HOTARU
she is a flower, but she isn't soft
when her petals fall, they hit like bullets
when her petals fall, they hit like bullets
She tucks her argument into the side of her smile, fond and understanding. They are perhaps a little too selfless and prepared for compromise, but it's romantic in its own way to be so sensitive to each other's desires and difficulties. Instead she gracelessly plants a kiss against his hairline, huffing through his weight. Each wiggle and pry lets her breath for a quick moment - but she's happy to be here, crushed but content, drowning under skin and tattoos and sunlight. It's not the first time he's left her breathless; hah.
Making a sound like a compressed rubber chicken finally being freed, Hotaru rolls onto her side and plainly ogles her lover with the one eye not pressed into the mess of their blankets. Reaching for his hand automatically she climbs down from their bed with grace that belies her more awake state, pressing her face into his hands as they right her riot of hair. Only to grumble a noise of displeasure when he walks off without her. Trailing after him, she plucks one of his shirts from the basket and slips it on - eternally amused by how it hangs comically large, sexy and domestic - as she follows the sound of water and the light clank of metal.
Shoving her face into his spine, she loops her arms around his waist from behind (only just refraining from climbing him like a koala and making him carry her around while he makes breakfast). "Yes. I swear I'm going to crack that man someday, he will tell me his secrets," she vows with vitriol befitting a self-declared nemesis. Hotaru is no slouch in the kitchen, but whatever that baker does is literal fucking magic and she refuses to be hooked on whatever drug he's pretending to call a pastry.
Making a sound like a compressed rubber chicken finally being freed, Hotaru rolls onto her side and plainly ogles her lover with the one eye not pressed into the mess of their blankets. Reaching for his hand automatically she climbs down from their bed with grace that belies her more awake state, pressing her face into his hands as they right her riot of hair. Only to grumble a noise of displeasure when he walks off without her. Trailing after him, she plucks one of his shirts from the basket and slips it on - eternally amused by how it hangs comically large, sexy and domestic - as she follows the sound of water and the light clank of metal.
Shoving her face into his spine, she loops her arms around his waist from behind (only just refraining from climbing him like a koala and making him carry her around while he makes breakfast). "Yes. I swear I'm going to crack that man someday, he will tell me his secrets," she vows with vitriol befitting a self-declared nemesis. Hotaru is no slouch in the kitchen, but whatever that baker does is literal fucking magic and she refuses to be hooked on whatever drug he's pretending to call a pastry.
