Cinnamon Freckles	Home - Previous- Next
My lover is a patchwork of freckles. He doesn’t like them, thinks that they’re ugly and too boyish. I can’t understand why. I love them. They’re dusted over his pale skin like powdered cinnamon, little marks that are uniquely Percy Weasley’s. No one else has the same pattern of freckles as he has. Sometimes I find myself lost tracking them, with my eyes, with my fingers, with my tongue. He can’t complain then, with my mouth on his skin, my tongue tracing patterns, freckle to freckle, making him moan and flush and wouldn’t you know it, the freckles are still visible. When he’s in the sun too often the freckles seem to multiply. I don’t mind. All the more reason for me to slowly strip him of his clothing, to lay my hands on his warm flesh, to lower my mouth to his cinnamon freckled skin, to find new patterns and new shapes and trace new paths. He thinks the freckles are messy, dotting his skin with no apparent rhyme or reason. He’s too hung up on his idea of perfection and order. Sometimes perfection comes in forms that can’t be measured with a ruler and filed. He’s stopped complaining about them. I don’t think he’s seen my point, I’ve caught him frowning at himself in the mirror before, but I think he’s decided that if I like them then he has no reason to voice his vehement dislike. He says I have a freckle fetish. I say I have a Percy fetish, and the freckles are just a part of the masterpiece that is Percy Weasley. We’ve agreed to disagree, and when I find him scowling at his reflection after a bath I’ll bite my tongue, and when he finds me connecting his freckles with butterfly kisses he’ll sigh indulgently.
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