#did this as a brush test more than anything but I kind of like how it turned out | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rootedinrevisions · 2 months ago

Text

Terrified to Lose You Two

Summary: Jake is gone. And you don't know when or if he's coming back. Left to navigate the aftermath of that night on your own, you try to convince yourself it was nothing. But when weeks turn into months, and an unexpected scare leaves you spiraling, it becomes impossible to ignore just how much his absence weighs on you.

Warnings: Mentions of Pregnancy, Pregnancy Scare. Also just a lot of angst and worrying. Maybe mutual idiots with feelings?

Word Count: 3,551

Author’s Note: This took WAY longer than I planned it to. But honestly I hadn't originally planned on this to have a Part 2 but since there was interest decided to see what I could come up with. I know the ending is kind of open ended. I'm not sure i I want to have a Part 3 or not. So I tried to leave it so that this could be the end or there could be more. I hope you all enjoy it and that it ends up being worth the wait. xx

You don’t know how long it’s been exactly. Days blur together when there’s no news. No updates. No messages.

Just an empty space where Jake should be.

You wake up in the middle of the night, stomach twisted in knots, reaching for your phone before you remember he’s not going to text you.

Not yet. Maybe not ever.

And that thought is a black hole, threatening to swallow you whole.

So you keep yourself busy. Work. Exercise. Anything to outrun the restless energy clawing at your ribs.

But your body feels…off. It’s subtle at first. A gnawing exhaustion that sleep doesn’t fix. A vague nausea that lingers in the back of your throat, never quite enough to make you sick, just enough to make food unappealing.

You brush it off as stress. The lack of sleep. The sheer weight of waiting for Jake to come back. Or even just to hear news that he and the others are okay.

Then you check the date.

Your heart stops.

No. You count again.

No. Your stomach lurches as you double check your calendar, fingers tightening around your phone as if that might somehow change the numbers.

Late. You’re late.

And suddenly, the exhaustion, the nausea, the hollow ache in your chest…it all feels suffocating.

No. No, it’s stress. It has to be stress.

You can’t be. That doesn’t make sense. You’re on the pill. You never miss a dose. You’ve taken it every day at the same time like clockwork.

This isn’t happening. It can’t be happening.

You take a slow breath, pressing your fingertips against your temples. Stress messes with your cycle. That’s all this is. The waiting, the worrying, the exhaustion, it's all too much, and your body is just reacting to it.

You try to shake it off. You try to be rational.

But then the symptoms start feeling more real.

A wave of nausea hits you out of nowhere while you’re brushing your teeth. You gag, barely managing to stop yourself from getting sick. Later, in the shower, the steam makes your head swim. The next thing you know, you're gripping the tile wall, knees nearly buckling, blinking against the sudden dizziness.

Your heart pounds. You breathe through it, shaking your head. It's fine. You just stood up too fast. You didn’t eat enough today. Except you did eat. You had half a sandwich, a protein bar, and a coffee. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Wasn’t it?

The doubt creeps back in. By the time dinner rolls around, even the thought of food makes your stomach turn. You stare at your favorite takeout sitting on the counter, appetite gone, throat tight.

Panic wraps around your ribs.

No. No, this isn’t happening.

You can’t tell Jake because he’s not here.

You can’t tell anyone else because they’re all gone too.

You're alone.

So what do you do?

You do the worst possible thing. You start Googling.

And suddenly, every symptom lines up perfectly. Fatigue. Nausea. Dizziness. Loss of appetite.

Sitting on the bathroom floor phone gripped tight in your hands, you stare at the search results until the words blur together.

The answer is simple. You need to take a pregnancy test.

But you don’t move. You don’t get up. You just sit there, legs curled up to your chest, heart hammering in your ears.

What if it’s positive? What if it’s not? What if—

You squeeze your eyes shut.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you’re overreacting. You tell yourself to wait it out.

But no matter how many times you try to push it away, the what if won’t leave you alone.

And deep down, you already know you won’t be able to breathe until you know for sure.

So you make the appointment. And then you drive yourself there. Alone.

The waiting room is small, sterile, and too quiet. You sit stiffly in one of the plastic chairs, phone gripped tight in your hands. You refresh your notifications. Again. Again. Hoping for an update.

Nothing.

You swallow hard, tapping your foot against the floor. The walls feel too close, the air too heavy, and for a second, you consider just walking out.

Maybe it really is just stress.

But before you can make up your mind, a nurse calls your name.

You force yourself to stand, legs unsteady as you follow her back. The blood pressure cuff tightens around your arm, the pulse oximeter clips onto your finger, and you try not to wince when she frowns at the numbers.

“Heart rate’s a little high,” she notes.

You swallow. “Yeah. That’s probably just—” You hesitate, glancing away. “I’ve been anxious.”

She nods, scribbles something on the chart. “What brings you in today?”

You exhale slowly. “I haven’t been feeling great. Lightheaded. Nauseous. My appetite is weird. And, um… I’ve been having some stomach pain.”

The nurse hums, nodding along, but then her next question knocks the air from your lungs.

“Could you be pregnant?”

You freeze.

Your first instinct is to say no. You’re on birth control. You’re careful. This shouldn’t even be a question.

But you’re late. And you do feel off. And there’s that sliver of doubt you haven’t been able to shake.

So instead, you hesitate.

“Maybe.” Your voice is small, unsteady.

She nods again, like she hears that answer all the time, and scribbles another note before setting the clipboard aside.

“We’ll do a test,” she says gently. “Just to be sure.”

And then you’re left alone in the exam room, staring at the speckled tile floor, hands twisted in your lap, heart hammering against your ribs.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you’ll handle it, whatever it turns out to be. But no matter how many times you try to convince yourself, your hands are still shaking as you wait for the results.

Alone.

The knock on the door is soft, but it makes you jump.

The nurse steps back inside, glancing at the chart in her hands. “Your test was negative.”

You exhale. Your shoulders dropping, lungs finally expanding. But it’s not a relief. Not really.

Because nothing has changed. Jake is still gone. You’re still waiting. You’re still alone in this.

Your fingers curl against the paper lining of the exam table, the crinkle loud in the silent room. You should feel better. This should ease something. But all it does is leave a hollow ache in your chest.

Because the fear is still there. The uncertainty. The realization that for one brief, terrifying moment, you’d considered what this could have meant.

You press your lips together, nodding vaguely as the nurse talks. She is going on about something. You think she might be recommending rest and hydration. And there’s something about stress management.

You barely hear her.

Because all you can think about is Jake.

How much you miss him. How much you need him to come home. And how utterly terrified you are that he won’t.

By the time you’re walking out of Urgent Care, stepping into the cool night air, the weight of it all crashes down on you.

You wrap your arms around yourself, blinking hard against the sting behind your eyes.

You don’t want to be alone in this anymore.

But for now?

You have no choice.

* * * * *

It happens when you’re least expecting it.

You’re at The Hard Deck, nursing a drink that you don’t really want, when Nat slides onto the stool next to you. She greets you casually, like she always does, but something in her expression shifts when she gets a good look at you.

"You look like hell," she says.

You huff a laugh. "Feel like it too."

She leans in slightly, voice lower. "Jake’s back."

The words hit like a sucker punch to the ribs. You blink. Swallow.

“What?”

“Got back a few days ago.”

She says it so easily, like it’s nothing. Like it’s not the most important thing you’ve heard in weeks.

Your fingers tighten around your glass. A few days. Jake’s been here. Alive. Breathing. Walking around San Diego like everything is normal. And he didn’t tell you.

The realization stings. You force yourself to breathe through it, to keep your face neutral as you take a sip of your drink. “Good for him.”

Nat studies you, like she can hear all the things you don’t say.

If it meant anything to him. If that night, the things unsaid, the way you held onto him meant something, wouldn’t he have reached out?

Wouldn’t he have wanted to see you?

You tell yourself you don’t care. That it doesn’t matter.

But deep down, it does.

Because while he’s been fine walking around, acting like it was just another mission, just another day, you’ve been going through hell.

And now? You don’t know what to do with that.

So you don’t tell him right away. Not about Urgent Care. Not about the nights you spent staring at the ceiling, sick with worry.

But the moment you see him later that night? All of it comes rushing back.

The moment you spot him across the bar, your heart slams against your ribs.

Jake looks exactly the same. Same cocky smile. Same easy confidence. Same damn twinkle in his eye as he laughs at something Coyote says, a beer dangling from his fingers like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

Like he didn’t just vanish for three months. Like you didn’t spend sleepless nights wondering if he’d ever make it home. Like that night…the way you curled into him, the way you needed him meant absolutely nothing.

You wait. Wait for him to look over. To acknowledge you. To do something. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t even glance your way.

Your stomach twists, but you shove the feeling down. Maybe this is your answer. Maybe you were the only one who spent the last three months thinking about that night.

Maybe it was nothing to him.

If he’s going to act like this never meant anything, like you’re just another face in the crowd then fine.

You can act like that, too.

You tell yourself you won’t look again, but your gaze betrays you. Every few minutes, your eyes flick to where he stands. And every damn time, you catch him already looking.

A half second too long. Just enough to make your pulse stutter.

But neither of you move. Neither of you say a word.

Hours pass like this stolen glances, fleeting eye contact, both of you waiting for the other to be the first to break.

"You know he asked about you, right?" Natasha says, nudging your arm as she slides into the seat beside you.

You blink. “What?”

“While we were deployed,” Bradley adds from across the table. “Not all the time, but enough.” He shrugs. “It meant something to him. That night you went home with him.”

Your chest tightens, but you shake your head. “If it meant something, he would’ve reached out.”

Bradley gives you a look. “He just got back.”

“It’s been three days,” you counter.

“Maybe he thought you would reach out,” Natasha offers.

You scoff, leaning back in your chair. “Well, then I guess we’re at a stalemate.”

They exchange a glance, and then Bradley huffs, shaking his head. “Fine. Be stubborn. But you’ll never know unless you talk to him.”

Natasha smirks, tipping her glass toward Jake’s direction. “And for the record? He hasn’t stopped looking at you all night.”

Your breath catches, but you force yourself to keep your expression neutral. You won’t be the first to move. You won’t. The ball is in his court. It’s his move.

But somewhere between your resolve and your next drink, you realize that if you don’t talk to him tonight you’ll regret it.

So you stand and start making your way over to him before you can overthink it or talk yourself out of it.

Jake spots you coming the second you stan. By the time you come to a stop in front of him he’s already turned towards you, his beer poised halfway to his lips.

For a moment, neither of you say anything. Then, he exhales. “Wanna step outside?”

You hesitate, but only for a second. “Yeah.”

The night air is cooler than you expect, a welcome contrast to the warmth inside. The sounds of the bar fade slightly as you both step onto the patio, stopping near the railing.

Jake leans against it, looking over at you. “How’ve you been?”

You don’t answer. You just wrap your arms around yourself, and that—more than words—tells him everything he needs to know.

His jaw tightens. He looks away for a beat, then nods, exhaling softly. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s what I thought.”

Silence stretches between you.

Jake shifts, rubbing the back of his neck. Then, quietly he says,“I would’ve called. Sooner, I mean. But I didn’t know if you wanted to hear from me.”

You let out a small, humorless laugh. “I spent the last three months thinking about that night. Wondering if you would come back home.”

“Were you really that worried about me?”

You let out a small humorless laugh. Then before you can second guess it and change your mind you just say it. “I was late.”

Jake turns fully toward you now, his brows drawing together. “Late? Like…”

Your throat feels tight, but you push through. “Yeah. And you…you weren’t here…none of you were.”

Your eyes are locked on the wooden planks of the patio below you. But you still hear the audible inhale of air that Jake takes.

He clears his throat before he says anything. His voice is quiet when he finally speaks. “So are you…”

You shake your head. “No.”

Jake exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Shit.”

Neither of you speak for a few minutes. Then he shifts closer to you. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that the warmth of him brushes against you.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

You glance away from him, your eyes look out past the sand at the water and the horizon as the last remnants of the sun dipped below the edge of the horizon.

You take a deep breath and then look over at Jake. Your eyes meet his, and for the first time tonight, you let him in. You let him see the fear, the uncertainty, the weight and pressure that you’ve been carrying around for the last three months.

“I guess I didn’t know what you’d say,” you admit, your voice barely a whisper.

Jake goes silent again. And you feel the way the air shifts between you, the way his eyes stay locked on yours but his mouth doesn’t move. Your stomach twists. Your hands start to shake. And suddenly it’s too much.

The weight of the last three months. The waiting. The worrying. The wondering if you’d ever see him again.

You feel your chest tighten. You need to get out of here. Before he can see the way your breathing picks up, before he can see you break, you take a step back. Then another.

Jake doesn’t move.

You turn to go but before you can take another step, his hand closes gently around your wrist.

“Wait.”

His voice is quiet but firm. Steady.

You freeze.

“Just…wait.”

His grip is light, barely holding onto you, like he’s afraid if he pulls too hard, you’ll slip right through his fingers.

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to breathe through the lump in your throat. “Jake, I can’t—”

“Please.”

That single word makes you stop. There’s something there in his voice…something raw.

Slowly, hesitantly, you turn back around.

Jake watches you, jaw tight, something heavy in his gaze. His fingers loosen, but don’t let go.

“I didn’t know,” he says finally, voice rough. “I swear to God, I didn’t know.”

You swallow hard. “I know.”

He nods, but his brows furrow, like that’s not enough. Like he needs you to really believe it.

His thumb brushes over your wrist absently, a slow, grounding motion. “I wouldn’t have left you alone with…that.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.Because part of you believes him. And part of you doesn’t know what to do with that.

Jake takes a breath. “Come sit with me?”

Your instinct is to say no. To run. To protect yourself before he can hurt you again. But when you meet his eyes, all you see is sincerity.And maybe you’re too tired to fight him anymore.

So you nod.

Jake leads you to one of the patio benches, waiting until you sit before he lowers himself beside you.

For a moment, neither of you say anything. The sounds of the bar filter through the open doors, but out here it feels quieter.

“I should’ve called you when I got back,” he admits, voice low.

You blink at him. “You think?”

Jake exhales through his nose, shaking his head at himself. “I thought about you. More than I probably should’ve.” He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “Nat and Rooster were ready to throttle me with how much I talked about you.”

Your heart stutters. “Then why didn’t you—”

“Because I was scared,” he cuts in, meeting your gaze. “Scared I’d come back and you’d tell me that night didn’t mean anything. That I didn’t mean anything.”

Your lips part, stunned into silence.

Jake laughs softly, shaking his head. “Turns out, I’m an idiot.”

You watch him, the raw honesty in his expression, the vulnerability he rarely lets show.

You take a steadying breath, forcing yourself to ask the question that’s been haunting you since the morning after you last saw him.

“That night…” Your voice comes out softer than you intend, barely audible over the distant hum of the bar. “Did it mean anything? To you?”

Jake’s eyes snap to yours, something unreadable flickering across his face. For a moment, he just looks at you, like he’s weighing his answer.

“Yeah.” Jake exhales, running a hand through his hair before settling his gaze back on you. “It meant too much.”

Your breath catches. “Jake—”

“I thought about it,” he continues, voice steady but raw. “More times than I should admit. But I convinced myself it was better to leave it alone. That if I reached out, you’d tell me it was a mistake.” He lets out a dry laugh. “Hell, I figured you probably regretted it the second it happened.”

You shake your head instantly, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “I didn’t.”

You swallow hard, hands gripping the edge of the bench. “I never regretted it,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

Silence settles between you, thick and weighted.

Jake watches you like he’s searching for something—like he’s waiting for permission to believe you. Then, slowly, he leans in, elbows on his knees, voice quieter now.

"So where does that leave us?"

You don’t know.

All you know is that after months of silence, of doubt, of wondering—Jake is here. Right in front of you.

And maybe that’s enough.

#Jake Seresin #Jake Seresin Fanfiction #Jake Seresin Fanfic #Jake Seresin x reader #Jake Seresin x You #Jake Hangman Seresin #Jake Hangman Seresin x Reader #Jake Hangman Seresin x You

338 notes · View notes

starvrse · 15 days ago

Text

THRESHOLD

pairing : daniela avanzini x fem!reader

summary : girl she’s ur baby daddy and yall argue then yall have sex 🥀

warnings : cursing, g!p daniela, baby trapping mention again…, smut ofc, dani sells drugs but it’s barely mentioned, she’s lowkey a deadbeat, probably more but i forgot

unnecessary bs : 4.9k words, i actually love bd dani

you slip the spoon into your daughter’s mouth just as the doorbell rings. your eyes flick to the door before you let out a tired sigh, pulling the spoon away and reaching for her bib.

“hm, i wonder who that could be.” you mutter, wiping the corner of her mouth. the doorbell rings again, then again, each press faster, louder, more obnoxious.

you roll your eyes. “jesus christ.” and then it hits and you groan. “fucking daniela.”

only she rings your doorbell like she’s trying to piss you off on purpose. like this is some kind of game and she always plays to win.

you storm over to the door and yank it open—and there she is. daniela avanzini, in all her smug, infuriating glory.

leaning against the frame like she owns the place. like she didn’t walk out three months ago after calling you “emotionally constipated” and slamming the door hard enough to rattle your dishes.

“hey, pretty.”

you deadpan. “stop ringing my damn doorbell like a child with impulse issues.”

she grins. “wow. not even a hi? missed you too.”

“what do you want?”

“i came to see my baby.”

your eyes narrow. you know she means danielle, but her eyes drag slow and deliberate from your face to your legs like she’s testing you, like she knows exactly what she’s doing.

“well, she just ate. you can come back when you learn how to act right.”

“cute. except you don’t make the rules around here.”

you scoff, stepping aside because arguing in front of danielle never ends well. not that daniela cares, she’s already sauntering past you like this is her home. like she didn’t give up custody time for a week straight because she was “figuring shit out.”

“you don’t live here anymore,” you snap.

“mm,” she hums, crouching beside danielle and lifting her into her arms like it’s second nature. she says something soft in spanish, probably about you, voice low and familiar like a secret she’s passing between them.

you slam the door shut behind you. “maybe she should know the truth about how you disappeared for two days and blamed it on your phone dying.”

“oh my god, are we seriously doing this again?”

“you show up, unannounced, ringing my doorbell like you’ve got no damn home training—what did you expect?”

“a kiss, maybe. a little gratitude for blessing your doorstep.”

“you’re not cute.”

she spins slowly with danielle in her arms, making her laugh. then casually, like it means nothing: “your mom texted me, by the way.”

you blink. “what?”

“she wanted to know if we were ‘working things out.’ i told her you were still mean as hell, so… probably not.”

your jaw clenches. “stop talking to my mom.”

“tell her to stop texting me then. she likes me more than you do.”

you grab one of danielle’s toys off the floor and throw it at her. she catches it one handed, grinning.

“you’re insufferable.”

“and you’re still letting me in.”

and when she walks to your fridge like it’s still hers, opens it, and says, “you got anything that isn’t expired this time or are we ordering again?”

you don’t say anything. just brush past her, straight into the kitchen with your jaw clenched and shoulders tight.

she walks back into the living room like she didn’t show up out of nowhere and hijack your evening. you don’t even look at her—you’re too busy slamming the cabinet door while pulling out a pan, too busy chopping vegetables like the cutting board personally wronged you.

“you cooking?” she asks, settling onto the floor with danielle still latched to her like a koala.

you slam the fridge shut. “shut up.”

she doesn’t. of course she doesn’t. she’s sitting cross legged on the floor now, danielle crawling into her lap with her little stuffed bunny in hand.

“look at this, she still loves me. she doesn’t even know what a deadbeat is.”

you whip around. “say that again and i’ll throw this knife at your head.”

she laughs. like she thinks you’re kidding.

“god, you’re always angry,” she says, tilting her head as danielle babbles in her lap. “you ever try not being so fucking bitter all the time?”

“i’m not bitter,” you snap. “i’m tired. tired of having to do everything by myself while you show up when it’s convenient and act like that makes you some saint.”

she goes quiet at that, just for a second.

but then she shrugs. “yet here you are. still cooking dinner like we’re a happy little family.”

“i’m not cooking for you,” you snap. “i’m making something for danielle.”

“she’s a baby.”

“she’ll have to eat real food eventually.”

“but not tonight.”

you whip around. “do you want me to throw this knife at you or what?”

daniela just smirks, leaning back on one arm while danielle plays with her hoodie string.

“you always get like this when i show up. it’s cute.”

“you think everything’s cute. you think breaking promises is cute. showing up three days late? cute. ignoring my calls? adorable. you think you can just walk back in like you’re supposed to be here—”

“i am supposed to be here.”

your hand freezes mid chop.

“don’t.”

she shrugs, unbothered, like she didn’t just throw a match on a gas leak.

“just saying. i’m her mom too.”

“yeah? then act like it.”

you toss the chopped vegetables into the pan harder than you need to and flick the stove on. the oil sizzles loud, and daniela flinches like she thought you were going to throw the whole pot at her. and honestly, so did you.

“you think i like doing this alone?” you mutter. “you think i get some kick out of waking up at 3am, warming bottles, dealing with teething and crying and you—”

“you never asked for help.”

“because every time i do, you disappear.”

daniela goes quiet for a second, lips pressed tight. danielle is babbling now, half to herself, half to her bunny, completely unaware of the tension thick in the air like smoke.

you stir the pan a little too aggressively and daniela finally stands up, brushing off her jeans and gently placing danielle in her little play mat nearby.

“i’m here now.”

you don’t look up.

“for how long?”

she doesn’t answer.

you keep cooking. you keep your eyes on the pan. you pretend you’re not already thinking about the moment she walks out again. pretend you don’t already have a backup bottle ready for when the food goes untouched. pretend you don’t care.

because someone has to keep the house running. someone has to make sure the baby eats, even if she’s only on purées. someone has to show up every day.

and it’s never daniela.

you finish cooking with your lips pressed into a tight line, throwing the kitchen towel over your shoulder like you’re running a restaurant and not dealing with your emotionally exhausting ex. you don’t bother plating it fancy—just toss the food on, grab a fork, and head to the dining table where daniela is already sitting like she’s waited all day for this.

danielle’s in her lap, happy as ever, gnawing on the corner of her bib like it’s the most delicious thing in the world. daniela’s got one arm around her and the other lazily scrolling through her phone until you set the plate down in front of her with a clink.

she looks up, smile already tugging at the corner of her mouth. “thank you, baby.”

you blink and stare at her. “yeah. you’re welcome.”

she grins. “i don’t get a kiss anymore?”

you scoff—not even a full laugh, just that sharp little sound people make when they’re done with the bullshit. like tch but from the soul “you’re lucky you got a plate.”

she smirks, pokes at her food. “you say that every time and still feed me like you love me.”

“because i love the baby. and she deserves a mom with energy, which i can’t have if i get arrested for murder.”

daniela hums like it’s sweet.

you grab your own plate and sit across from her, not bothering to make eye contact. danielle is squirming now, so daniela shifts her a little and keeps eating with one hand like it’s second nature.

you both eat in tense silence for a minute, only the clinking of forks and the occasional babble from danielle filling the room.

then daniela, mouth half full, “do you think she’s gonna be left handed like me or right handed like you?”

you pause mid bite and look at her like she’s actually lost her mind. “she’s barely even holding things right now.”

“yeah, but i read it’s genetic or whatever.”

you just shake your head. “do you have a real job yet?”

daniela glances up with zero shame. “define real.”

you put your fork down. “one that doesn’t involve getting arrested if you text the wrong number.”

“damn,” she says, biting into her food again. “so judgemental for someone who used to ride with me while i did drop offs.”

“yeah. and then i grew up.”

daniela raises an eyebrow, still chewing. “you say that like i’m out here selling kilos in the back of a church van.”

“i don’t know what you’re selling anymore, daniela. could be weed, could be someone’s soul, could be baby formula—”

“okay wow, relax. it’s not that serious.”

“no, you don’t take it seriously. which is the problem. you have a whole daughter now, and you’re still out here treating your life like a gta mission.”

daniela chuckles, leaning back in the chair, arm wrapped lazily around danielle like she’s unfazed. “you always talk like i’m some wanted criminal. i’m just doing what i know.”

“yeah? well what you know is gonna get you locked up. and then who’s left picking up the pieces? oh wait—me. again.”

“you’re so dramatic.”

“no, you’re just stupid.”

daniela laughs at that, like it’s cute, like you’re flirting. “you called me stupid but still cooked for me. which one of us is really down bad?”

you slam your fork on the table, and danielle flinches in her lap. you immediately soften your voice but your words are still sharp.

“i didn’t cook for you, daniela. i cooked so our daughter doesn’t grow up watching me lose my mind because her other mom thinks slinging weed is a personality trait.”

daniela looks at you for a moment, finally not laughing, just watching.

“i’m doing what i can,” she says. “it’s not like people are lining up to hand me a nine to five with my record.”

you cross your arms. “so that’s it? just give up? keep doing shit that puts you at risk and maybe, if you’re lucky, you’ll be out in time for her kindergarten graduation?”

“at least i’m trying.”

“trying would be showing up on time. trying would be calling when you can’t make it. trying would be putting her first for once and not whatever hustle you’ve got going on that week.”

daniela presses her lips together, and you can tell she’s about to say something mean. something that’ll cross the line. she shifts danielle in her lap instead, brushing crumbs off her little onesie.

you stand up and grab your plate.

“you think being here now makes up for everything? it doesn’t. you don’t get points for showing up late and calling it love.”

daniela mutters, “you sound like your mom.”

you freeze. just for a second, then you nod slowly. “good. because someone in this house has to act like a grown up.”

daniela exhales a laugh, mean and quiet. “right. now you’re better than me ‘cause you microwave baby food and follow a bedtime schedule?”

you narrow your eyes. “i’m better than you because i show up.”

“nah,” she says, sitting back in the chair like she’s getting real comfortable. “you’re just mad the lifestyle stopped benefitting you.”

you squint. “what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“don’t act brand new, yn. you weren’t complaining when my ‘gta missions’ were paying your rent. your groceries. that ‘push present’ you pretend came from your savings—yeah, okay.”

your blood boils.

“you think this is about money?”

“no, i think it’s about the fact that you were perfectly fine with it when you were comfortable. now that i’m not handing you wads of cash and showing up with takeout in the middle of the night, suddenly you’re holier than thou.”

you’re already walking away. grabbing the plates, scooping up danielle gently from her lap, not even looking at her.

“yn,” daniela calls out like she didn’t just say the most out of pocket shit.

you stop in the hallway. danielle’s head is on your shoulder, eyes fluttering. bedtime.

daniela walks up behind you like she forgot who she’s talking to. like everything can just be smoothed over with a joke and a smile.

“don’t touch me.”

you don’t raise your voice. you just say it low and calm, sharper than anything else you’ve said tonight.

daniela freezes with her hand halfway out, fingers curling back slowly.“yn—”

“you really stood in my house, in front of our daughter, and tried to flex about doing illegal shit like it makes you some kind of provider. like that’s love.”

daniela’s quiet.

you glance over your shoulder, just once.

“you don’t get to touch me. not after that.”

you don’t even look at her again. just shift danielle higher in your arms and head straight to her room, your breath tight the whole walk down the hall.

her room is quiet, soft. the nightlight glows pale purple in the corner, and everything smells like lavender and baby lotion. you hum a little as you set her down, not a lullaby or anything sweet, just something low to keep yourself from spiraling.

she stares up at you with heavy eyes, her fingers curling in the sleeve of your sweater like she doesn’t want you to go yet.

“it’s okay,” you whisper, brushing her hair back. “i’m right outside.”

she yawns, and your chest twists. because none of this is her fault. none of it.

you wait until she fully drifts off before slipping out of the room and shutting the door with that soft click you’ve perfected by now. then you head straight to the kitchen.

you don’t even sit. just start rinsing off plates and stacking them in the sink, sleeves rolled up, sponge in hand, water too hot.

you’re halfway through scrubbing when you hear her behind you.

you don’t acknowledge her. you don’t have to.

her hands are on your waist before you even feel her move.

arms sliding around you, slow and familiar, like they never forgot the shape of you. her chest is pressed up against your back, arms curling slow and deliberate around your waist like she’s got any right.

“dani,” you say, jaw tight. “don’t.”

she doesn’t move. she just shifts closer, one hand sliding up beneath the hem of your sweater like it’s second nature. her hips roll forward, and you feel her, heavy and shameless.

“i missed you…” she mumbles, lips brushing just behind your ear.

“and i miss when you knew boundaries.” you stop scrubbing the plate in your hand, but you don’t move. “get off me.”

she doesn’t.

just keeps rubbing against you, slow, teasing. hard, bold, like she’s always been.

daniela chuckles, low and smug. “you say that, but you still made sure i ate. still looked out.”

you rinse the plate off, set it down in the rack.

“i wish you would stop saying that. i cooked for danielle.”

“she’s on baby formula, yn.”

you grab another plate. keep scrubbing. “then i guess i just felt generous. don’t read too deep.”

she leans in again, a little closer. “nah. you don’t do anything unless you feel something.”

you slam the last plate into the rack with a clatter. four dishes. four chances to calm down, yet none of them worked.

you stare at her. curly hair, faded hoodie, chain still glinting under the kitchen light like she’s some kind of walking temptation. like your worst mistake wrapped in silk and bad decisions.

and yet—your body still remembers her. still reacts like muscle memory. you toss the sponge into the sink. “go home, daniela.”

she tilts her head. “this is home.”

you finish drying your hands and toss the towel on the counter. daniela’s still standing behind you, arms crossed now, quiet for once.

you don’t even glance at her as you walk off. “if you’re staying, don’t hover.”

“wasn’t hovering.” she mutters, following anyway.

the living room light’s off when you pass through. you don’t stop. just keep walking toward your bedroom like your mind’s already decided for you and your body’s catching up.

you hear her steps behind you, slow, confident, and annoying.

“so this where we pretend we’re not mad at each other?” she says, leaning against your doorframe.

“no,” you say, pulling off your sweater. “this is where i pretend you’re not stupid, for the sake of my sanity.”

daniela whistles low. “you say that with your whole back out.”

you shoot her a look over your shoulder. “close the door.”

she does. with a smirk.

you crawl into bed, not looking at her, not inviting her in either. just scrolling through your phone, blanket pulled up, pretending you’re chill.

daniela doesn’t ask permission. she never does. she just drops her hoodie too, like she owns the space, then slips off her jeans and slides in on the other side of the bed.

the mattress dips, and the air shifts. you don’t say anything. she shifts closer behind you, not touching yet, but there. “you really hate me, huh?” she asks, voice low in the dark.

you shrug, still not looking. “not enough, apparently.”

“you still looked out,” she says, quieter. “even when i didn’t deserve it.”

you sigh, and it’s heavier than you want it to be.

“don’t make this sweet. you’re not sorry. you’re just horny and bored.”

she laughs into your neck, bold enough to kiss your shoulder. “can’t it be both?”

you roll your eyes, but don’t move away.

“you’re so annoying.”

“and you’re so warm.” she says, wrapping an arm around your waist. she presses closer, hips flush against your ass now, and you feel her—hard, steady, smug.

you suck in a sharp breath. “don’t start.”

“you already did,” she says, voice low, mouth against your skin. “soon as you let me in here.”

you close your eyes, clenching your jaw.

daniela’s not even dressed for the night. she’s dressed for this. oversized tee clinging to her shoulders, boxers riding low on her hips, thighs warm against the back of yours as she closes the space between you like it’s nothing. like it’s always been this easy.

you feel her hand trail up under your shirt, slow fingers dragging along your stomach like she’s relearning you.

“i said don’t start.” you whisper, breath catching.

she kisses the back of your neck, lips soft but her hips anything but. she rolls against you once, slow enough to make your eyes flutter.

“but you never mean that…” she murmurs.

you clench your thighs together, already annoyed at how your body’s responding, how it always responds to her.

“dani…”

“hm?”

“i’m still pissed at you.”

she hums like she likes that. like that’s part of the thrill. “then be pissed. i won’t stop you.”

her hand slips lower, brushing the hem of your shorts, teasing the waistband, knuckles grazing skin.

“you’re so full of shit.” you whisper, voice shaking.

she presses a kiss to your jaw now, slow and soft. “and you’re so wet for someone who hates me.”

you gasp, turning to glare at her, but the moment your faces meet, she leans in and kisses you.

it’s not sweet, it’s desperate. teeth clashing, lips hot, like she’s trying to remind you of every reason you ever forgave her.

and god, it’s working.

you tug at her shirt, dragging her closer without thinking, nails digging into her side.

she groans against your mouth. “fuck. missed you.”

you bite her lip. “shut up.”

her boxers are pressing into you now, nothing between you but flimsy fabric and bad decisions.

“then shut me up.” she says.

you don’t answer her, you just pull her in harder.

the kiss turns hungrier, sloppier. your fingers slip under her shirt, dragging up over warm skin, feeling every flex of muscle as she shifts above you. her hand finally slips into your shorts, and you hiss at the contact.

“fuck—” you whisper, half a warning, half a plea.

daniela just smirks into your mouth, fingers sliding through your folds like she owns you. like she’s been waiting for this exact moment since the last time she left your bed.

“you’re always talkin’,” she murmurs, breath hot against your lips. “but your pussy never lies.”

you moan, sharp and helpless, as she circles your clit slow, teasing like she’s got all night.

“shut up.” you pant, hips rocking into her hand.

“make me.”

so you do.

you pull her shirt up and over her head, tossing it somewhere behind you, dragging your nails down her chest as she groans and leans in again. her boxers are straining, pressed firm against your thigh, and you grind up into her without shame now, every ounce of anger melting into heat.

“take ‘em off,” you whisper, tugging at the waistband.

“say please.”

you glare. “i’d rather die.”

she grins, cocky and flushed, and kicks them off anyway, letting them hit the floor as she shifts between your thighs.

and god—you feel her.

she pulls your shorts off and slides her cock against you, slow and heavy, teasing your entrance with that unbearable smugness she always wears when she’s right.

“missed this pussy,” she murmurs, dragging it up your slit, coating herself in you. “you still grip like you need me.”

you wrap your legs around her waist.

“less talking, more proving.”

she doesn’t waste another second.

she pushes in slow—too slow—and your back arches off the bed, the stretch making your breath catch in your throat.

“mm—fuck,” you whisper, legs already tightening around her waist.

daniela groans, head dropping into the crook of your neck as she bottoms out, hips pressed flush.

“tight as ever,” she mutters, hand gripping your thigh as she pulls back just enough to drag herself through you again. “like your pussy missed me.”

you grab her jaw and tilt her face up, eyes burning into hers. “shut the fuck up.”

“can’t,” she grins, rolling her hips in slow, deliberate strokes. “you always fuck me better when i talk too much.”

you hate that she’s right.

you’re trying to stay quiet—stoic, unreadable—but she knows your body like scripture. every stroke deeper than the last, her pace measured, like she wants to draw the words out of you.

and then she says it.

voice low. dirty. cruel.

“you want another baby, huh?”

your eyes snap open.

“w-what?”

she grinds deeper, cock sliding all the way in, her pelvis flush with yours. she doesn’t pull out right away. just stays there, buried inside, pressing her weight into you.

“that’s what this is, right?” she whispers against your jaw. “you keep letting me in. keep letting me fuck you raw. you tryna trap me again?”

your stomach flips. your nails dig into her back.

“you’re disgusting.” you breathe, even as your hips buck up into her.

“but your cunt is so greedy,” she says, finally starting to move again, slow and filthy. “gripping like it wants it. like you want it.”

you bite your lip so hard it stings, trying not to give her the satisfaction of the moan building in your throat.

“say it,” she growls, pace picking up. “you want me to fill you up again, huh? get you all swollen and pretty with my kid—”

you whimper, legs locking tighter around her waist.

“shut up, daniela.”

she grabs your chin, forcing you to look at her.

“then tell me to stop.”

but you don’t.

you can’t.

you just stare at her, flushed and breathing heavy, hating how much you love her like this.

“shit.” you whisper.

daniela smirks, rolling her hips faster now, her cock dragging along that spot that makes your legs shake. “that’s what i thought.”

daniela’s strokes get deeper—more deliberate. not rushed. just ruthless. she’s taking her time now, fucking you like she’s trying to build something unbearable. and you’re barely holding it together.

your hand flies to your mouth, teeth digging into your knuckles as your body jerks beneath her.

“shhh,” she whispers, lips brushing your ear. “you gonna wake our baby.”

and it’s the way she says our that makes your stomach flip again. like she’s still clinging to the idea of family. like she wants to.

you don’t respond, not with words. you just claw at her back, trying to pull her deeper, grind against her harder, chase the high that keeps slipping just out of reach.

daniela moves one hand between you, thumb pressing against your clit in tight, slow circles that make your toes curl.

you let out a sharp, guttural sound before you slap your hand back over your mouth.

she laughs, breathless and smug. “you’re so fuckin’ loud.”

“shut up.” you hiss, your voice trembling.

“nah. you gotta learn how to whisper please, baby.”

your thighs start shaking, whole body tensing as her cock pounds into you, her pace not frantic but intentional—like she knows exactly how close you are and wants to keep you right there, strung out on the edge.

you turn your face into the pillow, biting down hard, but a moan still rips out of you, quiet and wrecked.

daniela groans, hips stuttering. “shit—you always this wet when you hate me?”

“you’re a piece of shit.” you whisper, broken and breathless.

“oh yeah, i love when you call me that.”

you grab her hair and yank her down, kissing her like it’ll shut her up, like it’ll make this whole thing less filthy, less real. but it just makes it worse.

she ruts into you harder, losing her rhythm for a second, groaning into your mouth like she’s starting to lose her edge too.

you feel it building again—tight, hot, impossible to ignore.

her thumb’s still working your clit, her thrusts hitting perfectly now, your legs wrapped around her, bodies locked so close it’s like you’re trying to disappear into her.

your breath catches and your eyes flutter.

“daniela—” you gasp, barely able to get it out.

she kisses your cheek, then your jaw, then your mouth again, sloppy and deep.

“i got you,” she whispers. “cum for me.“

and that’s it.

your body locks up, hips jerking, walls clenching around her so tight she groans out loud and slams into you one last time, staying buried deep as you fall apart underneath her.

it’s messy. breathless. muffled by your hand and her mouth and the sheer desperation of trying not to cry out.

daniela bites your shoulder, whole body trembling as she finally lets go too, spilling inside you with a choked-out moan that she tries—and fails—to keep quiet.

you both stay there, clinging. breathing heavy. drenched in sweat and bad decisions.

the baby monitor in the corner stays mercifully silent, for now.

you’re still catching your breath, head pressed to her shoulder, heart thudding way too loud in your chest.

daniela shifts just enough to look at you, her hand still lazily tracing shapes into your thigh like she didn’t just rearrange your guts.

you don’t speak right away. neither does she.

you glance at her chest rising and falling. sweaty. flushed.

you hate how pretty she looks like this. how soft her eyes get right after.

“you okay?” she whispers finally, voice hoarse.

you roll your eyes, but it’s weak. “you askin’ now?”

“yeah,” she says, smirking a little. “just making sure i didn’t break you.”

“please.” you scoff. “you wish.”

she chuckles low and leans in to kiss your cheek. just a soft little press of her lips that makes your chest tighten before you can stop it.

you don’t pull away, but you don’t lean in either.

“i missed this.” she says, after a beat.

you exhale through your nose. “you missed fucking me.”

“no.” her voice is quieter now. “i mean, yeah. but also…us.”

you stare at the ceiling.

“you think fucking me erases all the shit you’ve done?”

she goes quiet for a second.

“no. but i think it means you still care.”

you look at her finally, eyes half lidded, mouth tugged down.

“if i didn’t care,” you murmur, “i wouldn’t still be this mad.”

she nods, fingers gently brushing your side, like she’s calming herself more than you.

“i’m trying,” she says softly. “i know i fuck up. i’m not gonna lie and say i’m perfect. but i’m still here, aren’t i?”

“barely,” you say under your breath. but you don’t really mean it.

she wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you a little closer, her nose brushing your temple.

“she’s beautiful,” she whispers. “our daughter.”

you feel your chest tighten all over again.

“yeah,” you say, just as soft. “she is.”

and then you both go quiet again, listening to the faint hum of the baby monitor, the sound of her soft, even breathing from the next room.

daniela kisses your hair, and you close your eyes. for now, the fight can wait.

take a shot every time yn says “shut up” like damn, also the header is so bunz bc i didn’t feel like looking for pictures 💔

#starvrse #daniela x female reader #g!p daniela #daniela avanzini #katseye smut #daniela smut #g!p daniela avanzini #g!p katseye #kpop smut #x female reader

345 notes · View notes

fic-girlie · 29 days ago

Text

Just a Shelf

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: In the quiet safety of Jackson, Joel helps you fix a shelf-but neither of you expect the repair to become a turning point. As the night unfolds, soft silences and shared warmth begin to bridge the distance between two people still learning how to live in peace.

Warnings: fluff, a little angst

It started with the damn shelf.

Well— technically, it started with the flour. You’d been halfway through reorganizing your pantry when your elbow accidently clipped the bag perched a little too close to the edge. It toppled forward in slow motion, knocking over two cans and a jar of pickled beets, and when you reached out to steady the shelf, the entire structure groaned and gave out. Wood cracked, nails popped, and a cloud of flour exploded over everything like snow in a blizzard.

You froze, breath caught in your chest, arms coated in white powder.

“Perfect,” you muttered, and crouched down after retrieving a rag from the kitchen to start cleaning.

The damage was manageable—no broken glass, no twisted ankles—but the shelf itself had split where one of the supports met the floor. At first you tried to fix it yourself, wedging a book under the broken leg, then another, then testing it with a light push. The thing wobbled like a drunk on a tightrope.

So, you did what seemed to be the best option. You called Joel.

You told yourself it was just because he was good with tools, and he could fix anything.

Not because you liked the sound of his voice on your porch or the way his eyes always softened when he saw you. No.

Just the shelf.

He showed up twenty minutes later, toolbox in one hand, his thick coat dusted with snow.

“You alright?” he asked first, stepping inside the house as you let him in.

“Nothing broken but my pride,” you said, managing a small smile. “Pantry put up a fight with me.”

Joel’s eyes swept over you—your flour-covered shirt, then he looked over to the pantry, the cans on the floor, the broken shelf—and he let out a soft huff. “Shelf lose?”

“Barely,” you said, motioning for him to follow you. “Come see the damage.”

He didn’t hesitate, immediately following you, snow crunching over his boots, but otherwise his movements were careful and quiet as always. Joel Miller didn’t make unnecessary noise. He moved like a man who’d spent years trying not to be noticed.

You watched him crouch beside the shelf, frown deepening as he examined the damage. His fingers slowly traced along the split wood, then pressed at the edge until it gave a little under his touch.

“Cracked clean through,” he muttered. “This leg’s about done too. Someone threw this together in an afternoon with scrap wood.”

“Well, sounds about right.”

“I can fix it.”

You smiled at his comment. “You always say that.”

Joel looked up at you from his crouching position. “That’s ‘cause I always can.”

He said it without arrogance. Just the simple truth. That’s how he was—quietly capable, never boastful. That kind of men who did what needed to be done and never expected anyone to notice his work or his actions.

But you noticed.

You noticed everything.

The way he rolled his sleeves up slowly, neatly. The way his hands moved with absolute certainty. The slight hitch in his breath when you knelt beside him, close enough for your knee to brush against his thigh. But he didn’t move away.

“I brought extra screws and some brackets,” he said, opening the toolkit. “I’ll brace the whole thing. After that it should hold better than before.”

“Hope it can survive the flour this time.”

Joel’s mouth quirked—just barely, but it was a smile, however small. You looked at him and you felt that smile as a spark in your chest.

He got to work, steady and focused. You watched him sand down the rough edge, line up a support brace, drive the screws in with slow, even pressure. It should’ve been mundane. Just a man fixing a shelf. But with Joel, everything felt… grounded. Like the world made a little more sense when he was in it. You sat cross-legged on the floor beside him, pretending to sort cans and jars while sneaking glances every few minutes.

“You don’t mind doing this kind of stuff, do you?” you asked after a while.

He didn’t look up. “Fixing shelves?”

“Helping me. With little things like this. Is it… a chore?”

Joel suddenly paused, hand resting lightly on the drill. Then he turned towards you, meeting your eyes for the first time since he walked inside your home.

“No,” he said. “Ain’t a chore.”

You tilted your head to the side. “Then what is it?”

He hesitated a little, his eyes jumping between you and the shelf. “It’s… being useful, I guess.”

“You’re always useful.”

He looked away at that, tightening a screw a little harder than necessary. “Well, not always in ways that matter.”

“Now, that’s not true.”

Joel didn’t respond. But his shoulders tensed, and something unreadable passed over his face. You could see it. He was battling inside. So, you reached out without thinking, fingers brushing against the back of his hand. “You’re more than that, Joel.”

He stilled under your touch.

“You’re steady. You make things feel safe,” you told him softly. “And the truth is, I like having you around.”

His eyes slowly lifted to yours, and for a moment, the air between you changed—thicker, warmer. There was something in his gaze that looked like disbelief. Or maybe it was longing. You were sure no one had said things like that to him in a long time. You could see it all over him.

“I like being around you,” he said, his voice almost too quiet to catch. But you did. You heard him.

Your throat tightened. “Yeah?”

Joel slowly nodded. “’S different with you.”

You swallowed hard and leaning back softly, suddenly aware of how close you were. “Well. You’re welcome here. Always. No matter the time or the excuse.”

He didn’t answer. But when he turned back to the shelf, his hand brushed yours again—deliberate this time. Just a light touch, like he wanted to remind himself that you were real, and you were sitting beside him.

When the shelf was finally fixed—braced and sanded and solid—he sat back, wiped his hands on a rag that you handed him, and glanced around like he didn’t want to leave yet.

“I could come back tomorrow,” he said, his voice steady but a little too casual. “Check the rest of the shelves. Make sure everything’s holdin’ up.”

You smiled at him. “You just want an excuse to come over again.”

Joel looked at you—really looked. And this time, he didn’t glance away. He looked straight into your eyes.

“Don’t need an excuse,” he said.

Your breath caught in your throat.

The moment held there, hanging in the warmth between you. Something had cracked open—quiet and unspoken, but it was there all the same. You reached down, picked up a can of peaches, and placed it gently on the newly fixed shelf.

“Well,” you started, smiling up at him. “Guess that means I’ll have to find a new excuse for you to stay longer next time.”

His eyes crinkled at the edges.

“I’ll be here.”

And he meant it.

Maybe it started with a shelf.

But it wasn’t about the shelf at all.

The next day the house felt too still.

You’d never minded the quiet before. In fact, you used to love it—after years of noise, danger, people shouting or crying or warning, silence had felt like a kind of luxury. It was a sign you were safe.

But today, it just made the space feel… expectant. Like the walls were holding their breath and waiting for something to happen.

You tried to act normal. Folded the laundry. Swept the porch. Rearranged a drawer that didn’t need rearranging. At one point, you even found yourself staring at the repaired shelf in your pantry, running your fingers along the fresh screws Joel had put in yesterday. It felt stronger now, more secure. Like something that would hold up, no matter what weight you put on it.

The kind of thing he was good at fixing.

And when the knock came—three soft, firm taps—you told yourself your heart didn’t skip a beat.

You opened the door and there he was: Joel Miller, standing in the cold dusk like a promise kept. His shoulders were dusted with snow, toolbox in one hand, wearing the same brown jacket and that same unreadable expression that never quite masked how much he actually felt.

“I said I’d come back,” he said, voice a low rasp.

“I know,” you said, smiling. “Didn’t doubt you.”

You stepped back to let him in. He wiped his boots on the mat, ever-polite, even now. The warmth of your house closed around him as he passed through the door. He paused just inside, eyes scanning the room the way he always did—absent, maybe even unconscious. A habit left over from years of facing danger. But you noticed it had softened. He wasn’t looking for exits anymore. No. Just… observing. Familiarizing.

“Coffee?” you offered. “Still have some leftover from this morning.”

He gave a small grunt—that Joel kind of yes—and you took that as a go-ahead. While you moved into the kitchen, you heard him set the toolbox down, shrug off his coat and hang it on the hook by the door. Like he’d done it before. Like he’d do it again.

When you handed him the mug, his fingers brushed yours. They lingered. Just for a moment. He sipped, gave a small nod of approval, and you tried not to beam like a fool.

“Which shelf are we fixing today?” you asked, your tone teasing.

“This one,” he said crouching beside the lower pantry unit. “Not broken yet, but it’s got a loose bracket. Better catch it now than later.”

You sat down beside him, cross-legged like yesterday, your knee brushing his leg. He didn’t move away. And neither did you.

He reached into the toolbox, pulled out a bracket, a handful of screws and a screwdriver. His fingers moved with that quiet precision you’d come to admire—slow, thoughtful, like he never rushed a thing unless he had to.

“Are you always this careful with your repairs?” you asked.

Joel didn’t look up. “Things done fast break faster.”

“And things done slow…?”

He paused mid-turn, then gave a low, nearly imperceptible smile. “Tend to last.”

You watched him measure the angle of the shelf, adjust the brace, then lean forward to drive the screw in with quiet force. His sleeves were pushed up again, exposing strong forearms that flexed with each movement. You found yourself watching the way his muscles shifted beneath his skin, each motion deliberate, steady. There was a quiet strength in him, in everything he did, that you admired. It was in the way he worked, the way he carried himself, the way he was always present, even when the world around him hadn’t always been.

You caught yourself for a moment, realizing how long you’d been staring at him, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“Joel?” you asked softly, breaking the silence between you two.

“Hm?”

“You could’ve said no, you know. To coming back.”

He didn’t stop working, but you saw how his jaw slightly shifted and how his lips twitched. “Didn’t wanna.”

You smiled. “Just making sure.”

He finally glanced at you, his expression softer now. “You don’t want me here, I’ll go.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Didn’t have to,” he said, voice almost a whisper. “Just… makin’ sure, too.”

You looked at him. Really looked. The tired eyes, the quiet gravity, the way he said things like he expected you to push him away.

“I like when you’re here,” you said. “It feels better.”

Joel sat back on his heels, wiping his hands on a rag. He looked down at the shelf, then back at you. “Feels different, this place. When I’m here.”

“How?”

“Warm,” he said. “Like the world stays outside, it doesn’t follow me in.”

Your breath caught.

He shifted beside you, gaze dropping to your hands—resting palm-up on your lap, open without realizing. His hand moved slowly, almost hesitantly, until his fingers brushed yours. He paused there, waiting, watching your reaction, before slipping his hand into yours properly.

Rough. Calloused. Steady.

You squeezed gently, and his thumb moved in the smallest arc across the back of your hand. Like a habit he was just allowing himself to form.

“You don’t have to keep fixing things just to come over,” you said with the softest voice.

He didn’t answer at first. Just looked down at your joined hands, brows drawn tight.

“I don’t know what else I’d do,” he admitted. “If I wasn’t helping you.”

“You could just sit on the couch. Let me make you dinner. Tell me about your day.”

Joel exhaled like the idea itself was foreign.

“I ain’t used to that,” he said. “People wantin’ me around just to be.”

“I do,” you said.

He looked up. And there was something so tender in his eyes then—something raw and hopeful, like a man halfway through thawing from winter.

“I could stay for a while,” he offered.

You nodded. “I’d like that.”

He didn’t let go of your hand. And neither did you.

#joelmiller #joel miller #the last of us #thelastofus #pedropascal #pedro pascal #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fluff #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller angst

329 notes · View notes

elryuse · 1 month ago

Text

She's Unforgettable

Winter X Male Reader

Tags : Bartender Male Reader, Angsty, Depression, Kissing, Teasing, Romance, Words : 4,203 Words

The bar was empty, save for the soft hum of the neon sign flickering outside. You wiped down the counter for the third time, the rag slipping through your fingers as you paused. The air smelled of whiskey and regret, the kind of place people came to bury their secrets or stumble into new ones. Normally, you liked it this way — quiet, predictable, nothing but the clink of glasses and the occasional murmur of the TV in the corner. But tonight, the stillness felt heavier, like it was waiting for something. Or someone.

Then she walked in.

Winter.

Her name suited her — cold, sharp, beautiful in a way that made your chest ache. She didn’t look like a regular; her eyes scanned the room like she was testing the water, hesitant but determined. She slid onto a stool at the end of the bar, her coat pooling around her like a shadow. You moved toward her, your steps deliberate, though you couldn’t say why.

“What’ll it be?” Your voice was steady, but something in the air between you wasn’t.

She looked up, and her gaze pinned you. Not in a flashy, dramatic way. It was quieter than that. Like she was seeing past the bartender, past the man, to something raw and unguarded. “Something strong,” she said, her voice low, almost a murmur. “But not too sweet.”

You nodded, turning to the shelves behind you. Your hands moved automatically, pulling a bottle of bourbon, but your mind was elsewhere. Why her? Why now? You poured the drink with practiced ease, sliding it across the counter. She reached for it, and her fingers brushed yours. Just barely. It shouldn’t have meant anything. But it did.

The warmth of her skin lingered, quiet and uncertain, like she hadn’t meant to reach across that distance. But you didn’t pull away. You froze, and in that stillness, something unspoken rose between you.

“I feel safe here,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the bar.

You didn’t respond. Not because you didn’t want to. You just didn’t know how. It had been so long since someone looked at you like that — not as a bartender, not as a mistake in the shape of a man, but something steady. Someone she could trust.

But it scared the hell out of you.

Because women like Winter didn’t stay. People with ghosts behind their smiles and cities tucked beneath their eyes didn’t settle for dim bars and broken men. They drifted. And you — you didn’t get to be the anchor. You were just the stop between storms.

Still, that touch lingered. You carried it in your palms, felt it each time you wiped a glass or struck a match for someone’s cigarette. It was ridiculous, but it was real.

She kept coming back.

And she stayed longer now. Sometimes until the chairs were stacked, the lights were low, and the city outside felt like a distant memory. The bar became a world of its own — dim, quiet, and raw. It wasn’t much, but in those hours, it was enough.

She talked more. Sometimes barely above a whisper, like her truths might vanish if she spoke too loud.

“I used to dance,” she said one night, her eyes drifting toward the dusty speaker playing Chet Baker in the background. “Ballet, jazz, contemporary. I used to move like I had somewhere to go.”

“What happened?” you asked, your voice softer than you intended.

She shrugged, took a sip of her drink. “Life. A cracked rib, an empty wallet, a man who said he loved me and left bruises instead.”

Your grip tightened around the bar rag, the fabric digging into your palm.

She didn’t cry. Winter never cried. But her voice wavered when she added, “I wanted to leave Seoul. Change my name. Become someone else. But I never left. The city clung to me. Or maybe I clung to it.”

You told her things too. Not all at once. In pieces.

How you used to sketch buildings in the margins of your notebooks. How you’d once dreamed of architecture school, of leaving behind a legacy of glass and steel. How your hands, once meant to build, now just poured.

She listened. Really listened. Her gaze never wandered. She absorbed everything like it mattered.

And for the first time in years, you didn’t feel invisible.

One night, she leaned closer, her chin resting against the back of her hand. Her eyes held yours, and for a moment, the bar faded away.

“Do you believe in second chances?” she asked.

You paused, then glanced at her. “No,” you answered honestly. “But I believe in people who need them.”

That earned you the faintest of smiles.

The night deepened.

You were cleaning up, stacking glasses, when she moved from her stool and walked behind the bar. You didn’t stop her. She stood beside you in that quiet space that only two people carrying too much can share without words.

She picked up a lemon wedge, rolled it between her fingers, then set it down.

“I don’t think I’m the kind of girl you should want,” she said. “I ruin things.”

You laughed under your breath. Not at her. At the irony.

“I’ve been broken for a long time, Winter,” you murmured. “Maybe ruined things just fit together easier.”

She looked at you for a long time.

And then she kissed you.

Not deeply. Not hungrily. Just… softly. Like she was asking a question she didn’t expect an answer to.

Her lips were cold from her drink, but her breath was warm.

You didn’t kiss her back. Not yet. But your hands twitched like they wanted to. You were scared, and she felt it. She pulled away, but not far. Just enough to see you.

“I’m not asking for anything,” she said. “I just don’t want to feel alone tonight.”

So you let her stay.

You locked the door. Dimmed the lights. The two of you sat on the floor of the bar with your backs against the liquor shelf, drinking straight from the bottle, knees almost touching.

She talked about stars she’d never seen. Oceans she wanted to visit. Names she’d tried on in her head but never spoken aloud.

You talked about your father. How he used to build model trains and let you help. How he died before you graduated. How you stopped drawing after that.

It wasn’t romantic.

It was something else.

It was survival, woven between sips of whiskey and unfinished stories.

And when she finally leaned against your shoulder and drifted off — her breath steady, her chest rising slow — you realized you weren’t afraid anymore.

You were something worse.

You were hopeful.

And hope was dangerous.

Because girls like Winter didn’t stay.

But she stayed that night.

And when she left, the door didn’t close completely.

It stayed ajar, like an invitation — or maybe a warning.

You didn’t know which.

But when she walked back in the next night, her eyes searching for yours, you knew you were already in too deep.

“I didn’t think you’d come back,” you said, your voice low.

She smiled, but it was tinged with something sad. “Neither did I.”

She stepped closer, and this time, her hand found yours.

The bar was empty, but it felt full.

And then, without a word, she kissed you again — harder this time, like she wasn’t afraid to pull you under.

You kissed her back.

And everything else fell away.

She pulls back, her eyes filled with a mix of fear and desire. Her breath is shallow, her lips trembling as they part to speak. “I want to show you something,” she whispers, her voice low, almost fragile, like it might shatter if she spoke too loud.

You don’t hesitate. You nod, the weight of her gaze pulling you forward. Her fingers brush against yours, cold but electric, as she leads you to a small room in the back of the bar. The door creaks shut behind you, the sound echoing in the dimly lit space. The air is thick with anticipation, heavy with the scent of old wood and something unspoken.

The room is small, barely more than a storage closet. Shelves line the walls, cluttered with dusty bottles and forgotten supplies. A single bulb hangs from the ceiling, casting a soft, yellow glow over everything. Winter stands in the center of it all, her back to you, her shoulders tense.

She turns slowly, her eyes meeting yours. There’s a vulnerability in them that you’ve never seen before. “I’ve been running for so long,” she says, her voice trembling. “From him. From myself. But when I’m with you, I feel… I feel like I can stop. Like I can breathe.”

Your heart aches for her. Without thinking, you step closer, your hands reaching out to cup her face. Her skin is cold, but it warms beneath your touch. “You don’t have to run anymore,” you murmur, your thumbs brushing gently over her cheeks. “Not from me.”

She leans into your touch, her eyes closing for a moment. When she opens them again, there’s a fire there, a hunger that burns through the fear. “I want to trust you,” she says, her voice a whisper. “But I’m scared. Scared that I’ll ruin this. Scared that I’ll ruin you.”

You shake your head, your hands sliding down to rest on her shoulders. “You won’t ruin me,” you say firmly. “And you’re not alone anymore. Whatever you’re feeling, whatever you’re scared of, you don’t have to face it alone. Not anymore.”

Her breath hitches, and for a moment, she just looks at you. Then, without warning, she kisses you. It’s not soft, like before. It’s deep, desperate, fueled by a hunger that’s been buried for far too long. Her hands clutch at your shirt, pulling you closer, and you respond in kind, your arms wrapping around her, holding her as if she might disappear.

Her lips are cold, but they warm quickly, melting against yours. The kiss is wild, unrelenting, a storm that sweeps you both away. She pulls back just enough to breathe, her forehead resting against yours. “I need you,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “I need to feel something real. Please.”

You don’t need to be asked twice. Your hands slide down her sides, feeling the way her body trembles beneath your touch. She’s delicate, fragile, but there’s a strength in her that’s undeniable. She’s a survivor, and in this moment, she’s choosing to live.

Your lips find hers again, and the kiss deepens. Her hands are everywhere, tugging at your clothes, seeking the warmth of your skin. You let her take control, let her guide the pace, because this is her moment. Her need. And you’re more than willing to give her whatever she needs.

Her fingers fumble with the buttons of your shirt, and you help her, shrugging it off and letting it fall to the floor. Her hands splay across your chest, her touch sending shivers down your spine. She’s hesitant at first, as if she’s afraid to touch you, but then her fingers dig into your skin, her nails leaving faint marks in their wake.

“You’re real,” she murmurs, her voice filled with awe. “You’re here. You’re not going anywhere.”

“I’m here,” you assure her, your hands sliding up her back, pulling her closer. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She kisses you again, her lips moving against yours with a desperation that’s almost painful. Her hands slide down to the waistband of your pants, and you let her unbutton them, let her push them down until they pool at your feet.

She’s trembling, her breaths coming in short, ragged gasps. “I’ve never felt like this before,” she admits, her voice barely audible. “I’ve never wanted someone the way I want you.”

Her words are a plea, a confession, and you can’t ignore them. Your hands move to the hem of her shirt, and you pull it over her head, revealing the soft, pale skin beneath. She’s beautiful, her body a map of scars and stories, each one a testament to her strength.

Your lips find her neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses against her skin. She gasps, her hands tangling in your hair, holding you close. “I need you,” she whispers again, her voice breaking. “Please.”

You lift her, carrying her to the small, makeshift cot in the corner of the room. She’s light in your arms, her body fitting perfectly against yours. You lay her down gently, your eyes never leaving hers. “Are you sure?” you ask, your voice low, rough with desire.

She nods, her eyes filled with a mix of fear and need. “I’m sure,” she says, her voice trembling. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

You kiss her again, your hands exploring every inch of her body. She’s responsive, her hips arching up to meet your touch. She’s desperate, her breaths coming in short, ragged gasps as you strip away the last of her clothing.

Her body is a revelation, a masterpiece of curves and softness. You kiss your way down her neck, her chest, her stomach, savoring every gasp, every moan that escapes her lips. When your mouth finally finds her, she nearly comes undone, her hands clutching at the sheets, her back arching off the cot.

“Please,” she begs, her voice a broken whisper. “I need you.”

You can’t deny her. You move up her body, your lips finding hers again. She’s trembling, her legs wrapping around your waist, pulling you closer. When you finally enter her, she lets out a cry, her nails digging into your back.

She’s tight, warm, and you have to fight to hold back, to keep from losing yourself in the feel of her. But she’s the one who sets the pace, her hips rocking against yours, her breath hot against your ear. “Don’t stop,” she pleads, her voice trembling. “Please, don’t stop.”

You don’t. You couldn’t if you wanted to. She’s everything, her body, her voice, her need. She’s consuming you, leaving no room for anything else. Her hands clutch at your back, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

When she finally comes, it’s with a cry that’s half pain, half pleasure. Her body trembles beneath you, her nails digging into your skin. You follow her over the edge, your own release tearing through you like a wildfire.

For a long moment, you just stay there, wrapped in each other, your breaths mingling in the quiet of the room. She’s trembling, her body pressed tight against yours. “You’re real,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “You’re here.”

“I’m here,” you assure her, your arms tightening around her. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She looks up at you, her eyes filled with a mix of fear and hope. “Promise me,” she whispers. “Promise me you won’t leave.”

��I promise,” you say, your voice firm. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She kisses you again, her lips soft against yours. “Thank you,” she murmurs, her voice trembling. “Thank you for being here.”

You hold her close, your heart aching for her. She’s been through so much, suffered in ways you can’t even imagine. But in this moment, she’s here, with you, and that’s all that matters.

The room is quiet, the air heavy with the weight of what’s just happened. She’s trembling in your arms, her body pressed tight against yours. “I’m scared,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “I’m scared of what happens next.”

“Whatever happens,” you say, your voice firm. “We’ll face it together.”

She looks up at you, her eyes filled with a mix of fear and hope. “Promise me,” she whispers. “Promise me we’ll face it together.”

You don’t say a word. You don’t need to. The way you cradle her in your arms, the way your fingers brush against her skin—it’s enough. You lift her effortlessly, her body light against your chest, her breath hot against your neck. She doesn’t resist, doesn’t question. She just clings to you, her arms looping around your shoulders, her face buried in the crook of your neck.

The walk to your apartment is a blur. The city lights blur into streaks of gold and red, the night air cool against your skin, but all you feel is her. Her warmth. Her weight. Her trust. She’s quiet, but you can feel her heart racing, her fingers gripping you tighter with every step.

You reach your door, fumble with the keys, and push it open. The apartment is dim, the moonlight spilling through the blinds, casting long shadows across the floor. You don’t turn on the lights. You don’t need to. The way she looks at you, the way her eyes catch the faint glow—it’s all you need.

You set her down gently, her feet barely touching the ground, and she doesn’t let go. Her hands slide up to your face, her fingers trembling as they trace the line of your jaw. “I’m scared,” she whispers again, her voice barely audible, but the words cut through the silence like a knife.

“Don’t be,” you murmur, your voice low, steady. “I’m here.”

Her lips press against yours, soft at first, tentative, like she’s testing the waters. But when you don’t pull away, when your hands settle on her hips and pull her closer, she deepens the kiss. Her tongue slips past your lips, and the taste of her—whiskey, salt, and something sweet—sends a shiver down your spine. Her hands tangle in your hair, pulling you closer, and you let her. You let her take what she needs, give her what she’s asking for without words.

You back her up against the wall, your body pinning hers, and she gasps into your mouth, her chest rising and falling with every breath. Her hands slide down your back, nails digging into your skin, and the pain is sharp, immediate. But it’s not unwelcome. It’s a reminder that she’s here, that she’s real, that she needs you as much as you need her.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she whispers, her voice breaking, and you can hear the fear in it, the uncertainty.

“You won’t,” you promise, your lips brushing against hers. “You could never.”

She kisses you again, harder this time, more desperate, and you match her pace, your hands roaming her body, exploring every curve, every dip. Her breath hitches when your fingers slide beneath the hem of her shirt, tracing the soft skin of her waist, and she arches into your touch, her body begging for more.

You pull her shirt over her head, tossing it aside, and she stands there in nothing but her jeans and a black lace bra that clings to her skin like a second shadow. She’s beautiful, more beautiful than anything you’ve ever seen, and for a moment, you just stare, drinking her in, memorizing every inch of her.

“Don’t stop,” she pleads, her voice trembling, and you don’t. You can’t.

Your hands move to the clasp of her bra, fumbling slightly, but she helps you, her fingers brushing against yours as the fabric falls away. Her breasts are small but perfect, the nipples hard and begging for attention, and you give it to her. Your mouth descends on one, your tongue swirling around the peak, and she gasps, her hands gripping your shoulders for support. Her head falls back, her eyes fluttering shut, and you take your time, exploring every inch of her, making her feel things she’s probably never felt before.

“You’re so beautiful,” you murmur against her skin, your lips trailing up to her neck, and she shivers, her body trembling under your touch.

“I don’t feel beautiful,” she whispers, her voice barely audible, and it breaks your heart.

“You are,” you insist, your hands cupping her face, forcing her to look at you. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Her eyes search yours, and for a moment, she looks like she doesn’t believe you. But then she kisses you again, her lips soft but insistent, and any doubt fades away. She’s here. She’s real. And she’s yours—at least for tonight.

You pick her up again, her legs wrapping around your waist, and carry her to the bed. The mattress dips under your weight as you lay her down, your body hovering over hers, and she looks up at you with those piercing eyes, her lips swollen from your kisses.

“I’m scared,” she whispers again, and this time, you know why. She’s scared of what this means, scared of letting someone in, scared of being vulnerable. But she’s also scared of losing this, of losing you.

“I’m here,” you repeat, your hand brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She nods, her eyes filling with tears, and you kiss her again, slower this time, more tender. Your hands move to her jeans, unbuttoning them, pulling them down her legs, and she helps you, her body lifting to make it easier. She’s naked now, completely exposed, and she’s beautiful. More beautiful than anything you’ve ever seen.

You strip off your own clothes, your eyes never leaving hers, and when you’re both bare, you pause, giving her a moment to adjust, to process. But she doesn’t need it. Her hands reach for you, pulling you down to her, and you don’t resist.

The first thrust is slow, careful, and she gasps, her nails digging into your back. But she doesn’t tell you to stop. She pulls you closer, her legs wrapping around your waist, and you move inside her, your bodies falling into a rhythm that feels as natural as breathing.

“You feel so good,” she whispers, her voice trembling, and you can feel the truth in her words. She’s tight, warm, and so wet, and you can’t believe you’re inside her, that she’s letting you be this close, this intimate.

“You feel amazing,” you murmur, your lips brushing against hers, and she kisses you again, her body arching into yours.

The pace quickens, the bed creaking beneath you, and she moans, the sound muffled by your mouth. Her hands roam your body, exploring every inch of you, and you let her. You let her take what she needs, give her what she’s asking for without words.

“I’m close,” she whispers, her voice breaking, and you nod, your thrusts becoming more urgent, more desperate.

“Let go,” you murmur, your lips brushing against her ear. “I’ve got you.”

And she does. Her body tightens, her nails digging into your skin, and she cries out, her orgasm washing over her like a wave. You follow her, your own release hitting you hard, and for a moment, everything else fades away. It’s just the two of you, lost in each other, and it’s perfect.

When it’s over, you collapse beside her, your bodies tangled together, your breaths mingling. She’s quiet, her eyes closed, but you can feel her heartbeat, steady and strong, against your chest.

“I’m scared,” she whispers again, her voice barely audible, and this time, it’s different. She’s not scared of what just happened. She’s scared of what comes next.

“We’ll face it together,” you promise, your hand brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Whatever it is, we’ll face it together.”

She doesn’t respond, but she doesn’t need to. Her body curls into yours, her head resting on your chest, and you hold her, your fingers tracing patterns on her skin.

“I’m here,” you murmur, your voice low, steady. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t need to. The way she clings to you, the way her breath evens out as she drifts off to sleep—it’s enough.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

“Let go,” you murmur, your lips brushing against her ear. “I’ve got you.”

When it’s over, you collapse beside her, your bodies tangled together, your breaths mingling. She’s quiet, her eyes closed, but you can feel her heartbeat, steady and strong, against your chest.

“I’m scared,” she whispers again, her voice barely audible, and this time, it’s different. She’s not scared of what just happened. She’s scared of what comes next.

“We’ll face it together,” you promise, your hand brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Whatever it is, we’ll face it together.”

She doesn’t respond, but she doesn’t need to. Her body curls into yours, her head resting on your chest, and you hold her, your fingers tracing patterns on her skin.

“I’m here,” you murmur, your voice low, steady. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t need to. The way she clings to you, the way her breath evens out as she drifts off to sleep—it’s enough.

#kpop #kpop x reader #kpop x y/n #x male reader #beautiful #update #kpop smut #aespa #aespa smut #aespa x reader #aespa x male reader #aespa winter smut #angst #smut

260 notes · View notes

xelasrecords · 9 days ago

Text

Touch My Soul

Sylus x MC (NSFW)

It’s kind of hot of Sylus to come back dripping in blood. MC wrestles between jumping his bones and taking care of him.

A/N: Being taken care of by your lover after a long day has got to be one of my favourite things to write. Endless Nightmare, Thank You for the Food, Locus of Pain, and The Love We Live For deal with this from different angles, yet I never get bored. Here’s one more.

Words: 3.3k

Masterlist | Read on AO3

Black and red particles swirled into a hulking figure of a man in the middle of her living room. A familiar iron tang assaulted her senses. The said man was drenched in crimson, beads of blood dripping down his tattered shirt and fingertips.

Her heart leapt to her throat as she slammed her magazine on the couch and scanned for open wounds. Sylus was doing it again. Asking for trouble or being the trouble itself. But he was folding his arms with mild interest, and his lips still retained their colour. He wasn’t limping or wincing in pain. There was no other telltale sign of exhaustion after an intensive self-healing process. The blood must not be his.

She felt herself deflated in relief.

“Worried about me?” Sylus cocked his head to the side.

She threw her arm on the back of the couch and leaned back. “I’m admiring the view. What an honour it is to see you oozing sex appeal.”

“I’m oozing blood.”

“Which isn’t yours,” she said pointedly. A small stutter in her mind pleaded that it indeed wasn’t.

Sylus smirked. “Clever.”

Good enough. Sylus wouldn’t lie to her.

“You should be covered in blood more often.” She shifted her hair so it cascaded down one shoulder and exposed the slope of her neck on the other side. “It really gets me going.”

It earned her a deep chuckle from Sylus. She decided then that acting on the thrill down her backbone as soon as possible was the best option. His angled jaw was smeared with blood, but his red eyes never lost their predatory glint. He had come out a victor from what seemed like a brutal brawl. She wished she had been there. Watching Sylus in action paved a swift path to her sensual fantasies.

“A Hunter approving of crimes,” he said. “The Onychinus application is ready whenever you want to fill it.”

She crooked her finger, gesturing Sylus to come nearer. “I never said whose blood it would be.”

Sylus stalked towards her at a leisurely pace and bent to her level. “You wish to put another bullet through me?”

“You’ll survive.”

“Are you trying to test how formidable my heart is for you?” He knotted his fingers with hers and pressed his lips against the inside of her wrist. It was a brush that made her pulse thrum with need. “Quite a sadistic streak you possess there.”

“You have corrupted me.”

“Pledge innocence all you want, kitten. You’re not fooling anyone.” For a moment, his stare glazed over as if he was thinking about something she hadn’t gained the privilege to be a part of. But his attention honed in on her again in the next second. “Besides, I recall you were aiming for the kill in our first interaction.”

“I literally thought you murdered my grandmother and friend.”

“And where did that blind assumption get you?”

She sent her resonance through their clasped hands, and a shiver of pleasure passed through them. “To you here with me.”

It had been weeks since they last met. She was starved for Sylus and his devotion so total that she couldn’t bring herself to think of anything but him. While they were still bonded, she also seized the opportunity to prod against his internal system, searching for hidden injuries. Sylus’s shoulders dropped in understanding, and he shook his head slightly.

Sylus was always in danger. She was in no position to save him when he was more than capable of doing it on his own, but she worried on his behalf. Sylus shouldn’t push the boundaries of his invincibility and return bearing mortal wounds. He should stay alive. If he came back shattered, she would gather his broken parts and patch him back together.

Sylus was hers. Hers to ruin and hers to fix. The only place he could fall on his knees was by her feet. Not the soil, not the battlefield. As long as she was around, she would not let him break down and dissolve as one with the wind. He would live. She would give her life to ignite his.

She could only wish Sylus wouldn’t tire of her too soon. That she wasn’t like his other worldly possessions. This, she had to believe.

Sylus grasped her hand tighter and sent back a deluge of desire that rivalled hers. He held her chin up and caressed the column of her neck. “I have missed you as well.”

She smiled and leaned in. Sylus almost got to kiss her, but she pushed him back at the last minute. She trailed her finger down his torn shirt, her freshly manicured nail grazing his chest. Only on her off-days could she maintain perfect nails. “I’ll draw a bath for you.”

Sylus took a sharp inhale. “And wash away my sex appeal?” He dropped his stained blazer to the rug, blood seeping into the red and gold weaving.

She frowned at his offensive movement.

That was her rug. Her magnificent oriental rug that was handcrafted for an empress from hundreds of years ago. She had gone to many auctions to locate and secure this artwork. Not even Sylus would be forgiven if he ruined it.

She kicked his damned blazer to the floor. Wooden floorboards could be replaced. Sylus was a man of abundant resources. “Stop bleeding on my rug.”

He seemed affronted, more from the loss of her touch rather than her abject horror. “I’ll replace it with a new one.”

“That’s vintage. The weaver is dead. You of all people should know the value of art from a bygone era.”

Sylus perked up at the mention of the dead artist. “Resurrection is a fascinating experiment. Would you like to test the limits of my Evol?”

The antique collector in him was not comprehending the direness of this situation.

She crossed her arms. “I don’t want to handle the logistics of tracking down her corpse, which I’m sure you’ll pull me along for.”

“Skipping out on fun, I see.” Sylus snapped his fingers. “Ta-da, blood is cleaned. Satisfied?”

She prostrated herself until her forehead almost touched the rug and glared at Sylus. “You didn’t repair it right. The colouring is off.”

“I’ll have it sent for the most delicate restoration so it will be as good as old.” Sylus assumed a formal bow and extended a bloodied hand. “Will that appease you, my lady?”

“Only if you guarantee its safe delivery.”

“Luke and Kieran will be its dedicated protectors throughout the process.”

She frowned. “You can take a twin. Two rug bodyguards are excessive.”

“I promise you they’d prefer gallivanting off for arbitrary missions than doing the paperwork they’re due,” said Sylus.

She appraised him, and he arched his brows. When she was convinced she could hold him and his army of two accountable, a wide smile graced her face. She accepted Sylus’s hand and caught the muscles in his forearm pulling taut as he dragged her up her feet. It stoked the fire in the pit of her stomach.

“My heart is soothed.” She squeezed his arm for a good measure. Still as firm as she remembered. Marvellous. She couldn’t wait for him to put it around her chest as he stood behind her. “Come on.”

Sylus chuckled and eyed her with a knowing glance.

She led him to the guest bathroom while blocking out his complaints. A low-hanging cabinet would only be Sylus’s arch-enemy if he let it. Some things were a matter of state of mind. It was his fault for exceeding the average design layout height.

As she waited for the warm water to fill the bathtub, she put exactly zero effort into masking her ogling of the fine statue of the man who was tinkering with his shirt.

“I’m starting to wonder if I should charge per view,” Sylus said without looking up.

“Are you going to strip?” Excitement was prominent in her voice and smile and posture. Everything, really.

Sylus choked out a laugh and spread his arms. “A little help, then?”

Patient, she was not. She wrestled with the damaged buttons, but some of them were so tangled with the fabric that she just ripped them off. The shirt dangled open, revealing the defined pack of muscles that she had been itching to see in their whole glory. The dried streaks of blood that trickled down his navel certainly contributed to the view.

She did love being a Hunter trained for strength.

“That is vintage,” accused Sylus.

She helped him shake the shirt off. “If it’s that precious, you wouldn’t have worn it to fight your enemies.”

“You have a habit of assuming the worst of me. I could have been ambushed. Ever think of that?”

She clicked her tongue. “Were you?”

“Nope,” Sylus popped the word smugly. He disintegrated his trousers and underwear in a snap, and she had to practice immense self-control from roving her hands all over his body.

Her eyes had no such restraint, though.

Sylus stood straighter and placed his hand on her waist, pressing her against his crotch. She jutted her chin forward. It would be so easy to toss her clothes off and go for a round, but she didn’t want to give Sylus easy things. He had to earn it. With a sly smile, she nipped the underside of his jaw and dragged him towards the bathtub, pushing his shoulders to lie down instead.

Sylus chuckled but relented. He sank into the warmth and tipped his head back. Plumes of pink clouded the water as steam rolled up their faces. She knelt beside the tub and lathered his arms with soap, carving out the blood from under his nails with meticulous precision. The soap was floral-scented. She had kept it in stock ever since she noticed Sylus had a fondness for flowers.

“Close your eyes,” she murmured. She scooped water to his head and worked the shampoo into the silver strands of his hair.

There was an open tenderness on his expression, one that Sylus only wore around her. He might not have let her in completely yet, but this allowance of vulnerability was already an improvement. She was willing to practice being patient for this.

She massaged the tough knots in Sylus’s shoulders, and he let out a contented sigh. “I never knew you had such dexterous hands,” he said.

“Really.”

He peeked at her and knew both of them were picturing the last time she stayed over at Onychinus base. “All right, perhaps I have some idea.”

“I’d be offended if it turns out that you were pretending to enjoy my service.”

“There is no pretence when it comes to you. I relish everything you give me.”

She slid her hand down to where his heart was. It was soothing to feel it drumming against her palm. Sylus was alive and breathing and fine. She had not lost him. “Even the gunshot here?”

Sylus sighed and covered her hand with his own. “Especially that.”

Something in his tone constricted her lungs. “I don’t enjoy wounding you, you know,” she said in a small voice. “The things I said earlier were in jest.”

“I’m aware.” Sylus smiled. “Actions speak louder than words. You’re arm-deep in bloodied water and sitting on hard tiles for me, so how could I not know?”

She worked in silence for a while; the sound of water sloshing was the sole interruption. It was nice being with Sylus like this. He didn’t need her to do anything to amuse him. He didn’t need her to work for his acceptance despite the tests he lobbed at her when they just got to know each other. She had a feeling they never truly mattered. She was finally within his reach and Sylus’s world was righted on its axis again.

“Did you think of me when I was gone?” asked Sylus.

Water had soaked through her top. It was a good thing she wore shorts. Sopping fabric sticking to her skin was a supremely unpleasant sensation. “If I deny it?”

He pushed himself up and twisted to look at her. “I’d deny your denial.”

“How about you then?” She wiped the blood that stained the corner of his eye. “Was I on your mind?”

“I had wondered how it’d be to slaughter bad guys with you,” Sylus allowed.

“I feel compelled to point out that you’re one of the bad guys.”

Sylus twirled his finger. “It’s all about perspective.”

“Don’t think of me so much anymore.” At Sylus’s confounded look, she added, “Just bring me next time. You wouldn’t have to wonder if I’m by your side.”

“I still would.” Sylus cradled her cheek and she inclined her body, her fingers gripping the edge of the tub so she wouldn’t tumble in. “Greed is insatiable by nature. Once we achieve the goal of eliminating opponents together, I would want to move to a bigger target. As long as humanity exists, there will always be new things to conquer.”

She was always gravitating towards him and his touch. It was more than a physical desire. Her heart pounded in her ribcage. It was simply a matter of time before it broke free. She didn’t know what would happen then and who she would become, but she was eager to find out. “I’d rather think that’s the humanity in you. Heartless beings have no higher ambition beyond subsistence. Look at the Wanderers.”

“I’ve seen plenty of heartless monsters burning innocents at the stake in fear of their power.” Sylus’s face scrunched in distaste. “Bloodlust doesn’t need a heart to thrive.”

“So what did you do?”

His voice softened as it often did when he talked about the past. “I burned down the world for her.” This time, his stare remained sharp on her, not receding into his memories.

She heard the reverence behind the person Sylus was referring to. Whoever she was, she was grateful she had been there for him. Before their relationship improved, there was an air of loneliness that hung around him. Sylus was intimidating yet alone. Those who dared to approach him always demanded something from him. Every connection involved a deal and calculation. Nothing was genuine. He had no one to turn to when exhaustion took over him, no one to be gentle with after gruelling days of living.

“You must have loved her deeply,” she said. “I’m glad you had her.”

Sylus studied her face, but she didn’t have anything to hide. He nodded, a small, relieved smile painting his lips. “And I’m glad I have you now.”

She blew the bubble foam in her hand at him. “You should be. I’m one of a kind. Discarding me would be a huge blow. Think of the time and effort you’ve invested.”

Mimicking her, Sylus gathered the foam around him and smeared it on her face. “You’re not an investment. When I gave you my heart, I didn’t expect anything in return,” he said. “As you go through your life, remember that there’s someone rooting for you. You carry me in the palm of your hand, so live well. That’s all I ask from you.”

She thought of her fear of being left behind by him. Sylus had been around for a while and had formed no attachment to anyone. She knew he had a liking towards the twins and took them under his wings, but they had approached him first. They stuck to him relentlessly until he had no choice but to let them be. Would he choose her over and over if given the choice? It was scary to believe that Sylus would be so selfless to give up his heart and never ask it back.

But she believed it, she did. Sylus didn’t leave much space for doubt. Through his actions and words, they spoke of the same thing. Just as loud, just as steadfast. There was so much kindness and love contained in one person. How could that be?

“I thought you were greedy,” she reminded him. “You should ask for more. I’m giving you my everything too. My heart, my body, my soul.” She caught his hand and trailed it down her chest, dragging down the top of her tank. “Take more from me. I’m all yours.”

Sylus had shifted to his knees, yet he still towered over her. Water dripped down her thighs as his nose touched hers. “If only you could see how beautiful your soul is.”

“Your affection is my mirror,” she said. “I can see it from how much you love me.”

“I do adore you so.” Sylus slid down her top and peppered fervent kisses down her collarbones and the swell of her breasts.

She coiled her fingers into the base of his hair and pulled him back up, capturing his lips with hers. With an arm wrapping around her waist, he fell backwards into the bathtub and brought her down with him.

Lukewarm water rocked around them. She was swathed in water tinted with blood that wasn’t even his, but she didn’t care. They deepened the kiss, and she felt him growing hard beneath her pelvis.

Sylus bit her neck and she gasped. “I know you want to fuck, but we should wait until we’re not surrounded by strangers’ blood,” she said.

He licked the shell of her ear before speaking, his words a jagged whisper. “That’s probably for the best.”

“I make wise decisions,” she said. “And since you disintegrated your clothing without a second thought, I’m afraid you’ll have to strut around naked.”

Sylus arranged their limbs so they were not in danger of drowning, making her kneel on top of him. “You ripped my shirt off without a second thought.”

“Ah, I thought about it all right.” She pretended to contemplate hard on it. “And I have decided you’re better off naked.”

“And shivering.”

“My body is an excellent warmer.” She splashed water at him.

“I know.” His thumbs drew circles around her nipples. “But do you truly not keep spare clothing for me?”

She pictured the rows of clothes folded neatly in her wardrobe in case Sylus dropped by. “You shall be naked or... well, naked. You’ve got no other option.” She shrugged.

Sylus pinched her nipples, eliciting a moan from her, and chuckled. She was sure he had seen through her lie. “Fine, let’s go with that. I have nothing to hide from you. But in turn, don’t think you can still keep this on. A deal has to be fair.” He tugged at her shorts. Her top had bunched around her stomach and had outlived its use. “Take it off.”

She huffed. “You do it.”

One snap of his long, agile fingers and she was completely bare to him.

“I didn’t say now.”

“You didn’t say when.” Sylus threw her a self-satisfied smirk while his finger started to rub her clit.

Her hips bucked involuntarily and she curled her hands into fists on his chest. “We still can’t fuck right now.” Her eyes narrowed in warning. “The dead are clinging to us.”

Rich laughter escaped from Sylus. He kissed her forehead while withdrawing his hand. “Only you can manage to kill the mood while making me love you more.”

She poked the tip of his nose. “Everything I do makes you love me more.”

“I know.” Sylus smiled at her, and it was a tender, loving smile that she wanted to sink into forever.

Sylus had no idea how much she loved him. Now that he was within her grasp, she would do everything she could to keep him. No more loss. No more heartbreak. Enough was enough.

She hoped Sylus shared her desire.

Footnotes:

Dragon Sylus can resurrect the dead, so his resurrection offer here is a nod to that.

MC sometimes uses nature-related words and metaphors. It's to highlight Sylus’s and her similar interest and their deepening relationship to the point that she adopts some of his ideas. It also shows that her past life still lives in her subconscious.

Wrote this because I brained too hard in my depressing Caleb fic so now I needed a brain cleanser.

Sylus does know very well how beautiful her soul is, doesn’t he?

Youtube | Goodreads | Letterboxd | Pinterest

#xela writes #sylus x mc #sylus #love and deepspace #lads sylus #lads #lnds #sylus fluff #sylus comfort #sylus fic #qin che #love and deepspace fanfic

174 notes · View notes

sincerelybubbles · 3 months ago

Note

oooo shybau and hoth first kiss!!!

and I do mean you

warnings: lots of kissing, references to christianity, loss of faith, all of the lovely things I selfishly pour into everything I write pairing: hotch x shy!bau!reader

I took far too long with this because it felt like their first actual kiss needed to be so them and I didn't know how to do that until I suddenly did.

The night is quiet, the kind of quiet that settles deep in the bones, the kind that makes everything feel a little softer, a little more sacred. You don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until the lock on your front door clicks shut behind you, muffling the world outside.

Aaron lingers in your entryway, hands resting lightly on his hips, exhaling like he’s letting go of something heavy. The case had been a brutal one. It wasn’t the worst you’d seen, but something about it had weighed on him. He hadn't said much on the plane home, but then again, he never really had to—not with you.

Now, in the hush of your apartment, that quiet between you stretches like a held note. The exhaustion clings to you both, but neither of you moves to part ways.

“You should get some rest,” he says finally, voice low and steady.

You nod, though you make no effort to leave, and he doesn’t step away. Instead, he watches you the way he always does—attentively, patiently, like he’s waiting for something you don’t yet have the words for.

Maybe it’s the hours of close proximity, the way his shoulder brushed against yours on the plane, the way he had glanced over at you every so often as if checking to make sure you were still there. Maybe it’s the way your body still hums with adrenaline, or maybe it’s simply because you want to.

But whatever it is, you move before you can talk yourself out of it.

It’s barely anything—a shift forward, your fingers brushing against his wrist. His breath catches. Just for a second. But you hear it.

And when you tilt your chin up, meeting his gaze, there’s something in his eyes—something searching, something unsure but steady all the same. He doesn’t move away. He doesn’t pull you in. He just watches, like he’s memorizing the moment before it happens, as if he wants to be sure.

As if he’s willing to wait as long as it takes.

You swallow, heart fluttering wildly in your chest. "Aaron..."

It’s nothing more than his name, barely a whisper, but it undoes something in him. His hands come up—gentle, grounding—one settling at your waist, the other skimming up, up, until his knuckles ghost over your jaw, tilting your face just so.

He leans in, so close you can feel the warmth of his breath, but he doesn’t close the distance just yet. He gives you that space, that choice, because that’s what he does.

And you—shy, quiet, observant you—you make the choice.

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, and you close the space between you.

It’s barely a kiss at first. Just the press of your lips against his, testing, tentative, reverent. He exhales sharply through his nose, like he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath either. Then his hand at your waist tightens ever so slightly, his other tilting your chin just enough to angle you to him.

And Aaron Hotchner—who is always so careful, always so controlled—melts into you like he’s been waiting for this.

Like he’s home.

His lips are warm against yours, steady but unhurried. The weight of his hand at your waist keeps you grounded, keeps you from floating away entirely, because that’s what this feels like—like weightlessness, like the moment before freefall.

Your fingers tighten in the fabric of his shirt, and he responds in kind, the press of his mouth growing just the slightest bit firmer. He’s still careful, still giving you time to pull away if you want to, but you don’t. You couldn’t if you tried.

The world outside is silent, the only sound between you the quiet hitch of breath when he shifts, tilting his head to deepen the kiss—just a little, just enough. His thumb ghosts along your jaw, the touch featherlight, reverent.

Aaron Hotchner, composed and measured, is kissing you like he’s afraid you might disappear.

It sends something warm curling through your chest, something that chases away any last shred of hesitation. You lift onto your toes, pressing closer, and that’s all it takes for him to let go of whatever restraint he’d been holding onto.

He exhales sharply, his hand sliding from your waist to splay against your lower back, pulling you flush against him. It’s still soft, still achingly tender, but there’s more now—more intent, more certainty.

You feel it in the way he holds you, in the way his fingers press into your skin like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you, in the way he lets out a breath when you tilt your head and let yourself melt into him completely.

It would be so easy to get lost in this moment, to let time slip away entirely. But then he stills, just slightly, just enough for you to feel it.

He lingers, his lips barely brushing yours, and when he finally pulls back, he does it slowly, like he doesn’t really want to.

His forehead rests against yours, his breath warm and uneven. For a moment, neither of you speak.

Then, softly, his thumb traces along your cheekbone. “Are you okay?”

You blink up at him, dazed, the weight of his question sinking in. He’s not asking if the kiss was okay. He’s asking about all of it—about the fact that he’s your boss, about the way this changes things, about whether or not you regret it.

And maybe you should. Maybe you should be afraid of what this means, what it could mean for the two of you, for the job, for everything.

But you’re not.

Because right now, with his hands still holding you close, with his lips still tingling against yours, there’s no space for regret. There’s only this.

You swallow, searching his face, the faint crease in his brow, the way his dark eyes trace over yours, studying, waiting.

And then, finally, you answer.

“I’m good.”

The relief in his eyes is subtle, but you catch it. His lips twitch like he’s fighting the urge to smile.

And for the first time in a long time, Aaron Hotchner lets himself believe that something good—something soft, something steady—might finally be his to keep.

Aaron doesn’t let go of you. His hands stay where they are—one pressed warm and steady against your lower back, the other cradling your face with a kind of reverence that makes your breath catch.

His thumb brushes over your cheekbone again, and there’s something searching in his gaze, like he’s looking for hesitation, for regret. But you don’t give him any.

Instead, you lean in first this time.

It’s tentative, your fingers tightening in the front of his shirt as you tilt your chin up. You feel his breath hitch just before he meets you halfway.

The second kiss is different from the first.

It’s slower but deeper, less of a question and more of an answer. Where the first had been cautious, this one lingers, his lips parting just slightly against yours, pulling you closer, tilting his head to fit against you more perfectly.

He tastes like coffee and something distinctly him, something warm and grounding, something you think you could get lost in if you let yourself.

And it’s clear now—he’s letting himself fall.

The hand at your back slides higher, fingers skimming along the line of your spine, anchoring you to him. Your heart is hammering, but it’s not fear, not nerves—it’s just him. The way he’s kissing you like he can’t help himself, like he’s memorizing the shape of you, the feel of you, the way you sigh softly into his mouth when he angles himself just right.

There’s nothing hurried about it, nothing rushed or frantic. It’s deliberate, patient, like he’s savoring the moment, like he’s been waiting for this longer than he’d ever admit.

And then—he slows.

It’s barely noticeable at first, but you feel it in the way his lips linger just a second longer before pulling back, in the way his fingers tighten against your back like he’s reluctant to let go.

When he does finally pull away, he doesn’t go far.

His forehead rests against yours, breaths uneven, warm between you. Neither of you speak right away.

Your eyes flutter open, and he’s already looking at you.

His expression is unreadable at first—something caught between awe and disbelief. Like he can’t quite wrap his head around this, around you.

Then, finally, after a long moment, he exhales, voice rough at the edges.

“I’m not sure I know how to stop.”

Your breath catches.

Because he’s not just talking about the kiss.

He’s talking about the way he feels about you, the way you’ve slowly unraveled him without even trying.

And God, you don’t want him to stop.

So you tighten your grip on his shirt, tilting your head just slightly, lips brushing against his once more in quiet invitation.

“You don’t have to.”

And with that, Aaron Hotchner—always measured, always careful—lets himself fall just a little bit further.

His presence is steady, grounding, and yet, your heart is anything but steady. It’s quick, uneven, rattling against your ribs with a nervous kind of energy you don’t know how to contain.

You step further into the apartment, away from him, before you can stop yourself, motioning vaguely toward the couch. “You can sit—if you want, I mean—you don’t have to.”

The words tumble out too fast, unfiltered, rushed in a way that makes your face heat. You don’t usually speak without thinking. You’re careful. Measured. But right now, with him standing so close in the quiet of your home, you feel stripped bare.

Aaron doesn’t move to sit. Instead, he studies you with that quiet intensity of his, head tilting slightly, gaze flickering over your face like he’s cataloging every thought you’re trying to bury.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. “I’m not nervous because of you.” The words come quicker than you mean them to, and you rush to clarify, stepping forward again. “I don’t want you to think that. I trust you, Aaron. Completely.”

His brow creases slightly, lips parting like he’s about to speak, but you don’t let him—not yet.

“It’s me,” you admit, voice softer now, almost hesitant. “I don’t trust myself.”

His expression shifts, something deeper settling in his gaze.

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. “Not in the way you think. I just—I don’t want to mess this up. I don’t want to—” You falter, pressing your lips together. “I don’t want to give you everything and then—lose you.”

The words feel small. Too vulnerable.

Aaron doesn’t hesitate.

His hands find yours, wrapping around them with steady warmth, grounding you in a way you didn’t know you needed.

“You won’t,” he says, voice firm but gentle. “I’m here.”

Your breath catches.

Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? He is here. With you. Always.

And yet, there’s still that voice in the back of your mind whispering that nothing this good ever lasts. That he’s lost before, and losing you might be easier than letting himself risk that pain again.

But then he’s tugging you closer, tilting your chin up with the lightest touch, and suddenly, none of that matters.

Because when he kisses you, slow and deliberate, he doesn’t leave any room for hesitation.

He’s telling you something without words.

That he sees you.

That he’s choosing you.

That he’s not going anywhere.

And for now, that’s enough.

||||

Aaron follows you into the kitchen without a word, his presence close but unintrusive. He lingers near the doorway, watching as you move—still a little careful, still a little hesitant, but steadier than before.

You open the fridge, the cold air a sharp contrast to the warmth settling in your chest. “Are you hungry?” you ask, glancing at him over your shoulder. Your voice is softer than you mean it to be, but the question is genuine. You need something to do, something to tether yourself back into the tangible, something to dilute the thick tension that still lingers between you.

Aaron exhales, the ghost of a chuckle beneath his breath. “I could eat.”

It’s such a simple answer, but it makes you smile. A quiet, grateful thing.

You busy yourself gathering ingredients, pulling out what you can with deliberate focus. Bread. Cheese. Something easy, something mindless. You’ve done this a hundred times—after late cases, when your body is too tired for anything elaborate but your mind is too wired to sleep.

Aaron watches, but not in a way that unsettles you. His gaze is steady, patient, like he’s waiting for you to dictate the rhythm of whatever this is.

“You don’t have to stand there,” you murmur, glancing at him as you set a pan on the stove.

He hums, stepping forward until he’s close enough that you can feel the warmth of him at your side. “What are we making?”

“We?” You raise an eyebrow at him.

His lips twitch, not quite a smile, but something close. “I assumed this was a team effort.”

You shake your head, focusing back on the pan as butter melts in the center. “It’s just a grilled cheese, Hotch.”

“Then I’m sure I can help.”

You don’t argue, though there’s something about the image of Aaron Hotchner making a grilled cheese sandwich that nearly makes you laugh. Instead, you hand him a slice of bread and let him take over, watching as he works in comfortable silence.

It’s easy, standing here with him like this.

And for the first time tonight, you let yourself believe that maybe—just maybe—this could be simple, too.

The sizzle of butter against the pan fills the quiet space between you, but your thoughts are elsewhere—circling the weight of this moment, the quiet divinity of it.

Aaron stands close, sleeves rolled up, the golden glow of your kitchen light catching the slight furrow in his brow as he carefully presses the sandwich into the pan. He treats it with the same precision he gives everything—handling something as simple as this with the same care as he does a gun, or a case file, or a person he’s sworn to protect.

It shouldn’t feel sacred, but it does.

There is something terrifying in the ease of it—in the quiet devotion of sharing a kitchen, in watching his hands work, in the way he glances at you as if to ensure you are still here, still real. There is something terrifying about being witnessedlike this, wholly and without demand.

It reminds you of stories you read as a child, of devotion poured from one vessel into another. Of sacrifice and faith, of saints and sinners alike giving themselves over to something greater than themselves. All in. No half-measures.

The idea of giving yourself over to someone—to be known like this, in every small and unnoticed moment—burns at the edges of your mind.

Because you see him, too.

You see the way his brows pinch in focus as he lifts the sandwich to check the color, the way he frowns when it’s not quite right. The way he tilts his head slightly, listening for the sound of the crust crisping beneath the weight of his spatula. The way his shoulders settle, not tense but aware of you. Always aware.

It is so easy to fall into this—into him. The ease of this moment is a quiet betrayal of the fear still curling in your ribs.

Because you want this. Him.

And wanting something this much, something that feels so wholly right, is the most terrifying thing of all.

Aaron must sense something in you—some quiet turmoil you haven’t named—because he turns, meeting your gaze with something unbearably gentle. “You okay?”

Your throat tightens. You nod.

And when he hands you half of the sandwich, the warm press of his fingers against yours feels like an unspoken vow.

The sandwich is warm in your hands, but you barely taste it. Your mind is elsewhere, spinning itself into delicate knots you’re not sure you can untangle.

You watch Aaron, the quiet way he eats, the way his fingers curl around the napkin he doesn’t quite use. The way he always chews a little slower than necessary, like he’s learned to be mindful of the smallest things, like he knows the weight of savoring something—how rare it is to be given something simple and good.

He looks at you between bites, not with expectation, not waiting for you to speak, but just looking. Present. Steady.

You wonder what it would be like to let him see all of you.

Not just the quiet, competent agent he trusts in the field. Not just the awkward, hesitant thing you become under the weight of his attention.

But all of it.

The things you keep tucked away, the things you don’t like to look at too closely. The weak, the ugly, the unpolished. The parts of you you’ve hidden behind layers of self-preservation, behind careful smiles and quiet nods and an unwavering dedication to keeping yourself small.

You’ve spent so long convincing yourself that your careful restraint is a kindness—that keeping yourself contained, giving only the good and holding back the rest, is the best way to keep the people you love close.

But Aaron doesn’t take pieces of you. He doesn’t pry, doesn’t dig his fingers into the edges of you looking for something to unfold. He simply waits.

And somehow, that makes you want to give.

To crack yourself open like the fragile thing you are, to pour yourself into his hands and say, Here. Here I am, for better or worse. Do you still want me now?

Would he take the raw, unfiltered version of you? The parts that make no sense, the thoughts that spiral too fast, the fears you can’t name? Would he hold them the way he holds everything—with quiet reverence, with the same careful patience he’s giving this moment now?

Would he love you, if you let him?

And more terrifying still—

Could you let him?

Faith has always been a foreign thing to you—something you were taught to have, something you were told to nurture, but never something you truly felt.

You tried. God, you tried. You folded your hands in prayer as a child, whispered words into the dark, but they never felt like yours. You sat in the pews, still and small, let sermons wash over you like baptismal water, but you never came out clean.

The weight of it—the expectation of belief, the demand for devotion without proof—left you hollow. They told you faith was certainty in the unseen, but you could never find comfort in blind trust.

So, you let it go.

Not in one grand act of defiance, not in a moment of clarity, but in slow, crumbling pieces. You stopped asking for signs. Stopped waiting for answers. Stopped pretending to believe in something that never made itself real to you.

You are not a woman of faith.

And yet.

You believe in Aaron.

It’s a quiet, creeping thing—not the overwhelming, all-consuming devotion you were told faith should be. Not something demanded, not something you owe, but something freely given. Something that grows.

It’s in the way he looks at you now—calm, steady, expectant, but never forceful. The way he waits for you to be ready, to be certain. He asks nothing of you. He doesn’t need your belief, doesn’t press you for assurances you can’t yet give.

And maybe that’s why you want to give them.

The feeling unfurls slow and careful inside you. Not holy, not sacred, but real.

You don’t know what tomorrow looks like. You don’t know if you’ll ever be able to lay your whole self bare, to place your fragile, beating heart in his hands and trust him not to break it.

But you believe he wouldn’t.

You believe in this, whatever it is, wherever it leads.

And for the first time, faith doesn’t feel like a burden.

It feels like hope.

"You're staring at the bread like it personally offended you."

Aaron’s voice breaks through the thick fog of your thoughts, dragging you back to the present. You blink, refocusing on the cutting board in front of you—half a loaf of sourdough, a butter knife hovering uselessly in your hand.

You must have been standing there for a while because Aaron is leaning against the counter now, arms crossed, watching you with the same mix of patience and quiet amusement he always seems to have reserved just for you.

Heat prickles up the back of your neck. "I—" You clear your throat, forcing yourself to move, to slice the bread like a normal person and not a woman on the verge of an existential crisis. "I was just thinking."

"About?"

About faith. About belief. About giving myself to you in ways I never could with God.

You spread butter onto the slice with too much focus, too much force. "Nothing important."

Aaron makes a quiet sound—something like a hum, something like a laugh. "It looked important."

You chance a glance up at him. He’s still watching you, still waiting, but there’s no pressure there, no push. Just quiet patience.

Your chest tightens.

You nudge a plate toward him instead, deflecting. "Eat your bread, Hotchner."

He takes it without argument, but the way he’s still looking at you makes you think he’s not letting this go.

Aaron takes a slow, deliberate bite of his sandwich, watching you over the rim of his plate. "You know," he muses, "for someone who insists on feeding me, you didn’t exactly make a balanced meal. Where are the vegetables?"

You scoff, setting your own sandwich down. "You're welcome to dig through my fridge and find a carrot stick, but good luck. I think there's a single wilted bag of spinach in there that I bought optimistically and then ignored."

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. "That sounds about right."

"You’re welcome to bring me groceries next time if you’re so concerned," you add, flashing him a small, teasing smile before taking another bite.

Aaron lifts a brow, clearly pleased by your rare willingness to push back. "So you’re already inviting me over again?"

You roll your eyes. "I’m just saying, if you’re going to judge my meal prep—"

"I wasn’t judging," he interrupts smoothly, voice warm with amusement. "Just… observing."

You narrow your eyes at him, mock-suspicious. "Observing, huh?"

"Mm-hmm," he hums, finishing the last of his sandwich. He wipes his fingers on a napkin, then leans slightly toward you, elbows resting on the counter. His voice drops just enough to be dangerous when he adds, "Like how you’re getting better at teasing me back."

You freeze mid-chew, suddenly regretting every word you just said. You force yourself to swallow, trying to maintain your composure. "Well, someone has to keep you humble."

"Is that what you were doing earlier?" He tilts his head, faux-curious. "When you kissed me?"

Your entire body tenses.

The playfulness fizzles out of you so quickly it’s almost embarrassing. Your mouth opens, then shuts again, warmth flooding every inch of your skin as you suddenly become hyperaware of everything—of the way he’s watching you, of the ghost of his lips still lingering on yours, of the way your hands twitch in your lap like they don’t know what to do.

Aaron doesn’t push. He just waits, looking far too pleased with himself.

You let out a weak, breathless laugh and immediately break eye contact, staring hard at the counter. "I hate you," you mutter.

"You don’t," he replies, and damn him, he's right.

Aaron doesn’t let up. He leans in just a little closer, just enough to make you squirm. His voice dips lower, deliberate and slow.

"You know," he murmurs, "for someone who kisses like that, I wouldn’t have expected you to get this shy about it afterward."

Your spine straightens like he’s just yanked you upright with an invisible string. "I—"

But you don’t know what to say. You don’t even know how to breathe properly under the weight of his gaze, like he’s cataloging every tiny twitch of your expression, every little way you crumble under the heat of his attention.

Aaron, to his credit, looks like he’s enjoying every second of it. His mouth tugs at the corners, his amusement restrained but not hidden.

"That was a compliment, by the way," he adds, as if that makes it better. As if it won’t set you even more on fire.

You cover your face with one hand, willing yourself not to combust. "You’re being mean."

He lets out a quiet chuckle. "I’m being honest."

"You’re enjoying this," you accuse, peeking at him through your fingers.

His silence is answer enough.

You groan, tilting your head back as if pleading with the ceiling to strike you down. "I was having such a nice time eating my sandwich."

Aaron nods, completely unrepentant. "And now you’re having a nice time blushing in your own kitchen."

"I take it back. I do hate you."

"You don’t," he counters smoothly, just like before. Then, after a beat, he adds, "But I do love watching you get all flustered."

You drop your hand from your face just to glare at him properly, but it only makes his smirk deepen, his eyes crinkling with quiet delight.

It’s almost unfair how much of an upper hand he has—how easily he can undo you with just a few well-placed words. And worse, he knows it. He’s reveling in it.

"I’m never kissing you again," you grumble, mostly as a defense mechanism.

Aaron exhales a soft laugh, then tilts his head, considering you for a long, knowing moment. "I don’t believe that," he says simply.

You don’t either.

Aaron leans back in his chair, completely at ease, completely insufferable, and looking so pleased with himself that you kind of want to shove him. Gently. Maybe.

"I don’t believe that," he repeats, smug and steady, like he’s saying something as simple as the sky is blue or I know exactly how to make you melt.

You cross your arms over your chest, mustering up every ounce of composure you have left. "You don’t know that."

He just lifts an eyebrow. "Oh? You’re really never going to kiss me again?"

"Never," you declare, pretending your cheeks aren’t burning. "Not once. Not ever."

Aaron hums, nodding along, though there’s a spark of mischief in his eyes. "That’s a shame," he muses, "because I was going to say that I think we should practice more."

You choke on air.

"Practice?"

"Mhm," he says, and then—because he’s the worst—he takes another casual bite of his sandwich, like this is just some regular, normal conversation.

Like he hasn’t just suggested practicing kissing. With him.

You press your hands to your face again. "I hate you so much."

Aaron laughs, soft and warm, and suddenly there’s a gentle touch at your wrist, coaxing your hands away. You let him, mostly because you think you might actually pass out if you try to hide behind them any longer.

"Let me see you," he murmurs, and just like that, his teasing fades into something softer, something that has your stomach flipping for an entirely different reason.

You lower your hands.

He smiles—small, but real. "There you are."

Your heart does something absolutely ridiculous in your chest.

"You are so unfair," you whisper, shaking your head.

Aaron just tilts his head slightly, his expression all warmth and quiet amusement. "I don’t know what you mean. I’m just sitting here, enjoying my sandwich."

"You weaponized a sandwich," you accuse, pointing at him, and he actually chuckles, shaking his head.

"I did not—"

"You did. You used the sandwich as a distraction while you flirted with me!"

He lets out a dramatic sigh. "Alright, you got me. I was flirting with you. And it was very successful, I might add."

You groan, dropping your head to the table. "I am so done with you."

Aaron smirks. "No, you’re not."

You peek up at him. "How do you know?"

"Because you’re going to stay, and we’re going to keep doing this—me making you blush, you pretending you hate it"—and one day, when you’re ready, you’re going to kiss me first."

You gape at him. "Absolutely not."

His smirk deepens. "We’ll see."

You lift your head and squint at him, trying to determine whether he’s a mind reader, a wizard, or just too good at reading you. Probably all three.

Aaron leans forward slightly, lowering his voice to something unbearably fond. "I like you," he says, like it’s the simplest truth in the world.

Your stomach swoops.

"You—" You cut yourself off, floundering. "I—I like you, too."

"I know."

You huff, rolling your eyes, but you can’t fight the smile pulling at your lips.

Aaron grins. "See? We should practice."

You swat at him, and he catches your hand, laughing, laughing like you’re something light in his chest, like you are something warm and easy and good.

You think you might let him keep you.

You try to glare at him, but it’s useless—he’s already got that insufferable grin on his face, and the warmth in his eyes makes it impossible to hold onto any semblance of frustration.

Aaron still has your hand, his thumb brushing idly along your knuckles like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. Or maybe he does. Maybe he’s just that unfair.

"You’re too smug for your own good," you grumble, though your voice lacks any real bite.

He tilts his head, considering. "I don’t think that’s true," he says, the teasing still evident, but softer now. He tugs lightly on your hand, coaxing you closer. "You just make it easy."

You scoff, but you don’t resist when he pulls you in. "I make it easy?"

He nods, all confidence, all ease, like this is the most natural thing in the world. Like you are.

You should say something clever. You should push back. You should do something.

But then he’s leaning in, and his hand comes up to cradle your cheek, and every thought you’ve ever had vanishes into nothing.

You mean to pull away, to protest but he presses a featherlight kiss to the corner of your mouth, and the words dissolve on your tongue.

"That doesn’t count," you whisper, your breath mingling with his.

Aaron hums, his thumb skimming over your cheekbone. "No?"

You shake your head, though you’re not sure who you’re trying to convince.

"Hmm." He leans in again, and this time he does kiss you—properly, fully, but still playful, still teasing, still drawing you in like he knows exactly how to unravel you.

You do pull away then, just for a second, just long enough to narrow your eyes at him. "You're enjoying this way too much."

He smirks. "Undeniably."

You huff, rolling your eyes, and then you’re the one grabbing him—fisting the front of his shirt and pulling him down into another kiss before he can say something else smug.

This time, there’s nothing playful about it.

He makes a low sound in his throat—surprised, pleased, needy—and his hands are on you, warm and steady, one at the nape of your neck, the other settling firm at your waist. You shudder at the feel of his fingers splaying across your skin, like he’s grounding you, like he’s holding on just as much as you are.

You let him pull you closer, let yourself sink into him, into the heat of his mouth, the gentle insistence of his touch. He tastes like peanut butter and something deeper, something heady, something that makes your stomach swoop.

By the time you part, you’re breathless, your fingers still curled into his shirt like you’re afraid to let go.

Aaron studies you, his gaze flickering over your face, searching. And then—so quietly, so earnestly—

"I would never leave you."

The words hit something deep, something tender, something you’ve tried so hard to keep hidden.

Your throat tightens.

He must see it, because his hand moves, his thumb brushing gently along your jaw. "Never," he repeats, his voice steady.

You believe him.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s not so terrifying after all.

#x reader #bubbs.writes #fluff #criminal minds x reader #aaron hotchner #hotch x reader #hotch x bau!reader #hotchner x reader #hotchner x bau!reader #Aaron x reader #Aaron x bau!reader #Aaron hotchner x reader #Aaron hotchner x bau!reader #fem!reader #shy!reader #shy!bau reader #hotch x shy!reader #hotchner x shy!reader #Aaron hotchner x shy!reader

355 notes · View notes

moonstruckme · 1 year ago

Note

hmmm how about james potter and shy reader’s first kiss? 💘

Idk how this sat so long in my inbox, thank you for requesting (and for your patience) angel!

James Potter x shy!reader ♡ 998 words

You know James has been holding back on your account. He’s still a thousand times braver than you are, always with a hand cast over your shoulders or resting on your back or clasped around yours and compliments dropping from his lips like they’re nothing. You find it easier to reciprocate when he makes the first move like that. To lean into his side, tighten your fingers around his, smile and tell him he looks lovely, too.

Tonight he seems to be taking things further, and you suspect you know why. He’s seemed reluctant to let you out of arm’s reach all night. Instead of just holding your hand, he’d played with your fingers while you’d sat in the cinema. He’d pushed your hair out of your face when you turned to talk to him, and a couple of times he’d wiped chocolate from the corner of your mouth that you suspect wasn’t really there. Now, as you’re walking home, he’s rubbing a slow, absentminded back-and-forth across the back of your hand with his thumb. It feels like he’s testing the waters.

You’ve been dating for a while now. You’d wondered when it would come.

James walks you up your front steps, every smile he beams your way worsening the bone-thuddering beat of your heart. It’s not necessarily James that scares you. He’s perfect and lovely and kind, and you want him close so badly it’s humiliating.

He squeezes your hand in his, and your nerves misfire, the toe of your shoe catching on the top step. You gasp as you pitch forward, but James is quick. He grabs you around the middle and you save yourself with your other foot.

“Whoa,” he laughs. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Sorry, I don’t know how that happened.”

“They are your own front steps,” James points out. There’s a knowing in his eyes, in the soft curl of his bottom lip, that makes your cheeks warm and your stomach flutter. “I hate to think of what unfamiliar steps do to you if you’re falling right outside your own home.”

“I know.” You look down, pretending you need to check your shoelaces or brush off your pants or some other ruse he won’t believe, and try not to be so acutely aware of how he hasn’t let you go. “It’s humiliating. The neighbors will talk.”

“Let me know if they do. I’ll set them straight.”

You grin up at him. James’ expression is as warm as his voice. His eyes go molten as they meet yours, a look now familiar and yet newly thrilling every time. It makes your spine feel rubbery.

“Thanks for coming tonight,” he says, voice gone a bit softer than usual. “I had a really great time.”

“I did, too,” you reply earnestly. “Thanks for inviting me.”

“You’re always invited, sweetheart.” His touch slips from around your middle, taking your hand again. “See you Friday, then?”

When you’d told James how busy you’d be this week, he’d penciled himself into your schedule for Friday, when the pandemonium will have ceased. He wants to cook you dinner. You think you’ll likely deliquesce into a heart-shaped puddle when he does.

“See you then.” You smile, and he smiles back, and then intention solidifies in his gaze.

You hold your breath.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks.

“Please.” The word leaves you on a sigh, and then James is stepping closer to you, your fingers tightening on his.

The first soft press of his mouth is gentle and chaste. Warm, like the rest of him, like sunlight given form. His hand comes up to hold the side of your face, and you lean into the touch on instinct, slotting your nose alongside his to get him closer. It starts so slow and lovely you’re not sure you can handle anything more, but then James parts his lips and you mirror him reflexively and his sunlight is pouring into you.

You let go of his hand to wrap both your arms around his neck. James smiles against your lips as you press closer to him, his hand gentle on your face as he slows you both down again with sweet, soft kisses to your bottom lip.

“Easy,” he says, his own voice slightly hoarse now. It sends shivers down your spine, light as a feather’s touch. “Let’s give the neighbors one headline at a time, yeah? Don’t want to overwhelm the presses.”

You’re lost for words. You let your forehead rest against his, eyes still closed, savoring the warmth emanating from your lips.

“Angel, you with me?” James tilts his head up so his nose bumps into yours. You feel your lips curve of their own volition. “Was that okay?”

You hum. “You’re right,” you say, impressed with how normal you manage to sound. “I think we should go inside so they’re left to wonder.”

That earns you a hearty laugh, James grasping your shoulders when you’re forced away from him by the raucousness of it.

“You said you were tired just a few minutes ago,” he reminds you.

“I feel awake now.”

He laughs again, delighted, and your face warms at your own brazenness. James lets his touch slip down your arms to your hands again, taking them in his and squeezing reassuringly.

“As much as I’d like to,” he says, “you’ve got a big week. I should let you get to bed. Plus—” he gives you a roguish grin “—keeping you wanting more is how I get you to let me in here on Friday.”

You grin down at your shoes. “That’s very conniving of you.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m nefarious that way. But one more.”

James tilts your face up with a hand, pressing one quick, sweet kiss to your lips before pulling out of your reach. You know you look as surprised as you feel, because his eyes dance with amusement as he backs down the stairs, his smile poorly repressed.

“See you Friday.”

1K notes · View notes

adelheidvonschicksal · 1 year ago

Text

⋆｡°✩ DARLING, DON'T BE AFRAID

Summary: Despite living with Xavier for the past few weeks, you still haven't taken the plunge to see if all this time together make you anything more than roommates especially when he disappears again in the middle of the night. Determined, you decide to question him on where his feelings lie. You just never thought a simple kiss on the cheek was the only push needed.

Pairing: Xavier x Fem!Reader

Content Warning: Roommates AU, Vanilla Smut (A lot of it. Like 7k words of smut), Love Confessions, Friends to Lovers, Emotional Sex

Word Count: 12,000~

Note: Sequel to Do Roommates Sleep Together. This part can be read as a standalone. So not necessary to read part one but it adds more context.

AO3 Link

You make a final decisive pull of the trigger. A loud pang resonates in the air and smoke spirals off the barrel. The Wanderer disappears in a wisp of debris and dust that is quickly caught in the wind.

Xavier stands a few feet in front of you. His sword twirls with one final arc of light illuminating behind the sharpened tip before it dematerializes in his hand. You’re oblivious to the way his eyes search and find you on instinct as you run eager fingertips on the warm barrel of your pistol.

“Mission completed. We should report back.”

You raise your head to meet his gaze while your gloved fingers remain faithfully on your weapon. The adrenaline from a successful mission is still surging through you.

“I want to test out my guns some more.”

His eyes soften at your response, but the weight of his gaze is still heavy as he walks towards you and places his hand on your head.

“There will be more Wanderers tomorrow,” he murmurs. His thumb gently brushes your forehead before his hand swoops back over your hair. Though your hands were still itching for another battle, your mind was weak to the calmness of his tone, like the slow tumble of waves on the shore, as he coaxes your head back to look at him more directly. “Let’s go home.”

This time you do not protest. Even if you did, what could you possibly say?

Your aggression relaxes along with your shoulders, allowing you to give in to his request with a quick holstering of your twin guns.

You return to headquarters and give your mission report to Jenna – pausing only to poke fun when she mentions how much Xavier’s reporting time has improved since the two of you became partners – then you start on the way home with the sun kissing at your back.

Laughter fills the air on the streets. Immediately, you feel warm inside. It was only thanks to the work you do every day that citizens could enjoy this peaceful dusk without fear of monsters scrambling to destroy the city like so many years ago.

It’s rewarding to know you hold some small part in the safety of the city after almost dying in the catastrophe as a child. You breathed it in fully, letting joy fill your lungs as you savor the calm moment. The emotion is only highlighted by the fact that when you look to your side, you can see Xavier there, putting weight to the empty space left in the wake of your family’s death.

Walking home together in the past was a random occurrence, happening whenever your busy schedules after missions aligned. As freshly cemented roommates, it was almost a given you’d walk home together now. Not just to the apartment complex, but to an actual shared home.

This path you go along every day has become special in that time. It’s full of promises, the kind you could only wish for on snowy New Year's evenings as you tied red ribbons to the shrine gate and prayed for good things to happen in your life. Not a lot of those wishes came true but Xavier did.

In that way, you were a fortunate person.

It was only your guess if he felt the same. You want to ask him. Unlike when you’re fighting Wanderers, you’re not brave when it comes to Xavier - a part of you prefers to leave things between you unsaid. It’s safer that way as you can keep living in a beautiful world of your own illusions.

Therefore, you’re unable to help yourself. Pinching the sleeve of his uniform, you tug on it gently to gain his attention; Xavier looks at you with glossy glazed eyes. He’s always so sluggish after missions. His steps slow and methodical, like a robot, as he barely manages to straighten his spine and raise his head.

“Chin up, Xavier. We’re almost there.”

“I’m exhausted,” he says.

You don’t need to hear him say it to understand. You think you’ve become good at reading his body language by now. Donning a sympathetic smile, you shift your hand, aiming for a lower target, and entwine your fingers with his under the guise of leading him faster.

“My next solution is carrying you by the way.”

A smile cracks on his face, impossibly light as his gaze drifts to the hold you have on his hand. “I don’t think you could carry me.”

“You dare doubt me?” Truth be told, he was right. He was tall and muscular and much thicker under that uniform than he looked. He would probably crush you under his weight if you tried to lift him. Despite how improper it was to think, you wouldn’t mind if he wanted to place his weight on top of you in another way. You tick up the corner of your lips into a surprisingly innocent smile opposite of the images in your imagination as you flash your bicep to him. “I’m very strong.”

“I think it would make more sense if I carried you.”

“I can walk.”

“I don’t see why that matters,” he says with a yawn, and you smile.

“Are you sure you won’t drop me?”

“If it’s a choice between falling asleep and dropping you then I’ll definitely stay awake. Otherwise, you might end up carrying me after all,” he says. Xavier always manages to be unfailingly charming. Given the mystery of his past and the way he carries himself, you often question exactly what kind of upbringing he had. You almost ask but your interrogation doesn’t have the chance to plant seeds when he stops in front of you and kneels.

You thought he was joking when he said he’d carry you home but that doesn’t stop you from wrapping your arms over his broad shoulders and letting him scoop your legs up around his solid waistline.

His clasp on the back of your thighs makes you shiver. You feel like a touch-starved virgin that the simple strength of his hands over the thickness of your pants incited such a reaction out of you, so you bury your burning face against the back of his neck.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

Xavier must feel your hair against his neck, and you use the fact he can’t see your face to your advantage as you nod against his nape.

“Just hungry.”

For his part, Xavier doesn’t question your sudden hunger. Instead, he asks what you’re in the mood for and starts to list the restaurants that you pass on the way to the apartment complex.

You lay your cheek against him, watching the many buildings pass you by until you point out one you don’t recognize, flashing with many signs about a grand opening.

“How about that one?” you ask.

Xavier chuckles, continuing on in his steps past the building in question. “It’s not that great.”

“How do you know?”

“I tried them out.”

You squeeze into his shoulders, pushing off of them in a childlike manner and an even more dramatic gasp. “Without me?”

“I was going to bring you something back, but they weren’t very tasty. I like your cooking a lot more.”

You know he can’t see you, but you puff out your cheeks anyway. You wrap your arms tightly around him again, willing your heart not to skip when his back tenses as your chest compresses against him.

“Are you asking me to cook dinner for you? I’m quite exhausted after all that running around,” you tell him sarcastically.

He accidentally makes you regret your teasing when he agrees with a compassionate offer, “I’ll cook for you today.”

Hearing the word cook from his mouth makes your stomach sour. If there’s one thing after all these months you learned, it’s that Xavier is a…creative cook to put it gently. Or rather, he has zero cooking ability if it involves electricity. You didn’t mind. The two of you make it work with you doing most of the cooking and him cleaning up after, at your own behest, because if he had his way, he’d be in the kitchen much more often.

“On second thought, I’ll cook.”

“You still don’t trust me,” he says with a sigh. Guilt tingles through you. However, your continued survival outweighs the guilt that the memory of his puppy eyes can draw out of you. “I’ll handle the cold stuff, and I’ll leave the meat to you.”

“Deal,” you say, nuzzling your head against his neck.

When you get home, the night pans out like it always does. The two of you take turns in the shower with dinner being cooked shortly after, and the human garbage disposal known as your roommate leaves very little work for you to do once all is said and done.

You decide to start on the last of chores for today while Xavier washes the dishes. It’s routine to check the plants before going to bed as the many potted flowers were like your own children after you spent so many hours tending to them, finding the perfect ratio of nutrients and water to keep them thriving.

It is also routine to hunt down the birds so lovingly named Fatso and Alarm Clock by the sleepy man of the house to give them some of the seeds and nuts you regularly brought home from the store. You told Xavier that happy birds would stop eating his strawberries when in reality you liked to spoil them.

So, you spread out the seeds on the ground for them, leaving them there for later.

“If you feed them, they’ll never leave.”

You can’t help the laugh that leaves you. As much as he complains about the birds, you think, if his constant curiosity about the birds’ day-to-day lives was anything to go by, that he’d miss the two fluffy creatures if they were to ever find new nesting grounds. You turn back to the balcony door with a cheeky grin. “I have experience with things that don’t leave after you feed them. You enjoyed dinner a little too much.”

It’s hard to see in the fading light but Xavier blushes and brings a shy grip to the back of his neck. “Last I checked you moved in with me.”

That silences you. There’s no denying his observation, and you fail to notice him getting closer until he reaches his hand out to help you up. You willingly reach out, hand sinking into his touch as he lifts you to your feet.

The coolness of your palms touching slowly births a lingering warmth. The soft squeeze around your hand makes it hard to let him go but eventually you must. Otherwise, you might say things that are better kept to yourself as you walk back into the house and close the sliding door behind you.

With a pounding heart, you retire to your room early.

This room is a little different from the master room at your old apartment. The wall color is a little different brighter and it’s smaller. Luckily, you made the space work pretty easily by migrating half your plushie collection into Xavier’s room, checking like a dutiful mother to make sure he was treating them right and placing them with love should they roll off his dresser. Sighing, you change into slightly more comfortable clothes, choosing a random pair of soft shorts and a tank top to wear before climbing into bed. It’s ten when you finally let your eyes slip shut, and it's around eleven you feel someone touching you.

Your eyelids are surprisingly heavy; you can barely pry them open enough to see the wisp of grey-brown hair shadowing medium-blue eyes. You don’t protest as you feel his fingertips brush along your waist or when his knee digs into the mattress, sinking you towards his weight.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what he wants. You raise your arm enough to let your fingertips greet the curve of his chin in silent acceptance. Slowly, you drop your hand and squeeze his bicep. Like a good little soldier, he follows the order to fall into the bed with you.

The most comfortable position is to slot your arm on top of his as he hugs your waist, props his leg on top of yours, and spoons your back. There’s absolutely zero space between your lower halves; and if he notices how you, with a small amount of shame, subtly shift and push yourself back on him a little more, he doesn’t say as he lolls his head against the curve of your neck while his incredibly light exhaling on your skin comforts you after a long day.

With a flutter of your eyelids, you slowly slip back into sleep with the happiness that comes with being roommates with your crush.

It’s times like these that make you think maybe he loves you. It’s also times like these that make you forget that despite all of the endearing things about him and despite how much you care about him, you don’t truly know a lot about him.

Xavier has always been a man with a lot of secrets. You’ve known this since you first met him asleep in the forest. It’s true that you once accepted the fact you’d never learn all his secrets but that was before whatever this abnormal relationship that the two of you found yourself in.

Even after living together for more than two months now, you still had no idea where he would go when he would sneak off in the middle of the night. You didn’t question where he goes anymore, you found that he wouldn’t give you a straight answer to save his life. You merely stayed up until you heard the sound of the door opening or the warped echo of air being sucked into a vacuum, indicating he teleported inside.

So, when you wake up at two in the morning, finding yourself alone and the side of the bed where he laid mere hours ago already cold, you’re not surprised.

Getting out of bed, you slip on your slippers and drag your feet to the balcony. It’s a familiar situation when you collapse into the swing chair, with nothing but the cold and the chirping of the birds to keep you company until he undoubtedly returns with his body hosting a family of fresh wounds.

It’s incredibly frustrating because you love him and seeing him hurt, without you having been there to prevent it, drives you crazy. You wonder why he won’t tell you, and your heart sinks, as quickly as a stone cast in a lake, with the idea that maybe you were the only one thinking that your relationship meant more than it did. Because even after all this time, you still aren’t close to him in the way you want.

Clenching your fists, you shove your eyes against them. It was all so infuriating when he ran off to fight Wanderers or whoever and left you all alone to overthink and worry about him like some helpless house plant. It was enough to make you want to cry as the strange foreboding sense of losing him begins to echo inside of you, making you nauseous. There’s only one way to get rid of this feeling. Taking in a deep breath, you settle to give him a piece of your mind about sneaking off so much and also to bite the bullet to confess your feelings.

It was only a matter of waiting for him to actually return home and to get your heightened nerves to stop firing in every direction in the meantime.

By the time you heard the door to the apartment creaking open, you’d nearly fallen asleep in the wicker swing chair. You swallow down the bitter taste of fear, ignoring the tumultuous waves it makes when it hits your stomach. You’d never get anywhere if you didn’t face him.

Carefully, you hop up from your seat and make slow strides into the apartment. It’s still dark in the house; you hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights earlier. Yet Xavier carries a lightness around him, mostly imagined by yourself, that makes him easy to spot in the darkness.

For a moment, things seem normal as he takes a few stiff steps forward. Suddenly, he falls forward, the white of his uniform nearly a blur with how fast he collapses onto the sofa, but it is nothing compared to the speed at which you rush to his side.

You call his name, press two fingers to his throat, and let your eyes slip closed with a desperate concentration as you search for his pulse behind the blaring red of his collar.

It’s a gradual pace, averaging twenty beats a minute and slowly rising. For anyone else, you’d immediately rush them to the hospital. For Xavier, that number is a relief.

You hold your hand to your pounding heart, practicing deep measured inhales to calm it. It appears he fell asleep as soon as he entered the room, with only enough awareness to kick off his shoes at the door.

It looks like your lecture will have to be postponed for another day.

You’re thankful for all the training you had to take to become a hunter because it takes an enormous amount of effort to throw one of his arms over your shoulders and drag him to his bedroom. You make a mental note to never let him question your ability to carry him again as you sit him on the bed and shuffle off his uniform jacket, leaving him only in his pants.

In a tender motion, you gently cup his face and examine him. Dirt cakes his face; and when you brush it away, there’s a small cut on his cheek. It hits you again just how reckless and secretive he can be, echoing with a bitter thought that he didn’t bring you again. The only bright spot is the little cut is his only injury this time.

Laying him on his back, you leave for only a moment to get a warm washcloth and an adhesive from the bathroom. It’s a blue band-aid with a cartoonish pink bunny on it, something a kid would love and has probably been collecting dust in the drawer longer than you’ve been alive.

It takes all the seriousness out of your body when you return, clean his face off, and place the colorful bandage on his cheek. It’s hard to believe this narcoleptic pretty boy was the strongest member of the Hunters Association.

“I didn’t think when we moved in together I was going to become a babysitter,” you commented with a little huff and poke of his cheek. “You’re terrible at taking care of yourself. Can’t cook. Can’t stay awake. Can’t tell someone when you’re going out. I bet you didn’t even lock the door when you came in. …What if a Wanderer floated in after you and trampled all the flowers, or did you just not want to leave any for me tomorrow?”

You know your complaints are falling on deaf ears as he cuddles up to his pillow without a care in the world. But if you didn’t complain, you’d get depressed instead. Dropping to your knees, you sit on the floor and prop your elbow on the bed to get a better look at him.

He looks so peaceful.

There’s no tension, no crease to his expression. It’d be easy to mistake him for a normal young man if it weren’t for the strong humming of his Evol tickling at the wall of your resonance.

“I’ll let you sleep, but you’re getting it in the morning! I expect answers. Otherwise, I won’t cook breakfast for you,” you attempt to sound threatening in your words with every poke to his cheek a not-so-silent promise to follow through. “I’ll take my missions with the new recruit all the ladies at work gossip about. And the next time I get a snack shipment, I’m letting Jeremiah have first pick!”

With one last prod to his face and no reaction otherwise, you stop your demands and sit back on your legs.

Bit by bit, you feel your energy dissolving. It’s no use. It’s all empty threats. You’ll probably not cook for a few days, eat in front of him too, at least until he gives you those puppy eyes, and you’ll fold just like origami paper. You’ll still save him the snack you know he likes even if you allow Jeremiah first pick of the rest. And you’d never be interested in the new recruit or anyone else.

Xavier can be distant and formal. For others, his hyper-independence was evident. Taking on missions alone and avoiding group settings is just the way Xavier’s personality works. He’s reliable and gets along with everyone at a surface level and he’s known to go out of his way to help others without seeking validation for it so it never ruffled any feathers when he goes off on his own or rejects an invitation to drink with the others after work.

They didn’t see. They didn’t see how easy it was to care about him. They appreciate him but they weren’t aware of how intensely and passionately he could feel when he unfurls that independent nature. How he always quietly adjusts his dominant foot to point your direction whenever a Wanderer appears. How his voice drops and his touch becomes the smallest bit more graceful and careful when he sees you upset. How sweetly he looks when he sleeps.

It makes your resolve crumble and your heart squeeze, something only he can do without even being awake to know it.

“You’re lucky I like you,” you mumble to him.

As you lean closer, you easily ignore the stirring in your gut that tells you to stop.

The bandage is a little rough against your lips as you seize the chance to kiss him. It’s a short and small thing, much more delicate than your prodding from earlier because you want to indulge the romantic in you. You want him to somehow sense the feelings cultivated in your heart over the past few months though impossible when he’s asleep.

You don’t let it last long. Instead, the desperate urge to feel his heat against you spurs you to rest your forehead against his cheek. It’s warm and soft, and the faint scent of pine trees of the no-hunt zone fills your nose. You savor being this close to him, allowing yourself to indulge in it until the heat on your skin starts to match his, and you finally let him have peace for the night.

With no need to remain in his room, you stand and pivot towards the door, wondering how you’ll manage to grasp any form of sleep tonight. However, you don’t make it two steps before there’s a tug at your arm.

You yelp as you’re pulled towards the bed while the shock has you stumbling forward into it. The hand leaving your arm in favor of grasping around your wrist stops you from falling completely but your knees have already buckled. You’re left nearly a head under him when he finally swings his legs over the side of the bed and shifts into a full sitting position. This position is oddly familiar. When you uncertainly force your eyes up to meet his face, this vulnerable angle becomes unmistakable.

His voice is husked and rasped from sleep, sending a chill up your spine when paired with the swirling shadows darkening his blue eyes under his hooded lids and dark lashes. That’s the look of a predator, of the association’s strongest hunter, and you face the inkling realization that you’re the prey.

Nervously, you begin to divert your eyes. He takes a page out of your own playbook and reaches under your chin to guide your sight back to him as you fight not to whimper at the pressure of his thumb pushing down as if he wants to part your lips. It isn’t until now that you notice how close you are to his lap and how another few inches would drop you to your knees.

“Why worry about Wanderers following me home when you’re so much scarier.”

“What do you mean?”

Memory has never been your friend. This though is the first time you’ve forgotten how to breathe when his fingers completely close around your wrist. His hold is firm, preventing you from wringing your way out of his grasp, but it doesn’t hurt.

He might as well take that grasp and use it to squeeze your heart instead when he brings your hand to his face. You’re unsure what he’s planning; the awkwardness of the situation makes your fingers straighten and twitch away as he holds your hand closer to his face. Sensing your trepidation, he closes the last of the distance instead by tilting his head into your hand with the same affection as always as he lets your fingertip brush against the silly little bunny bandage.

The familiarity of the motion puts your heart a little more at ease but not enough to bring your breathing back to you as he mumbles, “I don’t remember giving you permission to kiss me.”

Your lips part with a silent puff while your brows push forward, highlighting the confusion in your mind onto your face. He takes advantage of the moment to nuzzle your hand. It’s a notion you can’t appreciate as his words finally sink into your mind and reform into a horrifying conclusion.

“…You were awake the whole time.”

He chuckles so easily at the dry peep that echoes from you, the rivet of that warm sound collects in your palm and makes your face scalding hot. You didn’t face a burning heat like this even when fighting one of those flame dragons. All the while, Xavier was laughing at you…

“Not the whole time.”

With your head catching up, you find enough of yourself again to actually glare at him and smack his shoulder. “That’s not the point!”

With another display of strength, he locks your other wrist, pulls you up, and then snatches you into him. Luckily, you’re able to flatten your palms against his chest to brace yourself. His heart as well as his face is unnervingly calm compared to your own organ that’s currently orchestrating its escape from your chest, battering your ribcage even harder as you unconsciously stretch your fingers over his naked skin.

You don’t like this. This bullying, which you only describe as such because you can’t think of a word more fitting for the way he’s treating you, is too one-sided.

“It was on the cheek,” you argue with a steeled voice. You fake the confidence to stare him back down, choosing to trade your determination to confess to him tonight in exchange for preserving your pride. “It was friendly.”

To your satisfaction, your declaration of war makes him the one to pause this time. His eyes widen and there’s a quiver in those waves of blue that he hides by glancing down and away.

“…Is that what it was?”

You nod. “I wasn’t…going to do anything else.”

Xavier smiles, shaking his head, and there’s a new determination in his eyes that causes your teeth to clench down on the inside of your cheek as he leans closer.

“In that case, is it okay to return the favor?”

He doesn’t give you the time to answer. He’s already closing the distance, his dark lashes already fluttering, and his lips already puckering to kiss you as you’re squeezed flushed against him, only your palms stopping your chest from colliding with his.

“Wait!”

Hearing your disapproval, he pauses, but that cheeky grin still doesn’t dissipate.

“What's wrong?” he asks with a sigh. You’re sure it’s not a true question. “Am I not allowed to give you a friendly kiss as well.”

The implications make your stomach twist while your thighs squeeze together pathetically with the sudden throbbing of arousal that spikes through you as you tumble further and further into this rabbit’s trap.

“I—that’s!”

“So, you were misbehaving,” he concludes from your sheepishness. “I guess that means I need to punish you instead.” He breaks his hold around one of your wrists to ghost his fingertips along your cheek and down your neck until all you can do in response is breathe out a moan, much to his surprise given by the rise of his eyebrows and the slight dust of pink on his bewildered face. “…I didn’t think you were that sensitive there.”

Your mind swims with the traitorous thought of wanting to show him where you’re more sensitive dancing in your mind before you can sweep it away. When his fingers dance along your neck again, you whimper and hold in another moan.

“Don’t hold back on my account. You know my most sensitive spot after all, as hunting partners, it only makes sense for me to know yours, right?”

You can hardly think of a response to that. It’s true. You know his biggest weaknesses and as you come to terms with the situation you run your thumb over the plump inside of your thigh hesitantly. It takes you almost an entire minute to decide on what you want to say, and you don’t notice his hold on your wrist weakening.

“My weakness—”

Suddenly, your arm drops back to your side.

“I’m kidding,” Xavier states; the small smile he normally wears comes back to his face as you look up at him with wide eyes. “I was only curious as to what your reaction would be.”

The tension in the air wanes and buries itself in your heart. The embarrassment clings to every cell living in you, unshakeable as you try to keep a brave face. “You’re cruel.”

“Am I? You were the one touching me, all the while promising to run off with some rookie,” he reminds you.

“I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t—you’re so frustrating,” you scream at him, and this is the first time he appears to take you seriously all night.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes out, with less teasing and more concern. He wraps an arm around your waist. His legs slot between yours, leaving your knees to collide with the plush of the bed as he hugs you tighter and tighter until you’re nearly seated in his lap. “Don’t be mad. I only thought—”

“Xavier?”

“Did you really mean it then?” he redirects. He snakes his other arm around your waist, this time when he holds you it feels…weak, and his pursed lips and narrowed eyes hold back a troubled emotion. “That it was in a friendly way?”

Your breath hitches at the swirl of his thumbs nervously circling the small of your waist. Nervously, he waits for an answer you long lost in the rapids of the constantly changing tides of the last few minutes.

“If you meant it…if you truly wanted to kiss me,” he pauses, trying to find his voice. The one to tell you that you’re all he thinks about. “Then you should have woken me up.” His face holds a serene glow that completely enraptures you as he looks up at you. “I wouldn’t have rejected you,” he swore.

He loved you so much it ached. Moving in together should have been enough to prove it. He guesses not; because when he thinks you want him back, you’re so hesitant to accept. Even now, you’re unable to respond.

This cycle has become painful, even for someone as patient as himself, the wait when you’re this close to him is agonizing. So, he decides now to be the one to end this circle the two of you found yourself in with one decisive motion.

He tests the waters, not knowing if he’ll swim or drown, but he has confidence in his ability to read your personality and actions as he cups the back of your head and pulls you in for a kiss.

Your mind empties immediately, your body on autopilot when it registers the warm, silky skin of his lips on yours. Closing your eyes, you willingly tumble and fall into the taste of him, chasing after it when he breaks away.

“There. We’re even,” he says, but to you, that’s far from the truth. You’re far from even after all the heartache and sleepless nights he’s been putting you through, after all the push and pull that left you aching and wanting both in your heart and between your thighs.

The self-satisfied smile on his face quickly fades as you grope his shoulders, digging your nails in like you’re afraid he’ll escape. Your knees press to the top of the bed as you plant yourself more onto his lap. He braces his hands on your hips to catch you as you run your hand into his hair and crane his head back, so he has to look you in the eye.

His ears pinken at your sudden brazenness, but it doesn’t reflect in his voice as he smiles at you. “Are you trying to get more?”

“Am I being too greedy?” you ask. He chuckles at the jut of your lips and the pleading eyes before you press another demanding kiss to the corner of his lips.

Xavier moans from his throat as he latches onto your jaw to redirect your kisses to his lips. Kissing him is nearly maddening, the twitch of his muscular thighs under your ass making your mind hazy. With one hard squeeze at your hips, he catches up to the zealousness of your kisses.

His tongue pokes and prods at your mouth. However, he doesn’t need much permission to keep going as you open your mouth wider. His mind skips and lags at just how quickly your mouth overtakes the slick appendage. It leaves him more than a little out of breath and flustered with the rate your mouths keep parting and meeting, tongues desperately searching and licking the inside your mouths as if this is the first meal you’ve had in weeks.

You’re hungry to memorize each other despite having all the time in the world now to do just that. When the two of you finally indulged enough and earned enough satisfaction, you’re able to calm down and readjust the pace.

“I think we’re both greedy,” he jokes about the both of you before sliding his tongue back into your mouth. This time he’s slower as he presses down on your tongue, causing your teeth to lightly graze over the top of his.

There are too many sensations going on for you to keep up. The way your breasts hug his hard chest has you feeling sensitive while the heat seeping from his tongue stroking in your mouth has your stomach bundled in tight knots that won’t know release until he’s inside of you.

Dreams were nothing compared to this. Nights filled with nothing but inappropriate thoughts of him turn into nightmares at the slim chance of having to face them again should this go wrong.

Impatiently, his fingers curve into the hump of your ass to anchor you and encourage you to grind on his lap, or rather grind against the hard tent brazenly making its presence known with each hurried roll of your hips.

You whine from the separation of your sexes when he begins to lift you up, but your complaints quickly die in your throat. They’re replaced by a squeal as he flips you and your back bounces on the mattress.

Xavier climbs over you, his face flushed, breath ragged, and overall, he’s just absolutely beautiful to you. Reaching up, you cup his cheek and play with the ends of his hair, unable to recall the last time you’ve felt this high.

“Xavier,” you whisper breathlessly as you swoop his bangs back to see more of his handsome face and save it to memory. “What are we?”

Xavier tilts his head, furrowing his brow at your question, and there’s a second where a ray of doubt breaks through the clouds of lust in his irises. “We’re…whatever you want to be.”

“I want to be with you,” you say. Those words tumble out more effortlessly than you ever thought.

Xavier overlaps your hand with his, holding on tight as if to prove a point. “You are with me.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I don’t,” he corrects. Then, he dazzles you as he always does, “I want you to tell me so there’s no mistake, and you can’t take it back later.”

You inwardly become embarrassed when it crosses your mind that this is the first time you’ve ever confessed to him without multiple drinks in your system. It’s too late to turn back now that you’ve crossed the Milky Way and landed on the other side.

But why would you when you’re so close?

“I want to be with you always. Whenever and wherever you are. Whether that’s having fun together or fighting. I-I love you, and—”

“And I love you,” he answers. You’re not sure if you’re jealous or relieved that he can say those three words without hesitation.

“I don’t want anything to be between us. I don’t want any more secrets or hidden things. I’m tired of this. I just want to be real, more than partners or roommates or whatever other title that isn’t boyfriend and girlfriend.”

“Okay,” Xavier agrees as easily as he agreed to be roommates with you in the first place.

“Okay?”

“I want that too,” he agrees as he repositions himself on top of you and his lips curve into a small smirk, “girlfriend.”

You’re accustomed to the finicky organ known as your heart tightening with pain when you’re overwhelmed; this time when it skips a beat, it’s welcomed. Smiling, you gaze up at him as he releases a slow, strained breath. It’s validating to know he’s been just as nervous as you.

Everything suddenly becomes full force again when his knees move to either side of your legs while he pins your hands above your head in one tight fist. His teeth nip at your earlobe, and his free hand gropes at your breast, fingers outstretching to fully take it in his grasp. Wet kisses burn on your throat, each one firing off a rapid signal to arch your back.

“Slow down,” you whine before cutting it off with a moan as he hits a particular delicate spot. The discovery spurs him on, like a pet with a new toy, and he bites your nape once again causing your hips to jerk. With a burning desire building in your stomach at every touch, you pitifully hug your thighs together to try to ease it. “I didn’t get a chance to absorb all that,” you tell him, mostly to get some time to catch up. It backfires wonderfully as he grips onto the bottom of your tank top.

“I have a better way to help you understand.”

The sheets shift with his movement, your lower half dipping towards him as if he holds his own gravitational field. He settles between your legs and strokes against you with one slow, languid rock. It instantly makes you throb. It’s painful how hard you clench over absolutely nothing, panties gathering the lust that’s dripping from you.

You simultaneously hate and love him for causing this need that’s bubbling inside you.

Large hands press your shirt further up your torso. “Arms up,” he demands softly, which you have no problem obeying, and he quickly lifts your shirt over your head.

He lowers his hands to hold at your waist, and they fall still on you as he takes in your naked skin. You’re not privy to his thoughts. The silence of the room feels defean-ing now that your needy gasps of air aren’t filling it.

He pauses, eyes taking you in as you raise your eyebrows at his hesitancy. Xavier smiles, mumbling out, “Just thinking where to start.”

Xavier smiles at you so tenderly. Everything about him is incredibly soft on first appearance. He has big blue puppy eyes, he prefers white, cozy clothes, and his voice is just as gentle as his appearance. Everything about him is soft except for his hands.

Those are hardy and battle-honed, worn with calluses built up with every swing of the sword he’s taken since he was a child, enough of them to slay thousands of Wanderers over the years.

They drag.

Oh, they drag so dangerously slow over your skin, dipping into the pudge of your stomach and highlighting a small circle in the warm, buzzing glow of his Evol. The rays shine gold over your flesh, shimmering brightly in the dark of the room.

“Here,” he states before hunting down another spot on your torso. A beauty mark, like a beacon, earns the sharp eyes of a hunter. He zones in on the vulnerable location, creating a golden target. “Maybe here.”

You squirm with every mapped spot he creates. “Xavier.”

The residue of his power leaves your skin humming; you’re overly aware of each spot he highlights with his power. You like to think your senses would still be heightened regardless of this little game. After all, you’ve been wanting him to touch you forever.

Every night next to him felt like torture, being unable to touch him more than a hug when all you could feel on your back was his hard chest, his arm tight around your waist, and the outline of his cock against your ass as he sighed in your ear.

It runs through your head that he must have put more thought into touching you than you assumed as he continues to stripe lines over the top of your thighs right under your night shorts, making your breath heavy in your throat. You’re no longer sure if he’s marking you to tease you, to track what parts of your body he’s claimed for himself, or to simply make you laugh from the humming of his Evol tickling you like fuzzy static on an old tv screen. Even as he smiles at your shallow giggles, there’s no denying the aura of possession radiating from him that makes you antsy when he finally presses his finger to your sternum.

“Let’s start here,” he says followed by a soft hum as he tattoos a line straight between your breasts, leaving you highlighted in slowly fading graffiti.

“About time you decided,” you say with an playfully exaggerated roll of your eyes. He cocks his head at you with a sly smile.

“I can’t help if I want to touch all of you,” he murmurs. Any response you had ready dies when he licks the encircled zone of your shoulder then swiftly to the notch of your throat, drawing a moan out of you that you didn’t think you were capable of until you met him.

Tilting your head, you allow him more room to work as he kisses your chest. His warm tongue slips through the line he marked, his nose dragging against you as he litters your engorged skin with kisses.

“More,” you beg. Who was he to keep you waiting any longer?

He slips a fingerpad over the tip of your nipple, gently pressing down and then rolling it. It does nothing to satiate you. Satisfaction keeps escaping your grasp, the goalpost of what’s enough moving further out of reach with every pinch and pull of your pebbling nipples. Chasing it makes you brash, and you give a hard push to the back of his head.

Just as you want, he spoils you. He bites and nips the supple skin, drawing out soft pleas from your angelic lips. When he finally graces you with the slick, velvety lap of his tongue on your pert nipple, you mewl and arch. His lips are a little rough after being out all night, his hunger for you more palpable than ever as he gropes harder and sucks at your wet skin.

Your aching pussy throbs with every brush of his clothed cock. Your patience drains more and more as you crave something to fill you. It isn’t until he switches sides and gently nips and suckles around your other teat that you realize he’s been fingerprinting you with his Evol, the polka dots slowly fade away each time he adjusts his hand to knead your breast.

“You’re still being cruel,” you manage between moans.

“I think I’m being very fair,” he reasons, recapturing your lips to silence your complaints, and it works as your mind keeps repeating when his tongue makes a temporary reservation back in the confines of your mouth.

When he parts with you again, he cements it with a soft kiss then another. He keeps peppering them on you so fast that you almost miss the way his tongue darts over your bottom lip before his teeth bite down.

Xavier sighs between his kisses, each one adding more pressure, turning from loving, adoration-filled into needy, heavy smooches.

“Wanted.”

Another kiss that leaves you whimpering.

“To.”

He fondles your chest again, alternating between rolling and pinching your sensitive, puffed nipple then grasping your bare tits in his hands, molding and kneading them.

“With you.”

With your thighs closing at his waist, you curve your back and meet the sloppy buck of his hips. There’s a rush of excitement leaking from you when his kisses trail back over your breasts, hitting the tiny ring of bite marks he seared on you before tracing across the targets of light decorating your belly.

“So bad.”

Skin on fire, legs spread wide to accommodate his chest as he sinks lower to press wet kisses to your stomach, you call out to him. “Xavier, baby,” you whisper and brush his hair to get his attention. And does he give it to you when his eyes flick up to look at you from under the grey tuffs of his hair.

Your mouth goes dry at the sight.

You bring your finger to your lips, not only to pry them open so you can speak but also because you need to bite on it. Otherwise, the surge of lust in you at the sight of his head so close to your cunt and the back of your thighs resting on his broad shoulders would cause you to cum right there.

“My most sensitive spot…is my legs…”

It doesn’t take long for him to catch on, and he quirks his eyebrows up at you with false concern. He lowers his head to kiss your stomach again, this time noticeably closer to your mound. “Are you sure you want to tell me that in this situation? It isn’t wise for the prey to put themselves at a disadvantage.”

“I said no secrets,” you remind him, curling a finger to beckon him back up. Inwardly, you curse that he decides to bring your legs with him by keeping them propped up on his shoulders. Somehow, you manage to ignore his obvious teasing and poke at the cutesy adhesive still stuck on his face. “If you were listening, you should know you’re still in trouble for sneaking off so much without telling me.”

“It wasn’t on purpose,” he tells you, a layer of remorse riding his explanation. “I wasn’t expecting to go anywhere.”

Amused, you shake your head at how boyish he sounds as he defends himself while he pulls off that wide and pleading look to bolster his cause. Even with your amusement, you’re not willing to let him off just yet. Sternly, you tap his cheek again.

“That’s not going to work this time.”

Pouting, Xavier holds onto your hand, stopping your playful jabs. “Please give me a chance to lighten my sentence, Miss Hunter, it was unintentional,” he negotiates with a kiss on your palm. The sincerity in his request eases your heart enough to allow him a little wiggle room, or perhaps it’s the slick trailing more between your folds.

“You only got until morning to make a case for yourself.”

“I’ll make you forget by then.” He snatches up your ankle towards his face, a much more pleasant position than your last, as your muscles were starting to ache from having your knees pushed to your face.

He caresses your ankle, pressing an airy kiss. The little bump of his nose against the ball of your ankle tickles, making a giggle cascade from your lips as you slide lower with the pull of your leg.

“Silly,” he mumbles before shuffling off your shorts. Your underwear comes off with more of a fight, the stickiness soaked into it causing the dainty fabric to cling lewdly to your skin and outline to the shape of your cunt.

You don’t often hear Xavier curse but that’s what happens along with his tongue rolling over his upper lip when he catches the image. He reaches out and his fingers twitch, threatening to curve against the spreading stain in your panties but he resists and hooks his fingers into the waistband. He takes his sweet time watching the doused material peeling from you with thin strands of cum sticking to it.

It takes him more effort than he’d like to admit to resist diving straight in. Instead, he keeps it slow, sensual, as much for his sake as yours as he skims his lips up your calf.

He does the same with your center, carefully pressing two fingers against you as he holds your leg up on his shoulder. His mouth stays on your inner thigh, but his eyes are entirely locked on his fingers and the way they effortlessly collect your cum and slip between your lips with barely a push. You can feel his breath shudder out against you before he forces it down with a bite of your thigh but that does nothing to hide the way his entire body tenses when his fingers slip from your clit all the way to your clenching hole.

It does nothing good for your ego or your sanity to think how normally calm and collected Xavier is losing his composure just by touching you. How he’s so obviously turned on when you haven’t nearly returned as much as he’s been giving you.

He presses his hands at the crook of your thighs, pushing your legs further apart, and quenches himself between your legs. His name leaves you in one low drawn-out sigh. Sure, you were baiting him when you told him your weakness, but you weren’t expecting him to abuse the knowledge so readily.

He held your legs blood cuttingly tight to keep you from squirming away from his wriggling tongue, and by the moan that reverberates from his chest and the strong jerk against the mattress when your juices hit his tongue, you think he would only be satisfied if you crushed his head between your straining thighs. When he suckles your clit; when his voice, muffled, hits your pussy; when his biceps tighten around your legs as if encouraging you to do so, and when his eyes meet yours with a silent demand, you know that’s exactly what he wants.

At the plunging of his fingers in you, you break down, catch his head in a vice-like grip, and push him into you. Your heart flutters and the remaining butterflies in your stomach migrate away at the growl he lets out. Your walls happily clench around those thick fingers, your dripping hole making it easy and smooth work to pump in and out of you. You’re not sure when he decides he would rather feel your muscle tightening around his tongue instead, but you can only respond with the tilt of your head back into the sheets and the stroke of your heel on his bare back when it happens.

The only thing better is his palm grinding down on your clit, alternating between slow rotations and rough sporadic grinding that has your toes curling and your eyes glossing with the buildup of tears.

“You’re too loud,” he comments yet he doesn’t stop, in fact, he presses down harder, making you whine. “You’re going to wake the neighbors.”

“Since when have you cared what the neighbors think?” you barely manage to whimper out.

“I’m not worried about them. I just don’t want anyone else to hear what only I should,” he remarks, lapping up the juices spilling down your legs.

His confession is a surprise to you. You never took him to be so possessive. But if that possessiveness is what kept his tongue swirling on your swollen clit and an intense moan escaping your lips then you didn’t mind.

However…

His fingers weren’t enough anymore.

Choosing to surprise him, you decide to turn the tables on him. You jerk your legs, catching him off guard but not enough to tip him over. He looks at you with concern. It doesn’t stop you from trying again with extra force this time until you can weaken his grasp and force him down on his back.

Having the world’s strongest hunter under you was only something you could dream of—first as a rival and now as a lover. The adrenaline has you tunnel-visioned as you straddle his stomach, your soaked cunt making a waterboard out of his abs, which Xavier has also picked up on if the dusky pink on his cheeks is anything to go by.

You grab his hands, gripping tight to regain his attention. Xavier looks taken back especially when your fingers interlock his and pin them back. Whether he’s shocked or curious you don’t know, and you also don’t ask to borrow his power.

“You’ve been having too much fun,” you tell him as you check to make sure your finger is sufficiently coated with light. “For my turn, I’ll attack here and here,” you whisper, marking off his chest and drawing a line across his neck.

There’s a hint of worry finally when he sees you’re aiming for his weak spot. “If you’re trying to teach me the best spot to kill Wanderers, I already know.”

“More like the best spots to defeat a Xavier,” you remark, flattening your palm over his heart, finding your own thumping when you verify that you finally managed to raise his heart rate to the levels of a normal human.

“You’re pretty forward today.” Xavier reaches out to hold your hips and cocks his head at you with an inquisitive glance. “Are you always this easy to excite or is it because of me?”

You feel your face heat at his question. As if he didn’t already know the answer. No one else could make you like this. Needy. Shy. Aroused. Flustered. Confused. Infatuated and in love more than you’ve ever been.

Your eyes soften. “And if I said it was you?”

“Then, you can use me all you want,” he confesses and gently coaxes you back to sit on his hard cock. You smoothly slide your hands to his shoulders, rotating loving strokes into his fair skin before you stop to free his cock from his pants.

It springs readily into your palm, so responsive. You reward him by letting him have a little taste of you. He tries to hide the hitch of his breath as if he could hide any reaction from you right now. It’s so hard to get him to react to anything, and your brain won’t let you miss a single moment as you sit back onto his lap and grind.

His cock slides between your lips, so big that you can feel it stroking you fully, his swollen, dribbling head making you whimper whenever it bumps your clit.

“You, you’re so—” he begins, his eyes flitting from the gentle shake of your tits to his cock glistening between your folds, but he loses his voice to a low whimper when you increase your pace. It’s not on purpose but you can’t help yourself; you’re aching for him just as much as he is for you. “Hah, please...”

His cock is leaking onto him with each sleek thrust, a little pool of precum glistening on his belly as your hips buck. It makes your stomach twist and your insides twitch to see him so excited for you.

“Not yet,” you tell him, brushing fingers across the length of his throat. His mouth parts with a croak that plasters a crooked smile on your face.

His eyebrows knit, and he frowns as you decide to tease him a little by slowing your strokes while your nails continue to follow the thick vein protruding from his neck as he desperately holds down his whines.

“And you call me the cruel one.”

He was gorgeous under you. Beautifully flushed and sheened with sweat. His lips were so close to quivering each time his swollen head was swallowed back under your heat. It’s strange how his pitiful expression actually excites you, leaving you wetter and funneling this cycle of him repeatedly scrunching his face before relaxing it with a moan.

“Please,” he asks again, this time more politely, pleadingly, and downright cutely. He knows what he’s doing because you decide to take pity on him when he gazes at you. “Please let me have you?”

It takes only a second for you to reposition yourself and hover over him. There’s a split hesitation when it registers that you’re actually going to have sex with him and how large he actually is with his cock standing tall and the tip kissing at your entrance. You press downward anyway.

The stretch is both painful and pleasurable, straining your nerves as you lower. The wince on your face is accompanied by a hiss on your lips. However, Xavier is there again to catch you.

“Let’s take our time,” he instructs.

You nod, slowly thrusting halfway onto him. Each rise and fall of your hips coating him with your cream little by little makes it a bit easier to sheath him each bounce.

“Good girl,” he whispers soothingly. Face constricting, he bites down on his lip to hold in a weak groan. It’s not your fault that the praise made your walls flutter and tighten.

When you finally suck him in completely, your eyes roll.

“There you go,” he continues. He slides his hand into one of yours, encouraging you to hold onto it as you slowly and pointedly follow the curve of his cock, “Just like that,” he rasps out. As you take him in fully, your pussy reaching his lap and pushing against his balls, you find it hard to concentrate on the exact words leaving him.

You take a minute to sit with him fully sheathed inside of you, allowing your stretched core to get more accustomed to his cock and also for the high of joining with him to cool off. Otherwise, you’d lose control.

You feel so full. It’s a wonderful sensation, and the pleasure increases tenfold when you lift your hips then have him stretch you again.

Rubbing your fingertips into the back of his palm, you lift and slam back onto him again, causing a ragged groan from you both that ricochets off the walls of the room. It isn’t until now that you recognize how bad you’ve been needing this.

Needed him.

You’re still nowhere near understanding why this need is inside of you. Anyone can give you pleasure, and he’s not the first, but nothing quite matched the warmth overtaking you when his cock pistons and rubs against your nerves as you ride him.

The thought that Xavier was right about fate being written in the stars barely breaks through the thick fog of arousal clouding your brain. The heat spurs you to bounce harder to meet his jerking thrusts.

He sighs under you; the pressure on his lower half increases while your eyesight blurs and your head angles back. You’ll both be each other’s undoing at this rate, he thinks, as he watches the beads of sweat accumulating in little shiny droplets on your forehead and on your bouncing chest in a light sheen.

Chasing that desire to see you undone, he pulls you to a halt, burying himself deep inside of you, before pressing his hand to your mound, brushing past the patch of damp hair to zone in on your sticky, swollen clit.

The instant whine of his name makes him dizzy. Centuries have gone by, and he’s never heard you say his name with such wanton desperation nor seen you grind onto him, stirring his cock in you as if your sanity depended on it.

His certainly depended on you. Always has especially in the many decades he thought he’d never see you again. That need is even clearer from how sensitive yet eager his cock is to you squeezing around it as you shudder on top of him while keeping an unbearably tight hold on his hand. Your movements come to a near stop except for the occasional rut to prolong the rush of your orgasm.

The sight of you breaking down on top of him threatens to make his eyes roll back as he squeezes onto your legs for grounding. Your strangled gasp followed by your muscles relaxing tells him that you’re coming down.

“I take it you’ve finished,” Xavier says with a smirk, and you only have half the mind to swat at his chest like a lazy cat. Your legs burn, your chest unable to fill with enough oxygen to catch your breath. You think you’ll skip the gym tomorrow but Xavier has other plans.

“I’m not finished,” he reminds you.

You look down at Xavier; you’d been so busy finding your own pleasure, you didn’t realize he hadn’t cum yet. You feel a lingering guilt but he swiftly takes the situation into his own hands.

You’re still too sensitive to fight back as he slides his cock out of you with a wet pop. It takes two swift movements for him to lift you off of him and roll you onto your stomach.

Your chest feels restricted, tight to the mattress as he presses on top of you, his grey-brown hair rubbing your shoulder as he cuddles your back. It’s an affectionate notion, distracting from the pressure in your lower half as he slides off the last of his clothes and thrusts his cock back inside of you.

You thought you were filled to the brim the first time, yet this angle was different. It felt much tighter, and the slightest shift of his hips had you muffling moans into your arms.

“I want to hear you,” he sweetly requests, yanking on your hips to raise your ass higher and pull you further away from the muffling effects of the bed. Your fracturing mewls mix into his grunts, both sounds washing out the sloppy, wet paps of his cock pounding into you.

His hand swoops down your bending back in one long soothing stroke before his head collapses onto you. His grunts are loud, tumbling right into your ear along with the slapping sound of his hips meeting your ass. Your legs feel like jelly, and the rest of your body becomes weightless as your mind only focuses on his cock recklessly burning its way through you.

Xavier’s breath rolls against your back along with his forehead as he buries you under his weight; his grip on your thighs tightens to an unbearable degree, leaving you to wonder if you’ll have marks in the morning.

You don’t really care if he does when he moans your name and heat fills you, spreading with each sporadic thrust until he finally bottoms out inside you one last time and holds until he completely empties.

Taking his time to enjoy the sensation, he waits before pulling out of you, making you whimper with the sudden void. Shakily, you collapse back into the sheets and flip onto your back with a sigh. His eyes are still half-lidded as he watches you; he chews briefly on his bottom lip, reminding you of the look in his eyes earlier.

“Xavier,” you question but he silences you with a kiss, which you tiredly return. His fingertips slide down from your knee to your thigh, and he teases your opening, the mixture of cum making it easy for him to stroke your still spasming pussy.

Xavier sighs against your lips before moving his kisses to the swoop of your neck. “You’re so beautiful and all mine.”

Your mouth parts with a dry moan as he slides thick fingers over your clit. It starts to ache from his touch but it’s hard to deny him, even as he tortures you with his methodic and precise rotations over the bead.

His name is on your mouth, each syllable heavy on your tongue. You leave garbled gasps in his mouth as he makes out with you while your hand draws down his chest, attempting to make a mental map of every twitching muscle and healed wound on the way down.

Your heart jumps with the twitch of his cock when you wrap your hand around it. There’s going to be no trouble getting him to rebound, you think. He’s already thickening again with the warm strokes of your hand and tracing of your fingers over the slowly beating vein lining the underside of his shaft.

Xavier doesn’t even let you finish exciting him before he rolls back on top of you and settles his head between your breasts. Between all the cum in between your legs and his half-hard cock, it isn’t as mind-numbing to have him inside you. What is different is to feel him twitching and growing inside you with his renewed thrusts.

You’re hiccupping by the time he pushes your legs back and starts to hit deep inside of you, leaving the corner of your eyes tearing. You’re overwhelmed with everything. The uncharacteristic amount of energy he possesses as his hips snap into you. How each powerful rock leaves tingles aftershock-ing inside you, ruining your chances to recover before he does it again. The heavy scent of sex mixed with pine overwhelms your nose. His sweaty chest blocks out any light in the room, sealing any notion that you can be distracted by anything other than him as he pushes up your knee towards your chest.

You’re quickly working up to your second orgasm; the painful cramping in your foot tells you it’ll be bigger than the last. You’re right. When you come undone again, it’s with a shrill sob. You’re too out of it to even register when he finishes until he starts kissing your neck again.

He’s still inside you, you realize once your mind finally lands back on earth. His cock is resting in the heat inside you, waiting for him to work the two of you back up again. You know that’s the goal when his thumb gently brushes over one of your nipples again. Your sore insides constrict and strain. You don’t think you could survive a third round.

“Xavier, please, no more.”

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice dry and husky in your ear as he kisses under it.

“Too much,” you tell him, pushing on his chest to make some space between the two of you.

“I didn’t catch that,” he coos defiantly. When he notices that you’re being serious, he obediently pulls out of you. His kisses become smoother as he pecks your lips. “What’s wrong? Is it aching?”

You nod then puff your cheeks in frustration when you see the amusement on his face.

“It’s not funny!” you say, holding onto that angry, childish pout until his smile turns sympathetic.

“You’re right,” he agrees and shifts off you. Quickly, he locates his briefs on the corner of the bed. He steps out of bed and pulls them on. To your surprise, he leaves you, alone and cold.

“Where are you going?”

Xavier disappears without answering you and only the sound of running water gives you any sort of hint of where he might’ve gone. When he returns, it’s with a rag dangled in his hand.

“A boyfriend should help clean his girlfriend up after times like this,” he explains and leans over you; he presses the wet cloth between your legs; the rag is incredibly soothing on your bloated skin. It’s a blessing to your sore muscles as he starts to massage and clean you. “It feels better already, doesn’t it?”

“I guess,” you answer pitifully, grumbling a bit because the look on his face still seems like he’s teasing about your neediness.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed. It’s my fault you’re a little sore.” He’s definitely taunting you, but you don’t have the energy to fight about it. “All done,” he remarks, tossing the rag to a forgotten section of the dresser. He carefully climbs back on top of you, waiting for the moment your hand finds his bicep to guide him down next to you.

It isn’t the first time he’s been this affectionate, and it won’t be the last time. However, this time feels more special than any time you’ve slept together, and not just because you can feel the stickiness of his sex-clad skin against your naked body. Well, that’s part of the reason.

“Something on your mind?”

“Nothing. I’m really happy,” you explain.

“If it really makes you that happy, maybe we should do it more often,” he offers, and you pinch his unwounded cheek to punish him. Jumping back, he knocks your hand away and caresses his wounded face. “I’ll need another bandage if you keep doing that,” he complains weakly.

“You only have yourself to blame!”

Xavier sighs. “You’re always right,” he concedes, more so that he can cuddle you without fighting rather than actually agreeing with you, you fear.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Are you really doubting your boyfriend?” he asks. Heartbeat skipped, you clamp your mouth shut as he unfolds the blankets over the two of you.

It’s finally settling back into your mind that the two of you are a couple now. “I’m still…not used to it yet with you being that.”

“You will get used to it the longer we’re together. The same as I will.” Xavier sighs, happily so. “Although, we might run into the same problem again.”

You blink at him. “Why?”

Thoughtful, Xavier hums then explains, “First comes love then comes marriage as they say.”

He catches you off-guard once more. As always, Xavier is forever forging on ahead with little regard for convention. “Aren’t you thinking too far ahead?”

“Maybe,” he agrees but there’s no drop in his confidence as he smiles at you and draws his hand over your hairline. “But I loved you since we met.”

“Xavier, please,” you beg, finding your favorite place to hide your flustered face in the crook of his elbow.

He can’t help but laugh at you as he curls his arm around you. “Especially that,” he confesses and places one more kiss on the top of your head before inviting you to go to sleep.

You do, falling asleep against his chest less than thirty minutes later. For him, sleep is elusive for once as he mulls over the day’s events.

The word girlfriend on his tongue is sweet. The idea itself burns wonderfully in his chest, but it isn’t enough. He knows he still needs to wait a bit longer, take his time, your bashful response to his prodding was enough to tell him that it isn’t time yet. It’s hard not to rush when this is the closest he’s ever been to the one thing he truly wants.

Xavier guesses he’ll still have to rely on his dreams for a little while longer. It’s okay, he tells himself, it’ll work out this time. He’ll find a place to settle with you and have a quiet life, a place where he can see stars.

And this lifetime, when he asks you to marry him, he hopes you’ll say yes.

#xavier x reader #xavier smut #love and deepspace x reader #lnd smut #xavier love and deepspace #lads x reader #lads smut #notsfw #adelssmut

1K notes · View notes