Novelette {Oneshots}

Coffee-eyed Angel ✧ 𝙳𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖

𝙳𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍

𝚃𝚆𝚜: -

𝙳𝚎𝚜𝚌: Day 2 of the writing event. Mood board above, quote was "Let me make you coffee."

Literally just 2k of domestic fluff lmao.
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George looks like an angel.

He'll deny it over and over again, blush every time I compliment him in such a way, but never accept that I'm right. Yet here, I think that if he could see through my eyes, even he wouldn't be able to say otherwise.

So I enjoy the moment, watching his peacefully sleeping face and dwelling on how right my analogy actually is.

From his pale, porcelain skin, bitten paler with the cold until pink has blossomed in a colour similar to cream. He's always had a doll-like elegance to him, made more prominent by the tiny freckles dotting his cheeks. They're so faint that they're only visible to those who dare to be close enough to him, yet I think I could pinpoint every one of them from afar.

Then I'm drawn to his eyes, dark like coffee yet not quite as bitter. On the worst of days, I could argue otherwise, but even then, they never fail to lose their warmth. More like melted chocolate, the sort so thin it's smooth but so thick you could drown in it. Indulge yourself in it, sickly sweet yet you're forever left craving more of it.

The innocent effect doesn't wear off at his lips, dusted a pale pink like fresh roses. There's tiny little indents along the bottom one, evident of a nervous habit of his, but it doesn't change how soft they are, how delicate they feel brushed against another's. I could testify as much, could explain every inch of that pretty mouth like I've kissed it a million times over.

I'm tempted to prove a point to myself now, and if he was awake, I definitely would've. Yet despite this, I still find myself giving in, resorting instead to pressing a tender kiss to his forehead. The gesture makes his eyes screw up slightly, and I watch in amusement as his long eyelashes flutter daintily

"Morning, angel," I coo to the boy beside me once it's obvious I've woken him up. Part of me feels awful for doing so, even if it was accidental, but his response quickly shuts down any sympathy I previously had.

"You're so cheesy," George groans, and despite how deceiving his looks are, I remember that this boy has anything but the attitude of an angel.

"Well, sorry for trying to be romantic," I huff, used to this sort of retaliation but still bothered by it. Any compliment George receives, he either ridicules, denies or ignores completely. It's frustrating to see someone so deserving of praise refuse to accept it, and since becoming his husband, I made it a side mission of mine to make sure he knows that I mean all of it.

"There's a difference between being romantic and being cringey," George quips, interrupting himself with a yawn, which I can't help but find adorable. He sits up ever so slowly, stretching his arms out above his head before finishing his thought. "You've definitely crossed the line."

"I thought it was cute," I grumble half-heartedly, brushing a strand of hair away from George's face before it can fall into his eyes. His hair is awkwardly matted at strange angles from sleep, and I comb my fingers through it slowly in an attempt to sort it.

George doesn't bother pulling away, instead leaning into the touch tiredly and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Glad you at least humour yourself," he yawns again, and I roll my eyes. He's always the one teasing me like this, so I decide to return the favour.

Before he can get out another word, I press our lips together, causing a tiny gasp as George is pulled forward slightly. I catch his bottom lip between my teeth, pulling it in just the right place to coax a moan out of him. Our breath fans out between us, mingling with the humidity bathing the room from the early morning sun.