"Good morning, baby."
That's what Dean murmurs with his husky just woken up voice, entering the bathroom and softly wrapping his arms around Roman's waist. A kiss on his shoulder tells Roman about intimacy and love and care. All things of unspeakable value, and even more if coming from the man standing behind him.
"Hmm, 'morning. Did you sleep well?" The Samoan asks, his hands resting on Dean's.
Dean basically speaks with his face buried into Roman's back, his words slightly muffled by that tanned, warm skin. "Yeah. You're the best pillow ever."
Considering the fact he's suffered from insomnia, for the other that's always something nice to hear. Roman is too worried about Dean's welfare not to be thankful to God every time his man tells him how good he's doing. Dean also punctually retorts that his improvements have nothing to do with God, but Roman always shuts him up with a kiss.
Chuckling, the Samoan slowly shifts between his arms in order to turn and face him. His curls are wild, the spark in his eyes lighting them up in a tender baby blue that's just so fucking adorable. Roman's smile widens as he brushes Dean's cheeks with his fingertips, slightly touching his sideburns.
The other pushes forward, a moan escaping his mouth even before clashing against Roman's. Tongues burning wet, their first kiss in the morning unravels as an indecently slow display of eagerness. They clutch at each other lazily, hands striving for flesh and lungs filled with sighs. Mornings like that have a major taste of gratitude, amongst other things. Cheek to cheek, they still for a moment to enjoy the silence and their closeness. Dean's lips, subtly disclosed, are gingerly rubbing against Roman's face.
"I know, it got scratchy. I was just about to shave this stubble, time to get my goatee back in shape." He explains, mindlessly caressing Dean's hair.
"…let me." It's the raspy moan he gets in response.
Confused, Roman draws his head back to look him in the eyes. "You sure?"
"Yeah. Are you? I'm not gonna cut you or anything!" Dean wryly replies, raising his brow.
Roman gently takes both of his hands between his own. "Quiet, killer. I know you won't hurt me. I trust you." He says, placing sweet kisses on those rough knuckles. "You should let me take care of these, though."
Though, Dean appears to be whimsically against such a thought. "My hands are fine, shut up. I'm not starting with moisturizing creams and shit like that."
Since he was expecting exactly that kind of reaction, the other man chuckles before pecking him on his clenched lips. "You're so damn stubborn."
"Hm-hm," Dean nods, pushing him away with a playful, smug grin. "Now. Where's your razor?"
"That case over there." Roman points at his left, heaving a resigned sigh. Facing the mirror, he turns on the tap and leans forward to splash some water on his face again, letting it soak in. Then – still wet – he applies a thin layer of his expensive shaving cream. A ritual he's used to, but this time another pair of hands is going to take care of what comes next; it's a domestic feeling built in trust, something he considers more significant than many other things. Resting his hip against the bathroom countertop, Roman makes a little throaty sound to make clear he's ready.
Dean steps closer, quickly studying the direction Roman's beard has grown before rinsing the blade under hot water. Stretching and pulling the skin with one hand, he moves the razor in short and smooth strokes with the other. As much as Roman is relaxed, so Dean is focused, all absorbed by his task, tongue barely sticking out of his mouth while his eyes are fixed on his man's face. He accurately rinses the razor every few swipes and breathes deeply every time the blade touches Roman's skin again.
He often gets so close that the Samoan feels a prickling urge to kiss him just because he's doing good, really good. Roman finds himself thinking that those wiry hands, so dangerous and unforgiving in the ring, are surprisingly delicate, still and careful while sliding a sharp blade over his jawline, cheeks and throat. Curving his neck to give him more space, Roman feels blessed and warm at the sole realization that he would put his own life straight into those hands being sure it's well-placed. Dean Ambrose may be a crazy brawler in the eyes of the world, but he's a goddamn god in Roman's. And those arms he tries so hard to be worthy of, are both shelter and temple of his faith.
"How much is it, barber?" Roman asks minutes later, glancing at himself in the mirror, quite satisfied with how precisely his goatee has just been trimmed. He still feels the ghost of Dean's fingertips on his face, and it's beautiful.
Dean moves his hands up to Roman's chest, gently brushing over those perfectly shaped Samoan curves. "You know, I think a proper blowjob would be a fair price." He suggests, a devilish grin popping up on his lips.
"Ah, so that's why you insisted on shaving me? To grant yourself a blowjob? I'm offended." Roman answers back, faking wounded pride.
"Sorry, man. Couldn't take the risk of you not doing it. I woke up horny as fuck." He explains, his voice going low and gruff as he nuzzles against Roman's fresh, scented of after-shave neck.
"What if told you I was going to suck you off in any case, man?"
At that, Dean simply laughs. And he laughs with such a bright, blossoming joy, Roman feels like a clash of supernovas in his chest. Happiness is a symptom Dean has still not experienced enough times in his life, not even remotely, and Roman is adamant on fixing such a thing.
"I'm joking, Ro. I just wanted to. I really wanted to. 'Cause 'm yours and you're mine and all that stuff, I guess."
And that's all the Samoan needs to hear to take him by the hand and drag him toward the bedroom, toward unmade white sheets ready to be warm again.