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The First Words of Summer are for Mlle C
Okay, this is the first fic I wrote for my madness (500) Words Of Summer plan - which is explained and open for prompts here - and it is for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mcollinknight , my dearest Brain Twin.
She wanted "I WANT SUNNY BRADAM. PURE FLUFF". There was some other stuff mentioned. Also the words "writerly" used in conjunction with my brain. Oh, how we laughed.
Read the fic under the cut, if cereal and morning kisses float your proverbial boat...
The Defamation of Count Chocula
Summary: Good Morning, Good Morning. It's great to stay up late but Good Morning...
Disclaimer: Although the people are real, this almost definitely isn't. I'm, like, 99% sure?
Thank you, KLB, for the quicksmart beta <3
The sun is streaming in past the shitty kitchen blinds. They’re metal and Brad keeps meaning to buy new ones, but blinds are so very far down the list of things to spend their, ha-fucking-ha, riches on.
Adam, always up later, shuffles in yawning.
“You should take your make-up off, you know,” he says, voice still sleep-slurred, brushing a thumb over the corner of Brad’s eye. Adam is paranoid about his skin and charmingly convinced by the advice sections in gossip magazines, where celebrities swear that their flawless complex is entirely down to drinking water and always cleansing before bed. So Adam has an obsessive nightly routine, even when they come in at six AM, smudged up and danced out, leaving glittery handprints on the walls, Adam singing, “Dressed up to the nines, at sixes and sevens with you.”
Brad says, “I wanted my eyes to still pop the morning after, okay?” which is better than saying I couldn’t be assed/I like my sleep/I, unlike you, am not actually crazy.
“And stop defacing the cereal boxes.”
“You need to stop buying such tempting brands then,” Brad informs him, scratching out the first “o”.
Adam gives him a eye roll and a kiss on the top of his head. “Fuck me, it’s hot,” he grumbles. “We should get AC.”
“We can’t afford AC,” Brad points out. “Besides, it’s not that bad. You’re just mad because you want to drink your coffee boiling hot even though it’s mid-July.”
Adam sighs dramatically at the kettle. “It’s too hot, okay? It’s hotter than the middle of the sun.”
“I’m from Texas, honey. I know from hot.” Brad ramps up the drawl because Adam has this stupid accent thing that makes a coupla deeper vowel sounds an argument winner.
“Two can play that game,” Adam says, more West Coast than usual. “I’m from SoCal, babe, and I still say it’s too darn hot.” He sounds like sex on gold sand under palm trees, and okay, maybe the accent thing isn’t so stupid after all.
Brad reaches out, grabs Adam’s wrist - easy to do after a year’s practice - and pulls him down and in for a kiss. Adam melts into it, still morning pliant, resting just the right amount of weight on Brad’s knees. He leans one hand onto Brad’s hip, finding the top of the bone with his thumb, warm through Brad’s boxer briefs. Brad murmurs, “Morning,” into Adam’s mouth and Adam presses him down onto his chair and adds a little edge to the kiss. “What should I have for breakfast then, if I can’t have coffee?” Adam says when they stop, breathe, focus.
“Mmm?” Brad tries. Adam smiles, nips at Brad’s bottom lip. His mouth is set fond and kissed-up red as he leans away.
“Maybe I’ll have strawberries. Or I could fix us pancakes?” He pushes back, and Brad brushes a kiss at the edge of his jaw as he goes.
“Sure, I can have two breakfasts, what the hell,” Brad says, relaxing back into his chair to watch.
It had been the pancakes that did it, really. Brad had kept meaning to have the talk about how this wasn’t a, you know, Thing, with Adam. But Adam kept distracting him with hot, fast sex at night and slow, sweet smiles in the morning. And then he would wander blearily around the kitchen, singing to himself and making pancakes. And it was too much. Adam was too brilliant for this tiny room, too cute with his bumping into everything, too good at making pancakes. Too easy to love, in the end.
Only, falling in love wasn’t the end. It wasn’t something that you did one day and that was that. Falling in love was something that happened over many mornings and then there were many more after you realised it had happened.
And he calls Adam the hopeless romantic.
“Why are you shaking your head at your cereal?” Adam asks, glancing back over his shoulder from his position at the stove.
Brad says, “I’m shaking my head at you,” and sticks his tongue out.
Adam says, “Don’t make me come over there, young man,” brandishing a wooden spoon in what he probably imagines is a threatening way.
“Promises, promises,” Brad sighs. Adam smiles and a breeze catches the blinds so more sunlight is let in and everything is brighter for a moment.
Brad hides his grin behind the cereal box.
mcollinknight , my dearest Brain Twin.She wanted "I WANT SUNNY BRADAM. PURE FLUFF". There was some other stuff mentioned. Also the words "writerly" used in conjunction with my brain. Oh, how we laughed.
Read the fic under the cut, if cereal and morning kisses float your proverbial boat...
The Defamation of Count Chocula
Summary: Good Morning, Good Morning. It's great to stay up late but Good Morning...
Disclaimer: Although the people are real, this almost definitely isn't. I'm, like, 99% sure?
Thank you, KLB, for the quicksmart beta <3
The sun is streaming in past the shitty kitchen blinds. They’re metal and Brad keeps meaning to buy new ones, but blinds are so very far down the list of things to spend their, ha-fucking-ha, riches on.
Adam, always up later, shuffles in yawning.
“You should take your make-up off, you know,” he says, voice still sleep-slurred, brushing a thumb over the corner of Brad’s eye. Adam is paranoid about his skin and charmingly convinced by the advice sections in gossip magazines, where celebrities swear that their flawless complex is entirely down to drinking water and always cleansing before bed. So Adam has an obsessive nightly routine, even when they come in at six AM, smudged up and danced out, leaving glittery handprints on the walls, Adam singing, “Dressed up to the nines, at sixes and sevens with you.”
Brad says, “I wanted my eyes to still pop the morning after, okay?” which is better than saying I couldn’t be assed/I like my sleep/I, unlike you, am not actually crazy.
“And stop defacing the cereal boxes.”
“You need to stop buying such tempting brands then,” Brad informs him, scratching out the first “o”.
Adam gives him a eye roll and a kiss on the top of his head. “Fuck me, it’s hot,” he grumbles. “We should get AC.”
“We can’t afford AC,” Brad points out. “Besides, it’s not that bad. You’re just mad because you want to drink your coffee boiling hot even though it’s mid-July.”
Adam sighs dramatically at the kettle. “It’s too hot, okay? It’s hotter than the middle of the sun.”
“I’m from Texas, honey. I know from hot.” Brad ramps up the drawl because Adam has this stupid accent thing that makes a coupla deeper vowel sounds an argument winner.
“Two can play that game,” Adam says, more West Coast than usual. “I’m from SoCal, babe, and I still say it’s too darn hot.” He sounds like sex on gold sand under palm trees, and okay, maybe the accent thing isn’t so stupid after all.
Brad reaches out, grabs Adam’s wrist - easy to do after a year’s practice - and pulls him down and in for a kiss. Adam melts into it, still morning pliant, resting just the right amount of weight on Brad’s knees. He leans one hand onto Brad’s hip, finding the top of the bone with his thumb, warm through Brad’s boxer briefs. Brad murmurs, “Morning,” into Adam’s mouth and Adam presses him down onto his chair and adds a little edge to the kiss. “What should I have for breakfast then, if I can’t have coffee?” Adam says when they stop, breathe, focus.
“Mmm?” Brad tries. Adam smiles, nips at Brad’s bottom lip. His mouth is set fond and kissed-up red as he leans away.
“Maybe I’ll have strawberries. Or I could fix us pancakes?” He pushes back, and Brad brushes a kiss at the edge of his jaw as he goes.
“Sure, I can have two breakfasts, what the hell,” Brad says, relaxing back into his chair to watch.
It had been the pancakes that did it, really. Brad had kept meaning to have the talk about how this wasn’t a, you know, Thing, with Adam. But Adam kept distracting him with hot, fast sex at night and slow, sweet smiles in the morning. And then he would wander blearily around the kitchen, singing to himself and making pancakes. And it was too much. Adam was too brilliant for this tiny room, too cute with his bumping into everything, too good at making pancakes. Too easy to love, in the end.
Only, falling in love wasn’t the end. It wasn’t something that you did one day and that was that. Falling in love was something that happened over many mornings and then there were many more after you realised it had happened.
And he calls Adam the hopeless romantic.
“Why are you shaking your head at your cereal?” Adam asks, glancing back over his shoulder from his position at the stove.
Brad says, “I’m shaking my head at you,” and sticks his tongue out.
Adam says, “Don’t make me come over there, young man,” brandishing a wooden spoon in what he probably imagines is a threatening way.
“Promises, promises,” Brad sighs. Adam smiles and a breeze catches the blinds so more sunlight is let in and everything is brighter for a moment.
Brad hides his grin behind the cereal box.