Queen Trash

“when are you coming’ t’bed, ‘zuku?” and he can feel his heart swelling at the soft sound of your voice, a yawn piercing through halfway through your words. “miss you,” you murmur softly, and offer no complaint when he moves you to stand between his legs. “cold in the bed without you,”

he noses into your shoulder and inhales slowly, sighing quietly at the smell of laundry detergent. he knows he should go to bed, cups of coffee littered across his desk a testament to his vigor, but there was only one thing he was less than immune to. and it was standing before him, half asleep and in one of his shirts.

“d’you wanna wait for me to finish?” he asks instead, and murmurs his sorry when a pout forms on your lips. “almost done, sweet girl, promise.”

you end up flush against his chest, his warmth radiating through the flimsy cotton of his shirt, and find you can’t complain. his presence and periodic doting makes you drowsy, blinking slowly against the kisses he placed at your temple. an arm secure around your waist, he tries his best to keep his muttering to a low when your head nestles within the crook of his neck.

and before you do eventually fall back into slumber, he places his pen down and leans back in his comfortable desk chair, his now free hand petting over your head. “ready to go to bed now, angel?” his voice is warm when it reconstructs in your head, and he smiles faintly when you manage to nod against his chest.

“c’mon then, pretty. let’s go.”