#rozeblogs

“‘Cuz my boyfriend wasn't in bed.” You huff, pulling your arms tighter around you as you toe over, around the back of the couch. The cold bites into your exposed limbs. You were so goddamn warm and comfortable in your blanket.

You reluctantly trudge further away from the comfort of your bedroom. Your bare feet pad against the wooden boards, echoing in the quiet. Shota's lethargic face is illuminated in the iridescent blue of his laptop.

He leaned back against the couch to glance up at you, a soft groan escaping him with how stiff his body had gotten in the same position for the past few hours.

He tips his head back, eyeing you up and down, not even having the decency to look a little ashamed. His hand came up to rub the nape of his neck. His hair was tied into a loose bun.

“Let me wrap this up.” He implored, eyes dragging him back to the paperwork that sat in his lap next to his laptop. You walk closer towards him, now looming over him.

When you don't say or do anything, he glances back up at you with a raised eyebrow and sighs. “Are you just going to stare at me?”

At your lack of response, he pulls one arm away from his laptop and opens it up in a half hug, urging you to snuggle into him. You do not protest, knees buckling under you moving to bury your face into his shoulder, peeking at the white light emitting from his laptop.

His hand starts running up and down your waist, slipping under your—well, his—shirt, cold rough calloused hands brushing against your warmer skin, making you shudder. You could never get tired of it.

“D’ya want help?” You volunteer unenthusiastically. Your brain was working on 3 brain cells per second but anything to get him back into bed and snuggle up into him as soon as possible. Especially since you hadn't gotten to see him in almost three weeks.

Three weeks. Due to some stupid unnecessarily risky mission that had pulled him away from you. Not to mention that he had to go completely no contact due to the high staking nature of the mission. It hadn't helped with your nerves, not knowing how he'll come back or if he will. The thoughts always lingered in the back of your mind. Something always there but never to be touched upon.

Shota grunted, hand coming to a pause just above your hip. “Not really. The last time you helped, you managed to grade my student a -11.”

“I couldn't read the handwriting.” You grumbled, burying your face back in his neck. He chuckles softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. His lips linger, warm and dry. His stubble pricking your skin.

When he pulls away to focus on his work again, you nudge your forehead back into him. He doesn't immediately react.

Out of sheer frustration and a cravement for his touch, you crane your neck, hands sliding to the nape of his neck to tilt his head down. A noise escapes him but you press your lips to his, licking the dryness away. You hear him inhale softly, his hand squeezing your hip before it goes back to raking up your spine.

When you pull away, he only stares at you—doesn't blush. Well, not in the face. His only telltale was when the tip of his ears turned bright red. That, and also the fact you could feel his heart hammering against his ribs, thanks to how closely you were pressed to his chest.

“Stop trying to distract me…” He groaned softly, his hand sliding away from your spine to cup your face, tilting your chin upwards. “What was that for?” His thumb brushes against the apple of your cheek and you lean in.

“I just like seeing you flustered.” You shrug.

“‘m not flustered.” He rolled his eyes, glancing back at his laptop but his lips were curved into the softest of a smile.

“And your lips were, like, super dry.” You continue.

He licked his lips subconsciously, eyes narrowing towards you. “You’re being a brat.” He pouts. You want to kiss it off his face again. “Just shut up and let me finish this or I'm not going to bed.” The ‘threat’ is clear, his thumb tapping at your bottom lip.

“You’re cruel.” You bite out, sinking your teeth down into the tip of his thumb. He tries to pull it away but you sink your teeth harder into the flesh. He's basically shaking your head side to side trying to get it out.

He calls out your name, the same way he calls out his students' names when he's about to tie and string them up for doing something stupid.

“You know that doesn't work on me?” You raise your eyebrow, but begrudgingly let go. He flicks his pointer against your forehead and you huff out, burying your face back into his neck. He wraps his arm around your neck after a moment, going back to his paper work.

You zone out a few times. Your eyes blur while you focus on listening to the click and clacks that shoot out in the silence of the midnight. The soft hum of the refrigerator coming in from the kitchen, the regurgitating drip of the tap and his quiet inhales and exhales. If you focused hard enough, you could hear his heart beat.

You shuffle against him every now and then, your legs shifting in restlessness from having nothing to do. You wanted to tangle them with his, but that was impossible with the current position you two were in. Not to mention, it would make it harder for him to work.

He was on autopilot, his hand flicking in the same motions over and over again as he graded the papers. In the corner of your eye, you could see how his eyes had that blurry haze over them—the one you have when you're present physically but checked out mentally.

“Shou?” You murmur, unprompted.

He answers noncommittally, the noise comes from deep within his chest as if releasing a breath he'd forgotten taking. His hand moves back down to your waist, as if calling out to him reminded him you were still there.

“If a robber broke in here and said he'd kill me unless you let me peg you, would you do it?”

He blinked, slowly, like a turtle that was slowly processing its environment. It was 2AM. Both of you were far from out of it.

Then his face scrunched up, two fingers hovering over the touchpad on his laptop. “What?” He scoffed, as if he'd heard you wrong.

“If a robber broke in here, and said he'd kill me unless—” “It was rhetorical, sweetie. What the hell are you talking about?” He cuts you off, pushing you back to look at you in the eyes, his attention having completely deviated from his work.

“You heard me.” This time, it was you who didn't have the decency to look ashamed.

“Alright, I'm taking you to bed.” He stated officially, pushing off the paperwork, and laptop on his lap. You pull back slightly so he could set the things away properly.

He stands up, and you decide to slump down onto the sofa. “Get up.” He groaned at your theatrics. You push your hands into the air, making a grabby motion with your hands.

“I'm not picking you up. Stop acting like a brat.” He stares down at you. When you just pout, he grabs the collar off your shirt, and practically pulls you onto your feet. You stumble into his chest, cursing.

“You're so cruel.” You grumble, but then add: “...Kinda hot when you manhandle me.”

Shota lets out a disgruntled noise, shoving you back into the sofa with strength that eludes him, making his way to the bedroom. You jump off the sofa with a half whine and half giggle, jogging after him, and his long strides.

He's already in bed, his body bouncing off the mattress when you reach the room. His hair splayed out against the pillow.

“Just say you hate me.” You purse your lips, kicking the door shut behind you. He lets out a small ‘oomph’, when you decide to slump atop of him instead of your side of the bed. His arms instinctively curl around you.

“You're being so dramatic.”

“I’ve earned it.”

“How so?” You feel his fingers raking through your hair, his nails scratching your scalp soothingly. You would purr if you could.

“Cuz.” You answer, it was a little immature. But you really didn't want to sour the mood or anything, taking stride in the levity you two currently had, despite what lingered in the back of your mind.

He pulls you over, lying on his side and taking you along with him. You stare at each other, in spite of the darkness. Your eyes zooming in on the tiny glimmer in his.

“Something’s on your mind.” It wasn't a question.

“I don't like it when you do that.”

He calls out your name, it’s gentle but stern. A sign for you to stop dodging his questions.

You bite your lip, playing with the hem of his shirt. “I don't like when you go away for so long.” You confess. “I don't like when you go on missions, and don't contact me.” You have to enunciate each word carefully, so that you aren't mumbling.

“I don't have a choice, sweetie.” He sighs.

“I know… I'm being irrational.” You murmur, unable to hold eyes with him anymore because you could basically feel his gaze searing into you.

“I, just, don't like the thought of you being hurt… Or something bad is happening to you while you're out there. And me not being able to be there by your side to take care of you.”

“You're not being irrational.” He spoke. You blinked, looking back up at him. His hands rubbing at your cheek. “And it's not your responsibility to take care of me.”

“But I wanna.”

He hums to acknowledge you, pulling you a little closer. You wrap your arms around his neck, pressing your forehead to his. “You do enough.” He taps and pinches your cheek. “You remind me to take care of myself when I don't want to.” He kisses your cheek this time, you can tell his gaze is soft and sleepy.

“I should've noticed how you were feeling earlier, I'm sorry.” He mutters.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” You scoff. Shota smiles once again and presses himself closer to you. You bury your face into his neck, tangling your legs wishing you were twizzlers instead so nothing would separate you two.

“I'm always going to come back to you, okay?” He whispers.

You nod into his neck, feeling tears prickling your eyes for no other reason other than you just being overly emotional.

“Baby…” He feels the brush of wet eyelashes against his skin, and you clench his shirt tighter, not wanting him to pull back and look at your face.

“I'm fine.” You mutter. His hand brushes against your nape. “I missed you.”

“Yeah.” He replies, making you pause.

“You're supposed to say it back.”

“Say what back?” He raises his eyebrow innocently.

“Shota!” You wail.

He snorts, tilting his head up to kiss your forehead. “I missed you too.” That seems to satiate you as your body goes pliant against him.

You listen to the pulse in his neck, feeling his breath slowly even out. His hand massages your scalp soothingly, his other arm wrapped around your waist keeping you pressed against him.

“By the way, you didn't answer my question from earlier.”

“Go the fuck to sleep, you minx.” Shota groans.

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He'd pulled away, the mattress had shifted under you with gentle care when he thought you'd passed out, staring at the ceiling for long, lost in thoughts of who knows what. You'd kept your breath measured, your body loose until you heard the faint rhythm of his movement, feeling him roll over and sit at the bed's edge. Only then you'd open your eyes, your fingers twitched, brushing against the warmth he'd left behind only a few inches away, feeling his restlessness before you saw him. An instinct that came to one after years of knowing them and every curve and dip of their body.

You saw how he stared at the picture frame that laid by his bed, the one with a picture of him, Hizashi and Oboro during their high school years. A burden that would always weigh down on his shoulders.

“Aren't you tired?” You broke the silence. Your eyes trace the curve of his spine and the faint scars that came along with him. He stilled, sat at the very edge of the edge. His shoulders slumped.

He was quiet. Barely even acknowledging you.

You waited for a response but when there was none, you pushed yourself up—despite every sore muscle in your body begging you to stay in bed, under the warmth of your blanket and pretend everything was fine.

It wasn't.

The bedsheets rustled behind him, the mattress sinking. Your breath wisped by his ear, tucking your face against the nape of his neck, lazily wrapping your arms around his waist to press equally lazier kisses.

Despite himself, he shuddered.

His body instinctively seeks out your warmth. “Knock it off.” He grumbled, glancing at the arms wrapped around him. His hand cupping yours, running his thumb over your knuckles.

“Or what?” You teased, tracing his neckbone with your nose before sliding your chin against the curve of his neck, to get a better look at his profile—dimly bathed in moonlight.

His eye briefly met yours, marred with wear.

His lips came apart, as if to say something. His chest taut, waiting for a voice to escape only for air to rush out.

His ears glowed red as he looked away.

“...You know how people say…” he began, clearing his throat, “that hair holds memories?” He rubbed his hand over his knee. The metal creaked softly.

“Sounds oddly sentimental,” but you waited, waited for him to continue. Your finger sliding between his calloused ones, squeezing his hand. He stares down at it, before squeezing back.

“I want to forget.” He says, quietly. You pause, instinctively running your fingers through his hair. Heavy and pushing down on his shoulders.

“Is that what you've been thinking about?” You asked, matching his tone.

He exhaled, the red fading from his ear. Then he nodded.

“...Can you do it for me?” He asked, you wouldn't have heard otherwise had it not been for the dead of night.

You nod against his neck, kissing the tendon beneath your lips. “Okay.”

He hummed, turning his head towards you. Hair falling over his other eye. You pushed the locks out of the way, kissing his eye, and the scar that ran through it.

“Okay.” He echoed.

He stood, hand wrapped around yours to tug you along with him into the bathroom. The light flicked on, blinding you. Your feet padded against the tiles, coming to a stop as his hand slides against your waist to hoist you up. His biceps straining before plopping you onto the counter. You huff as he leans down beside your legs and pulls the cabinet open. Rummaging through it, and yanking out the medkit which he threw down onto the counter next to you, pulling out some medical scissors.

You blink, pressing your lips together. “You know these aren't meant to cut hair?”

He raises a brow, you shrug. His hands on your thighs push your legs open to stand between them then turn around

You stare at it, his hair—the ends were down to the small of his back, running your free hand through the locks.

You hesitated, biting your lip. “You’re sure?”

“Don't back out on me now.” He muttered gruffly. You nodded, despite him not being able to see you and gathered his hair in your hands, lifting it to press the cool metal to the nape of his neck.

The scissors’ metal snips as strands come off slowly, and fall to the ground—you made sure to keep it as even as you could. His shoulders slumped as the locks fell to the ground, pooling around his feet. A sacrifice to the floor.

He rolled his neck, hands dusting off the small strands that had stuck to him. His body is twisting to face you again.

“Feel lighter?” His eyes softened as he cupped your cheek, a small smile on his face as he pressed his forehead against yours. A silent thank you for doing what he couldn't make himself do.

He pulled you closer. His hands drifting to your hips, thumb sliding the hem of your shirt tracing the bare skin of your waist. His lips meet yours—slow and gentle, as if savoring you, committing you to memory like he'd done a thousand times before.

He pulls away only for a moment, and you see the mask break away, the desperation and need and the tire in his eyes. Oh, how it made your heart ache.

His lips were back on yours, a thirst that would never go unquenched, a grief that would never fully go quiet.