#look okay there’s going to be a lot of luztoye drabbles dropping and all i can tell you is that it’s too late for me

[blood-mocha-latte]

#11 for the kiss prompts! a tasteful luztoye or webgott if you will...

11 - neck kiss (smutty, intimate)

George’s back hurts.

“This isn’t funny.” He tells the mattress, blessedly cool against his cheek. “This is – this is psychotic. This is torture. You’re a sadist.”

Joe’s hum is gravely, amused. “I told you I should’ve gotten that box. It’s heavy, and you have old people bones.”

He is thoroughly unperturbed by George’s plight, puttering around doing something or the other around the bedroom. George spreads his fingers against the comforter, winces when it twinges his back.

“I’m cold.” He says, on the edge of complaining. Joe had at least helped him shrug out of his shirt, and with the ceiling fan turned on, George is fairly certain that his immediate fate is to freeze to death. “And don’t call me old. You’re older than I am.”

“I didn’t say you were old, I said that you have old people bones.” Joe corrects him, entirely too carefree. Which, George would usually appreciate, given the limited amount of moments where Joe actually is lighter, but right now, he kind of just wants his husband to lie down with him and stop with the unnecessary unpacking of the assortment of garbage they’d absorbed at one point or another. “You crack like a glowstick on a good day, doll.”

George frowns into the mattress. “Curse my lineage.” He tells the bedsheets, and Joe snorts. He pats his palm against the bed, groans. “And c’mere, you asshole. You can’t just leave me stranded.”

He still can’t see Joe, the other somewhere behind him, but isn’t surprised at the warm palm that presses lightly to the back of his own hand.

“I didn’t leave you stranded.” He says, suddenly much closer, voice rough. “I was looking for this.” George can see him out of his periphery, now, also shirtless and appreciably more bronzed. A bottle cap pops and George groans, internally relieved.

“So long as I can sit perfectly still and you don’t touch me, we can go as many rounds as you want.” He says. Joe’s laugh is huffed against his shoulder blade, as he grazes his lips over George’s scapula and along the path of his throat to his ear, careful not to put anything but barely any pressure. “Why did we get massage oil, again?”

The mattress dipped gently as Joe shifted to kneel on top of it, a knee on either side of George’s calves. “When I fucked up my shoulder.” He said, dry fingertips ghosting warmly over the dip of George’s back. “And you googled how to help with knotted muscles and came back with a fuckin’ Hoover dam amount of oil.”

George’s grin feels bright, right down to his heart. “What,” He says, “We make our way through the rest of the bottles or somethin’?”

“Or somethin’.” Joe agreed dryly, hands disappearing briefly from George’s back before returning just as smoothly, light touches along the curve of his spine. “Tell me if I go too heavy.”

George groans as soon as Joe puts more weight behind his hands, sliding the heels of his palms up his back. “You should lie on top of me with your full weight.” He says. “Just an offer.”

Joe hums, and his hands trace a path back up and down, the small of George’s back to the top of his spine.

“Maybe later.” He says lowly, and the mattress creaks as he presses further down, the sturdy muscle of his left thigh and smooth, cold metal of his right prosthetic both pressing against the outsides of George’s thighs.

The next path his hands moved along are followed briefly by Joe’s mouth, and he presses his lips to the top of George’s spine as he did so.

Joe’s knuckles brush over the right, pained span of the left half of his middle back and George groans again, pained.

“We’re married.” He mutters, can’t help but smile into the mattress. “I think that means in sickness, health, and most importantly, when my back kind of hurts.”

Joe’s laugh is a warm gust of air against George’s skin. He’s warm, heavy against him, and the hands on George’s back are both a layer of protection against the chill of the room and the receding pain in his back.

He probably just strained a muscle, if it feels that easy to fix, and he lets go of some sort of pleased, nonsensical noise when Joe’s palms run up his skin again.

“We’re married.” Joe repeats, a low rasp, pressing his thumbs to George’s scapula. “You believe that?”

George makes an annoyed noise when Joe’s hands stall out, shifting his hips against the mattress and Joe’s own to push back and roll onto his back, hardly caring about the oil.

“No.” He murmurs, Joe dropping further into the bed to meet him, oil warm and running along his waist instead as George licks into his mouth, fingers knotting together behind his neck. “Yesterday I was nineteen.”

He pulls back enough to kiss the side of his mouth, instead. “You aged eight years in a night?” George can’t help his smile, wide and warm, so Joe kisses his cheek, instead.

“I’ve heard marriage does that to you.” He says, running his own palm down Joe’s back as the other dipped in to kiss him again.

“Mm.” Joe agreed, wordless, against his lips. “There’s oil everywhere.”

George pulls away, just enough to exhale a laugh against Joe’s cheek.

“We were gonna have to change the sheets anyways.” He murmurs, Joe heavy on top of him as he huffed a laugh.

“When you’re right, you’re right.” He says against George’s cheekbone, the hinge of his jaw, his pulse point. “What d’you want for dinner?”

George pushes a hand through his hair with a hum, lips pressed to his temple as Joe kisses his neck. “I don’t care.” He says, otherwise occupied.

“Lasagna?” Joe moves up enough to ask the words against George’s lips. “There’s some in the fridge.”

George laughs, warm and bright and almost ache-less. “I’d starve to death without you.” He says, warm and mumbled against Joe’s mouth.

“I’m sure.” Joe says, on the edge of a laugh, before dipping down to kiss him again. “Hey. Marry me?”

George laughs, palms pressing to the dip of Joe’s back. “Already done.” He says, and Joe hums and kisses him again.