Xavier, the shy barista at your local cafe, turns out to be your favorite onlyfans creator.
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8
“Me.” The barista managed to compose himself after a pause. He nodded slightly before deciding to keep his apron on, typing out an order either ways.
“I don’t want to order.” You furrowed your brows as he grabbed a cup.
“It’s unfair that i know your favorite drink but you don’t know mine, no?” One thing about Xavier was that his voice carried very little emotion, but his eyes always betrayed what was masked inside. Never boldly, though.
He made his way from behind the counter, two cups in hand, and placed them at the table in the corner furthest from where they stood.
A glance at his watch told him his shift was over, and so he took off his apron, folding it and placing it on the stool he slept on, then made his way once more to where the cups were placed.
You were still standing at the table, observing his every movement, confused.
“Am I expected to pull the chair back for you or…?” He nibbled on dry lips, ushering you to have a seat.
You did, and he mirrored your action.
“An iced americano, really?” You chuckled, less to start a conversation and more to control your frantic heartbeat.
He hummed, eying his drink. “Simple, gets the job done.” He shrugged, and veered his eyes to you.
You did not match his gaze, but rather fiddled with the black straw in the pool of caffeine.
You hadn’t thought this far ahead-
“This is me.” He took a sip, carefully tracing the path your fingers drew for the straw in hand.
“No apron, no counter, an iced Americano.” He slowly shifted his attention from your fingers back to your eyes, and this time they met yours. “Not your barista, definitely not your mother,” he referred to your exchange from Saturday.
“This is Xavier.” He took a breath and held it.
No, you weren’t allowing yourself to go down that road now.
“Only Xavier…” you muttered more to yourself than him.
Not a barista… Not Lumiere…
“Pardon?” He furrowed his brows, head tilted slightly.
“I mean,” you cleared your throat and gathered yourself, your eyes finally meeting his. “Not my barista, not my mother-“
“Just Xavier.” You nodded at him.
“I’m y/n,” you took a sip. “Not a customer,”
“Just y/n.” Your hands retreated onto your lap as your gaze lowered back from his eyes to the cup. You never realized blue could be this intense.
“You’ve always been just y/n.” He leaned back in his chair, taking another sip. He left you no time to react as he continued, “So, what about me brings you here?”
You remained silent for a good minute, expectant eyes burning holes into you.
The wind blew, and the cafe door creaked as if a cue.
“The pattern.” It sounded more like a question, and had the cafe not been empty, the man in front of you wouldn’t have heard it.
His eyes narrowed as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His ears twitched, and his gaze felt like it didn’t land on you anymore but through you.
He was visibly trying to make something out of what you said. Had he reached a conclusion, you couldn’t tell.
“A pattern?” His gaze refocused on you once more.
A pattern of you posting on the days you see me, and not when you don’t.
“A pattern.” Your hands squeezed your thighs, drying the dampness with grey cotton.
He leaned back in his chair, and the dim lights flickered. He stared at his drink.
“A pattern alright.” He finally looked at you, ears subtly a deeper shade of red than they would usually be. “Patterns aren’t necessarily bad, are they?”
You brought your hands onto the table once more and it wobbled, legs uneven. “Not really. Patterns are… rather good, actually”.
My absence affecting you is good.
“Your drink is almost untouched.” He nodded at the cup, “my treat by the way.”
“Thank you, Xavier.” You smiled at him.
Silence fell upon you once again.
“You know what? This is getting awkward and this is coming from me. What’s wrong with you, y/n?” He grimaced at his words. “You’re usually annoyingly chirpy. What happened? You disappear two weeks after being here every single day for six fucking months. Then you come back and you’re all weird like this.” He drew in a breath and closed his eyes, his outburst a surprise to him as well.
“I don’t owe you an explanation-“
“Fair enough. But when you come here asking for me instead of coffee, i think i deserve something.” He faced the window, jaw tight.
His head snapped to face you, face void of color. Void of expression. “What was that?”
Your breath hitched, and you could feel your blood drain from your veins.
“So that’s what it is.” He shook his head incredulously. “Go on. Why would you stop. Say the name, y/n.”
“What are you talking about?” Each breath scraped its way down.
He stood up, grabbed both cups and went to place them in the sink even though neither was empty.
He came back, and although you faced the ground, you could tell by the heavy breathing nearing.
“Need i strip for you to know what i’m talking about, y/n?” To your surprise, his words came in a whisper contradicting his actions.
“No.” You whispered back.
He got close. So close you could feel his warmth against your arms. But the warmth was suddenly electric, and you realized he had grabbed you by the wrist.
His touch even gentler than the whisper that followed.
“Get up.” He guided you out of the seat, wrist still in hand as the chair squeaked against the floor, and you complied, gulping.
You could smell the base notes of the perfume he had probably applied that morning. You could hear him fight to control erratic breaths.
“Say the name, y/n.” His eyes searched yours, almost pleading.
“No.” You faced the ground when you felt another hand softly prod your chin upwards.
“Why? Are you ashamed?” His tone unchanging, voice low but unwavering, yet his hands trembled against you.
“No.” Your voice was firm, because no. He had it all wrong.
“Then say it.” His hand left your chin to grab your other wrist.
You looked at his hands against your skin, the pale of them even paler as he shook against you.
You looked at his pursed lips, as pink as you could remember. Even brighter up close.
You looked at his eyes that carry emotion much softer than their piercing blue.
You looked at his wrinkled t shirt, at his mechanical watch, the jeans bunching at his shoes.
Xavier was not “just Xavier”. He was Lumiere, too.
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