Ohtori awoke to fingers in his hair. Careful not to move, he lay quietly in the dark, staring blindly at the frog plush that was sprawled beside him on the bed, feeling the soft caress of nimble hands as the tips of callused fingers trailed through his short, short hair.

Down they traced to his nape, tugging on the soft, invisible hairs. Up they danced to his temples, to swirl around his ears, nails teasing the sensitive skin behind the shell. They twirled, they twisted, they plucked his hair like a harpist plucks his strings and left him quivering with the closeness and silent in the darkness.

He burned, he could not breathe, he would not breathe, afraid that Sengoku would stop.


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