#yayyy

My coven is Claudia.

Referencing Gustav Klimt’s The Kiss

sometimes, waking up married to simon hurts, not because he did anything, but because he isn’t even there half the time. always off at war, serbia, colombia, leaving you with an empty space beside you and your hands curled around one of his t-shirts.

it smells like his body spray, smells like his sweat, smells like him, and some nights being cuddled up with that is enough.

but when he’s at home, it’s completely different, like tonight, you barely heard him come in and slip under the covers, and it’s 6am when your alarm goes off.

you feel his big hands splayed over your belly, big arms around your waist. “mmm, gotta wake up si-“ you mumble, knowing your husband’s scent of sandalwood and lynx body spray. and the way he breaths, all deep and snug in your skin, and the way his hands fit so carefully around your hips.

“can’t we just sleep in?” his voice is all gravelly with sleep, his stubble nipping against your ear, hair still a little spikey with the hair gel he refuses to take off.

“fine.” you nestle backwards into his arms, feeling his breath hitch as you feel  his hands tense up. 

“fuckin tired love-“ he starts, but you can almost see him going red, feel the heat on his face, and you stretch your arms and legs, cuddling into him a little closer.

“mmhp?” you yawn, scratching his ears behind you, you can feel something poking into your your lower back, but dear lord are you not worrying about that until later.

 you feel him turn your body to face him, see your husbands face after months of seeing photos of the mask. the scars on his face have increased, but you still look at him like you saw him for the first time.

“good morning mr riley.” you say, softly.