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word count: 3,210
warnings: heavy smut, language, light choking (not breathplay), spanking
description: "This little dance you did was simple and occurred almost every night: sleep, wake up, have sex, go back to sleep, wake up, repeat."
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The bedroom was pitch black; only the dim light from the patio lamps shone through your bedroom window. It took a few moments for your eyes to adjust to the dim light when you opened them. J's features were highlighted in the hazy glow while he slept next to you. It was the only time you could openly admire him without receiving some off comment about it.
He had let his hair grow a bit longer and his curls were much more evident, fanned out on the pillow like a billowy cloud. You smiled in the dark, letting your lips fall open in awe. He was in desperate need of another dye job, but you didn't let that bother you. You also didn't let the thought that he was currently dirtying up your fresh bedsheets bother you either. He had come directly home after a job and clambered into bed with you. He was still dirty and sweaty, greasepaint caked on his face and rubbing off on your black bed linens. His hair was curly, yet stringy with grease and in clear need of a good wash. You should've been disgusted by his presence, but you were in fact the opposite. Sometimes your needs seized control of you and would not cease until your been satisfied.
You could feel your core begin to throb as a certain wetness seeped into your panties. You knew that feeling all too well and knew better than to ignore it. You squirmed as you tried not to wake him, but you couldn't get comfortable. Every move you made caused a sudden jolt to run through you which was embedded in the spot between your legs. You grabbed his hand and held it gently, fingers toying with his own relaxed digits. He liked that and moaned quietly in approval. All you wanted was to please him. You were eager to please and that might have been J's favorite quality of yours. You had to wake him slowly or else he'd bolt upright and topple you over.
You leaned down and pecked his cheek, favoring one scar. His eyes popped open within milliseconds of the unexpected touch. Your eyes met his quickly, checking for any sign that you had angered him. His painted face was expressionless. J wasn't always fond of the attention you paid to his scars. He was not self-conscious of them, just aware of them more than anything. He had told you once that anytime he spoke, laughed, moved he could feel them brush against his teeth and the insides of his mouth. You understood that he'd told you that in confidence, half expecting it to go in one ear and out the other. Also, he only had divulged since you had asked about them. Little did he know how often you thought about that. You didn't think they bothered him, but you also knew that people were doubly frightened of him because of those menacing cuts on his mouth and lips. What if you became afraid of him as well? What if you wouldn't want to kiss those scarred lips? J never told you about those fears. He wasn't afraid. But he did have concerns that centered around you or, at least, losing you.
