moved to @pirapurin !!

Five more subtle taps later and you were beginning to seriously consider outright smacking his hand. Though before you could actually do that, he—finally—slipped his fingers to intertwine with yours.

A brief involuntary sigh of relief parted your lips, and you glanced at your companion, prepared to see a nonchalant expression on his face, because much unlike you, Albedo was unruffled when it came to affection, even if he rarely initiated it.

However, instead of being met with an expression of indifference, you were greeted with devious eyes and a knowing grin— and your heart stuttered.

Heat pooled to your cheeks, the realization he knew more than he let on settling in your mind, and you watch, mortified, as his grin grows to a sly smirk. You attempted to pull your hand away from his hold in utter embarrassment, but he tightened his grasp.

“You're rather adorable when you try to catch my attention,” he cooed, and you felt your face burn. The worst thing about it wasn't the teasing lilt in his tone—it was how his words sounded completely genuine.

And so, from there on, you could say he became... more doting.

Technically, this was what you wanted, and yet somehow you feel ashamed, because as it turns out, he'd always known what you wanted, and baited you into embarrassing yourself for his own selfish entertainment. (“You're cruel!” “That's a harsh way of saying it. I simply thought you were cute.” “!!!”)

But you could say your efforts were rewarded. Despite his previous diligence to keep up his professional demeanor in front of everyone before, after your little slip-up, it seemed as if he lost what little restraint he had.

A hand on your thigh whenever seated, or his head resting on your shoulder while he read documents. A foot softly nudging against yours whenever you sat across each other over the dinner table, or linking pinkies when you make a promise.

What used to be kisses exclusive in the private confines of your home now became a regular occurrence even in the public eye, ranging from innocent pecks to ones that lasted longer than they should when you were out on the open.

He could be classified as shameless. He's unabashed when he's caught red-handed in acts of intimacy, a stark contrast to your flustered state. He's not sorry at all, even upset at the sudden interruption, and he'd confidently say, “Yes, this is exactly what it looks like.” (He wouldn't care, unless it was Sucrose or Klee who had intruded in your little moment. Maybe then he'd try to save his dignity.)

Albedo is an artist, and your skin is his blank canvas. He paints reddened spots across your flesh with his lips, suckling on the surface to elicit short gasps. He leaves a smattering of bruises in his wake, like stars on a night sky, and he thinks the sight of you underneath him, with dazed eyes and glossy lips, marked with his bites, is his greatest masterpiece.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs against your throat, pressing kisses to the thrum of your pulse. You flush at the compliment, tightening your grip on his hair.

“I told you, you can't do that on places I can't hide-!” you cut yourself off with a wince, feeling his teeth sink on your skin. “Y-you don't like it either when I'm the one doing it to you!”

He hums curiously, relocating his lips to the shell of your ear. “Says who?”

“A-ah... you don't mind...?” you squirm when he draws circles to your waist, dipping ever so slowly to your hip. He chuckles on your ear, causing you to shiver.

“Of course not.” he lovingly traces the marks he's given you, thumb trailing down to your neck. He loves leaving his marks on you; proof that you accepted him, proof that you claimed him as yours. Proof that he existed in this world, and his mark would be a lasting memory. “Since it's you.”

“Smooth-talker...” you grumble, and he simply laughs. He kisses away the crease between your eyebrows, and your face softens.