osamu climbing into bed late after a long day onigiri miya. surrounded with an air of guilt and dark hour. his hair is still damp from a shower that’s washed off a hard day’s work and his skin is still warm to touch, having not bothered to put a shirt on. why when there are desires in his belly that yearns to be fulfilled without it?
his knee presses into the bed gently, your body dipping. his body glides across the bed to press perfectly against yours, molding just as perfectly as he does the onigiris he makes by the hundreds every day. it’s thoughtless, effortless, engrained in his identity.
that’s what he wants. so he shakes you lightly and asks for permission.
“baby,” he says in greeting. it’s whispered in reverence, a nighttime wish that only you can grant. “baby. i’m home.”
you mumble and fidget under his touch. but it also move towards him. your body turns to face him like a sunflower seeking its light. reverence is not only for those of the lowly. it can be found on equal footing, two pedestals. and he knows that though he holds you high, you will raise him with you always.
“you’re home,” you say back with a smile on your face.
gratitude fills him. and need. “i am. missed ya.”
“me too.”
he moves closer to press against you. hip against hip, nose pressed against yours and tracing the edges of your cheekbones before dipping into the taste of a shallow kiss.
“been thinking of ya all day.”
“yeah?”
“yeah. all day.” he reminds in between the presses of lips. “mind if i have ya?”
when you consent, he’s in no rush. he’s missed you after all. all he wants is to press into you, mold into your body, be one. it’s a slow descent of ecstasy, into sleep and into you. not an centimeter of space as he takes you lazily from the side, one arm across your chest and hugging you close, and another digging into your hips to keep you no further. you stay like that for the rest of the night.
