&( X is sweet; their hands are gentle and patient as they scrub Y clean, hands running as warm as a furnace even compared to the water. X keeps up a running commentary of their day, and the neighbors, and their coworkers, while crappy pop music blares through their phone halfway across the room. they press kisses into Y's spine, or Y's shoulder, and sometimes they just grab Y's hand to kiss their knuckles.
&( X buys a shower stool so that Y can sit down and relax while X washes them.
&( X keeps their hand carefully positioned over Y's forehead so that no water leaks onto their face while X washes their hair.
&( the rag X uses on Y is so sudsy it looks like a sponge.
&( X is utilitarian; they scrub Y down from head to toe very efficiently. it isnt quite painful, but it is the kind of pressure thats hard enough to linger. the only break in their indifferent demeanor is when they, while washing Y's hair, smooth it into a mohawk. X smothers a laugh.
&( water beads in X's eyelashes; they squint harshly as they work.
&( X has anxiety about being alone after a dangerous situation, so Y chills in the bathroom with them while they wash themself. unexpectedly, an injury flares up, preventing X from washing their hair properly. Y crouches by the bath and does it for them. finally, X is able to relax.
&( X falls asleep in the bath under Y's loving touch, promptly going limp, which scares the shit out of Y. "how do you fall asleep in the bath?!?!!!!! you couldve drowned!!!" "i dont know!!!! im sorry!!!! im awake now!!!!!"
can I request 1, 3, & 20 for buddie please? separate prompts or together, whichever floats your boat!
1) knuckles brushing across a cheek + 3) lips pressed against a brow-bone + 20) fingertips tracing the notches of a spine (mwah ty sarah <33 i chose to do them separately AND together, because i am always Like This. this one got kind of long so under a cut!)
(touch prompts!)
Eddie is used to being the early riser in a relationship. Eldest son time. Military time. Single father time. Any number of reasons for the way his body has become accustomed to jostling him awake at the brink of dawn, clear-headed and efficient, any traces of irritation tucked into the spaces deep inside of him reserved for feelings that he doesn't have the luxury of indulging in.
He would wake up before Shannon, in the quicksilver moments that they were together after Chris was born, rolling out of bed to rock their son to sleep and being rewarded by the softness in her eyes when she woke up after, exhaustion clinging less fervently to the edges of her eyes. He would wake up before Ana, watching her face still and silent in the dawn light, startling himself with her presence like she was a guest that he never quite came to expect. He would wake up before Marisol, untucking himself from her to do his morning chores, her jokingly complaining about her not doing her fair share of work and it never occurring to him to share any of it with her. It's just what he does. He's the one that gets up. He's the one who does it all.
With Buck, though, it's different.
Buck isn't like Eddie, with the clock embedded into him by necessity and force of habit. He's just a morning person, in the truest sense of the word. Though to call him that perhaps belies the point, which is that Buck throws himself into living as much as he can, as fully as he can. He throws himself into mornings and lingers into nights and even when he's sleep-worn or heavy with exhaustion there's a feeling of satisfaction there, like he takes pride in wringing out every moment he can from a day.
Between the two of them, even before-- all of this, which is to say the kissing and the cuddling and the bodies pressed into each other under the sheets, it was always a little bit of a guessing game on who was going to wake up first. Sometimes it would be Buck, the smell of breakfast and soft humming and the clunking noise of living that Buck can never quite contain. Sometimes it's Eddie, who quietly prepares for the day ahead of them, packing Buck's duffel alongside his own with the ease of love worn smooth at the edges.
With this, though--
(which is to say: the startling joy found in crevasses of Eddie's life that he'd thought were gathering dust. The ordinary moments suddenly refracted in color like light through a prism or waterfall or some other metaphor for the inherent transmutation properties of love. The kissing. So much kissing.)
-- with this, everything shifts, ever so slightly.
(1)
Eddie wakes up, and the world is bright.
He squints and groans at the light not so much filtering as it is invading through the curtains, casting everything in a new day. For a moment, habit runs through his muscles, pushes his elbows into the mattress so he can clamber out of bed into something productive.
Then, an arm around his waist, tugging him down. The world suddenly dims, not frightening but familiar, chestnut curls allowing just the right amount of light through them as Eddie's face is pressed to the hollow of Buck's throat, his nose tickling his adam's apple.
"Buck," he says, laughter already caught in his throat, the mere presence of this impossible man sending sparks, confetti, fireworks off in his veins.
"Nope," Buck mumbles into Eddie's hair, all squished and sleep-blurred, a smile in his voice just for Eddie. "Not getting out of bed."
"It's morning."
"It's sleeping in day, Eddie. I've decided." Long arms, longer legs, Eddie is trapped. He loves it. He absolutely cannot allow Buck to know that he loves it.
"Oh, you've decided?"
A nod against his head. "I've decided," Buck says, in his snottiest of voices. Eddie, as always, matches his energy.
"There are children out there," Eddie points out, perhaps a little dramatically. "Starving. You would let our children starve, Buck?"
"Chris lives for days when he can sneak an extra bowl of Reese's cereal for breakfast without either of us complaining about the sugar content," Buck says. "And he said he'd play with Theo this morning for a bit."
Eddie narrows his eyes. He feels Buck stiffen, only a little. "...I didn't know we had Reese's in the house."
A pause. "Well, you also didn't know that I reorganized your spice cabinet until you couldn't find the paprika, so."
"Buck. Did you bribe our kid with sugar so that we can sleep in."
Eddie pushes Buck back, just a little, so he can tilt his face up to meet his eyes. And also maybe so he can touch his pecs a little, so what, that's his boyfriend.
Buck's eyes are curved at the edges, all cheer. His grin is dimpled on one side, teeth flashing in that infuriatingly handsome way that Eddie refuses to admit always works on him. His body betrays him, though, his hand shifting around Buck's jaw, knuckles brushing over the swell of his lip, the little scar at the edge, the dimple curled in his cheek.
He presses a thumb to the dimple, drags it outward to watch the way Buck's smile gets even bigger. "Don't be ridiculous, Eddie. I bribed our firstborn with sugar so that we can cuddle in bed."
Eddie bites down a helpless smile, knows it seeps out of him anyways. He can hear the thump of careless teenage footsteps, if he concentrates. "Of course you did," he says. Then: "Did you at least tell him not to feed our secondborn straight sugar?"
Wide blue eyes, a toddler's giggly shriek, a wince. Eddie memorizes the shift of muscle under his fingers, cups Buck's jaw tenderly, and cracks up into his sheepish sternum.
(2)
It is not often that Eddie makes an elaborate breakfast.
It's not a matter of skill, mostly -- after all, there was a reason Bobby started Buck on breakfast foods: they were the hardest to fuck up. It's more simple tradition, if anything. Eddie is (or is now, at least) a competent cook. Buck is a passionate cook. He takes joy in discovering recipes and meal prepping and trying new techniques in ways that Eddie just doesn't, and Eddie is more than happy to sit on the counter and be fed bites of ricotta-stuffed crepes or egg bakes or whatever flavor of french toast Buck decides for their stale bread Saturdays.
Still, Eddie finds himself balancing strawberries on top of a pile of pancakes, rearranging the eggs twice and frowning at the results, deciding between orange juice and apple juice.
"Dad," his beloved son says. "You're being neurotic."
"Where did you learn that word?"
A blank stare. "I'm sixteen."
Beside him, Theo giggles. "Eddie's neurotic," he announces, his lisp making the roast unintentionally adorable. Eddie ruffles his hair, gets a little squirm in response.
"Don't listen to Chris, Theo," he says. "He only says boring stuff."
"Chris is cool," Theo protests, and Chris grins smugly at him.
"Yeah, dad," he says. "I'm cool. I even woke up early just to make sure you didn't chicken out on this."
"I'm not-- I wouldn't--" Eddie tries to glare at Chris. He fails. Chris just tilts his head pointedly down the hall.
"I told him to wait a bit more," he says. "But I think he's actually gonna vibrate out of his skin if he has to stay in bed for any longer."
Eddie throws his head back, groans, and grabs the orange juice before taking the tray down the hall. Behind him, he can hear his traitorous children giggling to each other.
He nudges the bedroom door open with a foot and nearly forgets what he's meant to be doing when he sees Buck sitting against the headboard, half-naked, curls messy, eyes lighting up when they see Eddie.
"Eddie!" he says, happiness in every square inch of his body. It's impossible to believe, sometimes, how happy Eddie makes Buck. It's impossible not to believe, when Buck is so obvious with it, glowing and unmistakable.
"Buck," he says, the name as familiar as his own heartbeat. He walks forward. One step, then another. Buck's eyes fall to the tray in his hands.
"Breakfast in bed?" he tilts his head, curious. "What's the occasion?"
"You being in my bed," Eddie says, putting the tray down in front of him, curling a hand into the his curls to press a kiss to his brow, peppering kisses along his hairline as Buck giggles until he reaches his birthmark. He's not nervous anymore, weirdly. It's just Buck, after all. Love of his life, his best friend, his partner in crime and in life. There's no other way for this to go.
Buck's eyes scrunches as he smiles, fond even as he's still a little confused. He looks down at the tray, grabs a strawberry, begins to eat. Eddie watches him clear his plate, making sure to tell Eddie between bites how good everything is. Eddie perches on the edge of the bed, listens to Chris and Theo watch cartoons in the living room, and waits until Buck is finished.
"Wait," he says, when Buck tries to get up, tray shifting with him. "You didn't finish."
Buck tilts his head at him. "What?"
Eddie nods at the plate. "There's something else," he says, heart in his throat.
Buck looks at him, then at the plate. His brows furrow. He takes in the plate, then picks it up. Drops it.
Eddie catches it in his hands, leaving Buck's hands free to pick up the small, gleaming key.
"You have a key already, so this is more metaphorical than anything, but-- I want to see you in my bed tomorrow, too. And the day after that. For-- a long time."
A beat, then a small, wet laugh. "A long time, huh," Buck says, looking at Eddie with red-rimmed eyes. "That's-- uh, yeah, that sounds about right."
And Eddie holds his head in his hands, presses another smacking kiss on his birthmark as Buck laughs, the key gleaming gold in his hands.
(3)
Eddie likes being held by Buck.
It's not a surprise, given the whole dating thing. But he would challenge anyone not to like being held by Buck, who holds people with the exact right amount of pressure, like he's keeping you safe but also not smothering you.
Honestly, Eddie could do with a little smothering, sometimes, but he appreciates the thought.
So Eddie likes being held by Buck, the way any same person would, and he especially likes waking up in Buck's arms, sleep-tousled and morning-warm, mouth pressed to warm skin and rumbling with low snores. The two of them always start out spooning, when they go to bed, but they always end up this way: face to face, noses squished to necks and collars and hair, curled into each other like quotation marks. It's codependent, probably. It's careless, definitely. It's the best thing in Eddie's life.
Today, it goes like this: Eddie's cheek pressed into the pillow, face, turned towards sunlight, which is to say Buck. A leg curled over the dip of his waist, thrown over his hip, keeping him in place. A palm finding its way under his tank top, calloused fingertips dancing their way up his spine, a gentle rhythm that feels more deliberate than not.
"Are you playing piano on me?" Eddie murmurs, cracking one eye open a sliver. Buck looks at him, has been looking at him, from the angle his face is at, eyes bright and awake even as the rest of him remains sleep-soft in their bed.
Buck grins, ducks his head to get a morning-breath kiss before answering. "I've never played the piano, Eddie."
Eddie raises an eyebrow. "Doesn't answer the question, Buck."
He shivers, a little, when Buck just tip-taps his fingers a little quicker up his back, quicksilver moments of touch that leave goosebumps in their wake like every inch of Eddie's body feels a little forlorn when not actively being touched by Buck. Buck grins a little at him, eyes mischievous.
"I'm not playing piano on you, Eddie," Buck answers dutifully. He pushes Eddie towards him a little, tucking the both of them impossibly closer to each other. "I'm counting."
Eddie blinks, eyes opening fully. "Counting?"
"The little notches. I'm counting."
It makes Eddie laugh, a surprised huff of air that's tucked into the crook of Buck's neck now. Buck shivers, a little, and Eddie gets his revenge by nipping at the thin skin right below his ear. Buck retaliates by tightening the leg around Eddie's hip, a thick thigh pressing into him in a way that could easily get out of hand.
Eddie, a few years ago, would've rolled out of bed, insisted on getting started with the day. Eddie, today, just curls himself in even closer.
"I would imagine I have around thirty-two to thirty-five segments," he tells Buck, teasing. "You know, like most humans."
"I need an exact count, Eddie," Buck tells him, very solemnly. "What if they need that info when you're doing a checkup? They're gonna think I'm a neglectful boyfriend."
"I'm pretty sure that's not on any intake forms, mi sol," Eddie nips at Buck again, is rewarded with a press of fingers to the small of his back. "I know what you're really doing, you're not slick."
A little giggle, boyish and infectious. "What am I really doing, then?" Buck asks, sing-song.
"Feelin' me up."
Buck cracks up at that, giggling into Eddie's hair even as his hand sweeps over the breadth of Eddie's back, pressing with casual proprietary presumptuousness to each mole dotting the span of his skin, every bone that's visible beneath the shifting of his skin. These are things that Eddie does not know about himself, that Buck has told him with his mouth pressed to Eddie's skin, in the same careful way he catalogues every other detail of Eddie's existence.
It's overwhelming. Eddie wouldn't have it any other way.
"Oh, is that a crime, now?" Buck is saying, breathless with laughter. "To feel my hot boyfriend up first thing in the morning?"
Eddie feels the strength of Buck's grin seep into him, his own smile helpless in response. He tips his head back, meets Buck's eyes, watches the way that love transforms him into something not new but more wholly him, blooming in the light of the kind of love that he's always thrived in.
And Eddie feels transformed too, under that love, not any less himself but the startling, beautiful parts of him that were tucked out of sight rendered into clarity through beloved eyes. Coming together into a whole that Eddie is learning to love, simply because he is so loved in return.
"I'll allow it," he says, running his hand through Buck's hair, pressing a kiss to his jaw, not waiting for the day to begin because every moment with the two of them is so wholly worth existing in. "It's a pretty nice way to wake up."
hi all! I just thought I'd make my own list of various physical affection prompts and since no idea is ever original some of these are 100% on other peoples lists but im not using other lists as reference or copying anyone. this list is for my own use and other peoples use and there's no need to credit me (though it's always nice).
reblog to have your followers send you these as prompts !! or just use them for your own writing.
all of these are meant as sfw prompts but some may seem a bit more intimate.
tracing someones face
tucking hair behind their ear
forehead kisses
desperate hugs
crying into their neck/shoulder
reversed little spoon & big spoon (the one who is normally the big spoon is the little spoon and vice versa)
holding their hand under a table
kissing their hand
kissing their collarbone
sitting with legs in their lap
morning cuddles where they're both mostly asleep and they don't want to wake up yet but they want to cuddle
petting their hair
head pats
sitting on the floor in front of them while they sit on the couch and their arms touch their legs.
holding both of their hands
hugs from behind
gently touching their waist to move past them (dont do this to someone you're not dating! dont believe I have to say this.)
grabbing their wrist or hand and turning them around
Norrington cannot call his relapse productive, nor can he call it restful: Elizabeth’s bedside manner resembles that of a tyrant rather than a nurse.
Elizabeth visits his cabin so often, his steward Mr. Colebrooke wordlessly takes it upon himself to nail a chair to the deck beside Norrington's sickbed. Yet she spends most of her time on her feet, gesticulating as she talks, walking the length of his cabin, and busying herself among his belongings before returning to her seat. She reads to him with this purposeful energy: never before has he seen such a bright Viola, if overhasty and too eager to fight Cesario’s duel. She balances out his piteous Orsino.
This frustrates her; it must do. Norrington cannot be anything but poor company, and he cannot see why she does not leave his care to Colebrooke. But neither does he have the strength (either of body or character) to send her away.
As the shivers melt into trembling fevers, and she believes him at rest, she settles in her chair to wait. Through half-lidded eyes Norrington can see how she watches him with a furrowed brow, worrying at her lip, and the thoughts connect at last in his fever-boiled brain.
This is not his first bout with malaria, and it has not killed him yet—but Elizabeth has never seen him succumb to its recurrences. On land he may hide away in his home; there is no such luxury at sea. The tyranny is born from frustration, the frustration from worry.
Norrington stirs, and Elizabeth is instantly alert.
“Trouble sleeping?” she asks, “shall I read?” Before he can answer, she picks up the book closest to her.
Norrington flops onto his back painfully, and he must be smiling, for she adds suspiciously, “What are you about?”
“You are...” Wonderful? Horrible? Overbearing? Life-saving? “...a good nurse,” he says.
She squints at him—then laughs abruptly in understanding. Pointedly she lifts a hand and sets it over his forehead, the touch blessedly cool and comfortingly heavy. It is all Norrington can do not to groan in relief.
“Still feverish and delirious, it seems,” she declares. “I ought to let you rest, after all.”
“No, no,” he objects, “stay. Please,” and sets his hand over hers on his brow.
Perhaps he is delirious. Perhaps she is, as well, for she withdraws her hand and settles back more comfortably, smug as a cat.
12. riding through all these western nights (Luke Glanton, Possessive Hand-Holding)
(TW: Brief sexual harassment/catcalling, alcohol mentions, little suggestive moment at the end lol.
Title from "Western Nights" by Ethel Cain
Word Count: 982)
Everyone wants a piece of him. You can see it in the way that the crowd focuses on him. Hell, you can practically feel it in the humid, stifling air.
Everyone watches with rapt attention as he takes command of his motorcycle, pulling off stunts that would kill the average Joe with the type of ease with which a normal person might go for a leisurely bike ride.
For many, the amazement bleeds over into lust. But that doesn't matter much, really.
Because when he comes out of that cage and takes off his helmet, he's coming back to you.
He's always able to find you immediately, even if you don't tell him where you'll be. He just seems to know.
Immediately, he pulls your hands into his. Your fingers are intertwined long before he leans in to kiss you, leaving the taste of smoke and sweat and him on your tongue. He squeezes your hands in his own, as though making sure that you're real, that you won't slip through his fingers like so many things have before.
Then he pulls back, blonde hair stuck to his forehead, and smiles at you. That smile that makes everyone weak in the knees.
But especially you.
"You were great," you manage through the clamor of the carnival around you.
Those cotton candy blue eyes shine. "You're great." He unthreads one hand from yours, leaving the other still intertwined as he pulls you off towards something else. "Let's go get something to eat, hmmm?"
-
The two of you live for these shitty little dive bars. The kinds with old fashioned jukeboxes and rings of condensation on the wooden bar surfaces, the constant hiss of grease popping and fry cooks goodnaturedly shouting at one another filling the place.
A couple drinks in, Luke stands behind you, helping you line up your pool shot.
Then, you hear it, over all the noise that surrounds you.
"Nice ass," some drunk jeers.
Just like that, it feels like all the fun has been automatically sucked out of your night.
You stiffen as you feel the change of energy, Luke's hands falling away from the pool cue as he backs up a step. You glance behind you, only to see the unmistakable look on his face, — jaw hard and eyes blazing.
Your stomach churns.
"Luke," you say softly.
But it's hardly any use. He's dead-focused across the room at the drunk guys who are hooting and hollering. Over you, you suppose.
"Assholes," he mutters, shaking his head.
You sigh, sitting the cue back in the basket on the side of the table. You don't feel much like playing anymore, between the eyes ogling you across the room and your boyfriend's simmering rage.
Suddenly, you feel Luke reach out and grab your hand. You look down in surprise as he gives it a quick squeeze. His hands are rough, but so very affectionate.
You look up, eyeing him questioningly. His clenched jaw relaxes for just a moment, a slight grin coming over his face as he runs his fingers over your knuckles. He gives another glare towards the corner of the room, a wordless display of possessiveness.
You roll your eyes, though your heart flutters at his constant need to claim you.
"You're ridiculous," you chide him as he pulls you back towards the bar for another round.
He chuckles. "Hey. Gotta look after what's mine." You suppose this might make you feel less like a person and more like property if it wasn't for the way he gently brings the back of your hand up to your lips a moment later.
You can't help but smile at that. You're more than just a person to him. You're the best thing in his life, his very reason for being, his everything.
He'd die to protect you. You hope you'll always be there to talk him out of doing so.
Shaking your head, you lean between the barstools to plant a soft kiss to his lips, your fingers still entwined.
-
The early morning sun streams through the blinds, warming the skin of your arm as your eyes crack open. You let out a low groan as a dingy motel room comes into view, your head still vaguely fuzzy with last night's alcohol.
You've got one more day here before you're off to the next town for the next carnival.
You look over at Luke, his sleeping face completely relaxed for once. Your heart squeezes.
One might assume that it would get exhausting, not having any real foundation, no one set place to return to at the end of the day. You would never dare say that it isn't difficult sometimes, but...
He's your home.
You think you could be happy anywhere, as long as he's with you. As long as he's yours, and you're his.
You lean in, pressing a kiss to his cheek before swinging your legs over the edge of the bed.
He groans, patting around on the bed for your hand until he finds it, resting it gently over yours. "Where're you going?" he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
You smile gently. "I was going to see where we could get breakfast."
"Mmm... Later." He says it so decisively before he reaches out, quite literally pulling you back against him. You laugh as he wraps his arms back around you, crushing you back to his chest. He rests his chin against your shoulder.
"I want my breakfast first," he murmurs before burying his face in your neck, seeking out the places that he knows make you melt with a liberal amount of teeth and tongue.
Your hands stay clasped with his as you melt beneath him, your contented sighs filling the room as the sun climbs higher in the sky.
Hi Ria <3 Thank you for the prompts. I would like to apologize in advance because I did basically no editing on this due to migraine. But I finished the ficlets and that's the important part, right?
(for the touch prompts!)
Two orders of domestic fluff and one order of... whatever that third prompt fill counts as, coming right up! :) (Brief explanation for the second fic: it's just a random slice-of-life moment that won't actually appear in the series. So it's not spoiling anything. You'll probably understand when you see what it is. I just wanted to write for that AU tonight.)
𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼
2. running fingers through hair
Living with Rei these last few months has been one adventure after another for Shuuichi. Not in the way that their lives were before – neither of them are in danger, Rei doesn't want him dead anymore, and Akai Shuuichi is officially alive again – but in the way that he's learned so much about Rei in such a short span of time.
Some of it was to be expected; Rye had always known Bourbon to be a stickler for cleanliness and organization, and Rei is no different. Cooking comes as naturally to Rei as ever (though now Shuuichi gets to see how much joy he takes from it, removed from the spy who spent most of his time masking anything that might be too real).
There are things that shouldn't be surprising, in retrospect, and yet Shuuichi is always a little shocked when they come up, such as how he knew Shuuichi's birthday and, without cluing him in at all, quietly cooked one of his favorite meals. He'd also correctly deduced that Shuuichi wouldn't even want to celebrate his birthday. Or like how he seemed to know when Shuuichi had an argument with his mother, despite not having been around for it.
The biggest surprise, though, came in the form of how much Rei actually enjoys being touched, especially outside of their more intimate moments. Rei doesn't typically initiate physical affection, but he doesn't shy away from it like Shuuichi expects him to, either. His reactions quickly become a new addiction for Shuuichi.
He can sidle up behind Rei while he's cooking, wrap his arms around him and kiss his cheek, and Rei will sigh – in contentment rather than exasperation – and lean into it for a few minutes, before he shoos Shuuichi away to go back to cooking.
Or Shuuichi will take Rei's non-dominant hand with his own over the table while they're eating, and while Rei may roll his eyes a little, he also smiles and doesn't pull away. He'll cuddle with Shuuichi on the couch while they're watching a movie, or let Shuuichi pull him close as they fall asleep.
But Shuuichi's favorite is when he gets to tug him in for a hug, tuck Rei's head under his chin, and run his fingers through his hair. Rei always, without fail, shivers under the touch, the tension releasing from his body as he practically melts against Shuuichi. If he were a cat, Shuuichi has no doubt he'd be purring. It's such a cute, unexpected reaction from him that Shuuichi does it as often as he can get away with.
Like now, as Rei's just come home from a long day at work. It's late, and he's clearly tired and a little grumpy, so as soon as he's taken his shoes off and shucked off his blazer, Shuuichi pulls him in.
"Shuuichi," Rei mumbles against his chest and Shuuichi threads his fingers in his hair, shuddering before he relaxes, letting Shuuichi hold him up.
"Hm?" Shuuichi hums, one arm wrapped around him.
Rei doesn't answer; he seems to be content just to be held, which Shuuichi is more than happy to oblige.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·。
23. carrying the other one in their arms
It isn't terribly late when Shuuichi finishes cleaning up from dinner, but he turns to find Rei fast asleep, stretched out on the couch. He'd offered to clean up, but it was obvious from his sluggish movements that his fatigue was catching up to him, the pain he'd been dealing with all day draining his energy just from much less strenuous actions than washing dishes, so Shuuichi assured him he would take care of it.
He'd barely been able to stand for more than a couple minutes at a time by the time they finished eating; Shuuichi is happy to handle the cleaning, if it means Rei will rest. Deciding to call it an early night, for once, Shuuichi moves around the apartment, quietly double-checking all of their security measures, and picking up anything out of place as he goes. Then, he dips into the bedroom for a few moments, turning down the blankets on the bed and plugging Rei's phone into the charger on his nightstand.
Once he's sure that anything that needs to be taken care of is done, he returns to where Rei is sleeping, and, as gently as he can, lifts him into his arms. Despite his best effort, Rei stirs, bleary blue eyes opening to look at him.
"Shuuichi?" he asks, sounding a little confused.
"Shhh," Shuuichi hushes. "I've got you. Go back to sleep."
He relaxes again, and is asleep once more by the time Shuuichi gets him into bed and pulls the blankets to his chest.
Smiling at his beautiful Rei, Shuuichi presses a light kiss to his forehead, before moving away to turn out the lights. He had intended to stay up a bit longer, maybe read more of the book he's been working his way through, but the bed looks so warm and inviting, especially with Rei there, that he just crawls in next to him and lets sleep claim him, too.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·。
24. whispering in their ear, lips touching skin
"This is your fault, you realize?" Rei purrs against his ear, close enough that his lips drag across the shell and send sparks of heat coursing through Shuuichi's entire body.
"Probably," Shuuichi replies; he thinks he'd probably agree with just about anything Rei says, when he says it like that. "But it lacks a little punch when you blame me for everything."
Rei huffs, sounding more amused than annoyed. "Yes, well. You were the one who said our next date should involve a serial killer. But I do appreciate you taking initiative this time."
"Anything for my dear Rei-kun."
It was supposed to be a quiet two nights at an inn in Kyoto, but the quiet part had derailed long before someone decided to exact revenge upon half the guests. He (as Okiya, of course) and 'Amuro' had only been there for a couple of hours before they noticed familiar faces – inconvenient familiar faces – amongst the small crowd of guests.
Somehow, by some twisted stroke of fate, Shuuichi's sister and her friends were also there at the same time. And he hadn't been quick enough in getting himself and Rei away from them for Masumi not to notice.
She spent a good fifteen minutes bombarding them with question after question, until Rei, putting on his best Amuro voice, informed her that it was nice to see her, but they really would like to settle into their room.
The murder, and further attempted murders, started an hour later, the fire shortly after.
Now that everything is wrapped up, it's nearing midnight. With the fire damage, they couldn't exactly stay there for the rest of their trip, but, while Rei made sure the girls were all unhurt and had somewhere to go for the night, Shuuichi had managed to book them a room at a nearby hotel, instead.
And now they lay curled up together in the hotel bed. It's nice, comfortable; they don't get to do this often. But it's not what Shuuichi wanted.
"A little excitement isn't so bad," Rei concedes, leaning over him with a hint of a smile. His eyes are captivating like this, glittering in the light of the bed-side lamp. "Shame about the inn, though."
"Sorry. I picked that for you. Thought you'd like it." For this, Shuuichi is rewarded with a kiss, long and slow, with a promise of more to come.
Rei's smile grows, and Shuuichi's heart pounds in response. "I did. For, you know, the first few hours. Thank you."
They lose themselves in another dizzying kiss for a while, hands seeking out skin and tracing paths under clothes, before Rei, breathless, breaks the kiss and says, "I've never actually been on a third date before. Is this the one where I take you to bed?"
All higher brain functions leave Shuuichi as soon as the words pass Rei's lips; any thoughts he might've been thinking before disappear in the blink of an eye. Unable to think of anything clever or witty to say, he answers, dazed, "I hope so."
