[coughing blood] shoyo...........
“Baby,” Shōyo says. "Are you doing anything?"
You roll over and look at your boyfriend, his hands full of little glass bottles, held between his blunt fingers.
"Yes," you say suspiciously.
"You're just scrolling," he says, pulling you down the bed. You squeal, your arms stretching out straight, your phone abandoned somewhere near the pillows. "Yams got me these massage oils after my injury last year and I just found them. Let me practice on you!"
"No way," you say, rolling your shirt over your head. "Do they smell any good?"
"This one's called 'island breeze,'" he's squinting at the labels when you turn your head. "And this one's 'dream escape.'"
"None of that tells me anything about the smell," you motion to him to hold them up to your face. "Oh, wow. I guess you can use 'glowing majesty.'"
"So you'll let me?" He cheers, tossing aside all the other bottles. You should probably check to see if any of them broke, but that's an issue for a later time.
"Fine, but no funny business, mister," you say, shimmying your yoga pants down your waist so that as much of your skin is exposed as possible.
"No funny business?" He pauses with his hands, big, warm, already slicked with "glowing majesty," on your shoulder blades. "Like none at all?"
"Don't sound so sad," you say, and for some reason your voice comes out breathy, like you can't quite get enough air in your lungs. You arch your back slightly. "Can you go a little lower? I've been really sore around my—" you make a deep, happy sigh when his hands dip under the waistline of your pants, his thumbs working curious little circles into the dimples of your back. "Ah, so good, Shō."
"You do want funny business," he accuses. You throw a coy glance over your shoulder and push your ass up into his hands. "I guess I can forgive you for tricking me. Deep breaths, now—just like that."
