#c.writing

“You can’t handle three days?” Adam teased, craned forehead to shoulder, cool brush of fabric against hairline. “I’ll text you.” Punctuated, kiss to collarbone, “When did you get so–”

“Needy?” Ronan’s breathing, shallowed. Worn, thin from strain and lack of air.

“Not in a bad way.” Lips, brush jaw, and he murmured, over pulse point, “It’s not.” Wrapped finger over wrist, over forearm, “I’m– I like feeling needed.” Teeth, scrape hinge of jaw, “I’m…”

Ronan, stilled, squeezed Adam’s palm, his exhale a barrage against shell of an ear. 

He never usually asks, to join Adam. Doesn't have to. It's seamless. Adam would nod his head, tug him forward— mouth to mouth, give oxygen back, resuscitate desire. Lead him by the wrist, press him against slick tile while water bloomed outrageous and furious blush along wrinkled skin, osmosis a symptom of desperation. Fuck him against the wall, or near the faucet, or press him down to the tub itself and hold the back of his head and guide himself to Ronan's mouth, cooing and whispering good, good job. God, Ronan, and go red, blush down to his hips. Allow Ronan to pull off, mouth over curvature of bone, kiss along thigh muscle down to the knee, back along tender, bruised inner leg. A task, demanded, and one Ronan took to with vigor: if you're given the object of piety, you got on your knees and prayed along that altar. Knees could ache, grind against tile, or wooden grain, or in this case the slip, slide, unsteady slick of porcelain that Ronan navigated to really put himself to use. Determination, in his eyes, he knew, and Adam reassured it as well earned, goading, hips rocking, scraping nails against the nape of his neck. Along the crown. Clamping against shoulder when he came, went slump in momentary bliss, before sinking, too, to Ronan's level and kissed him to exchange taste on tongue and continue singing hymnal praise, you did good, you did, I love you, you're so good, Ronan. Beautiful, really. Do you know what you look like, on your knees like that? God, I wish you did. I love you, I love you, and with that echoing in sacrosanct arena of curtain, tile, tub, how could he not twist and turn this part of their day to one of utmost reverence? 

“Can you what?” Adam asks, and there it is. Little smirk, playing along lips. Amused. Smug, even. That wicked little thing, counterfeit of Ronan's own exclusionary smile; borrowed from high school. There were remnants of Ronan's influence in the creases of Adam Parrish. Vice versa, in every facet of Ronan's life. Hairs, strewn on pillows; golden threads snatching streams of light. Adam's shoes, toed off and lopsided against Ronan's own. That stupid threadbare blanket Adam had carried from St. Agnes that he insisted on rolling on the foot of the bed, even if it was too thin to hold any heat and packed too full of static to offer any comfort. Ronan could thread a thumb through mothbites, but Adam insisted it stayed in their room— and he'd said our room, then Ronan was preoccupied with Adam's hands up the back of his shirt, down the front of his pants and our, our, our. 

Little bites: those spread long-lasting claim, too. Floriculture possessive mark lining neck, the collarbone, chest. Hips, even, and while those aren't for outright showmanship— because Adam gets delight in knowing there's something to stake, signature in orchid pressed bruising--they're the deepest, darkest. Maybe he recognized these were the teeth, claw marks in which Ronan most delighted. There was nothing wrong, he thought, in Adam at his most carnal. Even if he winced at the implication, when he got too far in his head and Ronan could see in his eyes the question: is it too much, am I doing too much, pressing too hard, pushing to break? Nevermind, Ronan thought that if Adam did break him, he'd spend the rest of the night piecing him back together.