Disclaimer: I don't own them. They're not nearly debauched enough!
He would whisper in my ear as he held me against him. "You're my favorite blanket," and together we were warm enough, even against the coldest of nights when snow and sleet and ice and worse things than that beat against the window panes.
He would swear against my throat, voice rasping as emotions spilled over his vocal chords, "You're my favorite flavor," and he was mine in turn. A taste I could never have enough of whether it be from his lips or his throat, his chest, his hip, his thigh. I could drink of him and never be thirsty.
He would mumble against my forehead, words slurred, as he didn't want to remove his lips from my skin. "You're my favorite color," and the world around us would explode with shades and hues as the sunset over us all, bringing to life the last beauties of the day and waking the glorious creatures and beings of the night. But in his arms, in his words, I was the only color he needed.
He would speak against the nape of my neck, his arm secure around my waist, pinning me against him securely, soundly. "You're my favorite teddy bear," and there, cuddled tight, I kept the nightmares at bay whilst he kept the loneliness I had so long feared from consuming me.
He would promise me, voice ringing with conviction, "You're my favorite sight," and with deft fingers he would push my fringe from my face, trace the outline of my eyebrows, walk down the bridge of my nose and jump from its tip to kiss my lips with the pads of his fingers. He would caress the length of my jaw and rub circles over my cheeks, memorizing me through touch while his eyes, in turn, committed me to mind, until every detail was categorized and stored away.
He would sing to me, poorly, from the showers as he bathed each morning, "You're my favorite way to wake up," and every day was sure to start the same. No matter what lurked in the world beyond our bedroom door, we had our sanctuary together, hidden away where others couldn't touch and corrupt us. He was my sunshine and I was his favorite way to start the day.
He would come home from work, covered in sweat, his uniform tattered in places, and scaring me half to death with his appearance only to fall into my arms repeating over and over again, "You're my favorite person." He was mine, too. There was no other before him.
He would whimper above me and gasp, "You're my favorite sound." Then he would play me like an instrument, have me singing for him with the way he worked me over and he would smile at my every gasp, sigh, and moan.
He would study me, brow creased, eyes intense, and tentatively reach a hand out to cradle my cheek. "You're my favorite thing to read," and read me he did. He knew me better than I knew me. Some days it was a curse, but most days it was more pleasure than I knew how to comprehend.
He would laugh and make his next move, shaking his head and saying, "You're my favorite entertainment." I could amuse with the best of them, but it was the little things, always the little things with him. A tilt of the head, a sly remark, a quirky quip – those were the things that made the big things count.
He would fall into fits of contemplation during which he would swear, "You're my favorite memory," before launching into a new and improved version as to why our background was so substantial to our here and now.
He would sweep me into his arms and turn me, tripping and crushing my toes, cheeks burning from smiling so hard, whilst all but yelling, "You're my favorite dance!" and he would turn each moment into a memory so sweet it could hurt your teeth if you thought about it for too long, but the sore toes were worth it each and every time.
He would hold me close, hand cradling my head, hand pressed low on my back, and murmur against my hair where his nose was buried, "You're my favorite thought." He swore that thinking of me was what got him through the day, brought him back to me time and again.
He would intertwine our lives so that we were together even on the days when we couldn't see each other. We lived complete, whole, fulfilled, happy, content… there aren't words enough for what we had. He finally laid me down, arms woven over and under each other and whispered in the frail voice that had become his, "You are my favorite life."
And he was mine.