rodrikstark's headcanons (part 3)

c. shea + morning routine together

"stop right there."

your efforts to lay across colin—to prevent him from popping the warm bubble of air under your comforter—punches the air out of his gut, resulting in a laugh.

"you're the one who talks about how stretching first thing in the morning changed your life."

"that wasn't taking into account me being hungover." your face nuzzles into his belly, your hand slipping underneath the hem of his shirt.

colin would be annoyed, especially when two cold feet reel him in closer, but then you hum contentedly, so sweet and satisfied, like you'd never emotionally or physically recover if he wasn't yours to claim. he sighs. "let's go."

"but you're so warm—"

"two minutes, and we can come back—"

"and soft." you poke his chest—which he's dedicated a considerable amount of time working out—then climb up his body to rest your cheek there. "so soft," you echo, briefly lifting your lips to press them along his jaw.

you're good. but he can resist.

your no is a high-pitched, drawn-out whine when he throws the covers aside. "i hate you." you pout, smacking blindly at the air when colin leaves, landing a couple hits on thighs.

he drags you with him by the elbows, ignoring your mean glare. "see? not so bad." with an energizing inhale, his hands raise toward the ceiling. "reach up to the sky..."

"head hurts."

"c'mon."

you slump your shoulders in protest before shooting your palms into the air, grasping at his wrists, then yanking everything down to your sides. "there, i did it."

"grumpy." he smiles, his hands slipping around your waist. "want me to make breakfast?"

"no." with surprising strength, you shove him on top of the mattress, fumbling for the blanket again. your eyes remain screwed shut, even when he kisses your cheek. "don't move a muscle."