querencia

[scubatankfilledwithfarts]

She’d always lightly [lovingly] teased Mihai about his body aches; even his beard ached he’d like to grumble, and rub it and shoot an adoring yet exasperated look at Kiri, like some dopey, loving old dog—but Mimi wonders if it’s karma or long hours on her feet that’s made her back suddenly scream in pain like she’s 70 years old. It can’t be karma, she’s way too good for that. So it must just be the long hours.

She makes it home on a night where even the stars are tired. Their twinkling is dim, moonbeams overcast by the clouds that float on by in that blanket of pitch black that is the sky. The only lights in the apartment come from the kitchen once she steps inside, as welcoming a sight as the takeaway boxes she can see peeking from the trash in the corner. Her stomach grumbles in sympathy but that’ll have to wait for a little later.

Much as she wants to stuff her face, Mimi has something else to see to.

Their bedroom is lit dimly by a lamp on the bedside table, casting Badou in an almost ethereal light. Or just a lightbulb that’s about to go out. Mimi sighs fondly at the sight. A curved spine of freckles clustered like stars down his bare back leading to his rear in the air like some kind of offering.

Mimi’s distinctly reminded of that scene in the Twilight movies where Bella’s trying to get Edward to sleep with her and he does everything in his power to resist. But this is way less hot.

Does she give it a kick? Does she march right back out into the kitchen for leftovers? Her feet carry her [without asking, which is quite rude] to his side, where she threads her bra through her top, drops it and the capris. She stands at the foot of the bed, breathes in the moment, then takes a running head start, leaps onto the bed, and gives a hard slap to Badou’s rear.

A cat arches its back and hisses when threatened, hackles and sharp claws and Badou shrieks and rolls over onto his side, red faced, glare fixed on her like she’s murdered him. “What the hell!?”

“You forgot? You’ve gotta give me a ten out of ten for that one.”

Some couples do nose rubs, some cook together, and the Nails’ household have impromptu butt slapping Olympics. His face crumples into a pout, but he looks more constipated than anything as he sullenly rolls back over, back to her.

“Fine, I’ll give it a 9.3,” he concedes.

He must not be too mad because the moment she slides over Badou rolls again, his long body curls around her, shields her from the world. His pulse thrums where his chest meets her back, soothing, knowing. She’d know it anywhere.

Contrary to popular belief, they don’t always bicker. Sometimes they don’t even speak. He smells good, like her shampoo, and strands of his hair slicks across the back of her neck. Her eyelids are suddenly heavy.

It’s been a long day, truly, but this is kind of nice.

It’d be even nicer if she could see--

She makes a motion to flip over, feeling the rumble of his questioning hum, his arms ready to pull her back to him if she’d drifted too far away [jostling and ribbing and shouting in each other’s faces—they cannot help but draw together, like two electric currents, two plant stalks, their heads bent together by heavy rain—they rush to fill each other’s space every time].

Finally face to face, blue meets blue, a question in his. The pout is gone, replaced by that goofy smile, though there’s specks of confusion in his gaze. Their legs tangle together comfortably.

“There it is,” she decides, her chest hot, fingers tracing the corners of that jagged shape, that stupid big mouth.

“Hmmm?” he prompts, his palms resting automatically at her hips, like they belong there.
Instead of answering right away, she moves to tenderly brush some hair behind his ear. Badou’s face pinkens, his ear is red. She leans in to say, finally,

“Confirmation that I look better than you.”

He squeaks—squeaks! “MIMI!” Scandalized, outraged, other words that end in ‘ed’, though a bark of laughter lingers at the end. He scoops her up in those long arms again and her hand cups his racing heart.

“At least I know I smell better.”

Mimi finds she doesn’t care much, not as much as she cares about the shapes his fingers trace along the curve of her hip.