#making this up as I go so that I can draw Bacara with long grey hair and fireflies

[ominouspuff]

Just another wanderer

[firewoodwander]

I'm here with another one! :D 22. A kiss that is leading to more, but is interrupted by a third party + Rex/Bacara

Kiss prompts

Rex relaxes fully once the door to Bacara’s bunk slides closed. The privacy is temporary but sweet: three empty bunks on the wall that won’t be in use until later, Bacara’s kit bag dumped at the foot of the fourth.

Bacara, standing in his dress greys in the middle of the room, stretches his neck, his shoulders, his arms, and sighs deeply.

“Long trip,” Rex comments. It doesn’t have to be a question. Bacara’s unit has been away from the Core for nearly two continuous years, and nothing moves fast when space is this vast.

Bacara hums. “Hyperspace never gets less boring.”

He sits on the edge of his bunk, even and postured, and then all at once melts into himself. He hangs his head between his shoulders and scrubs his face with his hands. Pure, unmasked exhaustion.

Rex follows, perches beside him.

“My condolences,” he says. “The only place more boring than hyperspace is right here.”

Bacara hums again, but his voice is less heavy. His hands have stilled on his forehead and Rex can see his mouth begin to curl in a smirk below them.

“Maybe not right here,” he counters, and then slides Rex the kind of look that usually preludes Echo and Fives getting into all sorts of unspeakable trouble.

But Rex isn’t on duty, and Bacara isn’t one of his boys in blue.

“Maybe not,” he agrees slyly, and risks laying a hand over Bacara’s knee.

Hands fallen away and forgotten, Bacara watches Rex closely. Rex isn’t sure what he’s looking for, or if he finds it, but his gaze wanders from Rex’s freshly-shaved hair, to his eyes, all the way down to his neck and the collar of his uniform before drawing back up to his mouth. Rex swallows, and he follows the movement of his lips.

It’s quite impossible to resist leaning in and finally, finally meeting Bacara’s mouth in the middle.

It’s the kind of kiss that’s so slow they barely move, at first. The kind of kiss that’s tender and relishing and halfway to disbelief. It’s the kind that draws Rex in, bodily; that makes him inhale sharply through his nose.

The kind of kiss that neither of them want to end. The kind that makes Rex dive back in, again and again, draw each one out for all it’s worth. The kind that makes them tilt their heads to get closer, deeper, more intimate. The kind that’s growing with built up desperation and months of fear and years of longing.

Rex turns, swings his leg over Bacara’s thighs and sits on top of him without once parting their mouths. His arms go around Bacara’s neck and his hands into Bacara’s hair, clutching him close, gripping him right. Bacara’s hands find Rex’s waist and slide under his blacks, fingers gliding over heated skin in ways that make them shudder into each other.

Rex is panting, and he still doesn’t want to break for air. He doesn’t want to move any farther than he absolutely must, brow to brow, cheek to cheek. He presses kisses to the corner of Bacara’s mouth and the soft slant of his jaw. He slides his hands out of his hair and down his neck and begins unbuttoning the jacket of his dress uniform, searching for more skin.

“Right,” says a voice that is not Bacara’s, unexpectedly close and not at all apologetic in tone.

It snaps Rex back to reality like a strike to the face. Neyo, of all possible interruptions, drops his own kit bag at the foot of the adjacent bunk.

“Don’t mind me,” he says, unrepentant. “It’s not like I wanted my own welcoming committee, or anything.”

One of Bacara’s hands disappears from Rex’s skin to make an incredibly rude hand gesture at Neyo behind his back. Neyo snorts, possibly signs something back—

Rex doesn’t care. He lets his forehead fall to Bacara’s shoulder and laughs, full-bodied and shaking like he hasn’t in months. Bacara’s lips curl up into a smile against his temple.