Movement A.h.b.

movement — a.h.b.

cw: nothing i can think of for this one (apart from the usual fluff)

“you’re really bad at sneaking, you know?” his voice makes me jump. i push away from the doorframe, stand up straighter, and curse under my breath. 

he’s on the floor, starfished, face up at the ceiling with his eyes closed. his face looks so soft and tranquil, so relaxed that for a moment there i was sure he’d fallen asleep, nodded off while thinking like he so often does. 

“how d’you know i was sneaking?” i challenge. “maybe i just got here.”

it only takes him a second to click his tongue. “have been smelling your perfume for five minutes now.”

i smile to myself, walk in and stand over him. “and you couldn’t say that five minutes ago? you kept me waiting?” 

without opening his eyes, he shrugs. “kinda like it when you stare at me. especially when you think i can’t tell.”

his face turns from relaxed to smug, the corners of his mouth lifting up. quietly i roll my eyes and stick my tongue out even though he can’t see, and get on the floor next to him. 

the wood digs into my back until i find a comfortable spot, our arms touching, my head tilted towards his. the ceiling is the same plain beige it has always been. i wonder if he sees it differently—the colour and the shadows and the contrast. i wonder if his version is prettier than mine. 

“you’ve been in here for hours. i missed you.”

“it’s been hours?” he raises his brow and finally opens his eyes. “i didn’t realise…”

“did you fall asleep?”

he frowns, tries to look insulted even though we both know it’s likely. “no,” he sighs, “don’t think so at least. i was just…lost in thought. well no that’s not right—if i were lost in thoughts, i would have thought about something. heh, redundant, isn’t it?”

“baby, you’re rambling.” i turn to him, caress his cheek and smooth away the crease between his brow. “something bothering you?” 

the crease i’d worked hard on, reappears. “i don’t know. i feel…i don’t know. i feel…empty?”

“writ—”

“don’t say that word. i don’t have it, that’s not what’s happening!”

his insistence on not using that word—on never using that word—is endearing, and yet i keep it to myself. teasing is not what he needs right now. 

“right, get up!”

“what…?”

“come on,” i insist, tug on his hand, “get up. you need something better. there’s no point in lying there like a dead fish, is there?”

he glares at me and even that lacks conviction. ultimately he gives up, but he makes sure to groan and sigh as loud as possible before standing up. towering over me. 

“hi,” i smile, “there you are.”

“there i am,” he tries to smile. it comes out more as a grimace. 

“play something for us. what were you listening to before?”

he averts his eyes and hedges, a pink tinge taking over his entire face like he’s just come inside from being out in the sun. 

“my own music,” he mumbles. “i wanted to see what people liked about it so much, if i could recreate it.”

“you could bang pots and pans together and still create a masterpiece.”

“you’re biased!”

“and also right,” i retort and try not to melt when he places his arms around me. “those two aren’t mutually exclusive, you know? now,” i step to one side, wait for him to follow my lead. then step to the other. then i throw him a cheesy wink. “make me sway.”

he rolls his eyes but i don’t miss the tenderness that creeps in them, don’t miss the way his grip on me tightens. don’t miss the way he’s suddenly the one leading us, swaying to his own song. his voice is all around us, i rather like it like that. 

“what’s the point of this, can i ask?”

“does there have to be a point?”

for a moment, he’s silent. then he shrugs, twirls me around. “i guess not.” 

“and are you not having fun?”

“dancing to my own song?” he scoffs. “‘s arrogant.”

“and dancing with me?”

that gets at least a tiny smile out of him. it’s enough to make his eyes crinkle, to make his smile lines appear. and for a moment in the sunlit room, i fall for his smile again. 

“that’s lovely,” he picks me up, twirling us together and gently sets me down again. “maybe i should write about that. about you. about how when you move, i’m moved.”

“catchy,” i laugh. “maybe you should. i’d love to be a muse.”

“darling, you are a muse,” he smiles wider, then bends down to kiss me. “my perfect muse.”

buttery warmth spreads through my body, right down to the tip of my toes. “you give me too much credit. all i did was walk in here. and dance. if you want to call swaying at a glacial pace ‘dancing’.”

“and you give yourself too little credit,” he speaks, breathes more like it. if we weren’t standing so close, i wouldn’t have heard him at all. “you’re perfect for simply existing.”

I don’t know if your taking requests but I would love to read something about taking a bath with Andrew 🥰 anyway, I love you’re writing!!

this is genuinely the freakiest coincidence because i wrote half of this last night, wayyy before getting this request!! anon we share the same braincell

also thank you sm for reading!! i appreciate you very much 🤎🤎

cw: nudity (non-sexual), sappy and sickly sweet but at this point if you're coming here expecting anything else...idk what to tell you

“ah, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” he shuts the bathroom door behind him, shuts his eyes too and sighs for a long moment. 

i flick some of my bath bubbles at him and squawk in mock outrage. “i’m naked in here, you know?”

still leaning against the door, he half-opens his eyes and smirks, “that supposed to deter me, darling?”

i take him in properly then—hair slipping out of his bun, messy, unruly, like he’s ran his hands through it quite a lot today. the sleeves of his sweaters are pushed up to his elbows. ink stains his fingers, calluses litter the palm of his hands. 

“there’s no way the two of us are fitting in this together,” i laugh, “we’d spill water everywhere!”

“i’ll clean it,” he protests without missing a beat. “let me in? please?”

softness creeps into his features, the kind that melts my heart until it’s nothing but a beating mess at his feet. “get in,” i smile, “i’ve got a eucalyptus bubble bath going.”

sluggishly he begins to get out of his clothes—socks at first, tossed in one corner of the bathroom, then the sweater joins the pile. i stare at him, a bit mesmerised, at his stomach and chest and arms. all that skin on display, skin that i have touched and caressed and kissed a million times. and yet i feel breathless. 

a moment later, he kneels by the tub, still in his jeans, and flicks a thumb at the corner of my lips. “got a bit of drool there, baby.”

i flush, and he steals a kiss, smug and satisfied. 

“don’t be evil,” i pout, “i’ll uninvite you!”

“mm-hmm, and are you capable of that?”

i roll my eyes, trying to hide the smile creeping onto my face once again. it takes him a few more seconds to pull down his jeans, his boxers, and then i slide forward and make room for him. 

the regret is instant. “oh my god,” i scrunch my eyes shut as water floods the bathroom, drenching the edges of his discarded clothes. all he does is laugh—impish and full of mischief. “god you’re lucky i love you!”

“i am,” he kisses the nape of my neck once he settles behind me, “i really am.”

his skin is warm when i settle against him. he smells like he always does—his cologne, day old now, the fabric softener he’s used since long before i knew him, and something that is entirely and inexplicably him. i breathe in deep until it fills my lungs, until the smell of eucalyptus almost disappears from the room. 

“how was your day?” 

“honestly?” he sighs, and starts a vague soapy doodle on my thigh. “it was a lot. not quite so physically, just…emotionally. i couldn’t wait to get back home to you.”

“yeah? that bad?”

“just hard…not bad. never bad.”

i nod, and trace a vein on his arm, leaving a soapy trail behind. silence settles over us for a few moments, occasionally broken by his small sighs. it’s nice, this—being able to feel his heartbeat against my body. absently, he hums a tune, something i haven’t heard before. 

“that’s new,” i lean my head against his chest, relish the vibrations of his humming travelling through my body. “is it?”

“it is. nothing concrete, just something i’ve been toying around with.”

“‘s nice, sweet.”

“you think so?” he asks and i nod. after another moment of silence, he chuckles lightly, then tightens his hold on me. “maybe i’ll use it for a song about you. that’s a nice idea, isn’t it?”

“i didn’t know there were songs about me,” i giggle, and kiss the back of his hand, once and then once again for good measure. 

“there are always songs about you,” he nuzzles his face into the crook of my neck, kissing the spot where my pulse is quite obvious. “in my head or my notebooks or on any scraps of paper i can get my hands on. always you.”

like he so often does, he leaves me speechless—stuck between blushing and welling up—until he flicks bubbles on me and the moment dissolves away. 

“we should just get takeaway,” he declares innocently, like he hasn’t left me with a lump in my throat. “i just want to be lazy with you.”

i clear my throat, shake my head. “takeaway it is. i can order while you clean the bathroom, right?” i bite my lip and keep the laugh in. 

he groans, huffs on my shoulder. “god, you’re lucky i love you!”

“i am,” i kiss his knuckles softly, knowing i mean every single word of it. “i really am.”

I’m so sorry but in the nicest way possible do yall actually read books or just read words??? Cause I’ve been seeing that trend of people not understanding how “snarled” and “eyes darkened” and “eyes softened” etc. was used in a book and like…

Genuinely, do yall just not have imagination?? Or not understand figurative language??? Also eyes do literally darken and soften have you not lived a life??? How do you read with no imagination? Is this how you get through so many books in one month - you simply don’t take the time the understand the words as they are read?

'cause my baby's sweet as can be, she give me toothaches just from kissin' me — a.h.b.

cw: fem!reader, mentions of food, mentions of diets, kinda suggestive, fluff (literally at this point what else do i write other than sickly sweet, domestic fluff)

for two weeks now he’s been on a diet so strict it’ll put a hollywood starlet to shame. 

it’s necessary, he’s aware—he needs to be fit to perform on stage every night for hours, keep up his energy. he needs to entertain. he’s indulged enough in the last few months anyway. 

which is why when the smell of chocolate and vanilla wafts out of the kitchen, his head turns. his eyes flutter shut of their own accord, his mouth floods with saliva. 

fuck. 

it really is a divine smell. 

he imagines the silly little animals in cartoons, imagines their anthropomorphic feet lifting off the ground, the noses trailing the translucent vapours, leading them to the source of it. a giant batch of warm, homemade biscuits in this case. 

he won’t fall for it though, he knows it’s not for him—it’s for the neighbour’s boy of all people, for his 10th birthday, apparently. still he can’t resist taking a peak. 

when he stops at the threshold of their kitchen, he finds exactly what he predicted. 

the kitchen is bathed in rainbows, sunlight filtering through all the sunlight stickers on the windows. the music isn’t deafeningly loud, but it’s loud enough that she barely hears him when he walks in. she’s too engrossed to even hear him snickering at her off-key singing. 

“hello, you,” he smiles, hugging her from behind. she jumps a little at first but melts the moment his arms wrap around her. “this smells delicious.”

“so have one,” she shrugs. the tiny movement intensifies the sweet smell clinging to her—sugar and vanilla and chocolate. something that matches her so perfectly that he can’t resist sliding her hair aside to place a little kiss on her shoulder.

“you know i can’t, you cruel woman.” another kiss, longer than the last one. “i’ll have one, and one more, and one more, and, well…there might not be any left for the birthday party.”

she sighs deeply, pretending to be engrossed in thought, giggling when his kisses turn more frequent, lips moving from her shoulder to her back, to the nape of her neck. 

“on second thought,” he breathes onto her skin, enjoying the way she shivers in response, “i could eat you, you're the sweetest thing in the world.”

“you called me cruel two seconds ago!”

“mmm yes, it is cruel how perfect you are now that you say it.”

“what’s gotten into you, huh?” she laughs, a touch too breathy to be teasing. he could decipher her laughs in his sleep—this one particularly. she’s enjoying it, she just won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing it. 

“pretty baby,” he nips at her earlobe, “i like watching you bake. you have this look on your face of utter concentration…tongue poking out and all.”

“do i? didn’t know you had such domestic fantasies about me.”

“oh i have a variety of fantasies about you.”

he knows she’s biting her lip without even looking at her. it’s in vain though—she’s never been able to stifle a smile, not around him. he prides himself on it too much. 

“keep a few biscuits for us, will you?”

she turns partially, furrowing her brows. “thought you didn’t want any.”

he takes the opportunity, turns her around by the waist until she’s pressed flush against his chest, trapped between him and the kitchen island. he sees the small smudge of flour on her cheek then, even the smudge of chocolate on the corner of her lip from when she no doubt snuck a piece. or two. 

“‘s not for me,” he clicks his tongue, bends till his nose is pressed to her cheek. “‘s so you could eat them, and kiss me after. it’ll make them sweeter that way.” 

even with his eyes closed he feels her cheeks flushing, feels the thud of her heart when he kisses the chocolate smudge away, flicking his tongue over her lip in the process—something he simply can’t resist. then he brushes the flour away with his knuckles and tilts her chin up until she has no choice but to look at him. 

“stop flirting with me,” she frowns deeply, trying to look all serious and jabs a finger in his chest. “i have a kitchen to clean.” and even that lacks any conviction. she’s enjoying far too much to put up any facade. 

“unless—” he’s not even surprised by the perfect puppy eyes at this point “—you wanna clean it for me? you do love me, don’t you?”

and that’s definitely a trap he’s walked right in. 

he laughs, rests his forehead on hers for a moment. “go sit down, i’ll take care of this.”

she pumps her fist in the air, not even trying to be the least bit subtle. and just like always, he’s fallen for it (for her really) hook, line and sinker.

'cause my baby's sweet as can be, she give me toothaches just from kissin' me — a.h.b.

cw: fem!reader, mentions of food, mentions of diets, kinda suggestive, fluff (literally at this point what else do i write other than sickly sweet, domestic fluff)

for two weeks now he’s been on a diet so strict it’ll put a hollywood starlet to shame. 

it’s necessary, he’s aware—he needs to be fit to perform on stage every night for hours, keep up his energy. he needs to entertain. he’s indulged enough in the last few months anyway. 

which is why when the smell of chocolate and vanilla wafts out of the kitchen, his head turns. his eyes flutter shut of their own accord, his mouth floods with saliva. 

fuck. 

it really is a divine smell. 

he imagines the silly little animals in cartoons, imagines their anthropomorphic feet lifting off the ground, the noses trailing the translucent vapours, leading them to the source of it. a giant batch of warm, homemade biscuits in this case. 

he won’t fall for it though, he knows it’s not for him—it’s for the neighbour’s boy of all people, for his 10th birthday, apparently. still he can’t resist taking a peak. 

when he stops at the threshold of their kitchen, he finds exactly what he predicted. 

the kitchen is bathed in rainbows, sunlight filtering through all the sunlight stickers on the windows. the music isn’t deafeningly loud, but it’s loud enough that she barely hears him when he walks in. she’s too engrossed to even hear him snickering at her off-key singing. 

“hello, you,” he smiles, hugging her from behind. she jumps a little at first but melts the moment his arms wrap around her. “this smells delicious.”

“so have one,” she shrugs. the tiny movement intensifies the sweet smell clinging to her—sugar and vanilla and chocolate. something that matches her so perfectly that he can’t resist sliding her hair aside to place a little kiss on her shoulder.

“you know i can’t, you cruel woman.” another kiss, longer than the last one. “i’ll have one, and one more, and one more, and, well…there might not be any left for the birthday party.”

she sighs deeply, pretending to be engrossed in thought, giggling when his kisses turn more frequent, lips moving from her shoulder to her back, to the nape of her neck. 

“on second thought,” he breathes onto her skin, enjoying the way she shivers in response, “i could eat you, you're the sweetest thing in the world.”

“you called me cruel two seconds ago!”

“mmm yes, it is cruel how perfect you are now that you say it.”

“what’s gotten into you, huh?” she laughs, a touch too breathy to be teasing. he could decipher her laughs in his sleep—this one particularly. she’s enjoying it, she just won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing it. 

“pretty baby,” he nips at her earlobe, “i like watching you bake. you have this look on your face of utter concentration…tongue poking out and all.”

“do i? didn’t know you had such domestic fantasies about me.”

“oh i have a variety of fantasies about you.”

he knows she’s biting her lip without even looking at her. it’s in vain though—she’s never been able to stifle a smile, not around him. he prides himself on it too much. 

“keep a few biscuits for us, will you?”

she turns partially, furrowing her brows. “thought you didn’t want any.”

he takes the opportunity, turns her around by the waist until she’s pressed flush against his chest, trapped between him and the kitchen island. he sees the small smudge of flour on her cheek then, even the smudge of chocolate on the corner of her lip from when she no doubt snuck a piece. or two. 

“‘s not for me,” he clicks his tongue, bends till his nose is pressed to her cheek. “‘s so you could eat them, and kiss me after. it’ll make them sweeter that way.” 

even with his eyes closed he feels her cheeks flushing, feels the thud of her heart when he kisses the chocolate smudge away, flicking his tongue over her lip in the process—something he simply can’t resist. then he brushes the flour away with his knuckles and tilts her chin up until she has no choice but to look at him. 

“stop flirting with me,” she frowns deeply, trying to look all serious and jabs a finger in his chest. “i have a kitchen to clean.” and even that lacks any conviction. she’s enjoying far too much to put up any facade. 

“unless—” he’s not even surprised by the perfect puppy eyes at this point “—you wanna clean it for me? you do love me, don’t you?”

and that’s definitely a trap he’s walked right in. 

he laughs, rests his forehead on hers for a moment. “go sit down, i’ll take care of this.”

she pumps her fist in the air, not even trying to be the least bit subtle. and just like always, he’s fallen for it (for her really) hook, line and sinker.

His hands 🛐💖

I'm just a girl 😫