Late night text

[ To Guz: 1.20 AM ] So like, I can’t sleep[ To Guz 1.21 AM ] And like, accidentally made way too many cookies[ To Guz 1.23 AM ] Wanna watch some low budget horror movie over cookies and Moomoo Milk?

Excited text

acts of intimacy meme // accepting, so much accepting

thank you !!! <3 i dont wanna put this behind a cut so uh. scroll real fast anyone who doesnt wanna see this hghdjf

♖: Having their hair washed by the other

“Just because you can regenerate it clean doesn’t mean you can’t put some kind of effort into maintaining it, y’know,” John says, perched on the edge of the bathtub with his feet in the water and Lovecraft leaning against his knee. John doesn’t actually know to what extent Lovecraft is self-maintaining: the man usually seems to have bloodstains evaporate from his clothes alarmingly quickly, and when he falls apart into tentacles and messiness he usually comes back looking as neat as he ever does. (Which isn’t particularly put together, but with Lovecraft one has to take what one can get.) He never smells like sweat, just smells like the ocean. And his love for baths just seems to be a love for a contained puddle he can sleep/dissolve in.

But sometimes it’s the spirit of the thing, and John imagines putting conditioner in the mass of hair floating around in the tub couldn’t possibly hurt it.

“Effort is tiring,” Lovecraft replies, poking his nose and mouth above water just long enough to contribute to the discussion.

John is used to this rhetoric, and leans over Lovecraft to grab a bottle of shampoo. “Yeah, yeah. Too bad, you’re gonna smell like oranges now.“ He gets a burble in response, which John isn’t sure if it’s permission or not. Good thing he doesn’t care if he has permission, it’s happening. He squeezes a healthy drop of shampoo right onto the top of Lovecraft’s head (this guy has an absurd amount of hair, he thinks for the umpteenth time), and sets about half trying to ensure Lovecraft’s hair is clean, half trying to make this scenario as sudsy as possible. Lovecraft covered in tiny bubbles is stellar.

Lovecraft pokes his head up again, leaning back to look at John. John flicks a blob of shampoo bubbles at Lovecraft’s nose.

“It makes the water feel weird,“ Lovecraft says. “But your hands feel nice.”

“And your hair’s gonna be soft as hell once I’m done,“ John adds. It is another selling point. Lovecraft nods, then resumes his position leaning against John’s knee, eyes closed. It’s not the position most conducive to John easily washing his hair, but that’s an acceptable price to pay for the odd peacefulness of it. John sings happily to himself (Springsteen under his breath) as Lovecraft drifts off.

Lovecraft’ll wake up later, possibly with John scooting next to him in the bath, but definitely with nicely soft, briefly citrus-scented hair.

♠: One character adjusting the other's jewelry/neck tie/ etc.

It may not show itself often, and it may show itself in the weirdest of ways, but Lovecraft has an eye for detail. His own presentation isn’t necessarily anything new-- he’s exchanged his tattered cloak for a suit jacket that Fitzgerald thrust at him and demanded be kept in one piece for the entire evening, and the eye-patterned tie for something that probably does not blink every so often if you look at it out of the corner of your eye. So, he looks more or less like an almost normal human being. Rather pretty, actually, though still somehow otherworldly. He’s also very symmetrical (even his hair is tied up symmetrically), which is where he happens to find issue with John.

“Come here,” he says lazily, gesturing for John to walk over. John does, a little confused as to what Lovecraft wants. He doesn’t get a verbal answer, but he does instead get Lovecraft reaching over to the knot of the tie at his throat, tugging the deep-blue fabric looser, before promptly readjusting the knot and tightness thereof. Ah. So that was the problem. John watches Lovecraft’s face as he does this. Lovecraft’s concentrating much harder than John feels would actually be necessary, purple eyes narrowing and eyebrows furrowing in focus as Lovecraft tugs the tie just an iota to the left. Lovecraft stares, appraising, then nods to himself before straightening John’s lapel and fastening the tiny buttons on his shirt collar.

“Nitpicky, aren’t you?“

“It’s supposed to look even,“ Lovecraft responds, as if this is the most important thing he could possibly ensure all night.