Archive of Our Own

It had been a long shift. 

You were scheduled for patrols with Xavier all day, but patrols had turned into Wanderer attacks. Six of them. On opposite sides of the city. When the last call had come out, Xavier had taken pity on you, grabbed you by the hand and then suddenly, you were there.

You gasped as you landed, feet surprised to be on asphalt instead of concrete stairs, but looking down the barrel of a crowd of little swarming wyrmlings. 

You sighed and unholstered your pistols—again—checked their clips and began taking aim. You'd need to send the guns into be serviced after today, no doubt, but it was much more energy efficient for your feet as compared to chasing them with either of your blades. 

Poor Xavier seemed to hate using a gun, and was rushing from each flitting bastard to the next, usually one or two strikes sufficient to eliminate them: but there were just so damned many. 

Your Hunter's Watch rang with a call from Nero, and you managed to pick it up, responding while keeping one gun trained on the Wanderers threatening to flank Xavier.

"Hey! So we figured it out—there was a power outage last night that prevented some of the older magnetic flux moderators from coming back online this morning."

"Great?" You rasp back, hoping there was more good news to come that would lead to you going home after this. Right after this. 

"We called in some teams to re-set them, but it might be forty-five minutes to an hour before they get to your location. Are you and Xavier good?"

'Good' was subjective, you debated saying, popping another little bastard before it dove into Xavier's head as he leapt and stabbed another into disentigrating dust. 'Good' didn't begin to describe how your feet ached, and your hair was dirty, and you were sweating into every part of your uniform, not to mention you were starving. But hey, almost done, you tell yourself. 

"Good enough now that we know there's an end in sight to all of this." You finally reply, flashing Xavier a grin and ending the call. 

"Hey partner, can we save the world for another hour?" You call to him, running closer and standing against his back. 

"Of course." He calls back from across the last few feet of abandoned intersection before slicing into a Wanderer that was attempting to flank you this time. 

You reload your pistols and take aim at some of the crowd of hostiles a bit further from him, thinning the crowd trying to close in around the two of you: something about the light he gave off when he moved seemed to attract the smaller wanderers, like moths to a flame. You work in tandem with him, calling quick requests for help or support back and forth to each other, jumping to cover him when he fails to dodge a strike, him suddenly appearing when you were bracing to take a hit you couldn't feint.

It doesn't feel like an entire hour by the time the street falls into silence, but you glance at your watch and sigh as a new level of exhaustion sinks into your bones. It had been almost exactly an hour.

"Are we clear??" Xavier asks, his blade still out and held in a defensive stance and glancing around. 

"I think so, I've got nothing else." 

"Great. I'm tired." He huffs, rubbing a knuckle against his brow. Even as unshakeable as he usually seems, his bangs stay stuck to his forehead with the sweat that's collected there. All of this and the summer sun together have done a number on you both. 

"Me too." You agree, breathing heavily and debating sitting on the curb for a minute before moving again. 

"Where's the nearest train station?" He asks, disappearing his blade and planting his hands on his hips. 

"Ugh." You take a moment to orient yourself; you're familiar enough with almost the entirety of Linkon these days that you don't even need to pull up the navigation on your phone, and with a hand on his elbow, start shuffling towards the next street down, pretty sure there's an entrance to the subway around the next block. 

"Think that's the end of it? Whatever it was?" He asks, rearranging your arms so he's holding your hand instead. His gloves feel dusty and dry, warm and worn against your skin, but you squeeze his hand nonetheless. You've never had a partner you're quite as fond of as Xavier. Not really surprising when you think about how most of your 'partners' in the past were for school projects and the like. Always contentious. Brief. Required as opposed to reciprocal. 

"Yeah. Nero called me while you were in the middle of… you know, all of that, and said there was some sort of power outage that caused some issues but it should be all cleared up  now."

"Let's just go home, then. We can do the paperwork tomorrow, right?" He asks, voice tinged both exhausted and hopeful. You mean to laugh, but you're so spent that all that comes out is a huff. 

"Yeah, I don't care. This was the longest day I've had in… forever. Jenna probably won't even notice if the reports are late." 

"Yeah, exactly." Xavier agreed easily. 

The trains were still running beneath the city, but most people were still under shelter in place orders after the chaos of the numerous Wanderer attacks, so the trains were blissfully—thankfully—nearly completely empty even though it was almost six and it should have been rush hour by all rights. The next train admits you with a clatter of opening doors, and you and Xavier collapse onto a bench seat with matching groans, legs and feet frightfully grateful to have a break. 

"I'm so sweaty." You grouse, tugging your uniform shirt away from the damp skin at your chest. 

"I think I have Wanderer goo in my collar." Xavier agreed, sitting back up uncomfortably. 

"I just want to sleep." 

"Me too." He yawns, voice fading, even as close as you're both sitting. 

"Close your eyes, we've got like six stops before we get to the M line." You mutter, patting his thigh as you gaze at the safety lights passing in the tunnel outside the car. He's warm, even the leg of this pants feel damp with sweat. Just as bad as you. The AC in the train car is working hard against the summer heat, but it's better than outside had been, chasing Wanderers and dodging attacks all day. 

"Thanks, partner." Xavier crosses his arms and lets his chin dip forward, falling easily into one of his instant naps, and you meant to open your phone and see what you missed on Moments for the day, but you get distracted by watching the stops tick by on the announcement screen at the front of the car. You don't even have the energy to scroll social media—what a fucking nightmare of a day. 

At least you'll get some overtime pay, and hazard pay out of it, since it was all combat, all day. 

All fucking day. 

Xavier makes a little noise as the train jolts to a rough stop and you can't help glancing at him. 

He doesn't wake up somehow, but his face scrunches a bit, lips moving in something terribly similar to a pout. 

His breathing is even and slow despite how straight he's keeping his spine, and you realize you're sitting like a schlub as a few people actually get on here. You must have traveled far enough from the last attack zone now, and things must be fine here up at street level if civilians are moving around. You sit up straight, and have to slip your hand back into the space between your own knees when it almost lands back on Xavier's thigh—what was that about? You can't just touch him like that. That's too close, you remind yourself. You're both in uniform, in public. It wouldn't bother you in the peace of either of your apartments, you realize, heart thudding as you wonder why the distinction jars you. 

You ride through a few more stops, idly gazing at the screen and the people shuffling on and off the train,  and keeping your hands to yourself until your stop is up next. 

"Xavier?" You whisper, and he doesn't wake up, just hums, low in his chest. "Xavier." You repeat, bumping his shoulder with yours. "Next stop's us." 

"Yeah, let's go home." He says, voice breathy and tired, folding himself out of that instant sleep of his. He leans forward hard to stand up, and holds a hand out to you as the train squeals through its breaks towards your stop. 

This time your hand is in his before you can think better of it, and he's warm and sturdy and pulling you up with his whole body as a counterweight, and your muscles lag as you stand to join him, stumbling just a bit. 

"Easy, there." He mutters, a hand going around your waist; low, familiar, not wrong but it's hot. Not just the air rushing in off the platform, but how much you like that your hips bump into his as you wait together for the doors to open so you can move over to the other platform. 

You kindof expect his hand to fall away when the doors open so you can both walk, but it's still comparatively deserted on the platform, so you stay side by side with him, even as you cross into the station and up to the stairs, his hand finds a more comfortable position on the ball of your shoulder as you trudge up one flight of stairs, make your way down corridor jammed with convenience stores, and you slow to a stop. 

It's not wrong, it's not unwelcome, but it's… you can't let this go without remarking upon it. It's bubbling up out of you. 

"You're touching me." 

"Sorry. I can stop." He says, the weight of his hand immediately disappearing, and you realize oddly that you regret that. Despite how hot it's been all day in the sun, and running around, despite how you're both sweaty and tired, holding his hand, him leaning on you, hauling each other along when you need a hand—the rightness of it feels heavy. Felt heavy.  Since he's separated from you now. 

"No, sorry, that's not what I mean." You're trying to find the words to explain, but your shoulder's already getting cold somehow without his hand there, despite how stuffy it is here in the underground market. You feel a fresh drip of sweat make it's way down your temple. His hand has only just left your orbit and despite the sun and sweat and filth you've been coated in all day, you regret its absence. You don't really know what that means, but you're not satisfied with the way his eyes refuse to meet yours now. 

"We should get some food before we get home." You point at the stores behind you, knowing neither of you will want to cook. 

"Sure." He shrugs, holding out a hand—not to take yours back, but directing you to go first, he'll follow. 

"This is the place with the chicken skewers." You say, grinning back at him as you go, hoping it serves as an apology. It's not what you mean, but how often does he seem to understand the spaces around what you say anyways? 

"And they have the seaweed salad you like." He agrees, sticking close though the narrow aisles towards the hot food. 

"We will eat like kings." You proclaim through a yawn as you load your arms with an extra large bottle of green tea and a package of gyoza. 

"Get more gyoza than that. It's pork." He says, appearing over your shoulder. 

"Yes, sir." You snort and grab another two packages.

 "Good?" He asks, eyeing your haul and his. As soon as you nod, his hand is back on your shoulder as you make your way to the register. It feels right as you wait in line together to pay. 

He piles his things down on the counter next to yours and you glance at him in a bit of confusion, but he just smiles politely at the cashier. Ignoring you. And the glare you're shooting his way. 

"Bag?" The cashier asks; bored. 

"Yes, thank you." Xavier replies, tapping his card on the terminal and taking the one (one!) surprisingly full bag. 

One bag. All together. You share meals all of the time; why is this different? You blink slowly at him as you both meander back out to the platform to wait for the train that will take you both the rest of the way home. 

"What was that about?" You ask. 

He glances down at you before that hand is back on your shoulder. You don't mind but you wonder what justification precisely he's about to construct.  

"I wanna go home, and it's faster if we pay together." 

"Uh huh." You can't help but grin. "But now our stuff is all mixed together." 

"Oh no, it is." He agrees, completely unruffled; a small smile flickering on and off his lips. 

"Hmm. I guess that means it would probably be easier if we ate together, too." 

"You know what, I think you're right."

"That sounds convenient, doesn't it?" You can't help but grin, and somehow it's very easy to slip your hand around his waist, firm and steady and right underneath your fingers. Just like he'd done to you earlier.

Fair's fair. 

You're suddenly feeling very warm again, body pretending to be a hot-air balloon, as it feels like even your legs are even a little lighter as you trot down the last stretch of stairs to the platform in sync. As you stand waiting tucked inside his grasp, you notice that every time he fidgets and shifts his weight between his feet—probably just as sore and tired as yours—he settles just a little closer to your side, his hand moving from resting solidly on top of your shoulder, and inching its way down your arm, his forearm draped down your back between your shoulder blades. 

It's hot and stuffy down here, smelling a bit like burnt grease and dust, but you find your fingers slipping down further too, off the side of his uniform coat and down to where his pants cover the hard corner of his hipbone. 

You glance around and realize you're practically cuddling your work partner on the subway platform and debate straightening up, but it's almost deserted down here; a pair of grannies sitting on the bench about halfway down to the stairs, and a smattering of salarymen in dark suits all dedicated to scrolling their phones as the automated announcements echo through the platform. 

"Okay, so it's easier to eat together, but I wanna shower first. So do you want to meet up and eat at my place or yours?" You ask, looking up at him. He glances down too at your question, and there's something terribly right that washes over you in that moment. His mouth opens but he doesn't speak, just looks down at you, and as much as you've always been a little bit moonstruck by his looks, you realize he's blushing; just a faint tinge of pink washing over his cheeks and his eyes incredibly wide. 

"Xavier?" 

"What is it, my Star?" The nickname slips out of his mouth like a book he dropped, and his mouth snaps shut as soon as he realizes, eyes dropping away from yours and you jump like a door's been shut in your face. 

"You okay?" You whisper, tilting your head to look at his face again, despite how he turned away. 

"Yeah, I just…" He swallows, frowns, looks away again despite the way his hand is now gripping the top of your arm. 

"Partner?" You ask, "Long day? Or is something else wrong?" 

"Just… Do you mind coming to my place?" 

"No, let me shower and I'll come up, okay?" 

"Okay." He smiled, lips curling into a delicious little line, and just the faintest crinkle of the skin below his eyes. Xavier's eyes do something to you, even in the odd, not quite bright enough, too yellow lighting of the subway platform. That blue seems to grip you, beg you for something that you can't quite decipher. 

Neither of you notice the train until it's blustering past you both and creaking to a stop. You can't help but laugh as your hair gets blown out of what's survived of your pony tail, and Xavier's bangs get blown straight up, messy and a little sweaty too, and it's the most unkempt you've ever seen him but it's also the first time he's really allowed those big hungry eyes to look straight back at you, and after the day you've had it feels too good to not stare right back. 

Maybe you're both tired of resisting the gravity that keeps you orbiting only nearer and nearer, never landing, a logarithmic function seeking its axis. 

It must have felt good enough to grin back at him to forget everything else for a moment, because you realize belatedly that the train's about to leave as you're both standing there starry eyed. 

And you're suddenly pulling him onto the train and despite the way your feet throb as you run, despite how uncomfortable your body armor has gotten, you're grinning—because your hand is on his wrist and he's surprised at how you're dragging him now, your fingertips slipping from the thick sides of his wrist, into the heat of his palm and you're slipping your fingers between his as the train takes off. 

"Should I bring a blanket and a pillow?" You ask, feeling bold as you watch gears turning behind those blue eyes, getting darker in the close quarters of this last train car back home. Sure, work relationships are generally a bad idea, but you and Xavier have been joined at the hip—according to Tara, at least—since your second week at Unicorns. Who cares anymore? Besides if it goes bad, you're good enough at this now you could partner with anybody and keep your stats up. You can't imagine what could go that bad anyways, even if you do keep holding his hand. 

Or more. 

It's not like you meant for him to basically turn into your best friend. You thought he hated you at first, that first time you were not only allowed but encouraged to fight a Wanderer, he barely stuck around afterwards, but then he kept appearing around you regardless, and you realized that's just how Xavier is. 

He's only where he wants to be, and nowhere he doesn't; and he's always around you. What interests him isn't posting big numbers on the monthly tallies, it's old bookstores and quiet nights. It's a private conversation about anything or nothing. It's spending the day on what has to be mind numbing patrols with you, walking side  by side or checking flux moderators off a roster of maintenance reports. 

He doesn't rush, he doesn't push, but when he wants something, he suddenly has it, accomplishes it. 

Suddenly, you're his partner. Suddenly you're calling him at night even though you're only a floor apart. Suddenly you can't get groceries or scramble eggs without his sleepy mop of hair tagging along, quietly helping with dishes afterwards. 

Suddenly you're both exhausted but holding hands after fighting together all day. 

As his fingers seem to wake up and grip yours back, you're stuck in his eyes again, and you feel hot. Not like running around dodging and shooting Wanderers all in the sun hot: no, you're struck with a vision, a ghost of someone's mouth against your neck; of fingers hard and soft; of delicious sweat and sore muscles and a void begging to be filled—and Xavier's eyes are on your mouth again. 

You have to look away, because you're in public. You're in public, and even though the train is quiet, it's not empty, a few other people making their way home for the night, or wherever else. You can't make yourself drop his hand, though, so you don't. The sweat cooling in your hair prickles at the back of your neck. Jeez, you probably stink. You cross your kegs as you sit, shivering all of a sudden. Why are you so aware of your skin right now? 

You realize after a stop or two that he never actually answered your question. Guess it's up to you. He doesn't let go of you either, as the train stops and you both shuffle up the last flight of stairs to street level; not until you make it the last block to your apartment building, and you're standing at the door to your room, the stairs up to his floor just feet away and those eyes of his aren't as soft or as surprised about your hand in his any longer. 

Now he's crowded you against your door, and he's glancing between you, and your doorknob, and the stairs, and you can almost see the debate going on inside of him; you think you probably know Xavier well enough at this point to make a few guesses. 

"Promise you'll come up?" He finally asks. 

"Hmm." You run your eyes over his fingers, lifting your joined hands before your face, surprisingly big hands, stretching your fingers apart, and suddenly he's pushing your hand back to rest against the cool metal of the door, his other hand is resting there too, not far from your neck, against the door, pressing you back into a shape that feels like a threat if not a promise, you've pushed against a spring, loaded and threatening to snap.

"Promise?" He repeats, voice barely a whisper, mouth dipping closer to yours and you can't help the way your head knocks back, lungs begging for air even though you're still barely touching. 

"Of course!" You breathe, and he takes that as your word, it seems, because he's taking a deep breath and backing away, fingers sliding from yours in that one hand he pressed back to the door, just nodding as he makes his way up the stairs. 

You realize he's been gone for a moment before you're moving into your apartment, shaky and distracted as you untie and put away your boots, before turning on your shower. Your guns get put away in their cases, open on your kitchen counter as you wait for the water to heat up, and you eye the razor on the stand. 

That look... The door. 

You're not a fool, and you're not blind. You also aren't expecting anything specific, because aside from the... Moment at the door, and quite so much hand-holding... And the nickname... Nothing was terribly unusual. Even so. Better to be prepared. So you take an extra few minutes and shave, apply a thorough coat of moisturizer as you stand in front of your dresser debating what to wear up to Xavier's apartment. While your body is thrumming with some sort of heady anticipation, your legs and feet are also exhausted. 

And you remind yourself: you're really not expecting anything. Well. Based on prior experience, you might be expecting to pass out on his couch with a scary movie of some sort playing. 

This is Xavier. You've caught him asleep nearly every time you've seen him sit down, and given your history, you're certainly not putting on a dress, you think, but you're also not going to wear the holey DAA t shirt Caleb gave you a few years ago with the underwear you had been planning on sleeping in. 

In the end, you settle on the nicer sweatpants you'd bought for wearing as a coverup on gym days, folded at your hips, a tank top, and a zip-up hoodie which—you realize as you find the Bunie's hotpot coupon in the pocket—must actually be Xavier's. 

Fitting, you decide, as you tug on your socks and sneakers, grab your phone and charger and make your way up the stairs. 

As you knock on Xavier's door you realize you didn't even think about drying your hair and you're in the process of running your fingers through it when he answers. 

"Oh good, I was getting really hungry but I didn't want to eat without you." He says, pulling you inside. 

You both settle on the floor, legs stretched out side by side beneath his coffee table and dig in to the bag of food from the convenience store as the streetlights kick on outside. You're finishing your last gyoza and licking the sweet sauce from your fingertips when Xavier sighs and leans back against the sofa behind you. 

You finally look at him too, and find yourself laughing. 

"What's so funny?" He asks, jostling his leg to nudge your knee. His knee in neat cream colored sweats against yours... Also in smooth cream colored sweatpants. 

"This is awkward." You say,  grinning even as you lean against the coffee table, turning tired your tired head to look at the rest of him— clearly he must have duplicates of this white hoodie, because he's wearing one himself, with a black t shirt underneath. You plant your head on your fist to look at him, feeling well fed and suddenly exhausted.

"What do you mean?" He asks, rolling his head along the couch cushion to look at you, a storm of worry brewing in those blue eyes. 

"We're wearing the same outfit; one of us is going to have to go change." You joke, glancing over his body, and then over yours, tugging at the sweatshirt where it gathers over your legs. 

"Oh." He scoffs, a hand once again finding its way to your back. "I thought there was a real problem." 

You sigh, unsure if your legs will cooperate if you try to get up. You decide it's not worth testing, and fold your arms on the coffee table and lay your head down. Between the shift and a half  of running and fighting across Linkon, and Xavier's warm hand tracing lazily up and down your spine, your eyes are suddenly shut. 

Its not the best place you've ever fallen asleep, but certainly not the worst, and between the day and the company and the warm hand resting against you, your mind slows to a crawl. 

"No, come on Star, you can't sleep there." He's suddenly muttering, voice now very close to your ear, and that big warm hand is on your shoulder instead, a half-hearted tug on your bones, trying to get you to rise. 

It's enough of an effort for you to take a full, deep breath, and shrug your shoulder out of his pushy grip, so that's all he gets before your eyes sink shut again, undisturbed, finally. 

There's a rustling of trash being put away, a few moments of soft, even footsteps lulling you back into darkness, and then sturdy hands around your ribs, pulling you off the table top, and you're being dragged up. 

"Woah, what are you doing?" You exclaim, hands flailing as your eyes pop open in surprise; heart racing at how you were ripped from the sleep that captured you. You glance around his living room, and realize he's shut off most of the lights. He's got you almost standing all of a sudden, but then Xavier ducks down again, and his other arm is beneath your knees and you're bundled against his chest, warm and close and sturdy. He's moving beneath you, into another room where there's only the golden warmth of a small lamp, and it's too easy to just sigh, and let your bones rest in his arms until you're deposited somewhere soft, a cloud of his scent enveloping you. You're somehow surprised, and not at all, all at the same time, and you stretch your arms and legs in opposite directions, finding a pillow beneath your elbows and a heavy quilt billowing down over you, heavy with the scent of his detergent and the spice of anise.

"It's bedtime." Xavier says, crawling over you to shut off the last lamp. 

"You don't mind if I stay here?" You manage to mutter, but your body has moved, softened, already comfortable, tugging the quilt under your chin and following the softness of his mattress to tuck yourself into the heat of his side. 

"No, I don't mind." He said, and with only his voice to go by in the darkness, you realize he's smiling, a little laugh spilling from his throat. This is somehow the happiest you've ever heard him. 

"Wait," you say, and his hand leaves you, just like in the train station earlier this afternoon, so full of concern that he's overstepped somehow, somewhere down the line. 

"What's wrong?" He asks, feeling around your shoulders, settling the blankets up and over your back, the weight of them settling over your body. 

"Hand." 

"Hmm?" He's not listening, the rustle of his arm moving over your head, pillow shifting, instead he's settling your head closer, propped up next to his, breath close and soft against your shoulder. 

"Where's your hand?" you mutter again, only finding a solid expanse of his chest, the warmth of his neck. 

"Here." He's yawning, but his hand covers yours as it slips down his collarbone. You turn your palm so your hands tangle together, the rasp of his calluses grating over your fingertips until you can thread your fingers back together again. 

"Sweet dreams." You manage to say, to wish, all of this feeling right. His knee knocks against your thigh as he settles, and you're threading your leg forward, into the space between his and he makes a noise of surprise at your further intrusion into his space. You wonder briefly if you've overstepped, but then the weight of his thigh relaxes, drifting over your hip, his foot hooking behind your leg and pulling you closer. You feel yourself sigh a deep breath, body getting sluggish as the warmth of the blankets sink around you, the weight of him settling against you, his arm finding a home somewhere between your waist and your ribs. 

This is somehow nothing and everything like all of the times you've napped together on the couch, but the fact that he's dragged you to his bed is a step further, just like his hand on your body all the way home, but it's right. It's easy how your bodies seem to want the exact same thing.

You feel him heave a deep breath against you, too, the warmth of his exhale caressing your forehead and eyelids as his body is consumed by soft, gentle twitches, the last gasps of consciousness leaving him heavy and relaxed and wrapped around you like a kraken, dragging you into the depths. 

He could be a monster, a creature from the depths coming to eat you up and you'd just dive in to the blue with him. Something tells you he'd make it worthwhile. 

You don't remember dreaming, but you remember waking up in the middle of the night, your sweatshirt tangled around your arms. As you move to unzip it and wriggle free and find another comfortable position, your arms are stopped by a warm, heavy weight, and you realize it's not your clothing holding you tightly—it's Xavier. You've moved and so has he. You remember your hand being curled into his, pressed between your chests, but now your entire body is trapped in his grasp, the shoulder of your shirt caught beneath his arm. His leg is tucked over your hip and your head is somewhere on his arm or shoulder—you can't quite tell—until you're peeling your body up. 

"No, come back." He grumbles, a pout plain on his voice despite the blackness of his room. 

"Hang on." You mutter, pushing him back for a moment, just enough to get your arm free and loose from the clothes until you can move your arm comfortably again. He moans a little noise of discontent, but moves when you push him. 

It's odd enough to be in someone else's bed, but it's Xavier, and the exhaustion of the day hasn't subsided at all. You throw the sweatshirt somewhere off the bed and tuck your bare arms back into the warmth of the blankets and his body. You don't even mean to take the additional step of letting your bare arms slip around his ribs, fingers finding a way beneath his t shirt—but they do. The soft give of his skin and the ever so faint silk of scars on his back tantalize your fingers, and you can't help but stroke a gentle path up and down his spine. 

"Feels good." He mutters, his head pushing its way between your jaw and the pillow, the soft slip of his hair warm against your cheek. You don't mean to let him bury himself against your collarbones, but when he heaves another sigh, his breath soaking the skin of your neck in warmth, your other hand somehow makes its way around his shoulders from the other side of his body. His leg settles over your belly this time, an arm tucked behind your ribs, and somehow you're cradling him against your chest as you both drift back into nothingness. 

You sleep so heavily you're almost surprised when you see light in the room again. 

It's almost the usual morning light, except it's filtered through white curtains and slatted blinds instead of your usually only half-closed blackout curtains; and the room is wrong, the bed's on the wrong side, and someone's body is wrapped around your back, now; a heavy arm splayed over your ribs pressing you back down with every breath you take. 

Your muscles feel stiff and unwieldy from the day a exertion and night's rest, and you're stretching and bowing your body to feel the tug and soreness of yesterday's work. Good rest after good work coursing through your veins like heavy oil. 

As your legs straighten and you back bows, stretching so deeply that your vision spots back out, Xavier stirs behind you, a soft whine, and then his hand is slipping the rest of the way over the curve of your stomach and tugging you back into the heat of his touch. 

"Not ready to get up." He grumbles, one leg pushing against the back of yours until it sinks between your thighs from behind. 

"Xavier." You mutter, but you realize you're not even quite sure what you're asking for; but still, as his name drips out of your mouth and into the sunlight washing the sheets before you, he laughs, sound rippling lazy and gentle out of his chest and into yours. 

"You're here." He says, pulling you closer with arms and legs, his entire body curling around yours with a gentle pressure. 

"I'm here." You agree, letting your arm follow his as it's nestled beneath your waist, his fingers pinned between your body and the bed. 

"Mmm, we can sleep a little later." He mutters, another sigh slipping down your spine into the low back of your tank top, and you realize his lips were just on you—there's a coolness creeping into your skin: the wetness of a kiss he'd pressed onto you. 

Your body freezes, and you find your eyes locked on the way the sunlight seems to pick up the weave of the quilt you're both nestled beneath. 

You're well acquainted with your body's stress response; as a Hunter you've trained for years to ensure your reaction to physical threats is to defend yourself, stay safe, make sure the danger is eliminated. You're a fighter. To hear Zayne or—once upon a time, Caleb—tell it; you've always been a fighter. But this isn't a threat. This is something syrupy and delicious, almost forbidden, and you stall. 

You're not frightened, so maybe thinking about threat responses like you're analyzing a situation in a training simulation is unfair, but you still can't help analyzing your own reaction to the fact that Xavier just kissed you. For the first time. Right between your shoulder blades. After working beside him for almost a year now, you can certainly admit to his admirable qualities. This is simply a new side to your relationship that could quite possibly change everything. 

No wonder you're frozen. 

His breathing is still heavy and even, nose clearly still pressed against your skin, as every exhale seems to tickle your mind a little bit higher until you're almost floating, prickling with a kind of static buzz that overwhelms even the worries about getting up for work on time. 

All you can think about is the way the top of his thigh is pressed right against your core, the weight of his leg pinning you down as he's folded himself back over you. 

All of the times you stayed at your boyfriend's dorm back in college, he made it feel gross, greedy to be this close. You were always grateful to get back to your own dorm and your peace. But this isn't that. Xavier makes it feel like you're an integral part of the night for him. Like if his face hadn't  been pressed against your body at some point in the night he would have been up, reaching, seeking your skin. 

Except clearly he has been, because every time you remember waking, it was to his touch; soft, heavy, and curled around you like he needs you. Needs to be touching you, holding you. 

And whatever had frozen you melts, just like that. 

You're not trapped beneath his leg and arm, you're slipping your body in his grasp,  making him accommodate you moving against him, because in the end, all you're really looking to do is get your eyes on him in return, make it so you can touch him back. 

He makes another noise, a grumble in his chest as your knees collide, but then his hand is traveling down your back to pull your hips against his, his hand warm and firm as it curls just beyond the comparatively polite territory of the small of your back, his fingers dipping beneath the roll of your sweatpants—not anywhere explicitly risque, but enough into your clothing that his fingertips are nestled beneath the elastic of your underwear, tucked close against your body even as his muscles go slack again, body surrendered back to its sleep.

You jolt at the contact, you'd never thought about it, but you don't mind it.

"Xavier." You whisper, casting your eyes over where his nose is buried between your shoulder and the pillow.

"No, I don't talk in my sleep." He pouts, brows furrowed, and you laugh, shaking him as you do, since your torsos are practically glued together. 

"You absolutely do." 

"Mmm, Star, don't make me get up yet. Just got you back." His voice tinges deeper than usual; lips and tongue and teeth gummy with sleep he's not yet shaken off. 

"Back?" You reply, still smiling, but caught off guard by that phrasing. "I've been here all night." 

"Mmm, so go back t'sleep." He mutters, butting his head forward and letting his lips drift against your cheek. 

That's twice now, you think, frozen again. 

You'd prefer one where he was awake, you decide. You debate for a moment pressing your lips back against his to see—just for curiosity's sake—what would happen if you did. 

But something about that seems unfair; seems like you'd be taking advantage. Your mind is spinning, replaying all of the reasons why you shouldn't do anything more than lay here in his arms, in his bed, in the soft drippings of morning sunlight while his fingers twitch in sleep just inches above your ass crack: he's your coworker, your neighbor; you'd ruin the friendship you've found by his side; you'd make work awkward with each patrol, each meeting across each other at a conference table. 

But then his eyes drift open, only halfway at first, a frown forming over his lips as he heaves a deep breath that threatens to turn into a yawn. As his hand starts to move up your back with the motion of the stretch that's teasing his central nervous system, you realize he's surprised—because he hasn't actually moved. His fingers are still just beneath your clothes, frozen in a gentle drag over the bottom of your spine, and he blinks. Once, twice, and those dark blue eyes widen as his gaze drifts over you. 

You find yourself frightfully aware of how close you've gotten to him through the course of the night, your mind helpfully replaying all of the drifting ways your bodies sought each other each time consciousness caught up with you. The way your thigh ended up back between his even after moving against each other all night, your hips so close you might as well have been two neighboring volumes on his bookshelf. 

"You're really here." He said softly. It wasn't a question; wasn't quite just a statement, either. 

"I am." You agree, slowly, unable to stop your cheeks from smiling as you feel his breathing quicken against your belly. 

"You stayed with me all night?" He asks, frowning just a little, and you notice the deeper rasp in his voice now that he's fully speaking, despite the sleep laced through every bit of him like a vine in old plaster. 

"Why wouldn't I?" 

"You wanted to be here?" He pushes again, lips dragging down. 

"Yeah." You reply, mussing his hair, soft and disheveled in the weak morning light. 

His eyes sink back shut at that, brows folded together like a bruise. 

"With me?" He asks, voice terribly small. 

Who does he think he is, waking up with a frown on his face? 

"No, with your Bunbun plushie." You remark, dying to see his face relax and smile. 

He does open his eyes, but the frown is maybe deeper than ever. His eyes leave you, and glance behind your head at where Bunbun has kept watch all night from the corner of the headboard. He finally pulls that hand out of your clothes to lean over you, thigh and hip pressing into your body as he grabs the plushie and throws it over you to the floor by the door. 

"Bunbun doesn't need your attention." He said softly, something sharp beneath the surface, a predator perched, eyes still drifting half shut but full of his petulance trademark petulance.

You blink for a moment. 

"You trying to say that you do?" You ask. 

"Yes." He answers frankly. He's still leaning over you, his hips halfway over yours, bellies pressed together, and his eyes are intense, steady, searching as he gazes down at you. It makes you realize suddenly that you're over-warm, trapped between the mattress and him, all still buried in blankets. Even the sunlight through his light curtains feels hot on your cheek with how close he is. 

You don't know what to say, don't know what you want to say; but you do want to touch him. So you do. 

Your hand was wrapped around his back, too, you realize, as it makes its way up and out of the blankets, and you're both watching as you fish your hand between his chest and yours so you can run your fingers through the soft fringe of hair that hangs over his forehead again, carding the tousled strands into something more orderly as your fingertips trace over the crown of his head and towards his neck. 

Something seems to give way inside of him, because his eyes sink shut again, and you can't tell what his eyebrows do because his head is falling into the space between your shoulder and your neck, laying on you like you're part of the bed itself. His whole body shifts with the deep breath he huffs against your skin—the bare skin of your shoulder, since you shed your hoodie in the night. His hand is trapped behind your ribs, right below your shoulder blades and wiggling to hold you closer, even his knee has fallen between yours, holding you tight, preventing escape. 

Which is an odd word for your mind to supply, because you can't imagine wanting to escape this, actually. 

You bring your hand back to the crown of his head once more to stroke your fingers through his hair. He seems to like that, and his bones seem to fall apart, settling over you like a rain of flower petals. Heavy, gentle, precious. 

"Well, you've got my attention." You finally whisper, and he lifts his head, just enough that his eyes can meet yours again.

It's a small move, but your realize it brings his nose just against the side of your neck, right where your pulse is thrumming faster and faster beneath your skin. Maybe he notices, maybe he feels your ribs move beneath his chest, in his palm where it curves behind you; maybe he notices, because he shifts onto his side, laying next to you instead of draped over you like you're a pillow that serves an integral part of his sleep regimen. Maybe he notices because that hand that was wedged just below your shoulder blades is pulling you onto your side to face him. 

You debate whether to go easily or to make him work for it; whether to taunt him about using his words, or to surrender to whatever silent communication is happening in the space between you—but then his fingers curl a gentle pressure into the muscles around your spine, and your entire body convulses. You didn't mean to, but you shiver, bones arching away from the way he's touching you but your fingers aren't on the same page, they're buried in his shirt, the thicker material of his hoodie against his sides. Not to mention that the way his eyes widen at your reaction—and you meet his eyes as you try to parse what your reaction even was. 

You were already warm, just from his body, the blankets, the position; but the shiver starts from where his fingertips are digging into your back, and travels around the parabola of your ribs, into the crease of your hips, teasing the apex of your thighs, where your legs clench around his thigh. What was just an innocent, friendly, comfortable position to sleep, knees folded together for warmth, closeness, is suddenly something much different: the heavy, solid muscle of his leg becomes something teasing, taunting as your hips twitch, dragging the most sensitive parts of you against him. And you realize you are still arched against him, pressed together like two playing cards bent as they're shuffled into a deck together. He can feel every breath you take. You're not breathing steadily, you note. Of course he can feel the way your thighs are pulling yourself onto him—grinding your core against his leg. He's no idiot either. 

He doesn't stop you, doesn't move away, doesn't say anything, but the tug of those fingers against your spine slows, slows somehow, sinking down towards your waist, his elbow dragging towards the swell of your hip, his eyes widening as the mystery of your reaction resolves in his mind. 

Your face is hot—embarrassment sinking through you—thankful at least that you didn't outright moan at the way he touched your back—just your back—you can't grind on your partner's thigh because he touched your back. 

But then his lips are parting, just a touch, just enough that you can see the darkness inside the gap of his lips, his mouth showing surprise—and interest, and hunger, you realize—enough interest that his hand traces back up your spine. Still, he moves so slow, and despite his fingers catching on a fold of your tank top on their journey back up your body, you can tell he's watching, waiting, wanting to know what you'll do. The attention is so keen, so acute, you want to say something but as soon as you open your mouth, your body takes over—you're trembling. Your spine clenches and shivers, arching back, the gentleness of his fingers a torment, you're gasping and your head goes back, curling towards his hand. You realize too late, gratefully that the twist of your spine presses your core back up against his hip, now,  right into the plane of his pelvis. He barely reacts—barely—but he does, his breath fanning over the skin of your neck where your pulse is racing, his hand going flat over your spine, soothing, solid touch after the brush of lightning he just pressed into your nerves. 

"Sorry." He whispers against your neck, and you realize you still have hands, and one is buried beneath the shared pillow you're both lying on, but the other is now grappling his clothes, tucked around his shoulder and curled into his hair. 

"Why are you sorry?" You ask, fingers closing around the soft strands and tilting his head back away from its dangerous proximity to your throat. Your heart is racing. If he were a beast he could rip you to shreds, there. 

"You didn't like that." He supplies. "You shivered." 

"Nobody said I didn't like it." You say, eyes rolling despite how you're threatening to climb him. You notice your breathing, still reeling, fast like your pulse, you're crowded close enough to him you can feel his breath against your own mouth, pressing against your abdomen with each inhale. 

"Oh?" 

Your breath catches as a set of words threaten to slip from your mouth. You're not ready to let them go, they're too much, too hungry. But that lightning you felt at the tip of his fingers was delicious; it was the glint of sunlight on a rippling creek, it was the twinkle of the fairy lights strung on his balcony. But then the words drag themselves out of you anyways. 

You inhale, and your mouth opens, and you ask for it. 

"Touch me again." 

He doesn't say anything else but the light in his eyes grows boundless, ravenous, as he pulls himself up onto one elbow, leaning over you now, brushing your hair up and away from your neck. The thought you had of a beast, a small prey animal surrendering to the maws of the fox, it returns as his fingers just barely brush the back of your neck, his eyes tracking the path of the strands as he spreads your hair over the pillowcase behind you, the tug gentle and tingling as he teases the loose strands of your hair away from your skin so his fingers can touch you again, just like you'd asked. 

You shiver when his fingers finally trail down the back of your neck and back into the path of your spine. Your entire body feels like it's tingling, skin pebbling, shivering into gooseflesh but still hot and aflame beneath the blankets and the way his torso leans over yours. 

"Cold?" He asks. 

"No." You breathe. 

His eyes are on your lips now, and you realize you're not just shaking beneath the gentle danger of his touch; you're drowning. 

"Will you kiss me for real this time?" You ask, a hand thrown out as you drift away, yet he doesn't answer right away. 

His eyes flick back over your hair, his gaze wide and alert still, but something about him is still moving slowly, terribly present in the moment, drinking in every time your shoulders move when you breathe, watching your eyebrows, your lips, your lips, your lips. 

He doesn't answer, but he tucks his hand back under the quilt, shifting his body back down to lie next to you again instead of over you, pulling the covers back up over your shoulder and his, both; tucking you both into the warmth, anchoring you there, even though you said you weren't cold. His hand travels back down the outside of your arm, his hand is hot and calloused, rough compared to the worn-in softness of the blankets that cover your skin, and you're moving too; shifting to touch him, too. He's still closer than when you started, and your hand is immediately in the space between his elbow and his waist, warm, buried in the folds of his hoodie. You almost try to get your hand on his chest, burying your touch where his heart must be beating but you realize he's so close and you'd have to pull away from him to do that and… you don't want to.

Instead you curl your hands around his back, his ribs, finding his shoulder blades, big and warm and solid, and you realize you're quite literally nose-to-nose with him. He's watching you still, face soft and open and waiting, cheek just barely squished next to yours on the pillow, but there's something coiled and waiting inside of him there. On the same pillow. You briefly wonder what he's waiting for—didn't you ask him if he'd kiss you? 

"Is that really what you want?" He finally asks, dripping the tip of his nose against yours. You blink a moment, wondering what he could mean before you think about it for a moment. 

This is your co-worker. This is your partner. You rely on him, and he relies on you. This is someone you've spent late nights and work trips with, napping through car and train rides side by side, laughing and talking like it's where you both belong. He's someone you spend time with on a regular basis because it's better than being away from him, it's simple, it's comfortable and good, and at the end of the day he makes you happy. 

If you kiss him now—after a nightmare shift and a late-night convenience store dinner and getting hauled into his bed—would it change all of that? Would it change any of it? Would he become someone else? 

You've even slept with him before, too; falling asleep with your head on his thigh at your place after movies, or at his between rounds of video games here in his apartment. You've gotten changed and rushed to work together laughing at having forgotten to charge a phone or set an alarm. You text about laundry and breakfast and him borrowing your oven for whatever nightmare recipe he wants to try. You save coupons for hotpots and fliers for events in the park together. 

What would change? 

"Xavier." You mutter, hoping it means to him what it means to you; that all of the small things are big when added up. That all of the things that surround you don't matter, that it's who you share it with and you've already been sharing it all with him. 

His bones seem to sink into the bed deeper at that, the tension inside of him calming, the tiniest twist at the corner of his eyes that tastes like a novel written in an alphabet you've never even seen before. 

"You can't say my name like that, Star." That hand of his is painting his warmth through the entire expanse of your back now, from the nape of your neck to the top of your hip. 

"Why are you calling me that?" 

"It's what you are to me." He says simply, hand worming its way beneath your tank top now, fingers skipping against each ridge of your skin, touch both so near and so far that it's almost the energy surrounding his skin that's touching you as opposed to the actual molecules of him. 

"You're my partner. In everything." You reply, tilting your head forward to brush your lips against him. Brushing a fresh strand of lightning into your nerves.

What's the point in waiting any more? 

It's awkward with the tips of your noses aligned, and you can barely do more than fold your lips around his bottom lip, but his mouth falls open just enough for his  exhale to wash you with his relief—that you'd beaten him to the punch?—and his hand finally grips the small of your back, pulling you tight against him with a pressure that feels suddenly very desperate. All steady pressure, the weight of gravity, of quantum entanglement that's kept you aligned with him despite an lifetime's distance. 

You find your leg doing the same, still draped over his hip, a grip of your thigh and calf against the back of his leg pulling him closer to you. He twists his mouth to catch your lips between his own, and even though it's soft and sleepy and slow, it's sets your mind reeling. You're cast adrift in a free-fall at the too-much and not-enough of it. The feeling and momentum of everything you've been circling around since you ran into him on that first mission just expands into a lifetime of heartbeats. His hand is curving around your ass and the back of your thigh and he's rocking his hip into yours while his mouth slants across yours, your noses sliding past each other so that he can press his face even closer to you. He makes a high needy sound in the top of his throat like he's being strangled with something soft and velvet and full of vitality. The prey's lifeblood nurturing the predator. 

He's leaning—rolling—back over you now, the hand at your leg curving around the outside of your knee as he's filling the space between your thighs with his entire body, hot and hard and deliciously heavy. He's leaning his entire weight on your ribs and your belly and doing something with his other leg so that you're stuck open around his hips, thighs wedged between his and his waist, your knees suddenly around his ribs, and your arms are pulling him back down into you too. His mouth is taking another pass against yours, his lips slow as they part, he pants before pressing his mouth back against yours, lips slipping with saliva and you're taking the space he opens up and sweeping your tongue up into his mouth. He's hot and tastes vaguely of sage and something inexplicably spicy, and you're pulling his head into yours, tilting him into the corner of your arm, and he goes for just a moment before he's moving, shifting his weight and freeing his hands to slip into the hair at your temples as you kiss.

It's hard and it's slow and it's tender enough that your stomach feels like a bruise that can only be soothed if his body merges into yours. You grip him tighter, fingers desperate just like your tongue that tangles against his.  

Something speeds up for a moment, and you realize that despite the inevitability, you're not just kissing him, you're wrapped around his hips and pulling your cunt against him, and he's hard too. The delicious jolt of that realization bounces into him too and you both inhale sharply. Breaking the surface of a river whose current you'd been swept into.

"You… you kissed me." He said, breaking the kiss just to breathe over you for a moment. He's not out of breath, but he's breathing very deeply, carefully. You can feel each time his diaphragm shifts his body against yours, you're so close to him, more so than that time you hid in an alley together, you can feel everything he's made of; from fingers tracing patterns in the hair at the nape of your neck, to things even more intimate. Private parts of each other that somehow had never been shared yet. You realize your fingers are dancing over him too, doing the same dance against the short-velvet strands behind his ear. The hair at the back of his neck is only long enough to get between your knuckles and grasp. 

"Yeah," you agree, finally deciding its time to get your hands inside of his hoodie, somehow still on him despite the night's sleep and the warmth of the blankets surrounding the two of you. "I didn't want to wait." You reply. You dip your hands lower, reaching for even just the skin hidden by the collar of his shirt, neck and shoulders and delighting at the way his eyes finally break away, lids sinking shut for just a moment as you knead dense muscle strung between his spine and his shoulder. 

"Impatient." He remarks, the tilt of his chin making his eyes glint terribly blue as they track your face once more in the soft gold of the morning light. 

You find yourself stuck looking at him as he's wrapped around you like a net, small prey strapped in a snare; fingers drifting heavy and exploratory behind your shoulders, up the back of your neck and into your hair.

His face is still—you've always read the word impassive in your novels and rolled your eyes; the improbability of that word describing a man's face drawing you out of whatever fantasy—but you watch his pupils dilate dance across you as he just touches you, and you realize it's an act he's putting on…

His chin is tilted up like a taunt, lips and cheeks all precisely still, but he's crawled so close over you,  wrapping your body so tightly with his that you can feel each breath he takes, his ribs pressing against your shins, your knees, his belly jumping against yours—and there's no point in trying to keep yourself still any longer: he's hard and apparently trying very hard to not grind against you like a creature in a rut. He's folded you open like a book and pressed himself into you like a ribbon to mark his spot. Not ready to move on, and not ready to leave. 

You realize with a torrent of warmth in your soul that he's waiting for you to give in first. He's waiting for permission, waiting for you to ask.

And it's working, it's right, because you're needy, breathless, and you want more. The solid line of him resting just over your center, how your hips are held in between the weight of his thighs, all of it makes what you're flirting with feel terribly heavy, hot, obvious. He's very much acting impassive, but between his cock resting over the crest of your pelvis and the fact that his cheeks are flushing as he's carefully breathing through his nose, breath shaking as he's trying so hard to keep it calm—it's such an act. 

"I'm impatient?" You ask, and despite how hot your face has gotten, too (all of your skin, really), you realize you have to play it cooler than him. It might be a struggle, you realize, because his eyes narrowed when you spoke, and the thought spun through your mind for only a moment before you act: you grind your hips against him, the hard line of his cock dragging against your mound, the feeling muffled between the layers of sweats and underclothes separating the both of you, but it's enough to make your point.

He gasps against your chin; a glancing noise of a moan sounding high and tight in his throat. His fingers tighten in your hair, and you arch your back against the pull, but that just makes your hips shift again, and he's made that noise again, a moan against your jaw, dripping in his needy-careful breathing  drafting against your throat,  as his mouth sinks to the side of your neck. He's shifting his hips back against you, and you're both trapped here, wedged against each other, both so far past any line you've ever drawn before, and simultaneously certain that it's not enough. 

"I am impatient." He agrees, sitting up, and this is the quickest anyone's moved so far this morning.

He's unzipping his hoodie, throwing it off his bed somewhere, and you're reaching up and pulling his t shirt up and away. As soon as it's off his arms, he's reaching down your sides until his fingers snag your sweatpants, and curling fingers beneath the elastic, pulling until your legs slide forward around his ribs and he can take them off, and then they've been thrown away, too. He's about to lean back down over you, when he realizes the move has pulled your panties about halfway down your thighs too—he can't go anywhere unless he deals with those, too. 

You both glance at each other for a moment, and it's obvious what almost a year of teamwork decides, because you're moving your knees to let the last barrier of fabric slide away at his touch, and the panties are thrown, too, somewhere toward the door, it doesn't matter. 

At least he doesn't stop, because he's already leaning back down over you,and you're pulling him back into the turmoil too. He's dragging a greedy hand over the back of your thigh and your ass as his mouth is on you, lips soft and warm and still wet against your own before his tongue is back against yours, slick and wet as you slip against each other, every swipe a desperate investigation, a study of what causes a moan, a clench, a rock of your bodies against each other. 

You can't help the way your fingers are driving across the skin of his  back—it's yours for the exploration now that he's lost his shirt—and he's so soft and so hard and so damaged all at once. His skin is silky except for where you touch the slick surface of a scar, too many years as a Hunter, or Lumiere, or both; you don't know, and you're just glad he's here and whole, and as you grip him with arms and legs and pull your body back up against him you realize with a kind of immediate bone-deep realization that you are bare.

You are naked beneath him, and the soft, over-washed cotton of his sweats is nothing but a rude tease compared to the feeling you're dying to get. You twist your legs up higher around him, pushing at his own pants with your toes, twist to get a hand all the way down to his hips and push them down the curve of his backside. You get to run your fingers against the side of his hips, he's all hard and hot muscle, shifting heavy and solid above you as he lifts up to let you get the pants away, and your fingers slide through just a touch of coarse hair against his thigh, and you're panting against his mouth now. There's triumph and joy bubbling up inside of you, because his boxers must have gotten caught up and lost with the sweatpants because the hot skin of his cock is resting against the bottom of your belly, just crooked and pulsing with his own need into the fold of your hip until he settles back with his thighs nestled around your sides, and it's all you can focus on but there's an honesty in it, almost like he's back where he belongs, bare and hot and hard. 

"Wait, I have to find a condom." He says, a soft kiss back on your lips. You're laughing, you're thinking about it, you don't let him move, keep your legs gripped around his hips, planting your feet on the bed just to grind yourself against him, and he's definitely panting. "Wait, Star," he's gasping, head dropping heavily against your shoulder and his hips pushing back against yours. 

You're slick as you taunt him, you can almost hear the wetness as your movements drag his cock through your folds, but then he's moving again, a groan, a pitiable sound in his throat as he leans his hips back away from you, shifting so he can pull his arms free from your ribs and instead fold your arms over your head. 

"I said you need to wait." He said, voice still soft and velvet, but hands tight as they fold around your wrists, pinning them to the bed over the pillows. 

"Xavier." 

"I know. But you're so delicious like this, I just want to eat you up. Should I stop?"

"No." You gasp. You don't move your hands, but you don't release your legs around his hips either. 

And yet he doesn't stop. His fingers slip off of your wrists and through your palms, sliding home between your own fingers; rough and warm and gentle all at the same time. He squeezes his fingers just a little bit, his grip pulling a sharp tension into the tendons between your bones. A reminder that he's bigger. He's got you. You are the prey now. And oh, how you want to be eaten. 

You're tingling with need for something, anything, touch, pressure, to be filled, consumed, and as his mouth works a hot line of kisses against your throat, teasing with teeth and tongue and the hot and cold of the places he's laved and the ones he's left behind. You're vibrating against the current.

"Xavier." Your hands twist just enough to grasp his back, fingers delighting in the sensation, the warm give of his skin, the tightness of each time his squeezes your hands, the way his fingers slide between yours at the slightest prompting, keeping both of your hands where they are so you still feel stretched out, exposed, beneath him. 

"Can you be a good girl and keep you hands right here?" He asks, voice as soft as moonlight.

You don't want to, you shake your head; words failing you, and he laughs; a small and somehow delighted chuckle blossoming from the top of his chest, nose drifting past your ear and against your hairline. You want to touch him still even just holding his hands like this; it's almost reassuring you that this is real and not just a secret dream you have yet to wake from. 

"Just for a minute, Star?" He asks in your other ear before you can catch enough coherent thoughts to do anything more than grin and be here with him, wrapped up in him, him wrapped in your legs in return. You can't manage anything else and you want to blame it on that nickname again. It catches you. It's not usual; not simply your first name like he usually says, not a teasing 'Miss Hunter' with a smile on his gentle lips. It's... Soft. Precious. A hook in your heart. It's his charm on his keys and the fairy lights on his balcony and the affectionately frustrated names all of the creatures that surround him have been bestowed. "I don't want you to go anywhere." He continues, finishing the thought with a shift to press his lips over yours. 

And so you're not just hooked, you're being reeled in. You nod, chasing his mouth with your own as he kisses his way from your lips to your cheek, back your ear, still resisting, keeping your grip between his fingers, pulling him closer with your feet, too.

He sits up, and you're gobsmacked, looking at him, golden and sculpted in the morning light, somehow both brimming with muscle everywhere you look, even where your thighs are draped over his, curling bare and tantalizingly close to his center. Since you're not releasing his hands, he brings them to his mouth, flexing his wrist and scraping his teeth and lips over your pulse point, making your fingers curl and spread. He laughs at you, and you realize too late that your entire body convulsed around his, and you're basically grinding on him again, the hard weight of his cock pressing forward against your heated skin, nothing between you but each other: a shift, a press, an arch against him in just the right way, and you'd be one. 

"Don't move them." He said, placing your hands back above your head, "Okay?" Eyes earnest and bright, mouth dangerous, cheeks pink. 

You nod after a moment, realizing he's only leaned closer, back down towards you to press your hands into the position he wants, folded over your head, behind the pillow you're on, and you can feel the heat rolling off of him, like you're standing next to one of those kerosene heaters the Brazilian barbecue joint turns on when their patio starts getting cold outside. 

And he's up and you're looking, now that the sweats are gone. When he pulls his legs from the blankets and curls his body to the nightstand, you can't stop the way you're staring at him, all of him. Creamy, golden, just a faint touch of pale hair on his stomach and thighs, all catching the light like the glint of a halo surrounding him, and it's unfair that he's this beautiful—even hunched over and digging through the drawer, because it curls those muscles around his spine, makes them twist and bend around the top of his arms and the bottom of his shoulders, thick and delicious and alive. But before you can open your mouth—where the hell has your voice gone again—he's curling that body back over you, back into the open valley of your legs, warm, strong, fingers hard as they sweep beneath your shoulders and against the back of your neck against the bed. 

"Good girl," he whispers, a soft smile curling against your cheek and the side of your nose. He even smells warm, like fresh laundry and clean skin and the bite of anise. But as he speaks those words it's like a spell is broken and you can move again; fastening your thighs against his sides so you can tilt your core into him, your arms flipping down over his shoulders so you can grasp a handful of his hair. 

"Why are you so bossy?" You ask finally, your voice returning, your fingers finding his cheeks to force him to look at you instead of pressing small, wet kisses down your jaw. 

"I'm not bossy," he replies, a frown pushing out his lower lip as you hold his face up. His mouth is wet with the attention he was laving against your skin, and you realize you're not out of your element at all. 

"You're a little bossy." 

"Yeah, I am." He agrees, tightening his grip around you with his entire body. "Why today?" He asks, leaning down despite your hands and brushing his nose against yours. 

"Why not?" You reply, and then you realize that's not quite that right answer. You try again, peeling back through the thoughts that slipped through you earlier when he'd traced fingers over your spine and lit your body aflame. "You're my person. All of the time. You asked me once, a long time ago to tell you if I ever get overwhelmed. But... It's not fair for us to just share the bad times, right?" 

"That… was a long time ago?" He asks, frowning, something like confusion curling his brows as he tilts his head. 

"Yeah. Not long after we first met." 

"No." He frowns again, eyes glancing to the side. "But we don't, we don't just share the bad times." 

"No." You agree. "But you're my partner." You run a finger down his cheek, and realize your foot is snaking up the back of his thigh. 

He shivers and moves away just long enough to pull his quilt back over the two of you. 

"Partner." He agrees, and his mouth is back on yours, and it feels right this time. Not like anything was wrong before, but this is where you needed to be. You're both on the same page, not both pushing, pulling, holding back; you're finally able to kiss him, feel him, his hair and his skin that feels like velvet and fire, hear the noise he makes when you sweep your tongue against his, pressing the opening he makes when you tug his hair. Delight in the way he shares his weight with you, widening his thighs and dropping his hips into yours. You feel yourself start to burn—skin hot like too many hours in the sunshine—when you remember that there's nothing stopping you from curling your hips against his cock where it's pressed against you. You feel tight and hot and prickly and as you twist against him, you delight in how you're spreading your slick up and down his length, spreading heat between the two of you until he's actually panting, finally, his voice letting out soft moans as you use your legs against his to swipe your hips against his until everything is just slick and delicious heat, grinding thick ridge of him against the bud of your clit. 

"Star," he gasps, breaking his mouth away from yours and letting his head fall back against your shoulder. He's curling back away from you for the first time, and his cock slips away from you, you moan at the absence, cold air slipping between you as he moves. "Condom." He mutters, patting the sheets alongside the pillow until he locates the package from where he'd dropped it upon climbing back in the bed to you. 

You find yourself grinning as he sits up to rip it open. He really is beautiful. You sit up too, wrapping a hand around his cock and stroking his length a few times with one hand. He makes a noise and his hands fall from his mouth where he was using his teeth on the package. 

"Stop that." He mutters, but his eyes sink shut as your fingers slide over him, all hard and rigid beneath soft, slickened skin. 

You don't stop, stroking him in earnest, letting your fist close over his tip before stroking back down towards his body. You glance up at his face, watching him. his eyes are shut, mouth just parted and the red on his cheeks has sunk down his neck and across his sternum. His breath shudders out of his mouth and his head drops between his shoulders. He leans closer, sliding his length over your belly pressing into your hand, spreading your wetness up the front of you, painting your skin with your desire. His balls are hot as they nudge onto your pussy, and you can't believe such an angle would ever leave you feeling so wet and needy, but the weight of him above you makes you shiver again. You pull your legs back against his so you're grinding your clit against the underside of his cock as you stroke fingers over him, and he makes a frustrated noise in his throat. 

Xavier drops one hand on the bed beside your waist, and the half opened condom package lands on your chest, right between your breasts. His hand slips down the inside of your thigh towards your center, and he strokes the back of his fingers against you, sliding between your folds. His fingers are cold enough from the morning air that you jolt, but he shushes you, warm lips catching yours with a kiss that just steals your attention, just long enough to swallow the noise you're about to make. You find yourself sucking against his tongue, trying to draw him closer somehow, draw him into you. But then his hand shifts again, and you can't help the moan you breathe into his mouth as he finds your clit and strokes two fingers on either side of the bud. Somehow the pressure is exactly what you need and you're floating in his touch, panting beneath his fingers, trapped in his endless blue gaze, and how does he know how to do that? 

Before you get too lost in the indulgent pressure on both sides of your clit, he's pulled his hand lower, a finger, and then two sliding against your entrance, then diving in. He's not gentle, and he's not mean, but he's sure where he's going, stroking a spot that has you curling your hips to get more. It's absolutely unfair how much longer his fingers are than yours, and again, somehow it's like he knows exactly what you like. It's not fair, you think, as you realize you've lost even your teasing grip on his cock, he's found exactly the spot inside of you that you can only manage with toys when you're on your own, and you're shifting your legs and pressing your feet into the bed on either side of his knees to tilt your hips and let him drive his fingers deeper, closer to the angle you want—that you need. He's dropped to his elbow by your head, and he's sucking against the soft part of your neck, pushing against your jaw so he can scrape his teeth against the muscles there too, and he might as well have speared you upon his blade with how thoroughly you're at his mercy. You're crying something, hands gripping his side, your hips rolling and curling into his grip and chasing an orgasm that already feels too fast, too hard, too sudden. 

But then he stops. He just stops, pulls his fingers out and presses the heel of his hand down over you, steady and hard and slow. You're bucking your hips up against his grip a few more times, a moan of frustration washing over you as the spring that had begun to wind inside of you is left tensioned and coiled and dangerously unsatisfied. 

"No," you gasp, licking against his skin wherever you can reach it, your lips grasping his earlobe where he's curled over you again. "No, why'd you stop?" 

"You don't just want my hand, do you?" 

"I want…" You start to say, but as soon as your hips twist in frustration again where his palm is cupping you, holding you tight, you gasp in overwhelm, an empty hunger washing over you. "No, I want you." 

He drags that hand off of your center again, swiping his soaked hand up your hipbone and belly, gripping your ribs at your side until he cups the underside of your breast. 

"You have to open the condom now." He grins, planting a collar of kisses across your neck. 

You blink a moment, but then he smears a slick thumb across your nipple, and your breath skitters from your mouth like a covey of birds bursting into the sky; skin pebbling and tightening as the air cools you there, and that thumb pushes across the rest of your breast to your sternum where the condom lies—still barely half opened. He flicks it against your neck and you shiver at the corner of the plastic, sharp compared to his lips and tongue where they'd been dragging against your skin. 

You pick it up and look at it, and can't help but laugh. 

"Oh my god, Xavier." 

"What?" He asks, eyes round, face innocent even as he slides his slick hand across your breast again, pinching your already hard nipple and making you shiver. "My hands are wet, see?" 

"Well, I guess I've got to return the favor." You gasp, placing the plastic between your teeth and ripping it open. He watches as you slip it out of the package and push him up, sitting up to your elbows beneath him. You debate just rolling it onto him and pulling him back down over you, but you really want to see what his face looks like when you get the upper hand. So after a moment, you shift a leg off his hips and underneath you, wrap your arm around his ribs and toss him back towards the pillows instead. 

He doesn't really resist, just drops back with a huff, hands following your hips as you swing a leg over to straddle his thighs. 

"You don't want me to put this on just yet, do you?" You ask, holding the bare condom between two fingers as you fold his cock up against your belly. It's almost hot between your fingers, the tip turning pink now, and he lifts his head as you touch him, watching your fingers shift over him. 

"Not if you have a better idea." He replies, voice stilted, shuddering between his lips with each pass of your hand over the head of his cock. 

You do, you realize; you want to know what his skin tastes like. That seems like a much better idea. So you set the condom down on his belly, and drag your fingers down his stomach as you walk your knees back and slide between his legs. He bends one knee up to give you space, sitting up onto his elbows to watch you. 

He even smells good here, the soap from his shower last night leaving something a touch spicy in his hair, like fresh ginger and cinnamon and it's entirely too easy to slip your tongue up the underside of his cock to taste it too, the brightness of clean skin and the salty tang of your own slick still sitting on his skin. He breathes hard above you, legs shaking as you drag the flat of your tongue against the frenulum. You slip your lips around the tip of him, pressing your tongue against his slit, a pearl of his bitter precum waiting for you to swallow there. His hand slips around your jaw and wraps around your head, sweeping your hair out of the way, and he's watching you. 

You've never really liked doing this before, but there's something about it being Xavier, and you want him to enjoy… but you also want to drive him mad now that you're here. 

He lets you take your time, painting his length with your mouth, dripping deeper and deeper onto him, delighting in the way his breath stutters and  surges as you move, working up to take him deeper until his tip reaches the back of your throat, and his hand on the back of your head stops you. 

"Just hold it," he whispers, panting through an open mouth above you, and you do, holding it as long as you can, slipping him further as you relax into it, until your heart starts to race and your lungs beg for relief. 

You pull up and away, heaving in a breath that feels ecstatic and delicious, and you realize your pussy is throbbing. 

"Ready?" You ask, picking the condom back up. 

"Yeah." He agrees. You place it over the tip of him and he's rolling it down and in place as you're crawling back up to his hips. He's got a hand on your thigh, and one sliding the slick tip of his cock against you, and you're not willing to wait, tease any more.

You're sinking down on him, and the stretch is delicious, it's right, it's exactly what you needed. It's been a while, and the sensation of him filling every corner of you sets off sparks in your brain, and you know you made a noise—you realize he did too, and his hands are pulling you down on him, one folded over your hip, one on the back of your neck, but as you lean over him it changes the angle and your entire body tightens at the luminescence of the feeling. It's delicious the way it stirs and aches inside of you. 

It burns, it stretches, but it's also a light at the end of a tunnel, it's also the glimmer of sunlight as you swim towards the surface. Your arms are around his neck, too, and his tongue is back in your mouth. Neither of you are speaking, but you still feel him inside of you, saying things that can't be said out loud like 'i needed you', like 'don't go away again', like 'please stay, please stay, please stay.' 

You're panting, breathing hard through your nose against him because you can't imagine letting him go after this. You can't imagine being without him. His body curls up around yours, you tilt your hips, finding just enough friction when you rock that your clit slips against his body and his cock keeps dragging up deeper into you.

You never actually fuck him. You just curl your feet beneath his hips, grinding yourself harder against him, body pressing into his, his arm slides around the back of your hips and pulls you even tighter into him, and the pressure is so intense that you don't actually realize you're coming until you're sobbing against his neck, breath heaving in and out of you like the waves of the ocean, deep and inevitable and unstoppable. Xavier doesn't let go of you, just digs his fingers into your muscles around your spine at your hips and your shoulders, holds you close and takes over moving for you when you stall, every nerve alight like you've been struck by lightning.

You start to shake, even though you're wrapped around him like a vice, and you realize you weren't just sobbing in pleasure—there are actual tears streaming down your face.  You try to pick your head up just enough  to wipe your eyes quickly, before he notices, but there's no fooling this man. He twists his head towards yours, where you're folded against his shoulder, and his nose must run into the wetness on your face. 

"Hey." He whispers. He's tilting your head towards his and you're squeezing your eyes, shut, but you don't think you can hide how you were breathing. You certainly can't hide the fat wet tears that a tracking down your face. "Star?" He asks again. 

"I don't know." You mutter. "I don't know why." 

"Are you hurt?" You realize he's very still under and around you. 

"No." You shake your head, of course not. It's not 

"Am I hurting you?" He asks again. 

"No!" You exclaim, eyes open, and you're running your fingers over his face. He's still flushed, still hard inside of you, you've still got your legs locked around his hips keeping him inside of you. 

His fingers leave your back and slip around your cheeks, his thumbs rough, still warm from your skin slip as they against your lower eyelids and wipe at the tears that fell. 

"You're not hurt?" 

"No, that was… I've never felt anything like that," you admit. 

"Okay." He nods, the tip of his nose brushing against yours as he brushes a soft kiss against your lips. 

You seize on that, because that feels right, a small kiss, pressed against his lips, another across his cheeks, you're turning his head to kiss against his ear, his neck, and he's laughing, you turn his head to the other side and kiss his chin as you go, bite against his jaw as you make your way to his other ear, wrap your lips around his earlobe, and them he's gasping, body tensing beneath yours, shifting his cock inside of you still, and it sets you off again—you didn't even think about your hips but as your body curls against him, shifting his cock inside of you, you're oversensitive, aflame still—again, you don't know, but you gasp against his ear. 

"Can—can I try something?" He asks, curling a finger under your chin and lifting your face again. 

"Yeah," you agree, feeling breathless, hips rocking against him, chasing something again, all on their own. 

"Okay." He replies, and that hand slips around the back of your neck, and he pulls your mouth down to his again, and your tongue dives over his, wrapping inside his mouth like a cat lapping at cream. He doesn't do anything else for a moment, just keeping you there, trapped inside his kiss, letting his arms slide back home behind your shoulders. 

Finally he moves again, slowly, shifting a leg down from behind your hip, sliding his arms back around your back, your shoulders, and you're being turned, rolling with him, landing on your back, he's still inside of you, but his legs are still tucked up behind you, still so close to him that you think you could be one, a single amalgamated creature made of need and desperation and lust. 

He lays his weight all the way on  you again, and somehow that's what lets you you feel like you can breathe again—it takes him layered on you like a second skin before you feel right again. It's your ribs plastered against his, skin warm and slickening with shared sweat that settled the embarrassment that had been stewing inside of you. His hand slides from beneath your back and he smooths his fingers back around your face again, brushing your hair away from your forehead and cheeks, his kisses stay soft, but he starts to move his body. You're still tingling from the way you came before, body feeling disorganized, still electrified and stuttering with aftershocks,  and maybe he understands somehow, maybe he gets it, because his mouth hovers over yours, just out of reach, and you want nothing more than to complete that circuit again, to complete whatever cycle he's still stuck in, because every time he shifts over you, every time he slips his hips away and then back home, each time he fills you again, you're pushed a little closer. The arcing band of electricity threatens to slip loose and ignite everything all over again. 

Your feet find their way over him, not just squeezed at his sides, but wrapped around his back, low on his hips where he's moving, watching you. It changes the angle, making you soar as he hits a spot deep inside of you that feels like the heavens. You drag a hand into his hair again and grip a handful in your fingers and that makes his face crumple. He moans and crushes his mouth against yours, and the electricity in your blood is shooting through you. It's not as easy this time, but you kiss him like you're begging for the answers, like your body needs his to answer a question—'can you take me with you this time?' asking 'can you give me everything?' or 'can you never let go?' 

He's moving harder, fucking you in earnest now, and your legs grip around his hips like the grip of gravity, an inevitable pull that has to land at some point. Your body is threatening to fall, bones shivering with the feeling of almost that shoots through you, near terminal velocity but still accelerating. His lips tug at yours like he's trying to bring you down with him. 

"Don't stop," you gasp, "don't stop." Your hand in his hair strokes over his forehead and back down to the back of his neck, and you're pulling the other around his ribs. Wherever you're going, you're going together. 

He doesn't answer, but he doesn't stop. He slides a hand behind your knee and presses it against your shoulder, folding you in half, doubling the pressure he's building inside both of you. Your back arches against it, and you're not sure if you have a soul or not but if you do it's grasping his like a lifeline, refusing to let go, lashed together. It changes the angle, drives him against something inside of you that sparks your body again into overdrive, and you're falling again; finally, shooting stars dripping through your vision as you're coming again, pushed along as he moves. 

His rhythm falters, body jolting and stalling with yours, hips melded against yours and his voice lets out a moan, a soft cry against your lips, and you pull him back down, your entire body shaking as you're coming together, pulling him closer with one arm, one leg, your mouth against his. He kisses you back, panting into your mouth, breath hot and desperate, the last disjointed motions of his hips slowing as he grazes his teeth over your bottom lip. 

A breath later, and you can open your eyes again, and Xavier is right there with you, leaning damp and debauched against your forehead. 

Another breath, and you push your leg down from where he's pressed it down, and your ribs can expand in a way they couldn't before. It shifts him inside of you, both softening, but not ready to slip away.

You both wrap arms tighter around each other. The skin on your face feels tight even as you press your forehead against his neck, mouthing at the pulse thrumming beneath his skin. He shivers at your touch there, pushing against your face with his own, a small laugh in his throat as he drops his weight on you again. 

It feels good to be flattened under him, you decide. Too easy to laugh despite his weight holding you close. He makes a noise,  face still buried somewhere between your shoulder and his pillow, lost somewhere off to the side of you. You finally peel your hand out of his hair and run your fingers over his back. You can let go that much, at least. He shivers again at your touch, then pulls your hands off of him, sitting up just enough to bundle your hands together between your bodies. He looks over your face again before speaking. 

"Are you sure you're okay?" He asks again, eyes deep and dark with how close he is. His eyes always have a tendency to feel like the depths of the ocean. 

You blink, and even as you debate playing dumb, you can feel the tightness around your eyes from the tears, salt drying on your skin. 

You suck in a breath, trying to examine your feelings. It doesn't work. You're too close to him, your belly still glued to his, feeling each breath you both take, body still wrapped in his limbs, your nerves still jangling with orgasm and good rest and a resurfacing exhaustion from yesterday. You're happy, you realize. Was it some kind of relief? 

"Now you're smiling." He whispers, nose running along your cheek. 

You realize he's right, warmth spreading through you as you twist your hands from just sitting in his grip to actually holding his hands back. It's odd how easily your fingers slip together, like they're remembering how they'd prefer to be nestled between his than on their own. Just like yesterday. Your body wants to be here. All of you does. You laugh a little bit.  

"Star?"

"I'm good." You finally answer, pressing your lips against themselves before his ear.  This hair smells like shampoo from his shower last night, warm and damp with just a touch of well-earned sweat. "You're good. We're good."

He looks you over one more time. 

"Come on, let's wash." He says slipping off the bed and pulling you along with one of your joined hands. 

"Yeah, then let's go back to bed." You agree, legs stiff and deliciously tingly. 

"Sounds perfect."