(this is fluffy as hell amg. No warnings unless the idea of a snuggly Sith is bad news for you.)
“I’m tired.” Perkele yawns, puts her caf cup on the bedside table, and immediately begins to take off her clothes.
She means it, too; when Andronikos smiles over at her, his eyes slowly and markedly taking in her form, she scowls over at him and ducks under the covers. The new sheets are comfortable, silky, and surprisingly warm, and she pulls them up to her chin, staring balefully at her husband as though daring him to start something.
And of course, because this is her life and he doesn’t let her get away with anything, he does.
He likewise strips down to nothing save his shorts, unties his hair so it falls to his shoulders, and slides into the bed beside her; she maintains a savage grip on the sheets and grumbles, “Don’t steal the sheets.”
“Then you should come over here and keep me warm,” he says, turning slightly to look at her.
They share a bed — they have for a few weeks now — but the act of literally sleeping together for them is usually about function: if they’ve not been intimate she has her side, he has his, and it’s a very rare occasion when they meet in the middle. Perkele knows she doesn’t want to be that forward with him; even married, they act within firm boundaries. And yet, this is his request, and for a moment she’s nervous.
The boundaries are set. Breaching one of them, redefining even the most minor act, is something that turns her into a confused young girl again, and when she finally gets over herself enough to grab her pillow and bring it closer to his, when she sidles right alongside him under the blankets, her upper body draped over him and her ear to his chest, she chides herself for not doing it sooner. He’s warmer than she is; his dark skin and lithe musculature a sharp contrast to her pale and soft everything. Her fingers trace idly back and forth between his navel and waistband, brushing against the thin trail of hair that she can feel there, and as she settles into a comfortable position she lays her hand flat against his chest, relishing his warmth, feeling his pulse, and once again she’s reminded that this is real.
“You should have asked me to do this ages ago,” she remarks, her voice half-muffled by his skin and the sheets that she managed to pull up to her chin again.
He laughs, having long since put an arm around her, his hand likewise leisurely rubbing her back; across old, nearly-invisible scars. The arm around her shoulders squeezes in as he gives her a one-armed hug.
“Don’t have to ask,” he says, the fingers of his free hand twining with hers on his chest. He raises her hand to his lips and kisses her fingers gently. When he moves her hand back to where it was he doesn’t let go. ”I’m always here.”