dex's morning routine — with a twist!
usually, he'd wake up at six on the dot, but that's before. now, it's maybe a quarter past seven when he shoves at you again, gentle. he'd be stressed if it was anything else, but your touch, your presence is enough to distract him. your eyes are still closed, and you swing a leg over his again—his hand comes up instantly, thumb smoothing over the skin just by the hem of your sleep shorts—and you drag your mouth down his neck.
"baby," he groans, and you sigh into his skin, it's too early. he resorts to pleading. "i need to get up, i'm sorry, i love you—"
"if you really loved me, you'd stay in bed with me," you grumble, shifting your leg so his fingers slip under the fabric. tempting. he wants to take the bait, he almost does—and then he slides your leg off, slips out from where your head is on his chest (there's a sticky patch right across his pecs where you drooled in your sleep; for someone who moves around a lot at night you sure do attach yourself to him securely) and pats you once on the shoulder like a work colleague before he sits up on the edge of the bed, back to you. you almost start crying before the broad expanse of his (clothed, unfortunately) back shifts your attention from loss of boyfriend to need to bite, yum.
when he stands up, stretching, the joints of his back crack like mini gunshots. you roll over and swat his ass, and he yelps at the contact, the sound tumbling out unbidden before he can stop it. you snicker, slightly more awake than before, and he turns around to glare down at you before it melts into something softer, more besotted. gorgeous, he murmurs. you don't know what he's seeing in you right now, messy and sleep-deprived, but you won't question it. not when he looks at you like that.
dex tugs off his shirt, grimacing as it separates slowly from his skin, and stumbles into the bathroom, still rubbing at his eyes. you take the loss and follow him, zoning out against the door frame as he takes care of his business, before sitting down on the closed toilet seat. from here, you get a remarkable view of both his back and front, all of his rippling muscle as he brushes his teeth and shaves. you brush yours too, if only so that you can scam a quick make out from him. he kisses you hungrily, hands grabbing at your hips, breath hitching when you drag your nails down his abs. he tastes too much like mint and not enough like him but you're too far gone to care. this time, he's the one trying to keep you a moment longer, chasing your lips and giving you the best puppy eyes he can muster when his eyes are glazed over and his lips are all pink and swollen. and then he pretends that none of this phased him and goes on his merry way like you didn't just readjust the axis of his world with your hands alone.
breakfast is much of the same, stealing kisses from him where he stands at the stove between sips of coffee while he complains about you not allowing him to focus completely on the eggs. you watch him fondly; he's such a good househusband when he's not out killing people. but no one's perfect, right?
halfway through his workout, you finally win him over; he abandons all pretenses and lets you kiss him silly right there on the floor, acting like this isn't what he's been waiting for the whole time.
for those of you concerned about my disappearance: it's really hard to write fanfiction because i'm watching criminal minds rn (started ~10 days ago?) and im on s3 and spencer reid makes my 🅱️enis hard so i can't think of much else. with that being said, requests are still open, reblogs are welcome, etc! 624 words iloveyoudex
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