#stan got7

Cool, slender fingertips cup soft cheeks in both hands, thumbs brushing against pretty cheekbones as a tall male peers down at a young woman with much more adoration than he probably should. There’s something gentle glinting in his otherwise dark pupils, hazy with wild thoughts and dangerous intent.

The darkness was not for her, however. What she has is his utter and pure devotion. Even despite the multiple incidents they’ve survived together, (usually) initiated under Takatsuki Mashiho’s untamed shots fired under unpredictable circumstances, she was unwavering- an anchor to his ship. (Everything about him was unpredictable.) And for that- she deserved nothing less of pure devotion. 

Because what this young woman had- no, sparked, was the little twinkles held in his eyes whenever they so much as flickered in her direction. She brought control into his life in a way he’d never experienced before; she had the elegance, poise and mystery of the moon that was so beloved by all, after all.

No, that was wrong. It was all wrong- she wasn’t like the moon- 

The moon was like her.

She was the standard, not the moon.

Just like the moon that all mortals wondered at, wrote songs and composed poems longing for, gazed at even through the still waters of an outwards stretching lake, Mashiho found himself drawn to her; drawn to her beauty, her intelligence, her temper- to every detail. She brought him subtle peace the same way the moon did for mortals, shining softly in the dark skies (-when the sun dies for another night). She was a constant, comforting presence the same way the moon was, to all the lost and lonely words spoken out of yearning. 

As ironic as it may have seemed, she was the moon- his moon. His full moon, the one who never wavers.

And god (ha-), most of the all, she was the one Mashiho found himself cherishing the most- worshiping like the mortals did for him. She didn’t need (technically-) him, like the moon didn’t need her own believers, but he needed her.

And really- anyone could go on forever about how gorgeous, beautiful, and captivating the moon was. Mashiho could do the same for her. The moon- he’s seen many times, practically embodied it (right?). But her- he could never become accustomed to her. 

She was the standard not even the moon could compare with.

And now, when the darkness has blanketed the sky once again, the sun falling to the end of the realm once again, Yua beamed as brightly as she ever did. 

The thumb brushing against her cheekbone is soft and fond as Mashiho leans in to her. 

Lips land on her forehead first- tender and thoughtful. 

And then plush lips against hers, attentive and ardent. 

It’s always like this every night- though sometimes one planted against the apple of her cheeks came instead. But constant and almost dutiful, and these actions will be until fate has decided otherwise. (Because not even a scary dorm mother can keep him from such sacred... ‘habits’.)