Nothing can replace that feeling of being wanted.

He chases it like a drug, losing himself in the rush and basking in the afterglow. Temp's sloppy kisses are neither sexy nor romantic but they're welcomed as another hit, further validation.

He kisses back, earlier fervour replaced with lazy contentment.

"So eager to go again already? I must be losing my touch."

But he's grinning, the joke clearly understood. He's exhausted, the messy cocoon of sheets offering their tempting embrace, but he's also sticky with sweat and his hair's more of a mess now than from what Temp had done to it earlier.

"Long as you got spare towels," he answers, more serious, as he stands and rolls back his shoulders.

Temp blows a raspberry but squeezes into his bathroom. A fluffy blue towel is tossed at Cillian Quinn's head from inside.

It's a little cramped, not quite big enough for two people, but the shower is roomy. A few bottles of cologne and some basic skincare sit on a counter, the decorations seem to have a loosely 'sea' vibe. A picture of a boat on the wall and danging seashells draped in the corner of the small window. The shower has skid-grips on the floor shaped like starfish and bubbles.

The water is flipped on and Temp steps inside, shivering from the cold before it starts to warm up. He opens his arms in an offering to Gavin.

"C'mere and let me wash your back. Don't need you stinking up my bed." He grins, sleepy.

They step into the bathroom and Gavin feels a sudden discomfort with how domestic it feels. Shuffling around one another in a space not meant for two, towel fibers tickling his nose when Temp tosses one at him.

Thankfully, the towel also conceals his expression long enough for him to regain composure.

He suggested it, not me.

Temp beckons him into the shower and Gavin steps under the hot spray, shifting so that his back is to Temp. His stomach flutters with anxiety at the vulnerability of the position; turning his back to another has never felt safe.

He reaches for a bottle of shampoo, relieved to find that it's something nice and not some horrific 2-in-1 disaster.

When Cillian Quinn is in reach, the first thing Temp does is wrap his arms around him. He gives him a squeeze before trying to hook his chin over Gavin's shoulder; they're similar enough in height that it doesn't strain his shoulders or neck.

"For someone who just blasted his oat milk, you seem real tense, dude." His voice is quiet. Loosening one arm, he slides the frosted door closed before readjusting his hug. There's a soft hum, a little squeeze, the barest of kisses pressed behind Gavin's ear.

Then Temp pulls away so he can grab some neutral scented soap.

"When we get all clean and I change my sheets from our jelly-rollin', I'm running your back. You're made of knots, Gavvie."

Even when he's faced away from Tempest Quinn, the man can read him like a book. Gavin can't decide if it's annoying or comforting.

What is comforting is the way the other wraps his arms around him, resting the weight of his chin against's Gavin's shoulder so that his breath tickles Gavin's neck.

"Been under a lot of stress, s'all."

It's not a lie even if it isn't the whole truth. Between two failed relationships, the upcoming takeover of Sootopolis, and the experiments they've been running him through in the labs, Gavin can't remember how it feels to be truly relaxed.

He shivers as lips brush behind his ear.

"Okay," he consents; the thought sets both his nerves and his anxieties aflame.

"Be more surprised if you wasn't stressed, dude."

A wet, soapy washcloth is rubbed on Gavin's back. Temp wonders if he'll let him wash his hair.

Even though he said he would massage him after the shower, the low light of the water shining on Cillian Quinn's skin is too appealing. After he's washed any residual sweat and grime off the other, he plops the washcloth in a corner cubby before trying to sink his thumbs against the flesh of his shoulders. A circular grind.

"Oof. Worse than I thought."

The sudden, deep press of Tempest Quinn's thumb against his shoulder pulls a low groan from the base of Gavin's throat. His muscles tense and then relax as if he's forcing them to, a conscious effort made to combat the stiffness.

Don't move on too quickly.

Guilt tugs in his gut but he forces it aside.

It feels nice. And that's all right, isn't it? He's allowed to feel nice.

He squirts a small amount of shampoo into his palm and runs fingers through his hair, careful not to elbow Temp in the process.

There's a bit of a laugh at Cillian Quinn's expense.

"Damn, you didn't sound like you felt that good in bed."

The tease is easy. He doesn't stop his ministrations, though, only digging his thumbs in a little more before spreading his fingers out. Kneading while he rubs.

Temp takes the moment to admire Gavin. It's rare when they're together that he can't feel the other's eyes on him, or at least aware, and to see him so vulnerable seems precious and strange. Have many other people seen hi like this? Probably not? The thought makes a giddiness unfurl in his gut.

It was just nice to be trusted.

Right?

"Do you want to stay a while?" After the adventure on the sub, the two of them drinking and dicking around in Pacifidlog, and then here- it was pretty late. Much too late to just send Gavin off. His place probably wasn't as nice as Gavin's but, well, they could still chill on the couch for a while and cuddle.

What bros did.

The tease sends a flush of warmth through his skin, heating the back of his neck to betray him. His throat bore the mark of Temp's teeth and the memory of exactly how good he'd felt brings color to his cheeks.

"Clearly you weren't trying hard enough."

He feels a tug of guilt the moment he says it; would Tempest Quinn assume he was serious?

But he doesn't take it back, hopes only that Temp can read the lilt of teasing in his tone, because Gavin's not been one for flings since his experimental phase in college but he's pretty sure you're not supposed to fret this much.

The invitation catches him off guard for that reason: he was expecting to take a late Corviknight flight back to Sootopolis.

He should say no.

"I don't want to intrude," he says instead, as if he's not quietly hoping Temp will insist. That he'll let him share the bed even if it's just for another quick lay. That he might finally fall asleep with the warmth of another.

The low hum deepens in pitch, almost a purr, and Temp can't resist leaning in to kiss a trail of suds off Cillian Quinn's shoulder.

"With all this tension, it's a wonder you could feel anything at all. Bet I could make you feel even better after it's all worked out of you."

Even if his tone hints at a salacious promise, Temp is spent for the night. At least, nothing like earlier if Gavin decided to indulge him. His fingers trail down a bit to Gavin's hips and he gives a squeeze. The massage would be better when he got the other on his stomach, anyway.

"'Intrude'? Pah! I'll give you that massage, we can order in from this Kalosian place, watch a movie..." Fingers moved against his skin, counting off each tick. "'Sides, what kind of shitty friend would I be if I made you book it back to your place?"

A suggestive promise accompanied by the low pitch of Temp's purr spreads heat beneath his skin, something Temp would no doubt feel with the brush of his lips against the taut muscle of Gavin's shoulder.

"Mm. I'll hold you to that."

His grip tightens around a bottle of conditioner when Temp squeezes his hips; Arceus, he must seem so desperate. He'd come to take such things for granted and their absence has been felt like a weight, lifted with something so simple as the brush of fingers against damp skin.

He smooths conditioner into his hair, nails scratching against his scalp.

"Okay," he concedes, tone not betraying his relief.

Cillian Quinn is hiding something again.

Or, more accurately, holding something back. That won't do. Especially not under Temp's roof. Much like he would in Gavin's office, the best way to get the other man out of his own head is to pull him out. Gavin was so serious all the time. It was cute, seeing his eyebrows furrowed as he glared at his papers or whatever he was working on.

Temp's lips find the bend of Gavin's shoulder again, that sensitive curve where it meets the neck. It was already riddled with small bruises, one of which is given a quick nip.

Then he blows a raspberry loud and hard against Gavin's skin.

"You're going to hurt yourself if you keep thinking so hard, Gavvie."

A sharp intake of breath as Temp nips at tender skin is followed by a startled bark of laughter. The raspberry tickles his neck and his shoulders bunch, water getting in his mouth as he laughs. He screws up his expression against the faint taste of conditioner and sputters.

"Cheeky prick," he accuses, but Temp's interference had worked; he's smiling, exasperated and fond.

Fingers drag through his hair, ensuring the conditioner is properly rinsed out, and he flicks water over his shoulder in retaliation.

"Turn around and let me get yours before the water's cold."

He turns around himself after reaching for the washcloth. Should their eyes meet, however brief, Temp might note Gavin's nervous energy.