Ava, 26. I write fanfics that usually are depressing with doses of fluff and eventual happy endings. Scara main. Aventurine main. You've been warned with trigger warnings. Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WorldsBestScarameow/profile
Summary: you sneak into the Wandererâs bed while he âsleepsâ
It wasnât the first time you watched him sleep. Or rather, pretend to sleep.
The Wanderer didnât need rest, and you knew that well. But lately, heâd been lying down for a few hours every night. Closing his eyes, staying still. Almost like he was imitating something human. Maybe it was a habit. Maybe he did it for you.
You wanted to touch him. Not in the romanticized way stories tell it. You just wanted to be close. Run your fingers through his hair. Lean on his chest. Feel that he was real. Tangible.
But you never really did.
His presence always felt distant. Every time your hand got too close, heâd stiffen. Sometimes heâd give you a cold look. Other times, heâd pull away like it was nothing. And youâd smile, pretending it was fine, even though your chest tightened a little more every time.
But tonight... tonight felt different.
The house was dark, windows shut against Sumeruâs warm night. A light breeze moved the curtains. You stepped into the room quietly, holding your breath.
He was already lying down, facing away from the door. One arm under the pillow. Completely still.
He didnât move when you came in. Didnât say a word.
It was his silent way of saying, âYou can stay.â
You moved closer slowly, sat down on the edge of the bed carefully. His dark blue hair spread messily on the pillow, soft and a little tousled. His face seemed calm, or maybe just empty. Distant, but close enough to feel the energy he gave off.
You wanted to touch him.
With all your heart, you wanted to.
But you were afraid to ruin the moment.
You lay down next to him, slow and cautious. Close enough to feel his bodyâs warmth, but careful not to press too much. Your heart pounded in your ears, your hands shook.
You didnât dare reach for him. Not yet.
You watched him secretly. He looked relaxed. His shoulders werenât tense. No harsh words. No rejection.
So you took the risk.
With the delicacy of someone crossing a sacred line, you stretched out your hand.
Just your fingertips, grazing the sleeve of his pajamas. The fabric felt cool.
He didnât move.
You got closer. Your hand slid gently down his arm. The touch was light, but your chest tightened.
Minutes passed. Your breathing slowed. You rested your head lightly on his shoulder, your arm wrapped around his waist. And when he still didnât move...
You let your fingers glide respectfully, touching the fabric, running through his hair, tracing the curve of his shoulder. You wrapped him in a silent hug, with gentle strokes and everything youâd held back for so long.
And finally, comforted by the closeness youâd always longed for, you fell asleep.
He didnât open his eyes right away. But he noticed the difference immediately.
Your weight, soft and warm, pressed against him. Your steady, slow breath. Your hand clutching the robe like a promise.
He could have pushed you away. He could have said something cold, like he always did.
But he didnât.
âSo impatient,â he thought. âAnd yet so silent.â
Your face was hidden on his chest, a leg lightly tangled with his. It was disarmingâhow your body fit against his like it was part of him. Natural. Human.
It irritated him.
It unsettled him.
And yet... he didnât move.
He stayed there in the quiet room, staring at the ceiling, listening to your breathing rhythm.
Trying not to feel anything.
But maybe, just maybe, it wasnât so bad.
Hour passed.
You slept without moving. Your body curled around his. Trusting. Defenseless.
It tightened his throat.
You didnât realize how dangerous that closeness could be.
But you were his. And a part of him, even if heâd never admit it, had to accepted it all.
He let you sleep.
Longer than he expected.
Longer than he wanted to admit.
And when he finally decided to wake you, he didnât do it with words.
He slowly lifted a hand, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. Then he bent down and kissed your forehead.
Then your temple.
Then the corner of your eye.
And finally, on your lips.
His kisses were light but intentional, each one like an old secret carefully revealed.
You moved a little, still asleep.
Your eyelashes fluttered, your breath shifted.
You blinked, voice still heavy with sleep.
âMmmâŚ?â
He stayed there above you, watching you.
His purple eyes were calm, but beneath the surface was something deeper, something he didnât want to show.
âYou slept on me,â he said in a low, flat voice.
You tried to sit up, clearly embarrassed. âI-I didnât mean to-â
His hand gently pushed you back down.
âStay down,â he said. âIâm not done waking you up.â
And he kissed you again.
On the cheek. Then behind your ear.
Then he rested his forehead against yours, closed his eyes, and breathed slowly.
He didnât say more. But it was clear:
âDonât get used to this.â
He would never say those words out loud.
But in the way he let you sleep.
In the way he kissed you now, like heâd counted every second you were asleep...
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