#shower scenes

Corbeau

(Got you in mind @greatpretending)

Corbeau came home quiet. Too quiet.

You only realized he was there when the bathroom door opened and shut again—soft, deliberate—followed by the faintest rustle of fabric as he set something down on the counter.

You were already in the shower, steam fogging the glass, hair slicked back as you worked shampoo through it. Warm water beat against your shoulders, drowning out most sounds, turning the world into something soft and distant.

You didn’t even turn around.

Then, his hands slid over your waist from behind, firm and sure, and you startled so hard the shampoo bottle nearly slipped from your fingers.

“Corbeau—!”

His mouth brushed your shoulder. A kiss. Then another—slow, teasing, like he was smiling against your skin.

“Hello, angel,” he murmured, voice low and far too pleased.

You twisted just enough to look back at him through the steam, blinking water from your lashes. “You scared me.”

“I’m sure you’ll recover,” he said smoothly, and you could hear the grin in it.

Your heart was already racing.

He crowded closer, chest to your back, one hand spreading over your stomach as if to steady you while the other traced upward—unhurried, appreciative, making your breath catch even though you were still trying to sound annoyed.

“You’re soaking wet,” you managed.

“Mhm,” he hummed, kissing the side of your neck. “Tragic.”

Your fingers tightened on the shampoo bottle. “I’m literally—”

“Busy?” he finished for you, lips grazing your jaw. “Clearly.”

He turned you gently, hands firm but careful, backing you toward the tiled wall like he had all the time in the world. Water streamed over his shoulders, hair darkened by it, eyes bright with that familiar, dangerous warmth.

You swallowed, still trying for unimpressed.

Corbeau leaned in, bracketing you in with one arm as his mouth found yours—deep enough to steal the thought right out of your head. His kiss tasted like temptation and victory, like he’d walked in here already knowing exactly how this would end.

You broke it only long enough to breathe.

“Corbeau,” you warned, voice already betraying you.

He smiled against your mouth. “Yes?”

“This is…not—” You tried again, then gave up with a shaky laugh. “You’re such a problem.”

“Mm,” he murmured, kissing you again, slower this time—hands sliding, holding you close like he’d missed you for hours instead of minutes. “And yet you married me.”

Your eyes fluttered shut when his kisses trailed lower, down your throat, your collarbone—making you tilt your head back and grip his shoulders just to stay steady.

Somewhere in the haze of steam and warmth and Corbeau being Corbeau, you felt him press his forehead briefly to yours, breath hot, voice rough with affection.

“Is there a reason,” he murmured. “why a husband can’t join his wife for a shower?”

You opened your mouth to argue—out of principle, mostly—but he stole the words with another kiss, hands sliding down your sides like he was already claiming every inch of you.

The glass fogged further. The world narrowed to water, heat, and the way Corbeau held you like he couldn’t possibly be expected to behave.

And the last thing you managed to think—before the rest of the shower became an entirely different kind of messy—was that you should’ve locked the door.

Too late now.

==========

Philippe

Philippe’s footsteps were unmistakable—even through the rush of water. Measured. Unhurried. The quiet confidence of someone who never needed to announce himself.

You tilted your head slightly as the bathroom door clicked shut, steam already fogging the mirror. The shower was hot enough to turn the air soft, your skin warm and flushed as you rinsed conditioner from your hair.

You heard him set something down on the counter—his watch, maybe. Keys. Something small and precise.

You smiled to yourself. Then, deliberately, you pulled the curtain open. All the way.

Philippe looked up.

Water ran down your shoulders as you leaned against the tile and lifted your hand, crooking your finger at him in a slow, unmistakable come here.

For one beat, he simply stared—eyes flicking over you with a calm that should’ve been illegal, like he was taking inventory of something he already knew belonged to him.

Then the corner of his mouth lifted.

“Is that an invitation?” he asked, voice low.

You tilted your chin. “Depends. Are you coming?”

Philippe’s gaze warmed—not rushed, not greedy, just…steady. The kind of attention that made you feel suddenly aware of your own breath, your own heartbeat. He stepped closer, stopping just short of the threshold.

“You’re going to flood the floor,” he said mildly.

You blinked. “That’s what you’re worried about?”

He hummed, amused, then reached past you to pull the curtain in slightly—just enough to keep the water in. Efficient. Controlled.

Then, he looked at you again.

“Better,” he murmured.

And without any wasted movement, he began to unbutton his shirt. Slowly. Neatly. Like he had nowhere else to be.

Your stomach flipped.

“You’re enjoying this,” you accused.

Philippe’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes did—darkening a shade, softening at the edges.

“Yes,” he said simply.

He stepped into the shower like he belonged there, like the space had been made for him all along. The water hit his shoulders and ran down over muscle and skin, steam curling around him until everything felt intimate and close.

You reached for him first—hands sliding over his chest, warm from the heat, your fingers tracing the familiar lines of him. Philippe caught your wrist gently, not stopping you—just guiding.

“You started this,” he reminded you, voice quiet.

“I know,” you murmured.

His hand moved to your waist, thumb pressing in the slightest squeeze, grounding you. His mouth brushed your temple, then your cheek, then finally your lips—soft at first, testing, as if he were letting you decide the pace.

But the moment you kissed him back, he deepened it with calm certainty, pulling you closer until your back met the tile and his body sheltered you from the spray.

You made a small sound against his mouth—half laugh, half sigh.

Philippe’s lips curved faintly, like he’d heard it and liked it.

“Good,” he murmured, kissing you again. “I missed you.”

Your hands slid into his hair, slick with water, and he let you—let you hold him there, let you keep him close—while the shower turned everything else into background noise.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, breath warm.

“Next time,” he said quietly, voice dipped with promise, “I’m not waiting for an invitation.”

You smiled, dazed. “Oh?”

Philippe’s gaze dropped to your lips. Then he kissed you again—slow and deliberate—like he had all the time in the world, and intended to use it.

And honestly?

You were more than happy to let him.

==========

Grisham

Warm water streamed down your skin as you rinsed off, eyes closed, hair slicked back, your palms sliding over your shoulders to clear the last traces of soap.

Then, the shower curtain shifted.

You blinked and looked over—

Grisham held the curtain open with one hand, eyes dark and steady as he took you in. Naked. Damp. Warm under the water. Completely unguarded.

There was no grin. No teasing. Just the softest pause—like he was allowing himself to appreciate the sight without making it your burden.

Your breath caught anyway.

“Um…hi,” you said, a little breathless.

Grisham’s mouth twitched, just barely. “Hi.”

He stepped closer, still outside the spray, gaze lingering a moment longer before lifting to meet yours. His expression stayed composed, but his eyes were warm—quietly hungry in a way that made your stomach tighten.

“You’re rinsing,” he observed.

“Mm,” you hummed. “That’s…what showers are for.”

He nodded as if that made perfect sense. Then, he pushed the curtain wider and stepped in.

Water hit his shoulders, darkening his red and white hair instantly, sliding down the lines of him as he moved closer. The space became small in the way it always did when Grisham decided he was staying.

You reached for him, fingers smoothing over his chest, warm skin under your palms. He caught your wrist gently—not stopping you, just grounding you.

“You didn’t lock the door,” he murmured.

You tilted your chin. “Didn’t feel like I needed to.”

Grisham leaned in, mouth brushing your temple, then your cheek. His hand settled at your waist, firm and steady as he kissed you—slow, deep, and unhurried, like he had nowhere else to be.

You melted into it, hands sliding up into his wet hair as you leaned back against the tile. The water ran over both of you, steam curling around your bodies, turning the world into warmth and skin and the sound of breathing too close.

Grisham pulled back just enough to look at you, his thumb pressing lightly into your hip.

“…You’re beautiful,” he said quietly—like he didn’t say it often, but he meant it every time.

Your throat tightened. “Grisham…”

He kissed you again, gentler this time, mouth lingering like a promise.

And when his hands settled more securely at your waist—when he drew you closer, shielding you from the spray—you felt the shift in him: that quiet decision to take his time. To make the moment last. To make it count.

You rested your forehead against his, breathing him in, the steam wrapping around you both like a secret.

Grisham’s voice was low when he spoke again.

“I missed you,” he murmured.

You smiled against his mouth. “You just saw me.”

His eyes warmed. “Still.”

And then he kissed you again—slow, patient, and entirely sure of where he belonged.

==========

Urbain

Urbain was many things. Brave. Loyal. Earnest. And—when he felt like it—an absolute menace.

You were already in the shower when you heard the bathroom door open, the familiar clatter of him kicking his shoes off like he couldn’t get them off fast enough. You smiled to yourself, rinsing shampoo out of your hair, water streaming down your shoulders.

“Urbain?” you called.

No answer.

Instead, you heard the sound of him rummaging. Then, a suspicious pause.

You looked up just in time to see him step into view holding a bowl.

Your eyes narrowed. “What is that.”

Urbain grinned like a boy about to throw a snowball. “Nothing.”

“Urbain...”

He lifted the bowl. You barely had time to gasp before he dumped it over the top of the shower.

The water was ice cold.

“URBAIN—!”

He howled with laughter as you fumbled backward, clutching the curtain like it could save you from betrayal.

“I’M SORRY—NO I’M NOT—OKAY I AM—”

“You are dead!” you shouted, wiping water from your face, cheeks burning from shock and offense.

Urbain was already stripping like his life depended on it, still laughing as he kicked off the last of his clothes.

“I couldn’t resist!” he pleaded, stepping into the shower with you.

“You’re a criminal!”

“I’m playful!” he insisted, hands sliding to your waist, warm and apologetic now that he’d had his fun. “C’mon. I’ll fix it.”

He leaned in, kissing you—soft at first, then deeper, thorough enough to make you forget you’d just been assaulted by arctic water. His hands smoothed over your sides, tugging you closer under the warm spray like he was physically trying to undo the crime.

You broke the kiss with a breathless laugh, still annoyed. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I know,” he whispered, smug for exactly one second before you pinched his side.

He yelped. “Ow! OKAY—okay—fair!”

He kissed you again anyway, grin pressed to your mouth, all heat and sweetness and that unmistakable Urbain energy—messy affection, big feelings, absolutely no restraint.

For a few minutes, the shower was nothing but steam and laughter and his hands holding you like he was making up for every ounce of cold with warmth.

Until he tried to shift you—and immediately slipped. He caught himself with a panicked sound, one hand slapping the tile.

You froze. “Are you okay?!”

“I’m fine!” he lied instantly, face flushed. “The shower is just… slippery! And I’m—uh—”

You lifted an eyebrow.

Urbain sighed, defeated. “I’m not built for this,” he admitted.

You laughed. “Yeah, you’re no Ivor, alright.”

“To be fair, I’m not trying to be that guy,” he said, grabbing the soap like it was proof of his argument, “And, I am not dying in here trying to be sexy.”

He rinsed off quickly, shaking water from his hair like a very betrayed golden retriever, then reached for a towel and wrapped it around his waist.

He held another out to you with exaggerated gentleness. “C’mon. Let’s relocate.”

You stepped out, drying off, still smiling…until Urbain’s hands slid around your waist from behind, his mouth brushing your shoulder.

His voice dropped. Warm. Intent.

“Okay,” he murmured. “Now I can actually make it up to you.”

You barely had time to turn because Urbain scooped you up like you weighed nothing.

You let out a surprised laugh. “Urbain!”

He carried you out of the bathroom like a man on a mission, water dripping from both of you onto the carpet like he had zero shame about it. The bedroom door didn’t even fully shut before he tossed you onto the bed—careful, but confident—then climbed over you like he’d been waiting all day for this moment.

Your heart raced.

Urbain braced his hands on either side of your head, eyes bright and affectionate, a little wild around the edges.

“Still mad?” he asked.

You narrowed your eyes. “Maybe.”

He grinned. “Good. Because I’m not letting you get away from me now.”

He kissed you then—deep, overwhelming, all warmth and devotion—and you melted instantly, hands sliding up his back as he pressed closer, making it very clear he had plenty of energy left…

Just not for balancing in wet tile.

And somewhere between your laughter and his kisses, Urbain finally got what he wanted:

You, warm. Safe. Breathless. And completely, hopelessly distracted from the cold-water crime.

Which—unfortunately—meant he was absolutely going to do it again someday.

==========

Ivor

Ivor came back smelling like clean sweat and soap—fresh from a workout, hair a little damp at the edges like he’d splashed water on his face but hadn’t taken the time to properly cool down.

You were already in the shower when you heard him step into the bathroom. Not loud. Not abrupt. Just those careful footsteps, like he was trying not to disturb you even though you were very much aware of him.

“Ivor?” you called, rinsing your arms. “You okay?”

There was a pause.

Then his voice, warm but hesitant. “Yeah. I just—uh. Didn’t know you were in here.”

You peered through the fogged glass and smiled when you caught the vague outline of him, towel slung low around his hips, cheeks faintly pink.

“You can come in,” you said easily.

Another pause.

“I don’t want to interrupt,” he mumbled.

“Ivor,” you teased gently, “it’s just a shower.”

That got the faintest huff of a laugh from him. Still, he didn’t move.

So, you opened the door a little, just enough to see him properly—standing there like he’d been caught doing something scandalous, shoulders broad and tense, eyes darting anywhere but directly at you.

You raised an eyebrow. “Are you shy?”

“No,” he said too fast.

You smiled, softening. “Come here.”

He swallowed, then finally dropped his towel and stepped closer, careful as he entered the shower like he wasn’t sure he belonged in the space with you—even though he absolutely did. The warm water hit his shoulders and he exhaled, tension loosening just a little.

You reached for him immediately, palms sliding over his chest with slow confidence. Ivor sucked in a breath, eyes widening as if your touch alone caught him off guard.

“You’re tense,” you murmured.

“I was working out,” he said, still a little breathless.

“Mm,” you hummed, then tipped your head. “Arms up.”

He blinked. “…What?”

“Arms up,” you repeated.

Ivor obeyed instantly, lifting his arms like a good boy caught between confusion and devotion.

You poured soap into your hands and began washing him—over his shoulders, down his arms, across his chest. He stood there, letting you, like he didn’t know what to do with being cared for in a way that was both gentle and unmistakably intimate.

He shuddered when your fingers skimmed lower, your hands sliding over his stomach, the lines of him, the warmth of his skin beneath the water.

You glanced up at him through your lashes. “Relax.”

“I am relaxed,” he lied, voice cracking just slightly.

You smiled, fond. “Sure you are.”

He tried to hold your gaze. He managed it for about two seconds before looking away again, ears turning pink. It was adorable.

You stepped closer, close enough that your bodies brushed under the spray, and Ivor went completely still like his brain had short-circuited again.

“You’re allowed to touch me too,” you reminded him softly.

He hesitated, then slowly lifted his hands—huge, careful hands—to your waist, as though he was afraid of doing the wrong thing. His grip tightened a fraction when he realized you weren’t going anywhere. When he realized you wanted this.

His breath warmed your cheek as he leaned closer.

“I missed you,” he murmured.

“You were gone for like an hour,” you teased, smiling.

“I missed you anyway,” he said, stubborn and earnest.

Your heart squeezed.

You rinsed the last of the soap from his skin, then rose onto your toes and kissed him—soft, patient, and sweet enough to make his whole body relax at once.

Ivor kissed you back like he’d been waiting all day for permission.

When you pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, eyes closed, water streaming down his hair and lashes.

“…Can we stay like this for a minute?” he asked quietly.

You smiled, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “Sure.”

And for a little while, you did. Just warmth, steam, and Ivor holding you like you were the best part of coming home.

==========

Vinnie

Vinnie always announced himself when he got home. You’d heard it a hundred times—his voice carrying from the entryway, steady and familiar, like a habit he couldn’t turn off even when he was tired.

But you were in the shower. Hot water pounded against your shoulders, steam curling thick in the air, shampoo rinsing down your back as you tilted your head under the spray.

So whatever Vinnie said from the other room? Gone. Completely swallowed by rushing water and echoing tile.

You heard something, though—muffled, distant.

“…what?” you called, squinting toward the bathroom door.

You heard his voice, faintly.

You rinsed again. “What??”

The voice was a little louder, but you still couldn’t make out what he was saying. You turned the water down a notch, listening, then tried once more with growing impatience.

“VINNIE, WHAT?”

That finally did it. The bathroom door opened. Vinnie appeared in the doorway, jacket still on, tie loosened, looking like a man who’d survived a full day of work and was this close to collapsing into the couch.

He stared at you through the curtain. Then he sighed, expression flat and fond all at once.

“You can’t hear me,” he said, mostly to himself.

You cupped a hand to your ear dramatically. “What?”

His eyes narrowed. He walked in, slow and steady, and stopped by the shower.

“I said—”

You watched his hand lift toward the curtain, like he was going to crack it open just enough to speak normally.

You yanked the curtain open first, reached out, grabbed him by the tie, and pulled him down into a kiss that stole his sentence clean out of his mouth.

Vinnie froze. Then, he exhaled through his nose and kissed you back—deep, slow, unmistakably home.

When you pulled away, you were grinning like you’d won something.

“Join me,” you said sweetly.

His gaze dropped to your hand, then back to your face, unimpressed in the way he always got when you were being trouble on purpose.

“You’re serious.”

“Dead serious,” you confirmed.

Vinnie let out a long-suffering sigh, the kind that meant he was pretending to be annoyed while already giving in.

“You know,” he muttered, “most people say hello.”

“I did,” you said. “I kissed you.”

“That’s not—” He paused, then corrected himself with a resigned nod.

You tugged him closer again. “Take your clothes off.”

Vinnie’s eyes flicked to yours, warmth creeping in beneath the dry humor. “Bossy today.”

You smiled innocently.

He shook his head like you were impossible, then finally pulled the tie free and tossed it aside.

You didn’t let him get far. You caught his shirt next, fingers sliding into the fabric to pull him back in—another kiss, a little sharper this time, a little more demanding.

Vinnie’s hands settled on your waist, strong and steady, holding you like he’d missed you all day even if he’d never say it out loud.

“You’re going to soak my clothes,” he murmured against your mouth.

“Then take them off,” you whispered.

A pause.

Then Vinnie’s mouth curved faintly. “Alright.”

He stripped quickly—efficient, unbothered—like he’d been waiting for permission more than he wanted to admit. Then he stepped into the shower with you, warmth and steam closing around him immediately.

You slid your arms around his neck, water running between you both. Vinnie kissed you again—slow, grounding, familiar enough to make your chest ache.

When you finally broke it, you rested your forehead against his.

“Welcome home,” you murmured.

Vinnie huffed a small laugh, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You’re trouble.”

“I know.”

He kissed you again anyway—because he was tired, because he was home, and because you’d grabbed him by the tie like you had every right to.

And honestly?

You did.

==========

L

L stepped into your room with the quiet certainty of someone who never wasted motion. A soft knock that was more courtesy than question, the click of the door shutting behind him, and then—

He stopped.

You were just turning toward the bathroom, robe untied, the fabric slipping from your shoulders as you reached to hang it up.

For one rare, stunned second, L simply stared. His eyes widened—both of them—like his mind had stalled between instinct and etiquette.

Then he sputtered, turning sharply on his heel.

“I—pardon. I didn’t realize—”

You didn’t rush. You didn’t yelp or scramble or snatch your robe back up. You just smiled—pretty, unbothered—like this was the most natural thing in the world.

And with all the calm in the universe, you stepped into the shower.

The curtain slid shut with a soft whisper.

Silence filled the bathroom.

Water began to run, steady and warm, steam starting to fog the mirror.

And still…L didn’t move.

You watched his shadow through the curtain—still as a statue, like he’d been rooted to the tile by some quiet internal conflict.

After a beat, you leaned out, only your head and shoulder peeking past the curtain. His gaze snapped to you immediately, sharp and caught, like he’d been trying very hard not to look and failing at the concept entirely.

“Are you just going to stand there?” you asked softly, amused.

L opened his mouth, closed it, then cleared his throat like it might fix him.

“I was going to leave,” he said, voice steady again…mostly.

“Mm, well, you’re still here,” you pointed out gently.

His jaw tightened, the smallest tell of restraint. He looked away—only to look right back again, like his discipline had limits where you were concerned.

You smiled. “Do you want to join me?”

The question hung in the steam.

L’s eyes flicked over you—quick, deliberate, like he was trying to be respectful and failing because you were you. Then his gaze lifted again to your face, searching for the joke. There wasn’t one.

His voice came out lower than before.

“You’re certain.”

“Mm-hm.”

Another pause.

Then L exhaled, slow and controlled, like he was making a decision he’d already made five seconds ago. He stepped closer. The sound of fabric shifting—coat placed neatly aside, shoes set with care. Every movement precise, composed, even now.

Only his eyes gave him away.

When the curtain opened again and he stepped into the shower, the space immediately felt smaller—not because of his size, but because of his presence. The heat wrapped around him, water sliding over his shoulders as he looked down at you with something steady and unreadable.

You reached for him first, fingers brushing his chest, and his hand caught your wrist gently—stopping you only long enough to press your knuckles to his mouth.

A kiss.

“I didn’t come here for this,” he murmured, voice barely carrying over the water.

You tilted your head. “But you’re not leaving.”

His mouth curved faintly, the closest thing to a smile you ever got when he was trying not to show how much he wanted you.

“No,” he admitted softly.

Then, he leaned down and kissed you—slow, deep, and unhurried, like he wasn’t interested in teasing or games.

You melted into him instantly, hands sliding up his shoulders as he held you close beneath the spray, steady as stone and warm as breath.

And for once—just once—L stopped fighting what he wanted.