it's not often you get to see a sleepy suguru.
it's not like he's not tired – he's fucking exhausted; the dreams just don't seem to like him all that much. but he's usually toughing it out, trying to seem as composed and put-together as possible. the dark skin underneath his eyes betray him, though.
so you don't really know why today is different. is he just more tired? have all of the sleepless hours caught up with him? or is it just you; could it be that your body is the most comfortable place to rest his heavy head? or is it your perfume that's soothing him to sleep?
or is it the fingers in his hair?
he doesn't really let others play with his hair too ofter either. satoru and shoko had been the only exceptions but that was before you came along. satoru uses his hair as a stim, something to play with when he's bored. suguru has taught him manners though – a few slaps against satoru's fingers and chest to remind him to be more careful. and shoko is just more likely to brush a strand from his eyes or help him tie them up in a half-assed bun whenever his own hands are full with whatever.
you like playing with hair, always have and always will. it's relaxing and it's fun and it's calming and you love it. when you first met suguru, his hair was the second thing you noticed about him (his keen purple eyes being the first). an irresistible itch burned in your fingertips everytime you saw him, everytime he wore his hair down. it just looked so pretty and soft.
he takes very good care of his hair, you know that much. specific shampoos and conditioners, masks and all – he's all in. and nobody bats an eye. not that they should but satoru definitely gets made fun of because of his stupidly expensive collection of figurines and shoko gets teased for her silly mug shelf – and yet, neither of them ever comment on the bottles and tubs of fancy products that lay on his bathroom counter.
his hair also smells good. the compliment always hangs on the tip of your tongue but stays hidden in fear of coming off too weird. too creepy. but he doesn smell good. even with closed eyes and ears and you'd find him in a crowd. you wonder whether he knows that.
as you grew closer and closer, the now scorching itch only doubled in need. you never did gather the strenght to outwardly ask him – if you could play with his hair? if you could caress it? comb through it? it was an accident.
a simple gloomy friday afternoon: you're both lazing on your couch, staring at the screen. it's funny – you find yourself muffling your already quiet bursts of laughter, suguru alongside you. he's sitting close by, closer than usual. you don't ask him about it.
he asked to come over; something-something about being sick of his own apartment. you understand that, so you tell him that your home is his home (you'd tell him that even if you didn't understand). you hear the faint smile when he thanks you over the phone.
even when he looks like he hasn't slept in months – he looks good. you can tell he's overexaggerating his smile a bit but don't say anything about it, rewarding him with a grin of your own. his eyes flick to your lips and how they curve and he thinks about how warm it feels to look at you. maybe he's not exaggerating anymore.
your arms open wide, inviting him into you and he obliges, as always. he smells good. as always.
his hands lock behind your back and your behind his neck. your hearts meet and they greet each other with a fastened beat, eager to be in sync – to feel each other again.
he pulls back and the corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles. he's not doing it anymore and you're happy to relieve him even if it's for mere moments.
he's wearing a sweather and his hair is down. he has lip gloss on; you try to think whether he's more of a mint guy or more of a shea guy. it remains a mystery.
and now you're on the couch with two cups of warm tea waiting for you on the small table. he smells good. he's so close. he snickers at the screen and you can't take your eyes off of him. it's the same small crinkle of the eyes and the faintest pink tint on his cheeks.
you know he knows that you're looking at him. you've been told to have a staring problem and he's just an observant guy. it's a terrible match. or a perfect one.
he doesn't say anything though; instead he leans his head back and little to the side against the headrest (he's even closer now) and you find yourself shifting an inch aswell. perhaps magnets are involved? the iron in your blood pulling you together?
no, that can't be. you'd have to be polar opposites for that to work. warm-blooded and cold-blooded? would that work? you're getting too poetic and he's looking at you now.
it's an accident. it slips out on its own. you smell good. caught off guard by your own comment, you're about to apologize when a hand on your thigh almost makes you suffocate on the words stuck in your throat.
he laughs and it feels so good. he thanks you. he means it, you see it in his tired eyes. he likes the way you blush.
turning his focus back to the tv, you try to collect yourself. a deep breath in and a deep one out and a deep one in and a de—
a weight on your shoulder. he smells so good. he's so close. you peek down, curious as to whether this is a dream or not. but suguru's head is in fact laid on your body, sinking a bit more into you by the second. a deep breath in and a deep one out.
seeking for a more comfortable position, you snuggle closer to him. it's hard to focus but you're making it your sole mission to make him feel safe. your arm curls around his body, his shoulder, and rests right by a flock of his hair.
his cheek is now smushed against the top of your chest and the weight of love doesn't seem as bad as everyone keeps telling you. his hand finds a place around your waist; loosely – as if he's the one who's afraid to scare you off. silly.
his breath against you feels right and the butterflies in your stomach refuse to calm down. so you do what you always do when you get nervous – completely on their own, your fingers caress his hair. just smoothing over it at first but before you know it, they're combing through a strand and twirling the ends between themselves.
you wanna apologize, again, but the soft little grunt that emits from the man keeps you from doing so.
don't stop.
+ this is for @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat just bc it feels right
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Prompt/Headcanon:
Yes, yes, everyone loves Alastor being addicted to Lucifer’s blood in this fandom (me too tbh)… but what if,,, the opposite was true? Lucifer being addicted to Alastor’s blood? 👀
It started small.
Just one lick.
It had been an accident. He and Alastor had been in the middle of one of their all-out, don’t-stop-til-you-drop brawls. Alastor had started it, because of course he had – he was like the personification of stubbing your toe on the edge of the table, except he was around all the damn time. Lucifer had a vague recollection of yelling at him – “Do you really need to play ragtime jazz at three in the morning? And why are all your speakers facing my side of the hotel?” – and the glimmer of sharp teeth before It Happened.
Alastor shoved him out of the way with his staff, but Lucifer caught it at the last second and tried to pry it out of his grasp a little too enthusiastically. But Alastor – being the prideful, stubborn sore loser that he was – refused to let go, which meant Lucifer suddenly found himself squashed between an irate deer and the hard wall behind them.
“Gerroff–” As soon as he spoke, he felt something soft and pliable split beneath the sharp edge of his tooth.
A second later, something warm and wet touched his tongue. Just a drop.
But sometimes, a drop was all it took.
It was…it was like nothing he had ever tasted before. Like sin and death and the sweetness of apples, all rolled into one. His throat burned, as if he’d chugged an entire barrel of whiskey and stepped up for another round. Everything else he had ever tasted, ever drank, ever smoked, ever kissed faded from his lips entirely. He went in for another lick – but only found empty air.
Alastor had stepped away, rubbing at the side of his neck. The small scratch he’d made was already closed. Lucifer swallowed, his tongue suddenly a size too thick for his mouth. Alastor’s eyes narrowed, his pupils shifting to twin dials, clearly annoyed that someone had tasted him. That was the kind of thing he did to other people.
And from then on, Lucifer was an angel possessed.
—-----------------------------
Every time he caught a glimpse of Alastor, the bittersweet taste of forbidden fruit clouded his mind. He hungered. He needed. And he schemed and plotted away for that next fix.
The only problem was Alastor. He was very, very good at plotting – much better than Lucifer was.
If he crept up behind Alastor while he was chopping ingredients (a devastatingly domestic scene that never failed to make his heart skip a beat), Alastor would put him to work stirring the pot on the opposite side of the kitchen. If he accidentally-on-purpose tried to get close enough to graze him with a sharp claw, Alastor would make very loud insinuations about personal space that would leave Angel Dust snickering and Charlie wide-eyed – Dad, why do you want to get close to Alastor? Ohmigod, are you guys…doing it? What about Mom?
And as he tried to calm his hyperventilating daughter, Alastor would disappear down the hall, spinning his cane and humming West End Blues.
Once, he got so desperate he just leapt off the stairs, aiming straight for that smooth, slender neck of his – and ended up with a face full of carpet. Alastor re-appeared with one foot ground against the back of his head, the shadows behind him laughing so hard he thought they might laugh themselves out of existence.
He was going out of his mind. It had been days, and his whole mouth felt like dust. He smacked his head against the bar so hard glasses rattled in their shelves.
“Why, your Majesty, there’s no need to knock out what little brain cells you have left!” Came a merry, smug, utterly punchable voice to his left. He cracked open his eyes, glaring at Alastor’s wide smile, his gleeful, knowing expression. “If there’s something you want…have you ever tried asking?”
Admittedly, the thought had never crossed his mind.
"Can I...you know..." He gestured towards Alastor's neck, so neatly buttoned and hidden out of sight.
Alastor's eyes flashed green, a ghostly, stitched-up smile hovering just out of sight. "Perhaps. If you're very, very good." He leaned back, satisfaction burning like a brand on every inch of his face. "Only time will tell!"
This time, Lucifer did punch him.
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[id: the fist image is a fanart of gojo satoru in a chibi style. he's wearing his high school uniform and is all torn and bloody after his fight with toji, the scar on his forehead is visible through his messy, bloody hair. he's staring up to the viewer with wide eyes with murder in them and a wide grin, his teeth bloody. there are bloody footsteps behind him where he came from. the text over him is red and reads "STARES AT YOU WITH MY AUTISTIC EYES (MURDEROUS INTENT)"
the second image is an edit where gojo unleashed hollow purple against toji, "hollow purple" is edited to be "AUTISM BEAM" /end id]
rip toji he couldn't handle the 'tism
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You know, I wonder if Arlong was after money cause it's the great equalizer - as long as he had money even Marines bowed to him, etc?
Lemme get back to you with the detailed answer after Fish-Man Island. I have A LOT of thoughts about Arlong but you can’t talk about Arlong without talking about Tiger and Hody and Sabaody and allll of that.
The short version is: you’re not wrong! I definitely think that's part of it.
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