Hiiii guys, I just wanted to let you know I have this super duper cute hand beaded necklace on my store! It's available in hot pink, lilac, black, red and blue and is adjustable! You can find it here !
Happy birthday to my best friend. I know I've said it before but it crazy to me that we live on other sides of the world and have only met once when I feel I've known you my entire life. I wish we could've known each other when we were children, you are and we're the dream friend I always wanted.
Whether that's supporting me or listening to me go on about the same thing, I've never had someone who was always there for me so much. I know I am sometimes a stubborn or difficult person. But you've made me feel like anything less than the best.
And I hope we are friends for the rest of our lives. I can't wait to see you in Paris.
- shujis sweetheart
you told me not to open until the morning not to answer on the 27th π but in my defense work yesterday was absolutely hell!!!!!!!!!
but i love you so much, okay? thank you for being here for me even if im stubborn and when i was crying over a BALDING guy and also thank you for the warm wishes, you were always the first person to say happy birthday to me and i hope this tradition continues until we're two little old ladies (and ill greet you in heaven like my grandma is doing to her bff now).
you're my best friend and the best answer to a prayer that i ever had!!!! and we'll have a blast in Paris just like we did in London! i love you sosososo much
Hello everyone! These lilac bell flower earrings are now live for sale on my store here so feel free to peruse. There's only one pair available so if you'd like to purchase they will be sold on first come first serve basis. Do let me know if you have any questions!
dude nobody gets it it's been ten years. ten long years im now an adult with a job doing uni but my country is now canon in hetalia that was my teenage dream????????
LOOK AT HIM THAT'S HIM THAT'S BRAZIL LOOK AT HIS THICK BROWS HIS GOLDEN CHAIN
Summary: you show hanma you're serious about belonging to him (or the one in which he can't believe you're his)
Cw: fem! Reader, mildly suggestive but nothing too crazy, petnames (sweetheart, baby, pretty girl, doll) brief possessiveness.
A/n : no taglist this time since it's a birthday gift for my hanma anon' but reblogs still very appreciated. Happy birthday to the angel of my heart, I adore you far more than this little fic will ever show.
Hanma Shuji has been driving slower than usual since the day he met you.
It was instinctual, subconscious even, the way he eases the car into the space in front of your place, as easily as you have eased into his life. Maybe he even puts his seatbelt on sometimes, hearing your voice in his head that tells him incessantly how he should be careful.
Always with love, a click of your tongue and a kiss to the corner of his mouth that feels more tender than he thinks he deserves.Β
For you, always for you, because this time he has something to come back to. You, waiting at home in blankets, in the living room he has spun you around in before, the house he has come to nurture with you.Β
God heβs getting soft isnβt he?Β
His cigarette is unlit between his lips when he stumbles through the door, cursing as he trips over the sandals he had haphazardly left there this morning, the carpet curled underneath his heavy tread and itβs so him, so Shuji to you, that even as he knocks against the bannister, and throws his jacket over the sofaβs armrest, you can only smile against your blanket.
βMy Pretty Girl? Are you still awake?β A whisper in the otherwise darkened room, his silhouette glowing against the painted wall, the lift of his curls golden in the lamplight.Β
You make some non-committal noise from underneath the weight of your pillows and out comes your head, sleepy and clean of makeup, the tired drag of your eyes squinting as his figure looms over you, bright and big and beautiful and him.Β
βWhat are you doing still awake Sweetheart?β he says and all but flops onto your sofa, crushing you underneath, the weight of his long limbs pinning you to the soft down of your weighted blanket.
You huff, and move your legs, wrapping them around his hips as you take his face in your hands.
Itβs tired, and the harsh lines under his eyes are nothing but an indicator of the fatigue stretching his skin taut.
βYouβre beautiful.β A swipe of your thumb across his cheek, the dip of his cheekbones that give way to full and plump lips, the golden luminescence of his eyes brighter by the light that falls in shadows across his face.Β
βThat didnβt answer my question, Doll.β And his arms come up to wrap around you, his cheek flat across your chest and he thinks your heartbeat is the best sound heβs ever heard (with one exception of course), the soft drum of it a lull to the otherwise chaotic zing of electricity in his head.
He sighs, his thumbs pressing into the bones of your spine and all it takes is the lingering touch of his too-adept hands to have you folding and writhing against him.
βStayed awake for you didnβt I?β A kiss pressed to the crown of his head, and your hands coming up to brush the curls from his forehead, soft and feathery light, the wisps of hair threading through softer fingers.
He likes it, your touch and it feels more tender than heβs used to. It has taken almost too long to get to this, the stage where he does not still at the contact, the proximity. Where he leans against your palm, chin against smooth skin, pressing you into him, and with a kiss to your lips that often leads to more. Because he is insatiable with you, tempted all too often by the fit of your waist in his eager hands, your neck a canvas for teeth and a tongue that licks at you as eagerly as you do him.
βShouldnβt have Sweetheart, you need your beauty sleep.β And he slides further up, his face now buried safely in the crook of your neck, breath warm on the curve of your shoulder.Β
βAnd you donβt? You take his face in your hands, press a gentle kiss to his eyelids fluttering under your warm lips, thumbs brushing at the lashes that curve against the apple of his cheeks.
βIβm beautiful already,β he says, a smile thatβs lopsided with fatigue and half-heartedness, his aching chest now sinking and rising with love. Itβs so much sometimes, the heaviness of his heart in his chest, the ache of it, a weight thatβs almost burdensome to carry and would be if it were anyone but you.Β
βWho said?β And you grin, giving him the mischievous glint in your eye that makes his stomach tighten with a familiar thrill.Β
βExcuse me,β he says, slurring, words tripping and rolling into each other with every languid shuffle of his hips pressed to yours. βIβm sexy and I have a big-β
You press your palm to his lips, fingers skimming at the perfect nose that falls in a proud arc. βCan you be quiet? I have something to show you.βΒ
It had been a spontaneous idea at first, a vague thought ruminating as you worked, gaining speed as the days passed, gaining momentum till youβd all but convinced yourself it was time, the both of you were ready for it, for the leap of faith that led you barreling into each other.
And so youβd done it, and a few hours later, the fruits of your secret were borne and painted on you like the bites he left in his wake. More permanent than the littering of broken capillaries that turned blue and purple by morning, teeth marks still indented into your skin.
He tuts under his breath and huffs, rolling his eyes before blowing an errant curl from his forehead. βSo serious. So what is it? Is it a lingerie set because-β
βShuji shush,β You poke his side and he giggles, and you wonder if you will ever not trip at the sound, if it will ever not punch at the bones of your rib cage curved around your heart. You wonder if it will ever change, if the sound of his laughter bouncing off the walls, the sight of a grin that stretches from ear to ear will ever not be overwhelming, crushing and freeing all at once.Β
You pull your hair to the side, tilting your neck, the lamplight dancing on your skin. There, under your ear, along the fine bones that run down your neck, is the blackened swirl of tattoo ink, a cursive and neat βHSβ that sits proudly, mattified and still slightly sore.
Itβs small in reality, barely the length of your thumb from start to end, but the implication is enough, and the silence that hangs heavy between the two of you, tension that coagulates in the air tells you he gets it.
He stares, the pinch of his brow deepening, lips pulled between his teeth as if in thought. He pauses, his jaw slack for a momentary second, lidded eyes flitting to yours and searching for recognition, for the genuineness he has always found in you and never in others.Β
βFor me?β he says eventually, his pupils now widened, black swirling in gold,the iridescent shimmer of copper under dark lashes.
He swallows, the lump in his throat heavy, weighted with love and want and all of it so foreign to someone like him, who feels the blood crusted under his fingernails in murky bathrooms, who has killed more than he can begin to name, who has spent years doing so just for the promise of standing on top and looking down.
βWell, do you know anyone else with these initials?β You say, drinking it in. The sight of him with pupils blown wide, the adams apple that slips and slides under his smooth throat, the column of it pinkened from your mouth.
βOh youβre being funny now aren't you?βΒ
βI am funny, baby.β A beat, and a smile, gentle and honest and reserved for the moments like this, the quiet ones where it is just you and him and the four painted walls. βOf course itβs for you, just something special.βΒ
And it is, it really is and he resists the urge to bite straight into it, to drink the air in your lungs like heβs starving, and kiss you till youβre spent and breathless and aching with need.
βYou wanted to belong to me that bad huh Sweetheart?β His voice is the slightest bit shaky, rough and gravelly with the lump that turns in an arc in the base of his chest, the cigarettes and alcohol and quiet of sleep.
βObviously I do.β An irrefutable fact. Sure you fight, you throw words at each other that bounce off the walls and settle at your feet, vitriol that in hindsight never means much because you always come back, he always comes back and the tension seeps from your skin when he holds you at the end of the day and his chest is so warm and broad that sinking into it is almost a given. You think itβs unfair, mean and incessantly cruel how quickly your body betrays you for him, how instinctual the reach for him is at the end of every day.
βDo what?β
βI do love you.βΒ
A beat. His eyebrows shoot up and it makes him wince against the light. βNo you donβt Pretty girl, youβre too good to love me.β This final part said in a whisper against your collarbone, faltering into the unknown, because Hanma Shuji doesnβt know if heβs capable of loving like you deserve. Heβs all fire and chaos and instability, a slave to his own whims.
βHeyβ¦.β You tighten your grip on his jaw, your furrowed brows now mirrored in his. βYou donβt get to decide that. I chose you, I choose you now.βΒ
Youβre convinced that everyone else gets it wrong, and perhaps itβs narcissistic to say that, that everyone else assumes that love is a feeling that carries you and not the other way around.
Perhaps in truth, itβs only that Hanma Shuji makes you work for that love, a conscious choice that you make every morning that leads you ultimately back to him as it always does. In the same vein, he chooses you, time and time again and his choice leads him to your arms, his mouth warm against your neck, attentive enough to have your skin prickling with need.
βEven though βm a real scary guy?β His voice is muted by fatigue by now, a rough and gravelly murmur.
βNot to me youβre not. Well maybe a little but to me youβre my hero.β
That earns you a raised eyebrow and the return of a feline grin, lopsided with exhaustion but a grin all the same and you think itβs pathetic how your heart trips in your chest, a hole punched against your ribs.
βHeroes save people Sweetheart. What if I donβt want to save you huh?β
βThen drag me to hell with you, do what you want to me.β Your heels press into the small of his back, thumbs following the sharp line of his jaw till theyβre catching on his full lips, now parted and wreathed in the shadow of the lamplight.
βI like the sound of that, whatever I wantβ¦ What if I don't want to let you go? Keep you mine forever?β His hands follow the curve of your shoulder, the bones in your spine, a body that reacts so viscerally to his touch that he feels he could mould you himself, press himself so deeply into you that thereβs room for little else.
βThen do that. Iβm yours.β Your voice drops, a hushed whisper hovering between your lips.
It snaps at that point, the tension that has simmered between you since his return, a snowball of stress and anxiety, love and want and lust and exhaustion that has only grown and peaked.Β
And he kisses you then. Softly at first, his hands gentle on your back, thumbs pressing firmly into the grooves of your spine, the dips between the bones that fit his knowing hands so well heβs convinced they were made for him. A soft sigh leaks between your lips and he drinks it up, swallows the avid whining that has you pulling him even closer, his shirt now lopsided, buttons loosened enough for your hands to roam along his broad chest.Β
Itβs messy, all fabric and shed clothes and sighing that weighs heavily between the four witnessing walls, the lamplight falling on the golden curls, the honeyed skin thatβs teased between the open collars, sin and punishment coming to rest on your hips as you rock them against him in need.Β
And then you feel it, the sharp bite of his pointed teeth under the flesh of your ear, piercing and rough and dragging down your neck. Itβs everywhere and nowhere at once, the sinking of his teeth on the sensitive tattoo, on your collar bones, the hollow dip in your clavicle that he sucks harshly on and then licks over to soothe.Β
You think you make a noise of contentment, but itβs half-lost in the mumble of praise falling from his lips, the string of saliva breaking when he pulls his mouth from yours for the umpteenth time and your shirts are discarded on the floor, a pile of fabric and cotton, the cuffs of his sleeves still bearing the telltale red smudges that are fading to brown.
βMine,β he murmurs against the plane of your chest, lips skimming across the skin thatβs feverishly hot under his touch. Because itβs true, because he wants to stake his claim on you again and again.
Hanma's hands are shaking when he types a response to you.
He hates this bodily reaction of his, and it's laughable that the same man who kills with a hand behind his back now has to take a deep breath and Pace the carpet just to stop his hands from shaking too hard when he's texting you.
He backspaces the message three times.
Too formal. Not formal enough. Too dry, too eager. Where does he find the line?
The back of his neck is hot, and the sweat is forming under his arms. This is ridiculous, he thinks. You're only asking how he is. You're only showing him a picture of something you made for lunch today and his chest is aching.
He hates that you're instilling this reaction in him. That he's nervous, too nervous to talk to you, that he wants you to know how he feels but doesn't at the same time. That you're open and imploring and giving and so nice, that he's constantly got one foot out the door because you scare him that much.
And when he does finally calm down enough to type out a response to you,a quick "I'm good, how are you?", He's smacking his forehead with his palm because he knows he sounds uninterested. The worst part is you never seem perturbed by his dry and nervous responses. You never seem put out by this faux disinterested tone that makes him cringe. You're still giving, still open, still excitable and it makes him feel worse somehow.
But how long for? How long could anyone put up with it? Could he? He doubts it.
How does he approach this? How does he just ....talk to you?
(he'll die before he ever asks anyone else on how to talk to a girl)
But he's floundering . Forcing himself to act nonchalant, to act disinterested, to act aloof and cold.
If only you could feel his hands. Clammy, tight, wired with anxiety. He's racking his brain on something he can say to sound cool and good to you. You tell him it's cold so he needs to make sure to wrap up warm and he makes a joke of pointing out that he doesn't need to because the cold never bothers him.
And he thinks it sounds smooth, even while he's mentally caving at the absurdity of it all. But you chastise him,.softly, and mention, in a joking way, that if he doesn't take care of himself you'll have to come over there to take care of him yourself.
He brushes it off.
(he wants nothing more than for you to be there).
And then he puts the phone down and gets up to sort through his laundry. Not that he's prone to doing that, but if he stares at the screen any longer, he'll get lightheaded.
Somehow the phone still feels villainous from the other side of the apartment. Lying face down on the table with the ringer off and him looking pointedly in any other direction, turning on the TV for background noise just so he's got something else to uselessly fill his mind. He learns that there was an earthquake on the news. A celebrity was caught in a scandal. A new movie bombed at the cinemas. They're passing some law somewhere.
He peeks at the phone from the doorway when the washing machine enters the rinse cycle, still lying face down on the table and apprehensively approaches it. Villainous thing.
His heart plummets into his stomach.
"you Seem a bit preoccupied. Am I annoying you or something Shuji?"
This is somehow far, far worse than anything else his mind had previously come up with.
His thumbs slip on the keyboard, and he curses when his eager hands type out that "no, you're not, sorrj"
"I mean sorry*"
And he's running a hand over his face in exacerbation.
He types it out. Just to get it out somewhere.
"you're not annoying me. I'm just so fucking nervous talking to you. I think you're so pretty, so nice, but I'm scared of you somehow. And I don't know how to talk to you without being so fucking scared. And Fuck, I wish I did. " And then he backspaces the message and closes it all, dashing his phone at the sofa, a hand pulling at the roots of his hair, and a groan bubbling in his throat.
You say "Ok" and refuse to come back. He watches you go offline five minutes later, missing your chatter already, cursing at everything- himself included- for the fickleness of it all, for the nerves ticking in his stomach.
On your own side you frown, and back away from the chat. You make a mental note to hold back on speaking to him, on asking about him, on anything because it's clear he's not interested. You sigh, a deep and aching grief plummeting into your stomach as your thumb moves over the imagine of him.
On his side, he walks to the window, puts a hand to the cold glass and wonders if wherever you are, you're doing the same.
'wow, a minute and a half would you look at that, huh sweetheart?' Hanma holds up his slick covered fingers and promptly licks your arousal from them, the other hand massaging your thigh as you twitch from your orgasm, heavy breaths and whines petering out as you give him a hazy smile.
'Don't be mean, you know I'm sensitive!' You hide behind your arm with a pout though he senses excitement in your voice.
'Oh I know pretty girl, I can tell,' he coos with an edge of condescension before he leans over to stroke your cheek. 'You were pretty needy huh?'
You move your arm, an apologetic look flicking across your eyes. 'I'm sorry, I just missed you. Like really missed you.'
'Missed me or missed my dick?'
'hey!' You roll over, and he settles on the edge of the bed, shrugging his shirt off, the off gold glint of his chain catching the light from the lampshade before he flops onto the bed next to you, hands under his head as he yawns wide with a groan.
'I love you and your dick you know.'
'Oh yeah?' He's peppering his voice with an edge of a tease but you sense more than see, the flutter of his eyes like he's welcoming a defeat, a point on the ceiling that he stares fixedly at.
You frown, shrug off your nightie and crawl under his arm, your head nestled perfectly in that soft cavern where his shoulder meets his chest. 'You don't actually think I only like you cos of your cock right?' And you're not mad, not annoyed but perhaps affronted at the accusation left unsaid, at the idea that he'd think that of you at all.
He laughs and it's tired, withdrawn and laced with a bone deep ache. 'Would be okay if you did you know.' he shrugs an arm around you, nestles you closer still. 'It's alright if you do only like me for my dick, as long as you like me.'
'Shuji.....' You click your tongue, your lips finding the soft swell of his chest, hands coming up to rove over his skin, the soft muscle of him that's warm and safe and solid under you. The same hands that smooth over the hurts of him, that hold his bleeding heart and sew the brokenness together.
'I love you for loads of things you know,' said in a whisper, your lips wet on his chest. 'You're very kind to me, very sweet, funny too, and handsome. You're helpful, solid and reassuring and a great listener, and some how always know how to help me with any situation. You're supportive and understanding and sometimes- even when you're bossy and demanding- I know it comes from love.'
He gives a snort of mock indignation. 'Hey! I am not bossy and demanding.'
You tut under your breath, your lips leaning up find his, silencing him as he presses you into his body, his arm tighter around you as his fingers dig into your hips.
'As I was saying,' you say, fingers dancing across his slightly slack jaw, hazy eyes filled with love and desire, raw and naked tenderness. 'I also love you because you saved me Shuji. You gave me ....me. You made me better, bought that out in me, made me soft and loving and romantic when I never thought I would be.'
He clears his throat, his chest lurching and aching, a tender hand wrapped clean around his heart and gently squeezing, a flame licking it's way along his spine. 'Heh, hey, Princess it's okay- y'know it was just a joke right-'
You shake your head, another kiss to his bitten lips, red and swollen and soft and inviting and you lift a leg to press your hips to his. 'I'm not done,' you say, a finger tracing the sharp cut of his cheekbones. 'But I also love you for things that have nothing to do with me too. I love that you're so creative and advnturous. I love the pictures you take, the things you say, how you take your coffee and the clothes you wear- how stylish you are and how you're such a good driver and your voice, which makes me so happy to hear. But mostly, I just love you because it's you, and if you were anything else, you wouldn't be the hero of my heart, my shuji.'
A close and suffocating silence hangs in the air, the tension pressing hard against the walls.
'Sweetheart.....'
You hold up a finger. 'You also have great bone structure and a very nice dick too.'
He laughs, spontaneous and loud, a bright smile that has the tension bleeding back into the walls. As easy as that, because it always is for the two of you and it wouldn't matter how long he'd been away, or you, your heart belongs to him all the same and you'd crawl into his arms like you'd known them forever. (You have.) You see his back teeth in that smile, gleaming white and one slightly chipped from a fight a few months back, and you love him impossibly more somehow, with a ferocity that terrifies you.
'Thank you Doll, that was very sweet of you.'
You giggle and pull the duvet up to cover the both of you, his feet poking out from the end to which he frowns and bends his legs till they intertwine with yours and it's soft, and quiet and the air con buzzes as he drifts to sleep, his heart beating steadily and reassuring under your ear.
