Work Text:
"Ads- may I tell you something?"
He twists and knots his legs into the mess of sheets. Back bare, lids heavy, he folds his arms into a loop around your middle. The skin under your navel twitches when his beard greets it, brown on pink, the brush of eyelashes opening tickles your flesh. You feel his nipple on your thigh and you drop a million kisses into his hair, edging him closer to you. Never does he appear so at peace with himself, with the morning, with the world, than when he is in your arms.
The sun streams in through the window in floods, unearthing the freckles that peppers the large spread of otherwise cream, strawberries and cream, because he is still raw from the confessions your mouth blurts. You dust them with your fingerprints. They are yours, he is yours. And you are his. The ink that eats his left flank whole is still a part of him, burning like coal between his hip and the bed sheets. Sun rays set fire to his hair, now a sandstorm, resembling your own. But he is cinnamon, always cinnamon, his hair and his eyes and his secret ingredient to his apple crumble. He is cinnamon and sometimes you choke.
He chokes too, on sand and stability. Yet his elegance overwhelms, then you recall; the curve of his back, the baring of teeth, the vein in his neck that tensed and slackened, like the elasticity of a catapult. You recall; the sheets churning into vortexes between fists. You recall; the way he dug red moons into you, your chest, your back, your arms. You recall; when you could see the breaths bubble in his throat before he pushed them into your lungs.
And now, his press of kisses to your abdomen, butterflies, tracing braids of infinities somewhere between your hip and back, he is an angel, God sent, you swear. You are neither religious nor a fan of clichés, but he inclines you to be either, because being with him is being in Heaven.
When he speaks, you hear:
"Yes, Jord, you may."
There is more than some thing you have to say, there is always more. You know he deserves more than words, more than letters strung onto wires, but it is all you are capable of giving.
His breath douses your pelvis, on the spot where your boxers start to graduate into your belly. He nudges you. "Hm?"
"I love you," you say. "So much."
"I know," he arches, then hoists himself upwards. To your chest. The sheets shuffle with him. He clings. "You wouldn't shut up about it last night."
"Yeah?" You take his hands and kiss them. Each palm, each knuckle, each crease. Your eyes meet his; a symphony of chocolate rims and amber chips.
"Yeah. And I love you too, Jordan. But probably not as much as I'd love breakfast right now." He claims his kisses on the peaks of your shoulder, hiking up towards your ears, tenderly kissing them. You purr in satisfaction, lacing your fingers with his.
"Get into the shower," you lift yourself from his clinch. "We'll do breakfast after."
He turns onto his stomach once you get up, you pinch his right ass cheek. He giggles into the pillow, then wraps himself into one of the sheets and, burrito style, leaves the bed.
As he stumbles into the shower cubicle still trapped in the cloth, you untwine him, roaring with laughter as he twirls. The sheet flutters to the floor, you join him in the cubicle, he turns on the shower spray. You strip, from the one article of clothing, and squirt a generous dollop of gel into your palm. Gently, you wash him, rubbing suds into rose skin and chestnut hair. Nose on clavicle, nails in the crooks of knee, elbows tucked into waist.
Hands free, he kisses you, soap in between your fingers and on his scalp, and you can feel every smile in every embrace and the bitterness of the suds on your tongue. He washes you, of pain and dust, against the ceramic, leaving square imprints on your back. A rumble lowly vibrates the air between you, and you grin at his belly. Jokily, you poke him where his skin ripples. Hair is splayed into dark, soft hooks on his forehead, lips are jerked into a poised nude pout.
"Let's go downstairs."
When the soap is gone and the water drips to a halt, he shakes you, reaches out for a towel and beams, drying you, then himself.
"Breakfast," you tell him.
"Hair," he replies, and unwinds the wires to the hairdryer. "Do my hair." You know better than to resist, so you lean into him and switch the hairdryer on. Lolling his head backwards, he exposes his stubble, down on his neck and sealing his cheeks.
"Show off," you mutter, his hair sweeping backwards when you aim the dryer onto his face.
"Jealous?"
Three minutes later and you resort to towelling his head because he doesn't stop squirming and grazing his nails against the hairs that prickle up on your arms.
Lingering, he returns the favour, as he does always. You bite his neck after, reversing purple and green to scarlet. He laughs, silvery, and squirms again, a different kind this time.
You tug him back into the bedroom. He licks his lips when you slip your legs into crisp underwear, slinging him a pair after. You wrap yourself in a forest green dressing gown and he combs through your wardrobe for a loose shirt. He settles. Blue, it looks good on him. Everything looks good on him.
You pad downstairs after and he follows you into the kitchen, planting his feet into fuzzy slippers. Four eggs from the fridge and a gallon of milk.
"Pancakes or omelette?" You fish the frying pan out.
"Pancakes." He turns the kettle on, your knuckles brush his when he reaches for mugs and you reach for a whisk.
And he won't ask you whether it's tea or coffee, because it's always tea, and his is always coffee. The water boils, the eggs folds into the flour, the milk drowns them both. He presses into you, arm snakes around your gown. You smell the jasmine and ginger on him, faint wafts; only subdued when he opens the coffee pot.
"I love you." Again. A mirror. Your gown absorbs his words and they leak into your skin like liquid gold. He makes the coffee, the tea, pulls himself up onto the counter and sucks in a gulp of bitterness. "So much." You flip the first pancake. Content, he sighs. You drink.
"Hmm," You plate the pancake. "A tester. It's still hot."
He uses his fingers. Soaks it in lemon juice. Blows onto the plate. "S'good. More sugar."
Laughing, you shield your face into the surface of his stomach. "You, babe, will get diabetes one way or another."
"I don't care," and you indicate to him that you want to taste too. He rips a shred, dangles, then drops it into your open mouth. He slurps the rest of the pancake up. "As long as you're mine, I don't care." You down some of his coffee, kissing the valley where his neck and chest join. Your chin feels his heartbeat and thrums along to it.
"Adam-" but he slices into your words, fingers digging into your dressing gown. "Oh God, I love you." You're arched now, and your fingers subconsciously switch the stove off. "Kiss me."
And he tastes like sugar, not lemon, like coffee, not milk. The birds sing a little louder, higher, outside and the sun traces all the freckles onto his skin again. You curl your arms around him this time, and he massages your still damp nape. Thighs make way around you, drag you in, before you break contact.
"I don't even have to breathe around you anymore," he confesses, curling his toes, face buried into your neck. "You do it all for me."
You already know.