Work Text:
“Ritchie.”
“Mmm.”
“My love.”
“Mmmmmm.”
“My heart.”
“Mmmmmmmmm.”
“My… falling star.”
“Ey!” Ringo’s eyes fly open. “Falling?”
“Asleep, like,” George purrs from where he lays atop him, dipping down and nestling in the crook of Ringo’s neck. “But now, clearly not…”
Ringo means to grunt. It emerges a sigh; his bliss is too great and continues to mount as George skids slow fingers over his face, tracing star maps over the curves of each surface. It’s meant to relax him, he’s sure, but the sight of George, fully bare, is too tantalising to bear.
In his longing to reciprocate, Ringo doubts he will get any further than the base of George’s spine unless he slips himself downwards or hefts George up, so instead settles for smoothing his shoulder blades, to which a note of pure music is hummed into his skin.
“If ’m a star,” Ringo says, pulling George impossibly closer, “what does that make you?”
George’s hum of pleasure turns into a soft kiss. “A very happy astronomer.”