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His skin sticks to yours like warm sugar, entirely too much of a feeling as his thrusts grow deeper and then still all at once. His breath is hot and heavy against the shell of your ear, whimpers and groans dancing across the baby hairs on the edge of your hairline, a shaky hand smoothing all the way up from your thigh to your breasts, an affectionate squeeze where he deems necessary. There’s a distinct ache between your thighs but it’s not the worst feeling in the world, you think to yourself, feeling warm and full even after he’s slipped himself out of you, hands tenderly manipulating your legs off his shoulders.
You sink, boneless, into the mattress, like a stone through water as you feel the springs and sheets shift around you as he gets up and slinks off somewhere for something. You don’t pay it much mind, not until a small draft dances across your bare stomach and you mumble for him needily, childishly. He somehow hears you from the bathroom and saunters back in with an amused but soothing “I’m coming don’t worry, I’m here” and then the mattress shifts again, and your view of the ceiling is interrupted by shaggy black hair, pale sharp eyes, a crooked grin. Gold earrings catch the light of the lampshade and twinkle just at the crook of his jawline like orb-like fairies, dancing in and out of your vision as he moves until he’s leaning over you on one arm, the other holding a warm cloth.
Said fabric finds its way between your legs and you hiss at the contact, grumbles that turn into almost-purrs when a free hand strokes through your hair softly, a pair of lips kissing and mumbling against your temple. He’s oddly amusable after sex, almost silly. “You come here often?” paired with a flash of teeth and dimples as his hands clean you up, whipping a storm of red onto your cheeks as you push at his chest with a hand half-heartedly. He giggles, giggles, but relents, tossing the cloth over his shoulder and replacing it with a cool glass of water, forever the caretaker.
“At least half please, then I’m all yours”. You do as he says, because how could you not, with his imperfect-perfect skin and his tattoos and his smile that’s as rare as rubies, and he rewards you with a gentle peck on the lips as he sets the glass on the side and nestles amongst the covers, dragging you down willingly with him. You start off with your back against his chest, arms looped around your middle as small, lingering kisses are planted along your shoulder, your arm, your neck.
The praise, God. “You doing okay?” “You did so good” “So perfect” “All mine”. You could get off from his voice alone. The thought enters your mind, and you press your behind against him, feeling him tense and huff a laugh / groan against your neck.
“There’s no way either of us are making it through round two” his voice is scratchy, deep and it only eggs you on, but before he can be convinced, he cuts the temptation off at the source and flips you so you’re chest to chest, an amused frown on his face as he kisses you all over before shoving your face against his collarbone. “Sleep, before you kill me off”.
No one would’ve believed it if they saw it: the Surgeon of Death, ex-warlord and member of the worst generation, cradling a woman in his arms so gently it was as if she was made of glass. Murmuring ludicrously romantic things against and into crevices of skin, a smile on his face so content you’d think him the luckiest man alive.
Sleep, deep and uninterrupted in his arms. The next morning, there’s a sleepy smile, a languid kiss, and the whole routine starts again, just slower, sweeter. His head hides itself against your neck as he moves inside you at a pace so irresistible, it feels like heaven being shot straight through you.
After, you crawl from the sheets and meet him by the window, met with a view that isn’t the seabed for once. Docked at a small island for the morning just to restock, to catch your breath, all of you. He locks against you with another one of those magic kisses and you curl into his warmth, despite him only being dressed in his boxers and tank top, a pleasing sight. Fingers mess up his already messy hair and you grin against him, lips stamping all over his face as you sneak a cup of coffee into his hands, a gift kept snug between your bodies.
“For me?” He murmurs, catching you mid-kiss-tirade and biting on your bottom lip. You nod, and he releases you, nose nudging against yours in a slow caress.
“For you.” You murmur against his skin, bewitched. “All for you”.