut the cucumbers.

he's still an amateur, so he'll leave the cooking to you. maybe next time he'll pretend the takeout he grabbed on his way home from school was handmade, though he doubts his friends will ever believe him, or his students after he demands they buy him kikufuku as compensation for leaving him out the night before.

ignore the ep that came out today! everyone’s alive and well. trust my (riaki) stuff. don’t repost and/or plagiarize !

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