vegetacide:

the-lady-razorsharp:

gentlemanuniverse:

As things went, Virgil was not a slob. Unlike Alan, who literally laid where he fell and considered his closet floor both hamper and dresser, and Gordon who could only be arsed to clean up his room when he couldn’t find something, but not quite as neat as Scott, who still kept his quarters like they were ready for inspection. (John didn’t count, as his room looked more like a guest room most of the time.)

However, as Kayo walked in to the sounds of the shower, she couldn’t help but smile at the sight of both jeans and boots discarded on the carpet. Clothes on the floor meant 1) that he was too tired to give a shit and 2) in a hurry.

She left her own battered kit bag on the floor and stooped to collect the worn denim and scuffed chamois, catching the scent of a hard working man with a really nice taste in cologne as she did so–except for the shoes, those she deposited on the floor of the closet, making a mental note to dig out the charcoal odor absorbers.

As she dropped the jeans into the laundry chute, her smile faded, seeing once again a battered, bloody man, unconscious to the point where his clothes had to be cut off of him to treat his injuries. She didn’t think she’d ever forget the glint of harsh lights on the shiny chrome-plated scissors as they sliced through bright blue neoprene, alarms blaring and her own heart thudding in her chest.

A snatch of song bounced her out of the painful memory; he was singing. Her grin returned; he loved to play the piano but rarely did he accompany it with his voice. Not that it was bad; he had a gorgeous baritone, but it was almost as if he kept that to himself. She didn’t mind; it ensured that she was usually the one privy to it, and that suited her just fine.

The shower stopped and so did the song, though it was replaced by words. “Kay? S’at you, honey?”

She moved into the steam-filled room, taking her time to enjoy the sight of her lover, his tawny skin flushed with heat and decorated with water droplets. He was scrubbing his hair with a towel, the snowy terry a stark contrast to the night-black strands that fritzed every which way. He dried his face, and she heard the fabric scratch against his stubble. “Hi there,” he greeted her, dropping the towel and enfolding her in a damp embrace. He sighed against the top of her head. “Am I glad to see you.”

She laid her cheek against his chest, slouching just a little to fit herself under his chin. “Likewise,” she replied.

He hugged her that much harder, and she knew he’d heard every layer of meaning she’d put into the single word.

Smuuuushhhhhhhhhhhhhh ❤️❤️❤️❤️

Falls down. Is left drooling on the floor.

@the-lady-razorsharp Loves, loves, loves.

Drools some more.

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