It isn't long before my mind goes to other things.
Given where we're seated, it's no surprise. I imagine what would play out if I carefully removed the laptop from Tsukishima's lap, moving closer...but unfortunately, I have a job to do, and it's one that involves making sure that he doesn't stop writing. I squash any dangerous images that invade my brain, taking a gulp of water, ice tapping my lip in what I take as a reminder to keep things cooled down. Still, would it really hurt? There would always be time tomorrow for the writer to work.
With one glance at Tsukishima, I banish the idea. He is completely focused and wears the expression that only artists can take on when they're creating something wonderful. I might be selfish, but I have a lenient side when it comes to his writing.
I'm just beginning to nod off from sitting still for so long when he finally saves his document and yawns widely, eyelids drooping. "Roppi-san, I'm going to bed now..."
"Alright," I reply and stand, "I'll take the-" Couch, I had been about to say, but was that necessary now? We both stop; an awkward silence ensues.
"Um...you can...you know...i-if you want!"
Tsukishima blushes furiously and rises next to me, looking determined. I raise an eyebrow. "If I want?" I'm just teasing- honestly, I know what he wants, but it's so much more entertaining to pretend I don't.
"Roppi-san," he pleads helplessly.
I smile in response, already on my way to his room. "Do you usually sleep on the left or right side, Tsukishima?" I call over my shoulder. Once inside his space I examine the area, only having been in here a couple times.
"Um...left," replies Tsukishima, moving past me to the dresser. Normally he lends me one of his shirts to wear so that I don't retire in my day outfit; tugging out a navy blue T-shirt, he hands it to me hesitantly. Instantly I'm removing my jacket and hanging it over the chair I find partnered with a small desk in one corner, pulling my black long sleeve over my head, replacing it with Tsukishima's shirt and inhaling lightly. It smells like him. I leave the pants, though- they won't be much of a bother, unless...
Upon returning my stare to the other, I find that he hasn't budged an inch. His face is turned away politely.
"Tsukishima."
"W-what?"
"You're allowed to look at me, you know."
The writer bites his lip and at long last goes to fish out something to wear to bed as well. "I-I know..."
Sighing, I pad over to the bed itself. It's pushed up in a corner, a wall against the right side and behind the headboard, a quaint nightstand situated next to it. I don't think twice about lifting the fluffy white covers on the piece of furniture up and slipping under them, scooting to the right side. My eyes slip closed as I revel in the comfort of Tsukishima's bed. I had been right about it smelling like him, because the scent is coming at me from all sides.
My author finishes changing. I hear the soft clink of his glasses being set down for the night, and then the flick of the light switch before everything goes dark. Weight sinks down next to me and cold air rushes into an opening as he arranges himself properly, reaching out to bring me closer.
I'm not used to cuddling and I'm not sure if I can fall asleep like this, but Tsukishima is a hopeless romantic, and the more I find myself indulging him the more I find myself satisfied with it. His head rests on top of mine, warm breath tickling my scalp like a pleasant summer breeze. I believe most humans refer to this as 'spooning'.
I'm lulled into drowsiness by the heat alone. One of my biggest pet peeves is sleeping cold, which seems to work out well because the blonde whose breathing I can feel likes to sleep close. He mumbles goodnight and his grip around me slackens, as if he's falling into dreamland already. I frown. The couch incident is still heavy on my mind.
Is that all I get?
I'm faced with an immediate dilemma. Do I insist upon waking him up, or do I let him get sleep that he most likely needs desperately? Writing is hard work, and there will definitely be bags under his eyes in the morning as it is now, but I'm still impatient because we might not have a chance tomorrow. We have to visit the YS building again, after all.
Mulling it over only briefly, I decide on the first option.
"Tsukishima," I turn over to prod his shoulder to the best of my abilities. My arm is pressed up to my chest from the position that we're in.
"...mmm?"
I have to get his attention without freaking him out, somehow. On one hand, if I'm too straightforward, he'll withdraw into an embarrassed lump on the other side of the bed from me, but on the other hand, I can't be too indirect. "Don't you want to do anything?"
He's a bit more coherent when he asks, "Do what?" I haven't been clear enough, and I sigh into his neck. I'll have to hope that he isn't scared away by something blunter.
"Fool around." The writer tenses at the implication, cheeks warming to the point where I don't even have to look to observe the heat. "Tsukishima?"
He swallows hard. "Y-...You...d-do you want to?"
"That's why I'm asking." Why would I bring it up if I didn't want to?
"O-Okay," the blonde says, obviously nervous, "Okay." I read the undertone of his agreement as but I don't know what to do.
First of all, he needs to relax. The way I tilt my head to find the spot where I'd marked him before probably does not help that cause, nor does the way I scrape my teeth lightly over the still-healing bruise. His breathing pattern changes slightly, as if he's anticipating my next action, and I let my voice drop to a hushed note, "How much did you get done today, writing?"
It's a random question and he is no doubt confused, but I'm going to try to see if the almost-there noises are even more starkly noticeable while he's talking. He's just starting to answer when I scoot myself back for a little more mobility for my hands, and I trail my fingers lightly down his chest, a feather light pressure. "I-I wrote half of a chapter, a-about the same as half of the last one..." His rhythm of inhale-exhale grows more shallow, and in the dark I can hear it even clearer; my fingertips are skimming the skin at his hip, skirting the waistband of his boxers, "and I went back and a-added in some...some-" My wandering digits sneak below the fabric, just barely. "Um..."
"Some what?" I inquire. Perhaps I'm a sadist for wanting him to keep speaking, but I don't particularly care, as long as he continues to let me have my way.
"F-Figurative language," he clarifies, the warm skin under my hand shaking lightly as it had before.
"I saw you had some good dialogue."
"Well, you did tell me to...work on verisi-" I did indeed tell him to work on verisimilitude in dialogue, but I cut him off by at long last curling my palm around his halfway-at-attention member. Tsukishima's voice box is still working on speech and this time, the breath he forces out at the sudden onslaught of pleasure carries a soft hum, the closest thing to a moan I've ever heard him free and hell if it doesn't turn me on even more than I had been before then.
His fingers clench from where they are still pressed against my back. I begin to slide the hand entrapping his cock up and down, mimicking how I know I like it. "You're allowed to touch me, you know," I inform him, breathing labored, replacing look with touch because that's what I want him to do to me right now.
"Y-yeah," is all Tsukishima says before lapsing into silence, but his hand on my back glides at a leisurely pace like sunlight peeking through leaves down lower, and then quickly up again as if he fears he's done something wrong. He doesn't know what he's doing, but he's trying.
My grip on him is unhurried; I don't want him to find release before he finds courage enough to copy what I'm doing. He doesn't seem inclined to lose clothing- and I'm perfectly fine with that because I know we'll get there someday.
"Is this a new story, or a continuation?"
"A...a new one-"
"Oh?" I'm not quite at a whisper yet, and my eyes have adjusted to the dark enough for me to catch the debilitated expression he flashes towards me, pleading with me not to make him talk while I decide to pump him slightly rougher. "What's it about?"
If he doesn't want to answer, he doesn't have to, but Tsukishima doesn't like to ignore questions. His hips shift closer to my hand. "It's, i-it's about..." He squeezes his eyes shut momentarily. I attribute the next bravery he exhibits to his concentration on the sensations and on speaking, an enjoyable tingling sent through my veins as he allows his hand to drift tremulously to my hip, to the bare skin where the shirt has ridden up slightly. I'm urging him on silently, just a little more...!, and the warmth of his palm is abruptly flooding into my stomach, not quite where I want it to be but close.
He stops and snags his bottom lip with his teeth and shoves his hips forward again, minutely, just once. Tsukishima's self control is astounding, and normally I admire it, but it's taking over habitually now and stopping him from pleasing the both of us. "You don't have to hold back," I say. My eyes are half-lidded, watching him carefully.
The journey of his hand continues as he nods, appearing only a small portion more relieved. I wait until the writer is working hesitantly at the button on my pants before resuming my work on his cock, keeping him aroused and happy while not bringing him fully off, wishing he'd just hurry up because I'm seconds away from just rolling on top of him and performing a repeat of the couch incident. Once his fumbling fingers have gotten the button undone and my zipper down I lean up to reward him with a kiss, feeling his harsh breathing against my tongue and my teeth and my mouth and mine catching at the thrill of those fingers on me, finally. I'm aching for him to put them to good use.
The first few jerking movements of his hand are purely experimental, but I sigh an encouragement anyways. I draw him down for another kiss- we're still lying on our sides facing each other, but I don't stop to think about saliva that might get on the bed sheets because the only things I can concentrate on are that kiss and Tsukishima's palm on me and mine on him, feeling heated skin pulse under my attentions.
He releases quietly after only a minute. When I pull back from him to groan lightly, his lips glisten wetly in the dark, evidence of my intrusion. I remove my soiled hand from his pants and rock my hips in tandem with his touches, trailing my gaze over his body until I stare him full in the face, and he stares back like I'm something amazing and it sends me over the edge, over that familiar precipice of complete surrender and bliss.
We flounder for air together afterwards, recovering, until he says, with a shyshyshysmile, "I wonder...why it is we always m-mess up our clothes."
I grin and roll over him in order to get to his dresser and locate some extra underwear to borrow, at least for the night.