Zack Fair, for all his boundless energy, loves the slowness of the morning after a mission. He loves letting his gaze lock to yours, as his legs do, letting you indulge not only in the mako-tinged green, but in all the pleasure he can possibly give.
A morning where youâve slept in, laid through hours and hours to rest off the ache in back and fingers. The feeling is an old, if maligned, friend. A leftover feeling from days spent tinkering with heavily equipment and molding new swords. An excuse too, he reckons, to kiss each knuckle even at the cost of the angry hum he receives for waking you.
âSorry, techie.â He smiles, only somewhat genuine in his apology. He hums again at a black mark. Itâs a thin remnant of oil from engine adjustment, or perhaps ink from hours spent setting a schematic onto paper. Against it, some broken, muffled compliment. You can always feel the way his grin spreads across his lips, even when you cannot see it, head buried in the pillows.
âCân I keep kissing you?â He manages out when those same lips part into a yawn. His spiky hair tickles your neck, just as his warm breath does. This time, you canât tell if his clipped vowels are from his sleepiness or his country upbringing. You have no energy to find out. In fact, you barely have enough energy to nod. Yet when you do, he places down your wrist with one last peck, before moving the affection onto the curve between neck and shoulder. His weight wraps onto your frame, arms and legs rested onto your sides.
âMm. Can I do more? Just a lil?â
He asks as if he has not already slotted himself between your thighs, letting the feeling rock back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, until you both let out a deep hum and feel the start of stickiness, satisfied and tired in equal measure. His breath is hot on your face, as is his tongue, whispering on your cheek.
âMorninâ, babe.â âĄ
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