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Aizawa is, as expected, a lazy kisser. If he's pushed up against you in bed, he simply kisses what is avaliable to him. Sometimes he'll ask you to move, so he can properly kiss you. He'll give you a sharp look if you argue.
Aizawa is also a man that is very aware of the consequences of his actions. He knows that if he doesn't make an effort to tilt his head, you'll end up bashing noses. He'll grumble about it, but inevitably just continue.
Most of the time, he's more heavy than rough. He doesn't grab, or take. He weighs you down. An arm across your chest as he kisses up the side of your neck, or a hand with comforting weight on the back of your head.
When you had first gotten together, he'd put much more effort into it, drawn by anxious energy he will not admit to. But now, things are calm, and he has learned that what works for you both is his casual, cat-like affection.
You hear him shift before you feel it, the blanket being pulled tight across your waist as he squirms. Most people would assume that he was still, but that was during the day, when he was making up for the hours of sleep he'd missed. Which he misses by wallowing in the bed like a pig.
You know he can't help it, which is what makes it worse. You can't be mad at him. In fact, he's suffering from this far more than you are.
You feel his breath on the back of your neck, and you can hear his sinuses whistling.
"I'm keeping you up." He says, voice its usual low grumble. He sounds congested from laying down so long.
"Yeah." You mutter, voice muffled in your own pillow. You grab the blanket pulling you by the waist, trying to pull more slack. Instead, you free it out from under you and it flies off, exposing you to the cold of the room and leaving a small pile on Shōta.
Shōta makes no move to help, instead nosing into your hair. You can feel him scrunch his nose, and he blows out a rushed breath from his nose. It warms your neck for only a moment, before leaving it feeling cold and clammy. "Tickles," he mutters, as if he doesn't care much, and pushes a kiss to your neck.
He does this a few more times, making increasingly frustrated noises as your hair brushes his face.
"Will you turn around?" He eventually snaps, like any of this is your fault. But you'd finally fixed the blanket and started to drift at the heat on your neck.
"I'm almost asleep." You whined into your pillow. You felt lucky that your Shōta was intelligent and could decipher that, because it was pure gibberish.
In retaliation, he threw an arm over your side, landing hard. You let out a tired, "oof," and felt a bit more awake. Still, you stood your ground, curling farther up into your pillow.
Shōta just began to pull his arm back towards himself, hoping he would bring you along with it. It worked, strangely enough, and you let out a loud sigh as you flipped over to face him. It took some grunting and your elbow pushed into the mattress, which made you even more frustrated with the situation, but you managed.
Plus, Shōta looked adorable. His hair fanned out on one side and sticking out on the other, his mouth squished into an o as he rested his cheek against the mattress. When he couldn't sleep he'd typically throw his pillow off the side at some point, seeing if the cold sheets would be what did it. They rarely were, but it had happened a few times.
"What do you want?" You grumbled. He'd call it bratty if he wasn't bone-tired and frustrated. Instead, he pushes his face into your neck, his hair coarse against your chin.
You decide to be merciful, sliding your hand into his hair. It gets caught in a few tangles from his tossing and turning, but the pads of your fingers eventually reach his scalp, and he grumbles. You’re sure it's positive, a good rule is that Shōta enjoys anything a cat would, including looking disgruntled. But it's hard to tell from how he sounds.
He presses kisses to your neck, unhurried. After a few kisses he changes spots, the previous one a little damp. Once he's covered all of your neck avaliable, he huffs, and you're well aware of what that means.
You gently scratch his scalp one more time as a goodbye, and slip your hand out of his hair. He makes a breathy noise, but doesn't otherwise complain, so you scoot down.
Once you're both at eye level, you can see his eyes closed, and feel more of his slow breaths fanning over your face. He cracks one eye open to see you, and you blink right at it. In turn, he pushes forward. His nose connects with your chin awkwardly, and he makes a sound again, opening his eyes and deciding to make an effort to actually meet his target.
His lips are chapped, but you quickly solve that as you always do, running a tongue over them. Shōta pushes forward, a little more energy in his movements. He ends up slightly on top of you, each kiss pulling on your bottom lip. He doesn't seem to be satisfied with that, making one if his small noises as he slips his tongue past your lips. You think, briefly, about being a dick and keeping your jaw clenched, but you decide you don't have the energy.
His tongue tastes like tongue. Like most tongues do. It tastes like warmth, and that little bit of acidity from coffee, mint from his toothpaste long gone. Shōta doesn't fight you with his tongue like some people do, he doesn't explore, poke or prod. He just seeks out your tongue with his own, constantly. It feels like a game sometimes, shoving your tongue behind your molars, feeling his tongue hit your teeth in its search, eventually rubbing up against the side.
There are a number of things about Shōta's tongue that is different from your past partner's. It’s not rough, textured. It's smooth, warm, and his saliva is of concerning thickness. Well, not concerning, just something you hadn't experienced before him. It makes his tongue feel smooth and glide against yours easily, and you can tell where he's touched for only a moment with how his saliva sits on your tongue.
When Shōta pulls back, he doesn't care about the string between you. He cares more about his heaving breaths and getting his hands on you. You, however, watch it closely as he pulls his head back to adjust himself. You grip his wrist, his attention turning to the thin line.
It breaks, hitting your chin and neck in a cold, wet line. You make a displeased sound, and Shōta immediately grabs up a handful of the blanket to wipe it up.
Effectively saved, you turn to him, almost straddling you and moving his arms to see what puts less pressure on his elbows.
"Keep this up and I'm sending you to lock the door." You grouch.
“we live in an uncaring universe” yeah dude and I live in an uncaring house. and I shit in an uncaring toilet. but do you touch an uncaring lover? do you comfort an uncaring child? do you guide to sleep each night a cold and uncaring self?
I can excuse a lot of inaccuracies in other people's writing. But if there is something not completely historically correct in the fic that I don't even plan to post, backed up with scholarly research, I cannot continue to write.
the reason usa birth rates going down is because we have a whole generation of women whose sexual awakening was Sans undertale and none of the men want to wear jorts and drink ketchup and go Er er er
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Summary: everyone knows that you don't touch a vulcans hands, especially when that hand us connected to the one and only Mr Spock. But what happens when in order to be respectful to a new community that you have encountered you and Spock must dance...
a/n: just a short one-shot as i can't get this post out of my head lol
★・・・・・・★
Everyone on the Enterprise knew the rule, even if no one had ever said it to you outright. You don't touch a Vulcan's hands. You especially don't touch Spock's hands.
Which was, of course, the exact moment the universe decided to test you.
You were on Ferran soil as security detail, full stop — assigned to shadow Spock through the delicate business of negotiating a trade agreement for astrophage, a volatile stellar matter the Ferran harvested and the Federation very much wanted a safe supply line for. Your job was to watch exits, read threats, and get your science officer back to the ship in one piece. Nobody had briefed you on dancing.
The Ferran were a graceful, deeply formal people, and their welcome ceremony for offworld guests came with exactly one non-negotiable requirement: a dance, performed in pairs, palm to palm. Captain Pike had taken one look at their intricate court customs and decided this was a diplomacy problem best solved by volunteering his science officer and the officer assigned to protect him, which happened to be you.
"It is a simple gesture," the Ferran elder had explained, guiding your hands toward each other in demonstration. "Palms meeting palms. It is how we greet those we wish to welcome as friends."
Simple for them, maybe.
You stood across from Spock in the low golden light of the Ferran hall, painfully aware of every pair of eyes on you, and painfully aware of exactly why this was a problem. You'd read enough, overheard enough, to know that for Vulcans, the hands were not casual. They were private in a way human hands weren't. Touching them meant something.
So when the music started and Spock raised his hand, palm out, waiting, you did the only thing that seemed reasonable: you reached out and wrapped your fingers loosely around his wrist instead.
Spock's eyebrow rose a fraction. "A creative interpretation of the form."
"I'm improvising," you murmured, keeping your voice low enough that it wouldn't carry to the Ferran elders watching with polite, unreadable expressions. "I didn't want to— I know hands are a whole thing for you. I'm not trying to make this weird."
"You may find it is a great deal less weird if you simply take my hand."
"I'm good, thanks."
"You can grab my hand," he said, with the particular patience he reserved for explaining obvious things to illogical people. "I do not mind."
"No, it's fine. I don't want to make you uncomfortable."
"I would rather enjoy it if you grabbed my hand."
That stopped you for half a second — not just the words, but the way he'd said them, level and certain, like a data point he was simply reporting. Spock did not, as a rule, say things he did not mean. He especially did not say the word enjoy about anything if he could avoid it.
"You're just saying that so I don't insult an entire civilization."
"I assure you, were that my only concern, I would have simply informed you of the correct hand placement three sentences ago, rather than repeating myself." A beat. The music swelled around you, other pairs beginning to turn in slow circles across the hall floor. "I am aware of what this gesture means to my people, Lieutenant. I would not offer it if I did not wish it offered to me. By you, specifically."
Oh.
Oh.
You felt your face go warm, which was deeply unfair given that he was the one who'd just said that with all the emotional affect of a tricorder reading.
"Spock—"
"The elder is watching," he said, mildly, though you suspected that was not actually the reason he'd said any of it.
Slowly, you loosened your grip on his wrist and let your hand slide down to meet his — palm to palm, fingers curling lightly at the edges the way the elder had shown you. His skin was warmer than you expected. His hand was steady. Something in his shoulders, some near-invisible thread of tension you hadn't consciously clocked until it was gone, eased.
"There," he said. "Was that so difficult?"
"You're insufferable."
"I have been told." But his mouth did the thing it did sometimes, the almost-smile he thought no one could see, and his fingers pressed, just slightly, against yours as the dance turned you both in a slow circle beneath the gold Ferran light. "For what it is worth — this is, by Vulcan standards, a significant thing to share with someone. I would not have suggested it lightly."
"I know," you said, quieter now. "That's kind of why I panicked and grabbed your wrist like an idiot."
"An understandable, if inefficient, precaution." His hand tightened around yours, just slightly, just enough. "You need not take such precautions with me."
You held on for the rest of the dance, and did not let go until the music stopped.
★・・・・・・★
a/n: i hope you liked it, ik not many people write for spock so u know i doubt anyone will really read this but oh well i loved the OG post so yeah slay. also did anyone cast the not so subtle project hail mary refrence??? lol
everyone listed is here on tumblr except for professornoodless and Twothousandand42 who are, to my knowledge, on Reddit (if they are on tumblr though please let me know what their tags are so i can credit them, thank you)
("local grump" is such a funny term to me, especially for handplates gaster so i had to include it)
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I like how the only official hint we ever got for how Mic looks with his hair fully down is that his students thought he was a ghost lady and tried to kill him.
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