#rowrites

[roanoaks]

The intimacy of being devoured

Of teeth chewing flesh, gourging as blood coats every surface. Something squishy, red, of bones broken and moved out of the way. Of the grunts of hunger and greedy hands tearing just to shove it into gnashing maw. Of looking them in the eyes and cradling their face, of desperate hungry eyes looking back. Needy. Devouring. Of eating you to the bone, of devouring you.

[roakinnie]

Oh wow, at dinner? How did that go, if u don't mind me asking?

"Morgan walks down the stairs. He can hear the others chatting around the dinner table. The darks and the lights were both there, dinner was about the only time they got along.

Roman and Virgil refused to speak to each other, and Logan and Remus were a little tense. Deceit and Patton were... reserved. But they were still family, and talked to each other happily as they passed food around the table.

Morgan reaches the bottom of the stairs and walks into full view. The others fall into silence. "Hello. Pleasure to meet you all. I'm Morgan. Me and Patton are Morality's split.""

I wrote this part for the beginning of the memory.

[rolanslide]

Never wanna lose you

(okay, I don’t write often anymore because I have -100 confidence in my writing skills but I decided to take a crack at writing a thing based off of this post because it physically hurt me. enjoy)

(also, thanks to my sister @vee-tdc​ for beta-ing this for me. Thank you, boo)

(edit: there’s a second part now)

Crowley, for the longest time, was never 100% sure about how he felt towards his angelic counterpart. It was never something really bothered thinking about too hard. Oh, he knew he cared for him deeply, that much he knew very well. Since they first met in Eden, Crowley had been utterly fascinated by the angel* and he knew that he enjoyed the angels presence. But beyond that, he was never quite sure. 

(*It wasn’t every day you met an angel that gave away his God-given sword and lied about it to her face, after all.)

If you were to ask Crowley to describe his overall feelings towards the angel in one word, say, 20 or so years ago, he would probably say fondness. He was fond of the angels kindness towards God's creatures, he was fond of his clothing that always seemed to be a century or two behind in style, he was fond of the angels imperfections*, he was… well he was fond of a lot of things about his friend. The angel drove him up the wall sometimes, but then again, Crowley was no better. It’s simply what happens when you know someone for that long*.

(*Crowley had spent a lot of time around the angels, when he still was one that is, so he knew how terribly self-righteous and ignorant most of them had a tendency to be. Aziraphale wasn’t like that though. He was quirky, somewhat selfish, and flawed, and he knew it and he acknowledged it. Unlike virtually every other angel Crowley had met, Aziraphale was self-aware.)

(*and also when you’re an angel and a demon, hereditary enemies and all.)

But yeah, Crowley never thought too hard about how exactly he saw Aziraphale. He was his friend. As far as Crowley was concerned, that was all he needed to know.

And then the day the world would end rolled around.

~~

Crowley had lost hope of the world being miraculously saved at the last minute. He knew that if the planet didn’t self-implode, taking himself and Aziraphale with it, either Heaven or Hell* would eventually come for their arses for fucking up so royally. Either way, he knew that if him and his angelic friend didn’t figure out something fast, the two needed to get out, and get out quick. 

(*Or both)

Then the angel turned him down.

Of course Crowley was hurt by this. He was just trying to save himself and his friend of 6000 years, and he was turned down and insulted. He knew Aziraphale didn’t mean half of what he said, it had happened time and time again. It happened 11 years ago when he handed over the antichrist, it happened in Saint. James Park in 1862*, and it was happening again now. That didn’t mean the words didn’t still hurt though. It was a natural reaction when your only real friend treated the past several thousand years together as if they were nothing, as if they didn’t mean anything. 

(*This time though, Crowley wouldn’t take a several decade long nap to cope. If he did, by the time he would wake, there would be no more Aziraphale to apologize to, or an earth to thrive on with him. So that was off the table.)

It was then that his fears seemed to come into fruition. Hell had found out about everything, and they were coming after him.

He had to get Aziraphale.

He knew as long as hell was coming after him, Aziraphale may be in danger too. He had to prevent that. So he tried asking again. 

And once again, he was turned down by the angel*.

(*Although he was much kinder about it this time. Perhaps just because he was tired. He looked really tired)

This time though, he didn’t give in so easily, no time for sulking or breaking down. Crowley was a man of action, after all. He knew that the angel wouldn’t want him to use the blessed holy water he had given him to kill a guy, but he was sure Aziraphale would understand*. 

(*If he were to find out, that is.)

The plan to stop Hell’s goonies from coming for the both of them went slightly better than expected. Ligur was a melted pile of rubbish, sure, but the means of trapping of the other half of the deadly pair was temporary at best. He was growing increasingly concerned about his and the angel’s safety; in the back of his mind fearing that hell had decided to send assassins for both him and the angel*. 

(*Hastur calling Aziraphale by name after he had gotten trapped in the answering machine didn’t help calm Crowley’s anxieties to say the least.)

No, Crowley thought, that isn’t an option. Aziraphale was fine. He was clever, he wouldn’t let himself be outsmarted by some pesky, unoriginal demons. There was no way-

The thick clouds of black smoke that filled the sky above him seemed to want to prove him wrong. Police sirens and blaring Fire Truck engines sounded off, far too close for Crowley’s liking. 

“No…”

Crowley was panicking as he sped down the London roads in his vintage car*. He had tried calling Aziraphale. No one picked up. The angel never kept him hanging like that. Ever. His heart rate, that he didn’t even really need, sped up at an inhuman rate as he drew closer to the flaming remnants of his the Angel’s bookshop.  

(*Probably a dangerous situation for any unfortunate pedestrian who just so happened to be nearby, but at this point the demon couldn’t care less about their safety)

Angels and demons alike had a sort of sixth sense- the ability to sense the presence of other supernatural entities from a mile away. The ability to sense their auras, if you will. And when you know someone for 6,000 years, you know exactly what their aura feels like.

Right now, standing in the blazing ruins of Aziraphales home, Crowley couldn’t feel anything.

“AZIRAPHALE!”

He could hardly hear himself over the roaring flames and sirens as he called out for his Angel.

“Aziraphale, where the Heaven are you, you idiot?! I can’t find you!”, Crowley’s voice shrieked as his vision began to blur.

He still searched, trying to find the presence of his the Angel, somewhere, anywhere-

The demon had the air knocked out of him as a particularly strong water hose was sprayed right at his corporeal body, knocking him off his feet.

Everything seemed to move in slow motion. The too hot- too familiar fire roared around the demon as he came to a horrific, crushing realization. 

Hellfire. The fire surrounding him was bloody fucking Hellfire. 

 A demon had been sent to Aziraphale and lit his home ablaze, leaving him there to burn. Alone.

“You’ve- you’ve gone…”

It was only then that everything hit him.

For the first time- Crowley had felt what it was like to be truly alone. As a Fallen, he was destined to be alone for the rest of eternity. When he had spoken to the Angel at the Eastern gate of Eden, he had never expected anything more than just a few bouts of banter, and nothing else. 

But that fateful day was one he would never regret for the rest of eternity. Crowley had never realized that, since the beginning, he had never been truly alone. Aziraphale was his light in the dark future he was destined to have. Life with a friend was never in his script for the rest of time, but he had gotten luckier than any other demon in Hell to have Aziraphale. 

“SOMEBODY KILLED MY BEST FRIEND!”

Now, he was alone. For the first time in a millennia. No one could replace Aziraphale, nothing could fill the hole in his heart only his Angel was able to. And it was more painful than anything he had ever felt since he fell. A devastating realization had come to Crowley in his moment of desolation. 

“BASTARDS!”, he hissed out in anger. “ALL OF YOU!”

Crowley had loved him. It was beyond just care, beyond just fondness.

He had loved him.

And now, he was gone.

Forever.

.

.

.

The demon seemed only vaguely aware of his actions. The sirens, that were not quite out of earshot, and the distant smell of smoke and ash engraved themselves into Crowley’s senses as he drove down the road. To where, exactly? He wasn’t sure. Somewhere along the way he had put on another pair of sunglasses- a feeble attempt at masking his pathetic vulnerability he felt he was drowning in.

He found himself stopping in front of a nearby pub. He remembered going to this specific pub before, alongside Azira-

He looked over to the passenger side seat, just hoping that his friend would be there. Complaining about the speed limit and telling him to “be careful” and “slow down”.

The seat remained empty.

Crowley’s train of thought was cut off as he was seemingly subconsciously reminded of his loss, and he doubled over, white-knuckling the steering wheel of his Bentley, as a new wave of grief washed over him, crushing him under its weight.  

It seemed that the feeling of being alone, really, truly alone, was kind of like being hit by a cannonball; sudden, unexpected, and bone-crushingly painful. 

It never really occurred to him how much he had gotten used to the feeling of having someone constantly by his side, someone who would always keep him company. Even when the two were apart physically, in the back of the demons mind Aziraphale’s presence was still there, golden and warm and kindly. Although he couldn’t be sure, he hoped the angel had always felt his presence too. It was… well, it was rather nice, being that close with someone. Rather comforting, really. 

In an instant, that warmth, companionship, and comfort was all just just simply... gone.

A dark pit had made its way into his stomach and ribs, swirling and brewing with an intensity that he had never felt before. Despite this, he knew what it was.

Grief.

He only became aware that he had started crying again when he felt hot tears soak his jacket and drip onto his violently trembling hands. Sobs shook his frame as the soot and ash on his face that he hadn’t bothered to miracle away turned to mud that stained his cheeks. 

“A-aziraph-a-ale…”

Demons weren’t supposed to cry. 

“A-z-ziraphal-e-e…”

With all of the shit Crowley’s seen in his long lifespan he shouldn’t be crying. 

“Please… d-don’t… d-on’t...”

But here he was, in his Bentley, sat in front of a pub, bawling uncontrollably, struggling for air because Aziraphale, his angel who he loved so much, who had been the only one to treat him with kindness, was gone.

 Gone, gone, gone, gone-

He doesn’t think he’s felt this much emotional distress since he fell.

Before, Crowley hadn’t even considered what it would’ve been like to have his constant counterpart suddenly snatched away from him. Aziraphale had been discorperated before- they both had- leaving the other alone for a few years while the paperwork for a new body was filled out and they were allowed to come back down to Earth. But that was different. Back then, there was the promise of return. It might take as long as a decade*, but they would inevitably see each other again. 

(*the amount of time before given a new body depended on the circumstances of death. For example, when Aziraphale was burned at the stake in the middle of the Edinburgh witch trials, it took about 8 years to get him a new body. Partially because of the large amount of souls arriving at heaven's doorstep due to the trials, partially because Gabriel decided the angel needed to learn a lesson about responsibility. Needless to say, Aziraphale came back from that whole debacle with a bad case of pyrophobia and even lower self esteem.)

This time, however, there was no promise of return. All Crowley had was a burning bookshop and a lost friend.

The demon sat up in his Bentley, taking a deep, shaky breath in a feeble attempt to steady himself, not bothering to try and wipe away the streams of tears and soot on his face.

Maybe drinking until he passed out would dull the edges of the sword of grief that cut through his very being. Yeah, yeah, he would do that.

The world wasn’t worth saving at this point if he didn’t have Aziraphale to share it’s wonders with.

~~

Well, as it turns out, Crowley was wrong.

Aziraphale wasn’t dead, gone forever as Crowley had feared. He had simply lost his body in an altercation that ended with a particularly inconvenient candle being knocked over by the force of a slamming door*.

(*and this, as Crowley had told Aziraphale later on, is why you don’t leave lit candles on the floor in a bookshop full of very flammable books)

But just because the angel wasn’t actually gone, that didn’t mean Crowley wouldn’t have to deal with the emotional fallout of thinking that he was for a few hours. Now that they were sure the world wouldn’t spontaneously combust anytime soon and that their superiors would give them some air, they, for the first time in what felt like centuries, had time to relax. Time to think.

And think they did. Or, at least Crowley did.

He thought about every stolen glance, every spoken word, every kind hearted gesture, every accidental hand touch-

Oh. Fuck. He’s fallen hard, hasn’t he?

Turns out the human term ‘you never know how much you love something until you lose it’ has more weight to it then Crowley had previously thought.

After everything, the bookshop being burned down, the A-not-calypse, his and Aziraphales trials*, etc. etc., Crowley spent a lot of time re-evaluating his emotions towards the angel over the past several thousand years he’s known him. It was kind of like sifting through old computer files you haven’t touched or thought about in years.*

(*Well, Crowley's trial and Aziraphale’s failed execution, considering the fact that the angels, Aziraphales family, didn’t even bother to give him a proper trial.)

(*not that either Aziraphale or Crowley would know what that felt like.)

It was surreal, almost, to look at all of those shared moments from a slightly different perspective. They all felt so different, but at the same time, felt the exact same. Loving the angel just felt… natural*. 

(*despite the fact that a demon loving an angel was anything but natural.)

Well, all things considered, Crowley had loved Aziraphale for awhile now. Keeping him from having his head lopped off during the French Revolution, keeping his books from being blown to pieces, trying to convince him to run away with him… they were all acts of love on Crowley's part.

...It just took nearly losing the bastard for him to actually realize this.

Crowley wasn’t quite sure what to do with this information. Should he say something to the angel? Would doing so even change anything? Would it just get them in even deeper trouble with their higher-ups? Was it even possible to get in further trouble?

The whole situation gave Crowley a migraine.

He tried to not think about it too hard, like he used to do.  

Although, when his heart suddenly fluttered and climbed up his throat whenever the angel so much as smiled at him…

It made not thinking about it a lot harder.

[roanswitchblade]

The Bots Short

His breath leaves him in a gasp as he's shoved against a wall, greedy lips sucking and biting at his neck as hands push his shoulders and pin him against the wall. He tilts his head back, a whine falling from his lips and tumbling out into the air.

He moves a hand up to lace his fingers through Klaude's hair, letting whines and breathy moans tumble from his lips as the skin of his neck is marked and bitten, teased by and oh so rough set of lips he utterly adored.

"Jasper," His name whispered so hungrily by the man makes Jasper moan again, as teeth find their way to tug at his ear lobe and hiss, "The things I'm going to do to you.."

"Klaude," He whispers, before he goes to far down, "Wait.."

Klaude pulls away, Jasper almost regrets speaking. "What is it?"

The voice is impatient but caring, he knows Klaude is not mad. "I want.. No I need something less.."

Jasper frowns, brain wracking the Internet for a word as soon as he realizes he doesn't have one to quite explain what he needs. "Nonsexual? Don't really want that today.. this is fine, but I'm just informing you.."

Klaude smiles, presses a kiss to his lips that steals his breath. "Do you need something softer?"

Jasper shakes his head. "Not necessarily.. can be softer later. Right now, rough is desired."

Klaude nods. "Okay, can do. Clothes?"

Jasper finds himself so grateful for the man, he smiles despite himself. "Off is fine, would prefer underwear remain on. But skin to skin- metal-"

"Skin," Klaude corrects, Jasper nods.

"Skin is.. is a good."

Klaude nods. "Just do a yellow if anything changes, red if we just need to stop altogether."

"Yes," Jasper responds, "I know. Please continue."

Klaude laughs then, a sound that warms Jasper to the core as he steals another kiss from his lips and goes back to his neck, licking it and making him shiver. "So impatient and needy sometimes, you know that?"

"No," Jasper replies honestly, "I didn't. Should I change that?"

"No, I love it," Klaude responds, voice changing to a harsh whisper that makes Jasper whine. "Love when you're so needy and desperate, love when your impatient and beg for things only I can give you.."

Jasper whines as teeth bite and suck at his neck, wordless and letting his arms fall limp as Klaude's hands move to slide Jasper's jacket off his shoulders. It falls to the floor by his feet.

Suddenly Klaude is pulling away and he is on the bed, roughly being shoved down as Klaude comes to straddle him. "This is where I belong," He whispers like a confession, not entirely sure why he's said it. "Here."

Jasper's hands reach out to take hold of Klaude's head, sitting up to kiss Klaude. It is a gentle and soft thing, he let's Klaude lead. He isn't usually the type to take control like this.

Klaude pulls away. "You sure you want rough?"

Jasper nods. "Yes. Sorry. Soft is wanted as well but.. rough is.. well loved and always wanted."

Klaude chuckles. "You have a weird way with words. Get that sweater off."

The command makes Jasper shiver as he pulls off his sweater, revealing skin and metal in an odd mesh he hadn't quite realized he was somewhat self conscious about until that moment. Hands reach to hug himself out of habit, and gentle fingers from Klaude trace the odd lines and shapes on his skin until his hands slip down and he is being shoved into the bed again.

"Move your arms," Klaude grumbles, and Jasper takes them away from where they were hugging himself, there's some shifting as Klaude pulls off his shirt and Jasper closes his eyes, he just wanted to float today. Just wanted to feel warm.

"Jasper," Klaude's voice prompts him to open his eyes. "Pants?"

Jasper nods, pushing Klaude off so he can stand on the bed and remove the article of clothing. Klaude grins, knocking him down and Jasper squeaks a little - he honestly hadn't expected that as he lands back down on the bed. Klaude crawls on top of him, pulling him into another kiss.

His breath is stolen and it's an oh so sweet feeling, and when Klaude pulls away he closes his eyes again. "Soft," he mumbles, "You're so warm. Breakable."

Klaude laughs, laying down on top of Jasper, "Breakable?"

"Fragile. Human," Jasper whispers, "So scared of that."

"Who is?"

"Me." Jasper let's himself relax more as Klaude rolls to lay next to him and pull Jasper into his arms.

"Don't be."

Lips wrap around the back of his neck and lick and suck lazily and he leans into it. "Mm," he grumbles for a response that has Klaude laughing again.

"You sure we're still a green?"

"No, yellow," Jasper pouts, "Can't space right."

Klaude chuckles, "That's fine."

"Tired."

"Then sleep."

Jasper turns, facing Klaude and letting their chests touch. His warm hum against Klaude's heartbeat. "Kiss me."

Klaude complies, Jasper melts into his touch. He pulls away after a little. "Sleep."

"Sleep," Klaude confirms.

[roanoaks]

You can have a romance trope without the romantic feelings homie

Like this isnt to diss when stories are romantic i just mean that like, not every story thats intense and emotional and describes a visceral connection with two characters.. has to be romantic.

I think the levels get a lot better when love is fluid and also when love isn't quite there, or when love is the closest word they can find

Like theyve killed each other, because one will always eat and the other will always take and it took xeir life and xey ate its being and theres a level of like they have killed each other, they have taken each other to their very cores and shattered it and its that deep understanding that they are both creatures destined to end the way they lived. One will always eat, the other will always take. And its not love, its understanding. Its sitting there holding the heart you took from xeir chest as they feast on your essence and not saying a word because you both know that it was always going to end like this, even if theyd never known each other until that very moment. Its not love, its understanding, its a deep and aching sense of knowing.

And then theress like, the thought of one crying their eyes out because theres a dead body, he killed him! He killed him and god theyve never seen a body before and its him gently cupping their face with bloody hands and saying "its okay, i protected you," and its in them knowing that he will never understand that their scared because he killed someone, not because they were in danger. Its taking soft gentle touches from someone who is hopelessly and utterly and completely devoted and loyal to you with wvery fiber of his fucking being... and looking into his eyes to know hes a killer. That he will never understand life the way you do. And thats not love, no matter how devoted and kind and loving he is to you. It might be, someday. But right now its hearing "i protected you," and realizing with dread that the killer is bound to you. Its bloody hands cupping your face as you shake.

Sometimes its starting in hatred. A good enemies to lovers hits different hut in this case its no lovers. In this case its being there, always there for centuries. For lifetimes. Its always fucking being there and god, hes insufferable, hes arrogant, hes a piece of shit, but fuck. He's always there. He's always fucking there, and he's the asshole yanking him down to avoid being spotted to say "you idiot" while your heart skips a beat because you didnt even see the person that couldve caught you. Hes the fucker you kissed in a blind fucking rage. Hes the piece of shit that can call you out on yours because damn, hes been stuck with you forever. And its always fuckin him, god, god is it always fuckin him. No matter where he ends up the others going to follow. Its trusting deep in his fucking bones that he'll be there. And they do say "i love you," once, sweetly, "i love you," again, violent, in a kiss that bruises, "I love you," angry, clawing, and it feels the closes to right they can get. But it isnt love and it isnt hatred, its a searing trust. Its knowing thst no matter what, itll always be him.

[roanoaks]

I think theres beauty in misery. I don't think god is a question you can ask me reliably, but i think if there was a god youd find it in grief. I think that to hate the agony is the most normal part of our lives, to hate with every fiber of our being the feeling of being hurt. Pain is not something that I would feel bad for disliking. But I think if god was anywhere, it'd be there.

I don't think god is there because you are supposed to love it. I don't think that there is anything that can truly be loved completely. I think that god is in misery because what can define the feeling of creating something more then losing it? I think that when we ache with our entire souls, when our hole body feels weighted down by the grievance that is a passing day, a lost love, a care gone cold, that you'll find god there.

I don't think god is a comforting pressence, because I think that if god existed he would be a creature of loss. Whats worse, do you think, then losing something? Then knowing theres a place for it and achingly, longingly, hopelessly realizing that it will never find that place. You say god created us all, I ask why you would give someone such a fresh hell.

If I find god, its in misery, because misery is the worst kind of care. Misery is proof. Misery is understanding that something used to be there, and you can feel that its gone. I don't find god to hold me in a warm embrace and say things will be okay. Because if god did that itd be fake. I want god to grieve with me. I want to scream and cry and lash out at god and i want him to hurt to. He created something and its gone. He made something and it broke me. I hate the idea that he is all loving and all knowing.

God is a creator. God is my misery because if he had the audacity not to flinch when we lose things, he didnt give a shit to begin with.

You may ask me how i can find comfort in that and ill be honest, its because a cold blade is better then a water that slowly boils. I dont want to get comfortable in an idea that life will be warm and sweet. I want to live in the world, the world where people can be happy and love and care.

Where warm hugs and forehead kisses and gentle confessions at night are everywhere, i want to live in that world, but nothing comes without a price. I find god in misery because at the end of the day i know that i cared, and loved, and adored, because when its gone i can feel the emptiness of it. I can feel the ache of the love i cant give anymore. The cold of a touch i cant have anymore.

I find god in misery because god made us in his image, and that image had to have the worst. There is no perfect being and i dont want there to be. If god made me to live, i find comfort in knowing we both suffer. Comfort is only good when its reciprocated. An empty i love you would make me seethe.

When i am miserable i want to be cared for by a person who understands i am miserable. I find god in misery because fuck creation without reciprocation. Losing things aches. Losing things and getting hurt is an awful, empty, aching feeling and i find god in that because in the end god probably made me to live. And livong isnt just happiness.

Spmetimes living is feeling empty until you rip down the walls and rebuild. Sometimes living is being god and making things with your hands. God is my misery, and maybe my love. God is a creator and i know that creating things you love means youll ache when its gone.

I find god in misery. You dont have to, but i think maybe some people should.

[roanoaks]

Deceit's middle name is "fucking" no I don't take criticism

Patton, in a rage: DECEIT FUCKING SANDERS-

Everyone in the nearby vicinity: WHAT

[roanoaks]

Fluff Without Plot Sleepxiety because we all sluts for that shit

Warnings? None. Hotel? Trivago?

Summary? It's fluff without plot get out of here.

If there was one thing that Andy and Remy both had, it was that neither could sleep a second past nine in the morning. The world was far to ready to murder and Andy refused to let it jump him. Remy was just a morning person.

Taking a sip of coffee Remy sat down at his computer, sunglasses on his face as he opened his email. Loathe as he was to admit it, he did have responsibilities.

As if summoned, Andy sat next to him, clutching his coffee and glaring at the space in front of him. Andy was not a morning person. Which was cute, honestly. Remy loved to tease him about it.

Remy closed his laptop. No new emails and no drive to be repsonsible, he turns to Andy. He's about to pull the other into a cute little coffee filled early morning kiss (it'll fluster the other, he thinks. And boy was Andy blushing a sight.) When Andy has suddenly kissed his forehead.

Remy would like to say such a simple little affectionate action did not fluster him. But that is a lie. He was in fact, incredibly flustered. His face heated up.

"Fuck you're cute when you blush," Andy murmers, his voice is gruff with early morning sleepiness and a bit deeper, which doesn't help Remy at all. Remy cursed his emotions.

"Thanks Sugar," Remy says drily, trying to save face. "But it's cute to know it takes so little to meet your standards."

Andy rolls his eyes. "That's probably because you are my standards."

"Oh." Remy is glad his sunglasses can kind of hide how wide his eyes get. He wanted to maybe explain that this was unfair, because Andy was literal perfection incarnate in his eyes. But that seemed like it'd just disolve into compliments and probably sex.

So he instead decides to take that as invitation for a kiss, and leans in, hands going to caress Andy's face. He's so distracted by his flustered emotions and how fucking perfect Andy is he forgets to turn his head, and the noses crash into each other.

For a moment there is a silence as they both process, before Andy starts giggling. And then he's laughing, and the sound is music to Remy's ears. Andy's shoulders shake ads he laughs, snorting occasionally and pulling Remy into a long hug.

"You dork," Remy says affectionately, snuggling up a little more as Andy's laughter dies down.

"You tried to kiss me! But our noses-" Andy starts laughing again, "That was adorable. That- we're so in synch, aren't we?"

The joke makes Remy chuckle. He doesn't focus on the fact that his head is in Andy's chest, and he can hear his heartbeat which seems just as up beat as his laughter. The moment is warm, and almost rare. He never wants to stop listening to the laughter that plays at his heart strings.

"Clearly, we could get in ballet dancing," Remy jokes back, "But I don't think I'd be nearly as good as you, sugar."

"Clearly, you can't even kiss right," Andy laughs, and Remy laughs back. He'd set himself up for that.

The sight of Andy's smile is so perfect, and it's overwhelming as Remy finally shifts from his place in Andy's arms for a proper kiss. Andy is still kind of chuckling as they kiss, which tickles and makes them pull away laughing again. Almost breathless, the moment is perfect.

Everything is perfect, and the air smells like coffee and early morning love.