GLISTENING UNDER THE STARS.
CW: Breaking up, mutually(?) wanted breaking up, sex for the last time, softdom!chris, romantic sex?, smut, p in v, unprotected sex (pleaseeee dont do this), crying during sex but we all know why 🫤, oral f!recieving, not much dirty talk, not really meant to make you horny but if it works ig it works!!
SUMMARY: You and Chris dont workout as good as you’d hoped for, and thats okay. But, just one last goodbye kiss, one for the road.
A/N: Drowning in a bath of my own tears
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"Can- could we spend, y’know.. one last night together?"
His unrelenting gaze laid upon you, it held the same similarity as a cold hand had rested on your shoulder, the frigid temperature seeping through the cotton of your shirt. The palm rubbing into your shoulder, in a comforting, assuring rub, as if to remind you, ‘you’re okay.’ Even when everything wasn’t okay. Like the world had come crashing, burning down before your very own eyes, the cause your very own hands - maybe even tongue in this situation.
What were you to do in this moment? The pure look in his eyes was enough to make you sick with guilt. How were you expected to speak, when the ball in your throat began to shape into a fist? The sick with you-don't-know-what being your most prime feeling, as if it was tearing your body apart, slitting it in half and moving to wriggle inside, replacing the blood coursing through your veins with that feeling. Changing the thrum of your heartbeat against your ribs to constantly remind you of the illness you felt. Each pump a sick, cruel manner as to give that dreaded reminder above your head, that this was all entirely your fault. Everything you felt was of your doing. What did you do?
The fist in your throat began relaxing, instead now clawing its way up your throat, reaching to the base of your tongue, where a sob slipped through. Why were you crying? You’re the one who’d suggested it, told him straight to his face.
“Chris, this isnt working out.” No sympathy lingering in the undertones of your voice, not even a spared, merciful glance towards his now shattered demeanor before speaking again,
“And I know you think the same Chris. Its so painfully obvious, you’re constantly out with your friends, never at home with me. You almost never speak to me enthusiastically,” you trailed off. Your sentence finishing off with a sigh, your head tilted upwards to meet his gaze. What you saw was no less than what you’d expected, but what you hadn't looked past, was the fact Chris had redeemed himself almost everytime after one of your listed incovencies, after hanging out with his friends all day, he’d always have brought you more than one gift back, and spent the night with you for as long as you wanted (or needed).
But, because the boy was so helplessly inlove with you, he’d agreed. Wanting you the best, completely leaving his own feelings in the trail of your footsteps. He’d told you he wasn't doing well in the relationship either, that he couldn't find contentment - or whatever bullshit excuse he could think of. But, what he didn't say, was how sick he felt whenever he thought of you anytime, his body full to the brim with love, and the butterflies flapping inside his stomach. He’d be happy, as long as you were happy. Whatever it takes, he’d told himself.
You felt his eyes heavy upon you, his lips twitching in a beg to twist his words together, ask for a simple favor, or, task in your hands.
“Can- could we spend, y’know.. one last night together?” He whispered, his voice only a crack away from collapsing entirely ontop of himself. His tears only relying to stay put on the dam he’d built inside his mind, his voice keeping what it could, together.
Your heart dulled in acceptance, the sick feeling running throughout your veins falling to a stop. If it’d help him relax throughout his unspoken words, then so be it.
You nodded, making no effort to form your lips to speak, instead you only stood from the bed, now holding all of your previous guilt. Your hand traveled to his body, running it gently along his chest to the nape of his neck, where you gently wrapped your fingers to twist the waved, shorter hair. Your eyes holding significant love inside them, Chris ignored it. You didnt love him.
His hands begin their journey to the rightful place on your body, wrapping his own palms on your waist, gently. His hands holding a silent, subtle passion behind them, like hands that have longed for their lover, they’ve waited for forever to rest upon this one person. You basked in it, enjoying it for the last time you probably ever would. Whose to tell the future?
You gently pulled his face closer to yours, interlocking your lips in a quiet, loving kiss. No movement being made, or even an effort to be made, just a simple, slow, loving kiss. All you’d need for now, there was no reason to bring it any further, to rush this already treasuring moment, what better than to just, slow down and let it go as it goes?
Your lips were the first to make a move, finally kissing with more passion, it felt right. It felt as if the moment had desired this, this was the way it was meant to go. Your hand gently squeezed as your lips grew along his with more passion, his tongue sliding inside the enclosure of your mouth.
His own hands slid further down your body, his fingertips tracing across till they found the desired plush of your ass. While his other hand held a hold on your lower back, pulling you closer into his embrace, closer to him.
With a slow begin, Chris guided your body to the bed behind you, the hand on your back serving as a quiet reminder that he’d catch you if you’d fallen. Your back met with the soft plush of your comforter, your back painfully easing, causing a soft moan to slip, which only served to intensify Chris’ desire, but he showed no movement to act on it.
Sliding his hand from underneath you, his hand rested on the cotton plush beside your head, while his other went to your hip, digging the tip of his finger through the fabric just enough to feel his caress teasing as it went further, and further down. Eventually falling to a stop once it’d connected to your inner thigh, mere inches away from your heat.
A soft, palpable whine of need escaped your throat, you reached down to grab his wrist, urge him to get closer, to fulfill your desires without a word spoken, but he stopped you. Shaking his head softly as he leant up to connect your lips in a soft kiss, his hands attached to the waistband of your pants, slowly pulling them down in an act to expand the moment, let it linger longer.
His fingers hooked under the waistband of your panties as well, bringing them along with your pants as he tugged them down, closer to fully off with each sound of your lips in the otherwise quiet atmosphere.
Eventually tugging them down your ankles, he de-attached almost immediately, the eagerness underlying his now quicker movements to move between your legs, his hands now moving to your inner thighs again, where he’d spread them wider. His eyes glued to your sex, watching as your wetness dripped to the blanket below you. His tongue licked over his teeth, his fingertips digging into the plush of your thighs.
“Y’look so pretty,” all f’me he murmured, swallowing down the words he wanted to say, all laced with possessiveness. With the guilt he felt pooling inside his stomach, he leaned forward, attaching his mouth to your clit at his own attempt at distracting himself from the overwhelming thought of you no longer being his.
A moan slid from the capture of your throat, already in a prep for bliss. God, you were gonna miss this, miss him- him and his, tongue..? That's what you wanted to tell yourself.
His grasped hands around your thighs squeezed tighter, already finding himself entranced within your heat. His tongue swirling around the bundle of nerves, sucking before sticking his tongue out to trail down to your opening, sliding his tongue into the hole, and back out, creating a rhythmic pace.
His tongue kept up with the pace, his eyes peering into yours as he watched you slowly begin to become out of it, your moans falling even smoother from your lips than before. Not a thought behind your eyes, only the way you felt. His tongue curled into what your face contorted into when he brought you pleasure, yet he’d rather have your body curled into his as he brought you the warmth he seeked. Pleasuring your body with the simple affection of a kiss to your cheek.
Your hips bucked into his face, nudging his nose to your clit in the process, spiking pleasure throughout your veins, the ache for more surging blended within. Your stomach seeped till it fell through an endless pit, either mixing with the underlying guilt, or the start of an orgasm. You weren’t sure.
His hands gripped around your thighs, kneading the flesh beneath his fingers and palms. His tongue moving in desperate acts of more, more, more and more. Perchance more of the unrequited love he wanted to be requited, but that wasn't fitting.
His tongue departed as his hand slid from your thigh, his thumb tracing tight circles on your clit as his ring and index finger slid inside your entrance, quickening his previous pace, sliding deeper against your soft walls, the pleasure ricocheting onto you.
His lips meshed with yours, your lingering taste slipping inside your mouth and dawning onto your taste buds. Yet the pleasure from your legs was bundling your head far too much to care for the luscious taste coating your mouth.
The previous knot — or, ‘endless pit’ fell snapped, a moan sliding off your tongue and whispered into Chris’ mouth, swallowing what was left of the efforted moan, yet it only bounced off the walls of only being needed of one thing.
His fingers retracted from your legs and moved to the buckle of his belt, retrieving it from its locked position, and sliding his throbbing dick from the tight enclosure of fabric. He continued the motions of pulling off his pants and boxers, his movements yearning, yet a coat of desperation blinded longing, leaving the yearning to be of what it was, yet tiny and unnoticable.
His lips never disattached from yours, even when he slid his length inside your entrance, but a striking, pleasurable pain overtook his lip once your teeth had bitten onto it at an attempt to soothe yourself, probably stabilization but all Chris could focus on was the squeeze of your walls bringing the pleasure he so badly seeked earlier. His cock almost begging with the leaking pre-cum.
With one last kiss, bathing in the warmth of your lips, he’d pulled away. His hands grabbing at your hips, groping at the flesh of your stomach, caressing the skin of your ribs as well as the skin below your boobs. His fingertips dancing along the skin left for his eyes, left for the moon to shine onto, casting an ethereal spell on your skin to reflect, let Chris deliver the satisfaction of being inevitably perfect.
His hips moved along with the rhythm of your moans, moving deeper whilst your moans grew louder and harder as your moans strained in the journey of your scratchy, used throat. Your eyes bathing in the tears of your pleasure. The sway of his hips meeting with yours urging the tears to produce, lay this last drop of mercy.
Despite the ache of how hard & deep he went, his movements were soft, cherishing in the bath of your body kneeling to his actions, taking in what it could get and giving back the pleasure he proclaimed. He wanted to soak in the soft hum of the tiny whimpers that failed to succeed from slipping your throat, he wanted to dry your tears with his lips - even if they weren’t from mental or physical pain. He wanted to be able to let the praises slide from his lips as easily as they used to, let each word bathe inside a pool of his possessiveness, reminding your conscious of just whom you’d ‘belonged’ to.
He wanted this one last given opportunity to be by your side, linger in the warmth of your being and skin to be memorable, not any other time you’d have sex, just, lacking the speech.
Your hand slithered to his bicep, squeezing hard, digging a crescent moon shape of your nails into his skin, your eyes closing as the returning feeling of an endless pit formed into your stomach. Perchance this time it wasn’t because of your orgasm. You could see the glint in Chris’ eyes, neither irises carrying a wash of lust inside them, rather, only a form of yearn and— longing. He longed and longed, for what you didn't know.
He was touching you, staring at you, embracing you, inside you for fucks sakes. What more did the man want? What more could a man ask for? Your body laid vulnerable in front of him, your flaws for his eyes, your insecurities lie for his hands to caress, yet he had done neither. Not a whisper of a praise sliding from his pretty pink lips.
Your hand slid to the nape of his neck, running your fingertips up his head, gripping at the loose curls, you pulled his face closer to yours, your lips a breath away from his.
You opened your eyes, meeting his in a long, tension full eye contact. Your face churned in pleasure when he thrusted especially hard in that moment, his cock slamming inside you, as his gaze didn't falter. A cocky smirk laid over his features, clearly enjoying the sight of you, the sounds you were making. His tongue darted out to lick his lips, his gaze unrelenting, his lips moved to form the letters he was yet to pronounce.
His previous yearn drowned in his now lust filled irises, a grunt slipping past his lips before he muttered possessively, “C’mon pretty, be a little louder for me baby. Wanna hear your moans and whimpers.” His thrusts slowed with each word his spoke, a seemingly threat.
“Fuck Chris, please don’t slow down, faster, please.” You’d begged, your knees curling into your chest as the feel of his cock drove into your insides, ridding any of the guilt that remained.
Low and behold, the mustered strength provided to your lustful needs was rooted from the tightening in his throat and burning eyes. Each thrust was a way to take his mind off of what was to come after this, each syllable said was a beg of the peace he desired for such an intimate moment. He wanted, he so badly wanted to want to fuck into you, whisper his possesive lacen words into your neck, his re occuring hands keeping your under him as you pleaded for him. Yet, he just couldn't.
Instead, your body lie before him, the window allowing the moon to assure you as the most beautiful thing he’d ever lain his eyes on, sweat dripping down the creases of your body, a mesmerized expression etched on your face, you glistening under the stars as a guiltiful apology sat on the shine coating your body from the moon. Reflected onto your body as it slightly shook with the forces of his thrusts. Each sparkle dancing on your skin a haunting taunt for the body he no longer could love and adore. Only to watch as memories and need for more relentlessly took over his mind.
2578 words.
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Anyways the “essay” about the energy sword to character development pipeline below the cut
Ok so like yea tucker-crunchbite-junior is, obviously, the first instance of the sword-quest-companion theme/trio that im like, rattling in my head rn
Tucker finds the sword, crunchbite shows up and theres the “quest” that challenges tucker both in the false intent (you need to be the hero) and the true intent (SA leading to Junior which is not handled well but it IS important) which is a push against tucker’s character thus far in that he’s the comic relief, make everything a sex joke archetype— he doesnt take it seriously, he doesnt see himself as important beyond getting just enough recognition to be “hot” and now he’s made to be the so called “hero” and the true plot puts him in the one position that he probably never thought could be him. Bc he wants to get laid so… yeah. Pushes his character if you give it like three seconds of critical thinking and not just the standard “haha alien baby bullshit” (that said, i do enjoy fics that explore crunchbite more and play with the potential of the “joke” shitty character into someone less sinister, but im doin my best to stick to canon rn)
And JUNIOR, oh man, because theres the thing that really solidifies this for me like
The dude who doesnt care doesnt bother is all jokes and ‘man whatever’ energy is a dad, and it starts with him trying to avoid it but he really fucking quickly steps the FUCK up for Junior and its the start of his development that people are like “oh he learns to be a leader on chorus” which i mean kinda yeah but he never struck me as a Leader even on Chorus even tho he does decidedly lead, its not the same as when kimball leads or when wash leads or carolina
He’s leads as a dad bc he is a dad
Not always a good one, but he’s trying and yea sometimes that means being the asshole, sometimes that means screwing up but it also means you fucking care and you take responsibility and you put yourself in danger first (the rescue mission, leaving the lieutenants behind)
And that doesnt start on chorus! Its the most evident there sure but
it starts with junior
It starts with him going after tex to protect his son, it starts with him trying to be a diplomat so they stay together, in sending junior away so he is safe while tucker buys time protecting the temple, it STARTS with him looking at church and going “leave my kid out of this” and yeah the way rvb was written and approached does Not take that seriously bc it wouldnt and if it did it would be a very different show but the implications are there and its acknowledged with tucker’s photograph of junior with his 5th grade basketball team (“i know right? Who carries actual pictures anymore” -tucker) which i could go on about THAT too but suffice to say its very clear that tucker cares so gd much about his kid and yeah his character development isnt super linear but you can basically pinpoint when it starts with the sword and junior
The second run of this trio of things is actually grif which is admittedly, a stretch, a big ol reaching for straws (okay, TECHNICALLY grif is the third run, but i’ll address that in a minute) largely a stretch bc grif… does the pattern backwards
This IS S16 stuff so if ur a shisno paradox hater i respect that, i however am gnawing on it with everything i have and will be going feral so this is your warning thank u for reading the tucker side of it mwah appreciate ya
Anyways
Grif does his plot backwards during timetravel shenanigans
He gets the alien companion/friend who contrasts his character first in Huggins
Grif is a loyal friend, but he is lazy, even after s15’s breakdown and apparent change of tune, he’s still looking to take the path of least resistance, avoiding the call, trying to keep things from moving
Enter Huggins: zippy, full of energy, excitable and just so different in that she is not only so proactive she puts herself in danger (which helps everyone in the long run/plot but its the principle) but shes so fucking lonely
As far as she knows, her family is dead, except for muggins who is so dettached from her, he might as well be a coworker and not her brother
Compared to grif, who has a family even when he tries to push them away (the reds, the blues, KAIKAINA) but hates taking action
Huggins is the start for grif’s arc of “it sucks but someones gotta do it” which in their case is best shown as the trudge across the bottom of the english channel which is so fucking funny to me but it really pushes both of them and puts them firmly in the friends category
Huggins cant zip ahead without grif, grif cant stop moving because huggins wont let him, so they find their little balance of gas vs brakes and together they cruise along p well
The actual push of the “quest” is grif having to be the one who steps up (kinda like tucker but its to the left) he’s the one who starts getting everyone together again across the timeline, even if he is very,,,
Well he’s very Grif about it, but it is still fundamentally, the change in character
Tucker isn’t a always good dad, Grif isn’t always a good instigator of action
But theyre trying and theyre working on it and grif’s arc suffers a Little from being so late in the show and thus not having much of a parallel to pull on but you could argue he gets the parallel from s15 anyways with the refusal of the call (from fake church/loco) and rescue mission but i hesitate to call that a parallel bc its literally back to back but an argument could be made for it which i love
Enter part two: the alien quest giver
“Wait wasnt that huggins”
NOPE huggins was alien companion! The Bestie in grif’s case,
The alien fetch quest comes from atlas, in that stupid wishing sequence but cmon it wouldnt be rvb if the character development wasnt sandwiched inbetween obnoxious gags and stupidity
The quest is less important here admittedly bc again, with grif doing this in reverse its not the challenge to his principle character that it was for tucker, his connection to huggins was the challenge, and this becomes the final push into the development, the “you have a role, now play it” that gives grif the final shove into Doing Things literal!! And his prize? For this character development arc? An alien sword
And thus the inverse version reaches an end, sort of (im pissed that technically he loses his sword, im also ignoring that he loses it in canon bc he fucking earned it okay this is a bit of canon i will ignore and loophole my way around it)
And now we track back to Chorus and to the second iteration of the sword-quest-companion plot
Locus
Now okay i will admit this is conjecture and pepe-silvia-on-corkboard-with-red-string fuckery at this point but hear me out okay!
He gets the sword with Felix’s death. We know this. What we dont know is how the fucking hell he gets off Chorus! We just see him show up later with A’rynasea. The vaguely alien (maybe sentient?? AI? Its implied with the way he addresses her but we literally have her for like two episodes) ship that seems to be the driving force (literal) (bc shes his ship) behind his chosen redemption arc where he pushes himself to help others at no apparent benefit to himself, but because it is, and i quote “the right thing to do”
Arguably, Santa could be Locus’ quest giver, seeing as how he is the one who triggers the whole shift in view for Locus in the first place and that is, technically, what crunchbite does and what atlas finalizes for grif! But the problem is we simply dont have enough of A’rynasea to draw the parallel between her and Locus as personalities, as companions for it to work for me??? But that might just be me overthinking? But it does make Locus’ version is a bit messier depending on who you consider his quest-giver but as far as I’m concerned, he’s still on his quest snd its just up to interpretation if A’rynasea is his companion?? or if theres a secret third alien for Locus that we never wouldve seen even if they planned for that bc its red vs blue and im just delusional about locus and his role in plot and this is just me firing concepts blindly into the sky at this point like - yeah i could still theorize what kind of companion characterization i think locus would work well with bc its more about the wielder than the companion in this sense (sorry junior and huggins i love yall i promise) but thats a completely separate rant at this point and not nearly coherent enough at this exact moment to add it PLUS its ridiculously self indulgent and only marginally canon compliant/adjacent but i will never not be amused by this very specific plot beat happening enough to draw these parallels, as tenuous and vague as the parallels are
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COME REST YOUR BONES NEXT TO ME ; SATORU GOJO, SUGURU GETO
synopsis; satoru shares the first snowfall of the year with the two people he loves most.
word count; 4.6k
contents; satoru gojo/reader/suguru geto (poly relationship!!), gn!reader, you're all whipped, reader referred to as spouse, fluff fluff fluff!!, sickeningly domestic, just comfy vibes all around, mostly from satoru’s pov, suguru has a favorite (its you) (but also not really he just likes bullying toru <3), satoru gojo may or may not have unresolved mommy issues
a/n; happy satosugu holidays to those who celebrate <33 geto died today isnt that crazy. dont u think its fucked up how love figuratively and literally killed him. anyway! help urself to two very whipped husbands <33
”holy shit!”
the raspy tilt of satoru’s voice echoes throughout the bedroom, stirring you from your comfortable slumber. a soft groan spills from suguru’s lips, deep and husky, as he pulls you closer into his embrace — smoothing a warm palm down the back of your head. trying to soothe you back to sleep, muttering under his breath.
”satoru, it’s too early for this...”
”it’s snowing!” said man continues, unperturbed. unmistakably giddy. he’s standing by the window, hands pressed flush against the cold glass; entirely entranced by the sight in front of his cerulean eyes.
your eyelids begin to flutter. a tiny tug of your subconscious, a pang of something excited flowing through your veins, an alert to your sleepy brain.
(snowing.)
with groggy movements, you wriggle out of suguru’s grasp — a displeased grumble leaves his throat, almost a whine — allowing you to scramble out of bed. ”really?” you chirp, rubbing the sleep from beneath your eyes. a raspy, meek little voice spilling into the air.
satoru grins, watching you move closer, watching as a tiny gasp pushes past your lips. watching as your droopy eyes widen — brightening, glittering, starlight and snowflakes painted on the interior of your iris. a breathtaking sight, he thinks.
maybe even more breathtaking than the winter wonderland reflected in it; beyond the pure opaque frosting of the window’s glass, out into your backyard, buried beneath a thick layer of snow. soft and fluffy, covering the city, suguru’s long-frozen tulip garden, the bare branches of your apricot tree. every roof in sight. all of it dyed a pure white, glittering in the light of a morning sun yet to fully rise, tiny snowflakes descending down to earth.
it’s beautiful.
satoru loves winter. he always has, he thinks. it comes to him as a memory — blurred at the edges, gleaming even still, the first time he saw those snowflakes up close. someone held him in their arms, he recalls. a warmth long faded.
all he can properly remember is that sight. one that knocked the breath from out his tiny lungs, all glitter and something almost other-worldly, something frightening in its majesty. like it broke through a rift in the stratosphere.
the first snow of the year.
and he’s loved it ever since; the soft crunch of snow beneath his feet, an air heavy with the scent of cinnamon and candied apples, bouts of laughter to be heard from faraway apartments. red and green glimmers of artificial light, sweet frosting on the christmas cake he would always gobble up alone in his room. the cold wind, nipping at his bare fingers — a reminder of his capacity for ache.
there are lots of things to love. lots of memories to cherish. and every single year, he gets the chance to make more.
like this; the light in your eyes, the smile on your face, the excitement in how hurriedly you turn to meet his giddy gaze. a nostalgic kind of joy simmering in the space between you.
and before either of you know it, satoru’s pulling you towards the hallway, intent on dragging you outside to see it all up close. almost tripping over his agumon plush, lying unassumingly on the floor, kicked off the bed once again.
(probably by satoru himself, though he’ll always insist it was suguru’s doing. overcome by his jealousy, surely, unable to stand the sight of his cute husband cuddling up to a plushie instead of him. satoru understands, he does — he feels the same when he sees you hug that 3’0 cat plushie of yours.
and, sure, maybe once or twice he’s been lucid enough to register the subconscious kick of his leg and agumon’s subsequent fall to the floor — but he’ll still blame suguru in the morning. if only to see the way said man rolls his eyes, clicks his tongue, maybe flicks his forehead if he’s really lucky.)
high on the spirit of christmas, spurred on by childlike elation and sleep-deprivation, you stumble towards the door. satoru pulls one of his jackets over your shoulders, delighting in the way your hands don’t fully reach through the sleeves. wrapping you up in a cozy scarf when suguru shouts at you both to dress warmly, barely awake and already tired of your antics.
and the moment you step through the door, satoru is engulfed by it. that mystical, mystical feeling.
a little lonely, a little too satisfying to pass up. a cold breeze that nips at his fingertips, snowflakes that brush against his cheeks and stick to his white lashes. a warm hand in his, as you cling to his side, shuddering — but smiling, as you look up at the sky, putting a hand out just to feel the snowflakes melt against the skin of your palm.
he feels you let go of him, but doesn’t mention it. a little too mesmerized to tug you back. dipping his toes into the bittersweet nostalgia of it all, staring at the flurry of white all around you, the skeletal branches of your apricot tree. suguru’s poor tulips. humming a jolly tune, subconsciously. a little delighted.
— until something cold and wet hits the exposed skin of his neck.
satoru twitches, a chilling shudder trickling down his spine. the snowball just thrown at him begins to melt, droplets sticking to his nape, and he turns to you with a raise of his brow. a devilish grin on his lips, when he hears your muffled laughter, sees the crinkle of your eyes.
(you’re cute, he thinks. but you need to be humbled.)
”oh, so that’s how you wanna play?” he drawls, eyes gleaming with amusement. taking a step forward, reaching down to gather some snow in his palm. a wide grin on his glossy lips. ”fine by me.”
he's fast, but you act quickly, running towards the apricot tree with laughter in your throat. feeling the pitter patter of your heartbeat resound in your ears, as the snowball misses its mark by just a hair — and you waste no time in making your own.
it’s a hard-fought duel. snowfall blocking your vision, nerves beginning to numb, red cheeks and runny noses as you chase each other with giddy breaths. unfortunately for you, satoru’s arms are unfairly long, fingers unfairly nimble, and his stamina never even seems to falter.
so before long, your energy begins to dwindle. chest heaving, hands too cold to form a proper snowball, while your husband seems like he hasn’t even broken a sweat. they just keep on coming, snowball after snowball colliding with the fabric of your jacket, and when one of them hits your collarbone you squeal — falling backwards, right into a fresh pile of snow.
satoru moves forward, a triumphant smirk on his handsome face. you’re out of breath, and your hands are red, and he’s fairly certain you’re gonna catch a cold. suguru’s going to scold him, but right now all he can think of is you. the frown you’re wearing, the little huff that slips from your lips.
”ready to admit defeat, sweetheart?” he practically purrs, standing above you with his hands on his hips. smug. and you grin right back.
”never.”
a hum. something glimmers in his eyes, a devious little glint, and you come to regret your decision when satoru gathers a heap of snow with his overgrown arms; only to drop it all on top of you. too tired to fight back, all you can do is shield your face, silently accepting your fate.
a shiver wracks through your body, and satoru almost feels bad. just a tiny bit. but then you finally relent, murmuring bitterly under your breath. ”fine, fine…” a soft pout forms on your lips. ”you win.”
and satoru smiles. crouching down to meet you at eye level, on his knees in front of you. there’s a teasing mirth in his eyes, when he reaches out to cup the fat of your cheek. ”that’s all i wanted to hear, sweet pea,” he drawls, trying not to giggle when you exaggeratedly roll your eyes.
his voice curls down an octave when he continues, leaning forward to brush his nose against yours. hot breath against your chilled skin. ”now, for my prize…”
his lips meet yours, sweet and chaste — a little cheeky. you scoff into the kiss, but satoru’s smile only grows. honeyed, a little bit adoring. his tongue flits out to lick at your cold bottom lip.
he lingers, for a bit. like he’s trying to savour the way you taste, faded strawberry chapstick sticking to his lips, smudged against your own. and you sigh, softly, melting a little, comforted by the fleeting warmth that blossoms on your face.
when he's finally satisfied, having dragged his prize out to its completion, satoru helps you up. brushing snowflakes off your jacket, cradling your ice-cold hands in his. they’re not faring much better, but a worried tug of his heartstrings compels him to warm you up. bringing them to his lips, hot breath fanning over your skin, tender little kisses against the knots of your knuckles.
you can’t help but blush, and a raspy chuckle flows from out his lips.
hazy morning sunshine licks at the branches of the apricot tree behind you, illuminating the contours of your face, the shine of his eyes. a blue smudge on a canvas painted white and gray. the air smells of pine cones and something smokey, crisp. it courses through his burning lungs when he inhales, exhales, a breath of vapour that scatters up into the sky.
satoru loves winter. always has. but now, he’s certain he loves it even more.
because now, he has two people to share it with. two people to drag out into the snow, two people whose hands he can tenderly warm up, two people who’ll laugh and sigh at his antics and still indulge him. two people to pelt with snowballs.
what more could a man want?
”hey, idiots!”
the voice that echoes throughout the air is exasperated, a little teasing. yet fond. suguru’s got his hair tied into a messy half done bun, black turtleneck sweater enunciating his broad chest and the curve of his waist. there’s a fatigue in his eyes, the creases of his face, but a lazy smile is playing at his lips.
”i’m making breakfast,” he shouts, voice deep and smokey and soft even still. ”come in and warm up before you catch a cold.”
”is that any way to speak to your husband and spouse?” satoru chimes back, a melodic lilt to his sugarsweet voice. something satisfied. pleased.
suguru shoots him an unimpressed look, but his eyes soften. melting a little, at the words that spill from satoru’s lips, as if they were always meant to be there.
(husband. spouse. suguru wills himself not to smile.)
with matching grins on your faces, the two of you stumble back towards the door. snow crunching beneath your feet, a happy noise pushing past your lips when you collide with the warmth of your husband’s chest.
”look, suguru. isn’t it pretty?” you chirp, smiling brightly. an expression he mirrors — brushing some snow from the top of your head, warm palms caressing your cold skin, setting a mental reminder to scold satoru later. sparing a brief glance at the snowy veil over reality.
then he exhales. a fond hum. ”it is.”
satoru joins you both by the door, stretching out his lanky limbs. tousled hair, wet strands sticking to his skin, reddened cheeks and a signature pout. ”suguru, my hands are cold,” he whines. ”warm ’em up for me?”
a click of his tongue. ”should’ve put some gloves on, satoru.”
a hum buzzes in your throat, and you put your hands out. itchy, a little dry. a sad frown tugs at your lips when you speak. ”my hands are also cold.”
and, like clockwork, suguru’s eyes soften. a coo tiptoeing on his tongue, engulfing your hands in his larger ones. ”aw, c’mere, my love…” his breath fans over your frozen fingertips. ”let’s get you warmed up, hm?”
satoru gasps, a hand on his chest, and you stifle a giggle. he’s acting, you both know, being a little drama queen. he knows you’re just exaggerating suguru’s double standard as a bit, that your husband would probably set himself on fire to warm either of you up.
despite that, his voice comes out thoroughly offended. ”oh, i see how it is,” he huffs, walking past the both of you. pouting deeply. ”you hate me. you hate me, and you want me to die. i understand.”
”satoru,” you coo. he hmphs, but stills, waiting for you to wrap your arms around him. and you do — a little too eager to appease your giant baby of a husband.
”we’re just joking around,” you assure him, holding back a humorous chuckle. squeezing his waist with palpable fondness. ”love you sooo much. you know that.”
satoru stays silent. but he cranes his neck, to meet suguru’s gaze, standing just behind him. narrowing his cobalt eyes — a meaningful look.
suguru sighs.
”yes, yes. we love you oh so much.” he takes a step forward, ruffling the white head of hair by the door. a lazy smile on his lips. ”now behave and go change out of your pyjamas. they’re soaked.”
his voice is teasing. exasperated, more than a little condescending. but it’s suguru, so satoru accepts it — following you both into the warmth of your home. the scent of cinnamon and vanilla hangs heavy in the air, a hint of espresso and firewood, lulling him into a sweet state of tranquility. rich with comfort, safety.
he changes out of his wet clothes, pulling a black hoodie over his head before waltzing into the kitchen. and you do the same, emerging from your bedroom in one of suguru’s cozy sweaters, knitted and smelling of bergamot.
when suguru notices, his gaze shifts into something fond. palpable. a look satoru always finds in the scope of those warm eyes, amber and cedar bleeding into something sweet, only ever directed at the two of you. a look said man assumes goes unnoticed. he’s not as slick as he thinks.
the kitchen simmers with hazy sunlight and gentle movements, something sleepy and kind. satoru is a little bit enamored with it; from bowls of cat food by the corner, to camellias by the windowsill, cookie jars and dried lemon slices, the fading scent of baked goods and wishlists stuck to the fridge.
(yours and satoru’s are filled with scribbles, new ideas popping up daily, while suguru’s is almost entirely blank; mostly necessities, one or two things he’d like for himself.
and then, of course, the same thing he writes at the top of his wishlist every year; some peace and quiet.)
suguru shuffles around the kitchen, long strands of black hair cascading down his back, swaying with his movements. he sends you both an affectionate glance when you step in, already in the process of making satoru his cup of hot chocolate — topped with marshmallows and whipped cream, colorful sprinkles in the shape of tiny stars, a touch of cinnamon. satoru licks his lips.
when it's finished, the cup is promptly handed to him, paired with a tender kiss to his forehead. and suguru starts the meticulous brewing of your coffee, steady hands, finely chosen coffee beans, the low purring of the espresso machine. soothing.
that’s when you attach yourself to his back. wrapping your arms around his waist, a sleepy yawn muffled into the fabric of his turtleneck. he places a big palm on your hand, thumb smoothing over your knuckle, and you nuzzle into him silently. suguru smiles.
”still sleepy, baby?” he questions, a coo on the tip of his tongue. his voice is soft, palpably so, buzzing with warmth and safety and something that makes you want to stay cuddled up to him forever.
satoru senses an opportunity to insert himself into the conversation, and forces out a yawn of his own. stretching his limbs like a big cat, blinking drowsily, eyelashes fluttering. hoping it’ll come off as endearing. ”mhm.”
but suguru shoots him an unimpressed look. ”not you,” he tuts, patting your arm, ”this baby. i wasn’t asking you.”
a pout. ”why are you so mean to me?” he whines, shooting you a doe-eyed look. bottom lip jutting out slightly, a feigned glassiness to his eyes. ”sweetie, tell your husband to stop being so mean to me.”
you smile. indulgent, as always. ”don't be so mean to him, suguru. you know he’s sensitive.”
a sigh. deep, tinged with exhaustion. satoru shares an amused look with you — stifling a shared chuckle at suguru’s exasperation.
and suddenly, he feels something warm flutter in his ribcage. a sunkissed butterfly, wings brushing against his ribs, coaxing his lips into curling up. unmistakable fondness, almost too much to bear. the need to reach out and touch you creeps up on him, a hunger he can’t deny, but he holds back; you look comfy like that, curled up against suguru’s spine. so he only inches closer, without a word.
his husband casts him a glance, but satoru stays silent. lips pursed, waiting for something. patient.
and suguru relents. he reaches a hand out, to tuck a stray strand of white hair behind his ear — an excuse to touch him. a silent apology.
(i'm sorry, you big baby.)
satoru grins.
you shift from foot to foot, leaning over to see what suguru is doing, pressing buttons and taking two ceramic cups out from a wall cabinet. your eyes zero in on a particular shelf, narrowing in suspicion, before flitting over to meet your husband’s gaze.
”satoru, did you use up all my peppermint sweeteners again?”
he stiffens. just a tad, before swallowing a gulp — followed by a silly chuckle, sheepish and performative, eager to wiggle his way out of your cold gaze. ”… which sweeteners do you mean, honey?”
”don’t pull the ’honey’ card.”
”and don’t play dumb, either.”
a pout crosses his lips. betrayed. ”suguru, who’s side are you even on?”
said man gives him a look. that one look, characteristically suguru, the same one he always sends satoru’s way. one so thoroughly unimpressed it makes him feel like the world’s biggest clown.
and satoru plays along. your dutiful, beloved clown, his posture wilting like a sad flower. suguru exhales through his nose.
”don’t steal their sweeteners.” he smooths a thumb over your knuckle, absentminded, meeting the cold metal of the ring on your finger. smiling a little at the sensation. ”buy your own.”
satoru huffs, drawn out and childish. crossing his arms, leaning against the kitchen counter. ”ah, i see how it is. leaving your sweet husband to buy his own sweeteners?” he clicks his tongue. ”chivalry is dead.”
you bite back a little chuckle — satoru recognizes the cute noise you make when you do — and suguru rolls his eyes. fondly, always. ”remind me next time i go to the store and i’ll consider it.”
”hmph.”
suguru is smiling. it’s small, but genuine, worth a thousand words. and you are, too, the vague crinkle of your eyes giving you away. even as you bury your face in the curve of suguru’s back.
and ah, satoru thinks. there it is again.
that sickeningly sweet sense of deja vu; the sensation of a certain something flourishing deep inside his chest. warming him up, trickling through his frost-bitten veins. that one little itch he never manages to satisfy, that never goes away, something that took root inside his heart years ago — watered by the sweet looks on your faces.
this everyday slice of heaven, right in front of him, that he’s been greedily partaking in ever since he moved in with you. since he married you.
(married.)
sometimes he still can’t believe it.
”it’ll be done in a minute,” suguru hums, and satoru blinks. broken out of his syrupy stupor. ”you two go wait by the kotatsu, okay? must be cold, poor babies.”
and, as always, his voice is a little teasing. a tiny bit condescending, if you really strain your ears, in typical suguru fashion. but it’s laced with a touch of sweetness; one that would be too much for either of you to stomach, if it were to drip out of his lips with nothing to water it down. so satoru accepts it. welcomes it, even.
and you follow his suggestion. making your way towards the living room, satoru trailing behind you, continuously enamored by every little thing he sees. every little piece of the home you’ve built for yourselves.
your living room is cozy. several potted plants seated here and there, a thick quilt to cover the kotatsu, a bowl of satsumas on top of it. a sleepy cat on your couch, golden sunshine ruffling her fur. a santa hat lies beside her, and satoru snags it without much thought. pulling it over his head.
his gaze shifts to the christmas tree over in the corner, eyes filling with a childlike kind of wonder. it’s decorated to completion, weighed down by colourful ornaments and lights, a star at the very top. suguru cut it himself, bringing the biggest and prettiest one he could find back home.
(satoru had gone with him. partially to help carry it back, mostly to get a glimpse of suguru's biceps flexing with the swing of the axe. he’s a simple man.)
and beneath it, presents are already beginning to pile up. carefully wrapped, in bows and silken paper, growing more each day. shattering suguru’s hopes of maybe having a more lowkey christmas this year — but satoru couldn’t be more relieved. this is the only time of year you let him get away with pampering you both to his heart’s content.
a smile blooms on his lips. he plops down on the floor, crossing his legs, right as suguru walks in with a coffee pot in hand. their gazes overlapping.
and something mischievous begins to brew within the blue of his eyes, something that makes suguru narrow his own. satoru pats his thigh, twice, a coo on the tip of his tongue. santa hat sitting pointedly on top of his head, fluffing up his hair.
”c’mere, suguru! sit on santa’s lap.”
”— you’re disgusting.”
the words are playful, but a pout still slips into the curve of satoru’s lips, and he huffs out a displeased little breath. his husband pretends not to hear it, so satoru turns to you — sitting so prettily to his right, already anticipating his next move. puppy dog eyes on full display, he gives you a soft tilt of his head, snowy tufts of hair falling over his eyes.
and you sigh, in what he knows is resignation. his faux pout turning into a satisfied grin.
you curl up in satoru’s lap without much of a fuss, letting him circle his arms around you. an indulgent smile rests on your lips, but he knows you love this; his broad chest against your back, the heat of the kotatsu warming your feet. breathing in the fading scent of your shampoo, he leaves a peck on the sensitive spot right behind your ear, and you try not to shudder.
then satoru smiles. squeezing you, lightly, sweetly, eyes rich with honeyed affection. voice dripping with playful endearment. ”there we go,” he coos. ”what does my angel want for christmas, hm?”
”i want you to stop stealing my peppermint sweeteners,” comes your answer. instantaneous.
silence fills the room. a moment passes. outside your frosted windows, a bird takes flight from the branches of your apricot tree. and satoru clicks his tongue.
”… santa can only do so much, baby.”
two deep scoffs fill the air, heavy and bemused. one from you, one from suguru. satoru only giggles.
”just kidding!” he chirps, planting a kiss on the top of your head. ”don’t you worry. santa’ll give you all the peppermint sweeteners you could ever want.”
you raise a brow, exhaling amusedly. craning your head to meet his gaze. ”and he won’t end up using them all himself?”
”of course not! blasphemy.”
a moment passes.
”… maybe one or two. as a treat.”
a string of protests slips from your lips, and satoru tries not to burst into a fit of giggles. suguru just watches, silently, smiling lightly as he pours hot coffee into two ceramic cups. steam wafting up to the ceiling, a cat jumping down from the couch to curl up in his lap. he places one in front of you, not taking a single sip of his own until he hears you hum blissfully at the taste — pink lips against white ceramic. a bitter taste on his tongue, sweetened by your approval.
then he starts peeling three satsumas, absentmindedly, and satoru swallows down the love-ridden honey choking up the back of his throat. pretending the domesticity of such a simple action doesn’t melt his heart down to the marrow.
he turns his attention towards the window. frost sticking to the glass like spider-woven webs, soon to be melted by the glow of the mellow winter sunrays. flitting in through the curtains, cascading over the room, splattering across the floorboards. framing the hue of your hair, the smile on suguru’s lips.
and a memory comes to him. sudden, hazy, faded at the edges. ghosting his subconscious.
he remembers the frost, the biting wind, the frightening majesty of the snow that fell that day. breaking into his world through a rift in the stratosphere. he remembers the contrasting warmth of the person who held him, who cradled him close; the soft lull of a woman’s voice.
for a moment, satoru thinks he can almost, almost see it before him. hear those gentle words, see her tired smile. why was she always so tired?
(look, satoru. isn’t it pretty?)
— he can’t recall how it sounded. if it was melodic and soft, or raspy and broken, happy or sad. but he does recall that it made him feel safe. safe enough to find comfort in a sight so other-worldly, so very foreign.
it should’ve been frightening, but it wasn’t. the first snowfall satoru ever saw knocked the breath from out his lungs, stole his heart with cold hands, left him with a suffocating nostalgia. but the memory is precious.
and now, he feels that sense of other-worldliness in this; a kotatsu for three, a warm house, peeled satsumas and promises of a christmas cake soon to be baked. one lovely spouse in his lap, the other gazing at him with that fond look he always assumes goes unnoticed. a cocoon of safety — a ghost he doesn’t need to chase anymore.
warmth. enough warmth to make up for the snow and frost outside your home, all the experiences he missed out on as a child. warmth, warmth, warmth. funny, how that happens to be satoru’s favorite thing about winter.
he looks at the two of you, hoping you won’t pay any mind to his silence. for once, he hopes you’ll stay wrapped up in your awful, awful coffee, so bitter that just looking at it makes his throat feel dry. just so he can get away with admiring you for a little longer. from the contours of suguru’s face, to the skin of your collarbone, to the rings on your fingers. ones he put there himself.
and ah, satoru thinks, there it is again. again and again, as always, forever. that warm, warm feeling flourishing in the depths of his chest.
he hopes it never goes away.
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