thethespacecoyote:

probably not the way you were thinking but 

well.

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“Nuh uh, hands off, kitten.”

“You kiddin’ me? You don’t think I can do it?”

Rhys shot the older man a tired pout, his bedhead flopping down into his eyes as he looked up at Jack. The older man’s brow furrowed in his nerves, lip curling amidst the whipped froth of the shaving cream clinging to his chin. 

“I’m a man too Jack, I’ve shaved before,” Rhys tutted as he waved Jack’s fancy silver razor in front of his face, rolling his eyes when he flinched, “you’re such a baby, I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I’ve seen those legs of yours, pumpkin, smooth as a newborn baby’s butt. I’m pretty sure you’ve never sprouted a single hair a day in your life,” Jack snorted, trying to snatch the razor from Rhys’ hand but the young man danced back, hip bumping into the porcelain sink. 

“Oh c’mon, Jack, don’t you trust me?”

“Not with my $300 razor, I don’t,” Jack growled, but the pleading look in Rhys’ eyes was starting to wear him down, and the shaving cream on his face was starting to dry and feel all weird on his prickly chin, so he stood down. He crossed his arms over his chest and stuck his chin out expectantly at Rhys. A triumphant little smirk danced on Rhys’ lips before his tongue poked out in concentration. Fingers pressed into Jack’s jawline, holding the skin taunt as Rhys pressed the blade of the razor along his boyfriend’s cheek. 

For the first couple of easy, long strokes Jack kept his eyes fixed on Rhys, not daring to move or muscle or even swallow as the young man cut thick, bare paths through the cream lathered on his face. His heart held tense, anticipation a nick or burn from the young man’s presumably unskilled hand, but to his surprise there was nothing more than the perfect slide of the sharp blade against his supple, skin, smoothing out the prickles of the morning stubble into the soft, handsome skin that he took so much pride in. 

Eventually Jack felt himself relax, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the movement of his throat, the ease of his breaths as Rhys’ deftly shaved his face with all the finesse of a Renaissance sculptor, paying perfect detail to every little contour in Jack’s face, from the natural curves in his cheekbones and chin to the small wrinkles around his nose and mouth that Jack would usually rather accidentally nick than acknowledge. His eyes hood almost sleepily, trusting into Rhys’ touch until the clink of the razor against the rim of the sink and the slight dab of a damp towel against his skin. 

“Can’t believe you don’t have a nicer aftershave, handsome,” Rhys purred, wiping the remaining cream off of Jack’s chin, “lemme get you something that smells like mahogany or teakwood…I think you’ll really like that.”

Rhys leaned forward, breathing hotly against Jack’s bare, tingling cheek.

“I know I will.”