You’d been on the bed for a while, flat on your back, doing nothing in particular. Xavier was at his desk doing the quiet, focused kind of nothing that looked like everything, eyes on the screen, completely still except for the occasional blink. You watched the back of his head for a moment before you said it.
“Xavier.”
“Yes?”
“Come lie on me.”
The typing stopped, and turned his head, not fully, just enough to look at you sideways. “Lie on you?”
“Yeah, full body. I want the pressure.”
He pushed back from the desk and approached the bed, pausing at the edge to look down at you, then at the available space, then at you again.
“Face up or down?” he asked.
“What?”
“Do you want my face—”
“Just—however, come on.”
When he lowered himself down it was careful—both forearms coming to rest on either side of you first, taking his own weight before he let it drop slowly. His face ended up tucked against your neck, which didn’t seem to be something he’d planned, but he didn’t adjust it. The solid press of him settled over you immediately—warm, grounding, real in the way that things with actual weight always were. He fit against you more naturally than either of you expected.
His breathing evened out quickly, he didn’t fidget.
You moved your hand up into his hair without really thinking about it, and you could feel the small, almost the way his body loosened at the touch—enough that you nearly laughed.
“You’re going to fall asleep,” you pointed out.
“I am,” he agreed.
You scratched gently at his scalp and felt the quiet, involuntary way he pressed closer.
Neither of you moved for a long time after that.
𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄
He’d been standing at the kitchen counter reading through case notes when you came and leaned in the doorway. He didn’t look up, but the slight shift in his posture said he’d clocked you.
“Come lie down on me.”
“I’m in the middle of something.” Still not looking up.
“Zayne. Put it down.”
He did look up then, his gaze moved over your face, then he set the papers down, stacked them, and came.
He sat on the edge of the bed first, his fingers brushing your ankle as he passed, then he positioned himself with one arm sliding beneath you rather than leaving you flat, and his weight settled in—chest to chest, one leg draped over yours, his arm drawing across your back in a hold that was firm without being tight. He didn’t overthink the arrangement, he just settled, like he’d decided exactly how this was going to go before he even lay down.
“Your shoulders are tense,” he murmured.
“I know.”
Without fanfare, he reached up and pressed his thumb into the base of your neck, working a slow circle. His mouth brushed your hairline, his nose nuzzling lightly against your skin, then his hand moved once along your side—a slow drag from shoulder to waist—and stilled again, tucked around you like it belonged there.
Outside, rain had started faintly against the window.
“Anything happen?”
“No. Just—” You exhaled. “Nothing. I just wanted this.”
You turned your face into his jaw, and he turned his into your hair, and the case notes stayed folded on the counter for the rest of the evening.
𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋
He’d been following you around the apartment for the better part of an hour for no discernible reason—picking things up, setting them back down, asking questions he didn’t wait for answers to. When you finally sat down on the bed, he appeared in the doorway within seconds, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed.
You looked at him. “Come here and lie down on me.”
He pointed at himself. “You want me to just… land on you?”
“Yes.”
“Like, fully?”
“Yes, Rafayel. Fully.”
He grinned, pushed off the doorframe, and made his way over. He flopped down onto you with a small bounce and then wriggled around adjusting himself until he was comfortable, which took longer than it needed to. He shifted his arms twice, nudged your shoulder with his nose, shifted again—and then finally, finally, went still. His face pressed into the side of your neck and stayed there, completely unapologetic about his weight.
“Okay,” he announced. “I’m here, I’ve arrived.”
“You really have.”
The weight of him was warm, and he had absolutely no intention of moving—obvious from the way his entire body went lax within about thirty seconds.
He went quiet, which lasted another thirty seconds before asking, “Am I doing it right?”
“You’re not doing anything, you’re just lying there.”
“I’m providing a service,” he muffled against your neck.
You laughed, and he made a smug noise against your collarbone. His lips pressed to the side of your throat, then again, a little higher.
“Rafayel.”
“What? I’m just lying here.”
𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒
You looked at him across the room and said, “Come here and lie down on me.”
He looked at you, that attention of his settled over you and stayed there, and the faint curve at the corner of his mouth told you he’d already decided before he’d even moved.
“You want me, hm?” he asked, wanting to hear you say it.
“I did just say that.”
He crossed the room without a word and stood over you for a moment—just long enough to make you feel it—before he came down. One hand braced beside your head as he lowered his weight gradually, like he was giving you the chance to change your mind. The pressure of him arrived in stages; his chest against yours, his legs along yours, and then his face, finally level with your own.
He was warm and heavy, and he looked at you from this close without looking away, his hand moved from beside your head to your face—just the backs of his fingers, dragged slowly from your temple to your jaw, the touch so deliberate it barely felt like it counted.
Then he dropped his head, his lips pressed to your cheekbone and stayed, move to your temple, his face tucked alongside yours, jaw against jaw, and he exhaled slowly against your skin like he’d been holding something and had only just let it go.
His eyes were still open. “Better?”
“Getting there.”
The amusement had mostly left his face. “You could have just said you wanted me close.”
“You’d have enjoyed that too much.”
He hummed. “And this I’m not enjoying?”
One arm wrapped beneath you, the hold was close—closer than the moment asked for, the kind of closeness that was its own answer to a question neither of you had said out loud.
His thumb traced your side, once, then stilled.
𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁
“Lie on me.”
He grinned. “Lie on you?”
“Full body. Right now.”
“So you want me to just—” He gestured vaguely between the two of you.
“Caleb.”
“I’m doing it, I’m doing it. Activating blanket mode.” He dropped onto the bed like it was the most natural thing he’d ever been asked, swung himself over you, and settled his weight down with no hesitation. One arm slid beneath your shoulders, the other spread flat across your back and pressed you gently in toward him as the rest of him came down. He was solid and warm, and he fit himself to you so easily it almost felt rehearsed.
You could feel the moment he actually settled—some tension in his shoulders that he’d been carrying all day quietly releasing, his body going heavier and softer at once. His thumb moved at your side, slow and rhythmic, not quite thinking about it.
“Is it working?” he asked.
“You’ve been on me for four seconds.”
“Right, right.” He lasted another ten before his hand moved to your forehead, fingers brushing across it slowly, his thumb traced the edge of your ear.
“You do this thing,” his voice dropping a little, “where you don’t ask for things until you really need them.”
You didn’t answer.
His arms tightened, pulling you further in. “I don’t mind. You can just say so.” He pressed his mouth to your temple and held it there a moment too long to be casual. “Anytime.”
The word landed somewhere it was meant to. You turned your face slightly toward him and felt him smile against your skin before he tucked his chin back down.
The seat beside you had been empty the entire ceremony.
You kept not looking at it, which meant you kept looking at it—the folded program sitting there untouched, the gap in the row, the small conspicuousness of it in a room full of filled seats. You told yourself it was fine, you told yourself this more times than was probably healthy, so many times it started to lose shape and meaning, like a word repeated until it sounds wrong.
When they called your name and the lights hit the stage and everyone applauded, your eyes went to the back of the hall anyway. Reflex, stupid reflex.
He wasn’t there.
You smiled for the photo, you shook hands, you said “thank you, it means a lot” until the words went smooth and automatic. You carried the award home in its velvet case and set it on the table and looked at it for a moment, and then looked away. The thing about being hurt by something you understood was that it didn’t stop being a hurt, it just made it harder to say anything about it.
You were still standing there when two knocks came at the door.
You opened it to find Xavier in his uniform—dust at the collar, a faint mineral burn smell that meant he’d been somewhere out in the No Hunt Zones. His eyes found yours first, then moved past you to the velvet case on the table, and his brows pinched.
“I was held at No Hunt Zone 41,” he started first. “Communication blackout. I couldn’t reach you, I couldn’t reach anyone. I tried to leave as early as I could.”
“Xavier, you don’t have to explain yourself.”
“I’m not explaining myself.” His voice was quiet. “I’m telling you what happened.”
You stepped back to let him in, he moved past you to the table and stood in front of the award for a moment before picking it up—careful, with both hands, the way he handled things he considered worth handling. He read the engraving slowly.
The silence stretched.
“They said your name in a room full of people,” he murmured. “And I wasn’t there.”
The way he said it—not a statement, not quite an apology, just the fact of it laid flat—was what got to you a little. There was no deflection in it, no attempt to manage how you were feeling about it. Just him, standing in your living room at ten at night with field dust on his clothes, holding the weight of his absence the same way he’d held your award—like it was real, and he wasn’t going to set it down until he’d properly accounted for it.
You looked away. “It’s fine. You had a reason.”
“Yes.” He set the award down and turned to face you. “But it matters that I wasn’t.”
He wasn’t performing regret, this was just Xavier, and you found, after a moment, that you didn’t need to say anything in particular—not ‘it’s okay’ or ‘I understand’ or anything that would tidy the feeling away. He wasn’t asking you to.
“Sit down,” he urged.
“Huh?”
“You haven’t eaten, I bought something on my way back.”
You had not, in fact, eaten. You realized it only now, sitting down, and felt the faint absurdity of having carried that particular neglect all the way through the evening without noticing. He moved around your kitchen, found a plate, arranged the food, set it in front of you, and sat across from you.
“Tell me what happened,” he leaned forward. “At the ceremony.”
“You want me to tell you everything?”
“Yes.”
So you did, and he listened with his full attention—elbows on the table, eyes on you, not interrupting once. There was something about the way Xavier listened that made you feel like nothing you said was going to be filed away or forgotten, and by the time you finished, something in your chest had loosened that you hadn’t noticed was tight.
“Next time,” he finally speaks up when you stop talking. “I’ll be there. Even if I have to leave a Wanderer half-finished.”
“Please don’t do that.”
“Mm.” The corner of his mouth moved, just slightly. “Then I’ll make sure there’s nothing left to leave, and I’ll be there when they say your name.”
𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄
You’d told him the date three weeks in advance, and he’d said ‘I’ll try.’
‘I’ll try’ from Zayne usually means ‘I’ll be there’—that was the thing you’d learned over time, the way his understatement worked. He didn’t make promises he wasn’t planning to keep, so you’d let yourself believe it, which was the part you couldn’t entirely shake now, sitting in the reception hall with one empty chair beside you for the entire two hours.
You weren’t angry, you understood, surgeries didn’t schedule themselves around award ceremonies, and Zayne was exactly the kind of doctor who would stay until the work was done. You knew that about him, you’d known that going in, the understanding didn’t stop the chair from being empty, but it did mean you spent the evening pressing the feeling down to a manageable size and keeping it there.
You smiled at colleagues, you said ‘he sends his regards’ to the ones who asked, which was only a small lie.
You were quiet on the drive home, quieter getting changed, you sat in front of the dinner you hadn’t touched and looked at the award in its case, and somewhere in that quiet you thought, quite distinctly; ‘it’s fine, I’m fine’—and then, immediately after; ‘I gave him three weeks’ notice.’
Your phone lit up as his ID appeared on your screen. You picked it up.
“Where are you?”
“Home. I just got in.”
“I’m downstairs.”
“Just go up.”
He was still in his work clothes when he opened the door—shirt collar loosened, jacket over one arm, the particular look of someone who had left the moment they were physically able to and hadn’t slowed down since. His eyes went to your face first, before landing at the award on the table. He set a paper bag from the patisserie two blocks from Akso Hospital on your counter without commentary—the one that stayed open late, the one he knew you liked.
“Repair surgery,” he muttered. “It came in at five-forty, I couldn’t hand it off, the patient coded twice.” He laid his jacket over the back of a chair. “I left the moment I could.”
“I know, I understand, you don’t have to explain.”
“I know I don’t have to.” He turned to look at you. “I’m doing it because you spent tonight in a room full of people, telling everyone I had work, and the least you deserve is to know exactly what that work was.”
That landed somewhere uncomfortable and true, you opened your mouth.
“You always do that,” he interrupted before you could get there. “You make it smaller than it is so you don’t inconvenience anyone.” He held your gaze. “You’re allowed to be disappointed that I wasn’t there.”
“Zayne—”
“I have been at every ceremony you’ve had since you became a Hunter.” There was no accusation in his voice, but something beneath his composure had tightened. “Every single one, and now I missed this one, that’s not something I’m going to minimize just because I had a reason.”
The quiet that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly. It was the kind that settled after something was said plainly enough that there was nothing left to argue with.
He moved to your kitchen and came back a few minutes later with two cups—he’d found where you kept the cocoa, which meant he’d been here enough times to have looked for it. He put one in front of you and sat down.
“Tell me about it.”
“You know what happens at a ceremony.”
“I know what happens at the ones I attend.” His eyes stayed on you. “I want to know what happened at this one.”
He had a way of asking things that made them impossible to deflect. You pulled your legs up, wrapped both hands around the cup, and told him. He listened the way he always did—like there was nothing else in the world he’d blocked the night for.
When you finished, he reached across and pushed the velvet case closer to you.
“Open it.”
“I’ve already seen it.”
“I haven’t, and I’d like to.”
𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋
The ceremony photos had already been posted in the group chat by the time Rafayel’s message came in, which told you everything you needed to know about the timeline.
oh no cutie that was today???
i thought it was tomorrow
You stared at it for a long moment before typing;
Yes.
Three dots appeared, it disappeared, and it came back.
i was on a trip to an island since two days ago to collect shells for my new painting
ill head there right now
im sorryyyy cutieeee
You stared at the messages, typed ‘it’s okay’ and deleted it, and typed ‘don’t worry about it’ and deleted that, too. Eventually send; ‘I know. We’ll talk later.’ Which was honest, and covered the whole complicated middle ground between ‘I’m furious’ and ‘I understand’—which was where you actually were.
Your phone rang not long after, an incoming call from him.
“Don’t hang up,” Rafayel said, before you could speak. “I’m sorry. I know.”
“Do you?”
“You’re not yelling at me. That’s worse.”
“I’m not—” You sighed. “I’m not going to yell at you, it was an award ceremony, not… something else,” you murmured at the end. “You were at the ocean, that’s very you.”
“That’s not the absolution you think it is.” He said it quietly. “I knew about it, I had it in my calendar, my notification reminded me twice and I clicked yes, I’ll be there, and then the locals started showing me this… uh… well, it doesn’t matter. The point is, I wasn’t there.”
You let out another sigh, sat down on the edge of your bed with the award on the nightstand and the city outside doing its usual indifferent midnight thing. There was a version of this conversation where you said ‘it’s fine’ and meant it and moved on, but that felt like putting a lid on something before it had room to settle properly.
“There were photos,” you said instead. “You can at least see it.”
“I want to see it in front of me, not on a screen.” There’s a pause. “I’m coming over.”
“Rafayel, it’s midnight.”
“I know that, I’m already on the water.”
Which meant he’d called you from a boat, already on his way, and had opened the conversation with an apology because that had felt more urgent than announcing himself.
He showed up fifty minutes later after the call—salt-damp at the edges, carrying a bag from the twenty-four hour place near the pier that you’d mentioned once, a long time ago. It was enough seafood to feed four people, in his other hand, rolled carefully: a painting, still slightly wet at one corner, it’s small, done fast, but undeniably him—the colors, the brushwork, in the margins, in small letters, he’d written; I wish I was there.
You, standing at a podium, painted from imagination, not memory—but he’d gotten the set of your shoulders exactly right.
He held it out without ceremony, didn’t explain it or apologize again with words, just looked at you and let the thing speak for itself.
“I should have been there,” he said, after you’d looked at it for a long moment. “Not just because you deserved it. Because I wanted to be.” He looked almost irritated with himself—that particular Rafayel frustration that was really just guilt wearing a sharper coat. “I wanted to watch them put your name on something and be the person standing next to you after.”
Something softened in your chest that had been quietly tight all evening, not entirely undone, but it’s something.
“Next time, then,” you said.
His expression shifted—not quite a smile, not quite relief, but somewhere in between. He looked at you like you’d handed him something. “Next time, I’ll be in the front row annoying everyone around me, bragging that my Miss Bodyguard is the best Hunter in all of Linkon City.”
“That is the most believable thing you’ve said all night.”
𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒
He’d known about it for two weeks.
You’d mentioned it in passing, which for Sylus meant it was filed somewhere permanent—he forgot nothing, categorized everything, and had almost certainly noted the date before you’d finished the sentence. So when the ceremony ended and the champagne made the rounds and the empty seat beside you remained empty, the feeling that settled over you wasn’t quite anger, it was quieter than that, the specific ache of something you’d let yourself look forward to.
You didn’t text him, he’d know anyway—Sylus always knew and you were tired, and faintly deflated in a way that felt embarrassing to put into words. ‘Hey, I noticed you weren’t there.’ That wasn’t a sentence you wanted to be the one to say. So you got home and sat in the quiet and let the evening finish becoming what it was going to be.
You’d been home an hour when the door opened.
He looked the same as always, effortlessly composed, but his eyes moved across the apartment, and they landed on the award sitting alone on the table, on the glass of water you’d poured and not drunk, then on you.
“There was a situation at the eastern warehouse.” He moved further into the room. “Wrong faction, wrong weapons, it required my presence.”
“I figured it was something.”
“It was.” He picked up the award, turned it over, read the engraving slowly, with the focused attention of someone who’d decided the object deserved it, and set it back down before looking at you. “You didn’t call.”
“You were handling all that, I wasn’t going to call in the middle of that about an award ceremony.” You kept your tone light. “Say ‘hey, my feelings are a little hurt?’”
“Kitten.” His voice was even, but there was an edge underneath it, though not directed at you, but at the situation, at himself, which was rare enough that you noticed it. “You could have called. I would have answered.”
“And done what? Left?”
“Yes.” It’s simple and certain, with no hesitation in it at all. “Yes, I would have.”
You looked at him, he met your gaze the way he met everything—like the world could come at him from any direction and he’d already mapped every angle, except right now, underneath that, there was something else.
“It was important.”
“It was just a ceremony.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
The quiet landed between you, you looked at the award on the table and then looked away, and then gave in. “Yeah,” you said, quieter. “It was important.”
He sat beside you on the couch with the fluid ease of someone who’d decided that was where he belonged, one arm came around you, not asking permission, but attentive to whether you leaned in, you did.
“I should have been there,” he carresed your shoulder. “I’ve watched you work toward this for months and I should have been in that room when they acknowledged it, yet I wasn’t. That doesn’t sit well with me.”
“You sound annoyed.”
“I am. At the situation, at myself.”
You turned to look at him, he was already looking at you.
“The calendar is clear for your next one,” he assured you.
“What if there isn’t a next one?”
“Then whatever comes after that.” His thumb moved slowly against your shoulder. “You’re not done building, and I intend to be present for it.” The corner of his mouth curved, barely. “Besides, I’d like to see your face when you walk in confidently.”
𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁
He’d promised.
He’d looked you in the eye when you told him the date and said I’ll be there—the same way he’d said it for every school event, every Hunter evaluation, every milestone he’d made into an occasion, Caleb kept promises.
Caleb was many things, but being late wasn’t one of them—not for you. So when six o’clock came and went and his seat stayed empty, you didn’t know what to do with it at first, and by the time your name was called, you’d smoothed everything down to a calm that held well enough—well enough that three colleagues asked if you were having a good night, and you smiled and said, “the best.”
His message came after the reception. You read it once, put your phone away, and didn’t read it again until you were home.
something came up. fleet business.
I can’t explain over text. I’m sorry :(
please call me.
You changed out of the dress you’d picked specifically because he’d said, three years ago at Gran’s birthday, that it looked good on you. You sat in front of the award on the table, and thought about nothing in particular for a while.
Then you called him.
“Pipsqueak.” His voice hit you before you’d prepared for it—that particular tone it had when he was running on equal parts adrenaline and guilt. “I need you to know I’m sorry before anything else. I’m sorry, okay? Tell me you know that.”
“What happened?”
“Mission call, three personnel unaccounted for. I had to lead the recovery or hand it off to someone who would have made it worse, and I—” He stopped himself. “There’s no version of this where the reason makes it okay.”
“Caleb, It’s okay, I’m okay.”
“I missed your ceremony.” He sighed. “You were there for every basketball game when we were in high school, you were there when I graduated, you showed up every single time, and when yours finally came around, I wasn’t there.”
You didn’t say anything for a moment, the honest answer was it hurt, and you didn’t want to make it worse for him, but he would know if you lied. He always did.
“A little,” you admitted.
“Yeah.” His voice went quieter. “I figured... Okay. I have a twelve-hour layover in Skyhaven, I’m coming home.”
“Caleb, you don’t have to.”
“I was supposed to be there to watch you walk up to that stage.” He steadied himself. “I wasn’t, and nothing fixes that, I know that. I just want to be there, that’s all.”
“Okay,” you nodded.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He got in at one in the morning, still in his uniform when you opened the door. He looked at you—really looked, the way he’d always been better at than he let on—and then his eyes went to the award on the table. He crossed the room, picked it up, and read your name on it.
“I should have been here to see them give you this,” he mumbled.
“You’re here now.”
“It’s not the same.”
“No,” you agree. “But it’s something.”
He sat beside you on the couch and pulled you into his side the way he used to when you were kids and something had gone wrong—like his body just remembered the movement of it, you let him, the tight thing in your chest loosened a little.
“Tell me everything,” he stares at you intently. “From the beginning.”
“There’s not that much to tell.”
“Tell me anyway.”
So you did, and he listened without a single interruption—no calls, no mission, just you and him and the city quiet outside. He asked questions at the right moments, the kind that meant he was actually following. Somewhere in the middle of it, the rest of the tightness came fully undone.
You didn’t mention the empty seat, you didn’t have to, he knew, and being here now, at one in the morning in his uniform, asking you to walk him through every detail—that was him saying it, in the way Caleb always said the things that mattered most.
The bag of chips sat open between you on the couch as you both watched TV, Xavier had been the one to open them, and he’d also been the one, somewhere along the way, to start reaching in and holding chips out to you instead of letting you grab your own, and you hadn’t really questioned it.
The third time, you took it from his fingers with your mouth instead of your hand, easier that way. You were comfortable, you weren’t thinking about it.
He was.
Your lips closed around his fingers, and you pulled back slowly. The salt dissolved on your tongue in layers; a sharp first hit, then a deeper savory note underneath as the tip of his finger dragged against the flat of your tongue on the way out, then caught—just barely—on the soft curve of your bottom lip before you released him. You turned back to the TV, completely unbothered, like you hadn’t just taken your time with it.
Xavier turned back to the TV.
His hand didn’t move for three full seconds.
When it did, it went slowly back into the bag, and came out with a smaller chip. He held it out the same way, same angle, and this time he didn’t look at the screen at all, he looked at you, at the way your mouth opened easily, the way your lips pressed soft over the salt-dusted edge of his fingertip, the slow drag of your tongue underneath—collecting every grain before you closed it and let go, like it was nothing, like you always did this.
He faced forward, the movie kept playing, and he had genuinely no idea what was happening in it.
The next chip was even smaller—barely a fragment—and Xavier was already watching sideways when you took it, his eyes cut hard to your mouth the second his finger grazed your lip. He tracked the part of it, the soft seal, the way your tongue swept slowly along the underside of his fingertip, pressing up into the pad, before your lips drew back in one long, unhurried pull. He felt the warmth of your breath against his skin when you released him.
You didn’t even glance at him.
Something in his jaw pulled tight and stayed there.
He was fully watching you now, not the screen. You. The line of his shoulders had gone very still, his whole posture recalibrating to you without him deciding to do it, his hand hovered, briefly, like it had forgotten where it was going.
You tipped the bag, nothing but crumbs.
“It’s empty,” you pointed out.
Xavier stared into it.
“I’ll get more,” his voice came out lower as he stood and was back in under two minutes. He sat down—closer than before, thigh flush against yours, arm almost touching—and without looking at you, reached into the new bag and held out the first chip.
Smaller than it needed to be, he’d checked before offering it.
His eyes were already on your mouth.
𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄
You had eaten two bites of his pie before you started making it a problem.
The first one he’d offered properly—fork, a clean slice, passed across the table without ceremony. You were the one who said it was sweet, and he was the one who—while you were still chewing—picked up a small smear of strawberry frosting on his thumb and wiped it off without thinking.
“Can I try the other one?” you asked.
He glanced at the strawberry slice on the plate, then back at you. “You have your own.”
“I want to compare.”
He held your gaze for a moment, then cut a small piece with his fork and held it out to you.
You looked at the fork, then at his hand, then you leaned forward and closed your mouth around his fingers instead—lips sealing over the knuckle of his index finger, your tongue pressing flat and warm against the glaze before you drew back slowly. The syrup was thick and sweet, combined with his cool skin underneath, and you could feel the exact moment he went still when your tongue traced between his fingers, chasing the last of it.
The fork stayed in the air with the abandoned piece of pie.
“Really sweet,” you commented. “Can I try the other flavor?”
He set the fork down carefully, cut a piece of the blueberry, and this time, when he held it out, he didn’t reach as far, and when your lips parted around his fingers, you took your time with it. The tip of your tongue traced slowly along the underside of his index finger, dragging from the second knuckle to tip, catching every thread of syrup that had run down. You made sure you got all of it—a slow, purposeful sweep; the pad, then the very tip—before you drew back and let him go with the softest exhale of breath against his skin.
You heard the quiet way his breath adjusted behind his teeth before you pulled back, like he’d been holding it without deciding to.
“Better,” you decided, straightening. “That one’s better.”
His eyes had gone somewhere darker behind the wire frames, fixed on your mouth with the still, complete focus he gave to things he was actively choosing not to react to. His hands rested flat on the table—the particular stillness of someone keeping themselves exactly in place, the muscle in his jaw ticked once.
“What?” you asked.
“Nothing.” He looked away. “You have syrup on your lip.”
“Where?”
He looked at your mouth, reached over, pressed his thumb to the corner of your lip, and wiped it clean in one slow pass—the pad of his thumb tracing the soft curve of it longer than necessary, and his eyes didn’t move from your mouth the entire time.
Then, like it was the most natural next step, he leaned in, and licked the syrup off his thumb without a word.
𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋
He’d been cooking for forty minutes and narrating for thirty-five of them—about timing, about heat, about how people who overcooked shrimp and people who didn’t understand ochre were probably the same people, a connection you couldn’t quite follow but didn’t interrupt.
He turned from the stove and held a shrimp out, sauce gleaming on his fingers—long and elegant, the kind of hands that belonged in paintings.
“Tell me what you think,” he leaned against the counter.
You leaned in and took the shrimp, and then, because the butter had run all the way down to his finger and it seemed a waste, you gently drew his hand toward you. Your lips parted over the base of his index finger, and you drew back—tongue pressing flat along the underside, tracing every ridge of his skin from base to tip. Salt, garlic, warm butter, the faint clean scent of him underneath all of it and you took your time, all the way to the tip, where you closed soft and let him go with the quietest sound.
You released his hand.
Rafayel’s eyes were wide, pupils blown, mouth slightly open, and those pretty hands hovered in the air between you like he’d forgotten they were his, like they were still feeling you.
“Hm,” you hummed in approval. “The seasoning’s good. The garlic isn’t—”
“Try another one.”
“I’m still talking—”
“Different piece.” He’d turned back to the stove, but his ears had gone pink, and his eyes were a little too bright when he glanced back. “The flavor isn’t consistent across the pan, it matters which one you try. You need a proper comparison.” He held another shrimp out, fingers extended toward you with patience, his eyes watching you expectantly.
You took it, and took your time with his fingers—lips sealing slowly around the very tip first, tongue sweeping the pad before you slid further down, taking the full length of his finger between your lips. You felt him go still as your tongue moved along the underside—a long, dragging pull from base to tip, pressing into every ridge, tasting salt and butter and warm skin—before you released him with the softest sound, lips catching at the tip on the way off.
The pan handle creaked under his grip.
“One more.” He turned back to grab another shrimp.
“If you keep feeding me one at a time, I’ll finish everything before it’s served.”
“I’ll make more.”
“You’ll make more,” you repeated.
“However much more.” He held another piece out, the elegant line of his fingers extended toward you patiently, sauce catching the kitchen light. “This one’s different. It’s important that you try it.”
It wasn’t different. You wrapped your lips around his fingers anyway—a little slower this time, your tongue sweeping from the first knuckle all the way back, pressing up into the pad—and felt him go very still against the stove. His breath left him in one careful exhale through his nose when you pulled back slowly, letting him go gently.
He didn’t move for a moment.
“Well?” you asked.
He turned back to the pan, his free hand gripping the counter edge. “...Same as the last one,” his voice came out slightly unsteady. He was already reaching for another piece. “Which is interesting. Try this one.”
𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒
Five dressings, all lined up like a decision that mattered—which, to Sylus, it probably did.
“Choose.”
You pointed to the third, and he dipped his index finger, brought it to his own mouth—tongue pressing flat against the pad and dragging clean to taste it.
“Good call,” he nodded.
“Wait.” You leaned forward and caught his wrist before he could reach for a dish. He paused—eyes dropping to your hand, then rising slow to your face.
“You already picked one.”
“I want to make sure.”
You raised his hand and drew his finger into your mouth, your lips sealed around his skin—the same finger, still faintly sweet with the dressing, and him. You felt him watch you do it, your tongue pressed along the underside, tracing the full length from third knuckle to tip, tasting the tanginess of the dressing and the salt of his skin underneath, all the way to the tip, where you closed your lips soft and pulled back, letting him feel every inch of the drag before you released him.
His eyes tracked to your mouth, and they stayed there.
“The second one,” you nod again. “I want to try that one, too.”
“Didn’t you already make your choice?”
“I want to compare.”
He said nothing as he dipped his middle finger into the second dressing and held it out—closer this time, making you reach for it, your lips parted around the tip, sliding down slowly, your tongue flat and warm as you sealed around him. The dressing was sharper here, with a bite that made your tongue press in to find the edge of it—along the underside, then back up over the pad, tasting every note before you drew back in an unhurried pull. You felt his wrist go very slightly tense in your grip.
“Third,” you pointed out.
He dipped his ring finger, and held it out.
You took that one, too—slower than the last, lips pressing soft at the base first, like you were settling in, before drawing up in one thorough sweep. Your tongue traced all the way back, pressing into the warmth of his skin, tasting the sweeter dressing and the particular heat of him underneath, a long pull from base to tip, lips dragging softly all the way to the end.
You released him as you looked up.
“Which one do you think is—”
He raised his index finger again with fresh dressing, and offered it toward you without a word—patient, dark-eyed, the ghost of something at the corner of his mouth that hadn’t decided yet whether to become a smile.
He’s waiting, just to see if you’d take it.
And you did—lips parting around him, eyes up on his face this time, watching the way his expression shifted and held very, very still as your tongue pressed against his skin.
“Well,” he hummed.
This time, you waited.
“I think,” he set the bottle down without looking away from your mouth, “you’re not actually interested in the salad.”
𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁
It had been forty minutes, you had asked three times.
“Almost done,” was all he’d said, each time, with the kind of breezy confidence that meant he was absolutely aware of how much you were suffering, and had decided that was funny.
The steak looked incredible, the whole apartment smelled incredible. You’d watched him sear it, let it rest, and slice into it with an easy familiarity that made you want to commit at least three minor crimes. He cut a small piece to check it, pressed lightly on the surface, and nodded to himself.
“Can I have a bite?”
“Not yet.”
“Caleb—”
“We need to let it rest for five more minutes.”
“Just one bite.”
“Sit down.”
“I just want—”
“I know what you want, and the answer is five minutes—”
You grabbed his wrist.
He stopped.
His hand was right there—pan drippings across the fingers from basting, glossy and warm—and you held his gaze, making absolutely sure he was watching, then you drew his index finger slowly into your mouth. Your lips sealed around the tip first, before you slid further down—tongue pressing flat against the underside, dragging back in one long, thorough pull. Salt, butter, the deep savory richness of the drippings soaking on his skin. You didn’t rush it, pressing your tongue up into the pad of his finger, tracing the ridge all the way back to the tip, taking your time like you had all of it. His skin was slightly hot from holding the just finished steak, you could feel his pulse, and you held for just a breath—before pulling back in one slow, soft drag, lips closing gently at the very tip on the way off.
You let his hand go.
Caleb was staring at you.
His eyes were wide and fixed on your mouth, pupils dark—and then something behind them simply stopped. Every coherent thought about cooking times, resting meat, plating, the rest of the ingredients—all of it evaporating in sequence, one after another, like dominoes, until there was just you, just your mouth, just what you’d done and the warmth still on his skin where your lips had been.
He didn’t move.
“Tender,” you commented. “You were right about the recipe.”
His mouth opened, closed, opened, and closed again. His eyes dropped to your mouth—the glossiness of your lips—like he was deciding whether what had just happened was real or whether he’d imagined it. He hadn’t imagined it, the warmth of your tongue was still there.
“The steak,” you pointed.
“Right.” He cleared his throat. It came out low and rough and nowhere near as steady as he’d aimed for, his gaze lingered on your mouth one second longer—shamelessly—before something shifted in his expression, and set the tongs down on the counter.
He didn’t turn back to the stove.
“You know what,” Caleb sighed, like a man defeated by something much larger than himself, “the steak can rest a little longer.”
The convenience store was almost empty at this hour, its fluorescent lights humming steadily above the plastic stools. Outside, the parking lot sat quiet behind the fogged window, the occasional car passing without slowing.
You had barely touched your noodles.
Xavier, on the other hand, had one hand on the cup, and the other on the chopsticks. He glanced at his phone between bites, completely unaware that you had spent the last few minutes smiling and staring at him instead of your dinner.
Eventually, he looked up.
“What?”
You shook your head, still smiling.
His eyes narrowed slightly, unconvinced, but he returned to his noodles. A few seconds later, you noticed the streak of broth near his chin.
“You’ve got something there.”
He wiped at it without looking, somehow managing to miss the spot completely. You sighed, reached across the small table, and took the napkin from beside his cup. His jaw went still under your fingers for half a second. Before he could react, you wiped the broth away and pulled your hand back.
He paused with his chopsticks halfway to his mouth, looking at you with an expression that was difficult to read, like his brain had briefly stopped processing the situation and hadn’t caught up yet.
You went back to your noodles with the same smile as you kept your eyes on him.
After a moment, he touched his chin, then glanced at you again.
“What is it this time?”
You shrugged. “Nothing.”
“That’s not convincing.”
“You looked better before you started worrying about it.”
He stared for a second, clearly trying to decide whether that was supposed to mean something.
Then you added, “Besides, there was something handsome on your face.”
Xavier looked down at his noodles, the tips of his ears betrayed him first, going red before he could get a single word out. He grabbed his cup noodles and shoved a mouthful in like it would stop his face from doing whatever it was doing, chewing fast, refusing to look at your still smiling face.
For the rest of dinner, he became strangely interested in making sure he didn’t spill anything on himself.
𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄
The cheesecake sat between you, already missing a few bites despite Zayne’s earlier claim that he was too busy to eat. He’d somehow managed to keep working through half of it anyway, the fork resting beside the plate whenever he returned to the patient report on his laptop.
You sat in the chair beside him, chin propped on your hand, just staring.
At first, he didn’t seem to notice. His attention stayed on the screen, fingers moving steadily across the keyboard. You picked up the fork, cut off another small piece of cheesecake, and held it toward him.
Without looking away from the laptop, he leaned over and took the bite.
“Thanks.”
You smiled.
A few lines later, his typing slowed.
His eyes shifted toward you briefly before returning to the report. You were still watching him.
He tried to ignore it. That lasted perhaps another minute before he glanced over again, this time catching you mid-smile.
“You’ve been doing that for a while.”
“Doing what?”
He gave you a look, then turned back to the screen. “Looking at me.”
You shrugged, completely unbothered.
His fingers resumed moving, though the rhythm had changed. He made it through another paragraph before reaching for the cheesecake without thinking. You moved the plate slightly closer before he could.
He took another bite, swallowed, and finally looked at you properly.
“Is there something you want?”
“No.”
That answer seemed to bother him more than it should have. He studied you for a moment, as if there had to be some explanation for why you’d been sitting there watching him work with that same smile.
Finding none, he turned back to the laptop.
You picked up the fork again.
His eyes immediately flicked toward it.
You held out another piece.
This time, he looked at you first.
There was the faintest pause before he leaned over and took it, then returned to his report with the resigned expression of someone who had apparently accepted that finishing his work tonight was no longer going to be as straightforward as he’d planned.
You kept smiling.
He kept pretending not to notice.
𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋
The tide was inching closer by the time Rafayel finished the last turret, sleeves pushed to his elbows and sand sticking to his hands. The sunset had turned the water orange, and every few seconds the light caught against his hair as he leaned over the sand castle, completely absorbed in getting one tiny detail right.
You’d stopped helping a while ago.
Sitting cross-legged a few feet away, you watched him work with a smile you hadn’t bothered hiding.
He noticed eventually. Of course he did.
He glanced over his shoulder, an eyebrow raised slightly when he caught you staring. “What?”
“Nothing.”
That answer clearly wasn’t enough. His gaze moved between you and the half-finished castle, then back again, as if trying to figure out what exactly had been so interesting for the past ten minutes.
You smiled a little wider. “You’re looking good.”
He blinked.
It was subtle, but his hands stopped moving.
“You’ve got the sunset behind you,” you added, like you were explaining an entirely reasonable observation. “It’s doing most of the work.”
He gave a quiet scoff and turned back to the castle. “Obviously.”
Except he suddenly seemed very interested in fixing a section of wall that was already perfectly fine.
You watched him press the sand down once, then again.
“Rafayel.”
“What?”
“You’re blushing.”
“I’m not.”
His ears were already giving him away.
You laughed, and he finally looked back at you, expression caught somewhere between offended and embarrassed. He seemed ready with a comeback, but whatever he had planned disappeared halfway through. Instead, he pointed at the castle.
“You’re distracting the architect.”
“The architect was already staring at his own sandcastle.”
He gave you a suspicious look, then reached for another handful of sand, apparently deciding that continuing the castle was safer than continuing the conversation. You let him.
The smile stayed on your face as he worked, though every so often his eyes wandered back to you before quickly returning to the castle.
By the time the tide reached the first turret, he still hadn’t noticed how long he’d been sitting there doing absolutely nothing to stop you from smiling at him.
𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒
The quiet was broken only by the occasional click of metal as Sylus worked at the table, the disassembled parts arranged neatly in front of him. His movements were practiced and unhurried, attention fixed on what he was doing.
You sat across from him with your chin resting on your knees, watching.
Not because you needed anything. You’d just been looking at him for several minutes now, smiling for no particular reason.
He noticed eventually.
“What’s with the smile?”
You shrugged. “You look good doing that.”
His hands paused.
He looked up at you, and the corner of his mouth lifted almost immediately. There was no surprise in his expression, only the unmistakable satisfaction of someone who’d just received a compliment he intended to enjoy.
“Do I?”
“Mm.”
That seemed to be enough for him. He finished what he was doing and leaned back in his chair, looking far too pleased with himself.
“Careful, kitten. Compliments like that tend to go to my head.”
“I think it’s already there.”
He lets out a quiet chuckle. He glanced at you again, amusement settling comfortably across his face.
“You seem awfully interested.”
“I was interested before.”
“Of course you were.”
You smiled again.
He watched you for a moment, then shook his head as though he'd finally figured out what was so entertaining about the whole situation.
“You’re easy to amuse.”
“You're the one making it easy.”
Another quiet chuckle escaped him. Then, apparently deciding he'd had enough of being the one under observation, he picked up the firearm he'd just finished with and held it out toward you, grip first.
“Here.”
You took it, more curious about his sudden change in attention than anything else. Sylus watched as you examined it briefly, arms folding across his chest.
“Hm.” His gaze moved from the firearm in your hand to your face. “You look good with it.”
He said it so casually that it almost sounded like an afterthought, though the satisfied look on his face suggested otherwise, clearly more interested in the person across from him than whatever he’d been working on in the first place.
𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁
Tiny plastic parts covered most of the table, wings and fuselage pieces sorted into little piles around him. Caleb had the instruction sheet beside him, tweezers in one hand, and the kind of concentration that made his brow furrow over something that probably didn’t deserve that much seriousness.
You sat across from him, just staring at him. Not for any particular reason. You just liked watching him get absorbed in things, and somewhere along the way, you’d started smiling without realizing it.
“Someone’s staring.”
You rested your chin in your hand. “Got a problem with that?”
He glanced up, an easy grin already forming. “No problem. I like it.”
“Why?”
He shrugged, returning his attention to the tiny wing between his fingers. “Means I’m doing something right.”
You watched him for another second before smiling a little wider. “Or you just look funny when you concentrate.”
His hands stopped. The grin on his face faltered for half a second before he cleared his throat and looked back down at the model.
“I don’t look funny.”
“Sure.”
He muttered something under his breath and tried fitting the wing into place again. Somehow, the same piece he’d been handling perfectly a moment ago refused to cooperate. He adjusted it once, then again, suddenly paying far too much attention to getting it right.
You kept smiling.
After a moment, he glanced up again.
“You’ve been doing that for ages, you know.”
“Doing what?”
“Smiling at me.”
You shrugged, as though there were nothing worth explaining.
He looked at you for a beat, then shook his head with a quiet laugh, apparently deciding not to question it further. The familiar grin returned as he finally got the wing into place.
“Fine. Keep doing it.” He leaned back slightly, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “I don’t mind being appreciated.”
“You really like attention, don’t you?”
“Only from you.” His answer came without hesitation.
That one caught you off guard.
He noticed immediately.
A small, satisfied smile appeared as he turned back to the model, humming under his breath while you tried to recover your own expression.
Apparently, the pilot had finally managed to land a hit.
Okay, so… hi again...? /inserts nervous laughter/ Just wanted to post something since I’m getting rusty AGAIN AARRRGHHH... forgive me, folks... I’m a bit sleepy and have things to do tomorrow, so here you go for now! xixi
Just as you’re about to enter your apartment door, he folds you into a hug—no warning, no reason—just arms wrapping around you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You sink into it for a moment before mumbling against his chest:
“Six out of ten.”
He goes completely still. For a full second, he doesn’t even seem to breathe. “...What?”
“Your hug. Six out of ten.”
“You’re rating this.” His voice has gone completely flat, the way it does when his brain is clearly trying to catch up. He still hasn’t let go, arms locked around you like his body never got the message that something has gone terribly wrong.
“I mean, someone has to keep you sharp.”
“I wasn’t aware this was a performance.” He pulls back just enough to look down at you, expression unreadable except for the faint furrow between his brows. Oh, this is a challenge, because him and six out of ten? Unacceptable.
“Grip’s fine. You just let go too fast, usually.” You shrug, biting back a smile.
“I haven’t let go yet.”
“That’s—okay, that’s true, but historically—”
“Historically.” He repeats the word like it has personally offended him. Then, without another word, he pulls you back in—tighter this time, holding you for longer, chin settling against your shoulder like he’s daring you to complain. “Now?”
“...Seven.”
“Seven.” His jaw ticks, and he still doesn’t let go. If anything, his arms tighten slightly, like he’s recalculating the entire situation. Apparently, you’ve turned a hug into a problem he intends to solve. “What’s wrong with this one then?”
“Nothing’s wrong, it’s just not a ten.”
“Then tell me what a ten requires.” He’s completely serious, still holding you, still refusing to break position, apparently prepared to stay like this until he gets an answer he’s satisfied with. “I don’t want a seven.”
“You can’t just refuse a score—” You try to wriggle back, and he doesn’t budge an inch.
“Watch me.” He adjusts his hold again, slower this time, slightly tighter, one hand settling flat against your back like he’s actually been thinking about where to exactly position them. “Again.”
“You’re doing this in the hallway.”
“I’m aware of the location.” He is very clearly not planning to leave it. “Score it.”
“...Eight.”
“Not ten?”
“You keep asking before I even finish reacting!” You huff, arms still looped around him despite your protest.
“Then react faster.” He’s completely serious about winning a hug contest against a number you made up thirty seconds ago, which somehow makes the whole thing even funnier. He pulls you back against him again, in the very specific way that says he’s not leaving until this is settled. “I have all afternoon.”
He then gives you a determined smile. “Come on, give me a ten.”
𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄
He’s got you close in the quiet of the room, one hand resting lightly against your back. There’s nothing complicated about the hug—it’s just comfortable, cozy, the kind you can settle into without thinking. You rest your head against his shoulder.
“Seven out of ten.”
His hand goes still. “...Sorry?”
“I’m giving this hug a seven.”
He actually leans back to look at you. “You’re grading me.”
“Why not?”
“I wasn’t aware this required grading.” He says it slowly, like he’s still deciding whether you’re serious or not. When your expression makes it clear that you are, his face shifts, like he’s looking over a chart that doesn’t quite make sense. “So, seven out of ten. Explain.”
“Technically solid, just a little stiff.” You tap a finger against his chest, as if marking notes on an invisible clipboard.
“Stiff.” He repeats the word like he’s not particularly pleased with the diagnosis. He doesn’t pull away, if anything, he holds you a little longer, clearly thinking it over like this is a problem he can actually solve. Then, he asks again, quieter; “Tell me what to fix.”
“That’s not really the p—”
“Tell me.” His hands stay steady against your back as he waits for an answer. “I don’t like being average at giving you comfort.”
“It’s not a medical procedure, Doctor Zayne.”
“Everything can be improved with the right method.” He draws you back in, and this time the hug feels different. His hand settles more fully against your back, and he dips his head until his cheek rests against your head. “Better?”
“...Nine.”
“Not ten?”
“You’re overthinking it now. I can feel you overthinking it.” You poke lightly at his side.
That earns the faintest huff from him, almost a laugh. It’s quiet enough that you feel it more than hear it. “I’ll want the notes later. In writing, if possible.”
You blink up at him, half sure he’s serious. “You want a hug rubric?”
“I want to not be a seven.” His arms settle around you again, like he’s already decided this is something he’ll figure out. “Help me get there.”
𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋
He’s got you tucked against the studio window, watching the half-full moon above the ocean. The whole thing feels soft and familiar, almost domestic, until you break the silence.
“Eight out of ten.”
He freezes. His hands stop halfway through whatever they were doing against your back. “Did you just rate me?”
“Mhm,” you bite back a grin, watching his expression crumble in real time, before correcting, “your hug, specifically.”
“You just rate my loving hug…” He pulls back so quickly you nearly get startled, staring at you like you’ve just delivered a devastating review of his entire body of work, “...an eight?”
“It was good! Just not perfect.” You hold your hands up in mock defense.
“Nothing I do is an eight.” He looks at you like you’ve personally betrayed him and insulted his hugging skills. “I’m a ten minimum in every category, always, that’s not ego talking, that’s just fact—”
“So prove it.” You cross your arms, egging him on.
That’s all it takes. He pulls you right back in, arms tightening immediately, and before you can even react, he presses an audible smooch to your cheek with a smug little flourish. “There. Bonus points.”
“That’s not part of a hug, that’s cheating!” You squirm, though you don’t actually pull away. How could you?
“It’s innovation.” Another kiss lands at your temple, delivered with the confidence of someone adding one last stroke to a painting. “Artists don’t follow the rules.”
“Rafayel—”
“Shh, I’m working.” He sways you both slightly, far too pleased with himself, then drops a third kiss somewhere near your jaw purely because he feels like it. “Rescore me.”
“You haven’t stopped touching me long enough for me to think.”
“Good. That’s the strategy.” He tightens his hold, cheek pressed against yours, making absolutely no effort to give you the space needed for an ‘objective evaluation’. “Now, was that an eight?”
“Mhm… ten.”
“Was that an eight, I hear?” He pretends not to hear you.
“Eleven! It was an eleven! Are you happy now?”
“Ecstatic.” He finally loosens his grip, only to steal one more kiss at the corner of your mouth, grinning the entire time. “Should’ve started there. Would’ve saved us both the trouble.”
𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒
He pulls you into his side without a word, arm slipping around your waist like he’s already decided that’s where it belongs. It’s easy and effortless, the kind of certainty that seems to follow everything he does, including a simple hug. You let your head rest against him.
“This is nice... Seven out of ten.”
There’s a beat of silence. “Come again?”
“You heard me. Seven.” You keep your tone breezy, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
“So you’re reviewing me.” He tilts his head down to look at you properly, and the smirk in his expression quickly gives way to something almost delighted, like he wasn’t expecting this, but he’s already decided he’s going to have fun with it. “Didn’t peg you for the type to grade a hug.”
“Someone’s gotta keep you humble.” You pat his chest twice, like closing a case file.
“Bold assumption that you can.” He doesn’t loosen his hold. If anything, his arm settles a little more firmly around you, casual and completely sure of itself. “Seven, though. What knocked off the points?”
“Your hands are cold.”
“Noted.” His hands do not move. “Anything else, or was that the whole review?”
“You’re not even trying to fix it.”
“Didn’t say I was trying to fix it.” A low chuckle brushes your ear, completely unbothered. There’s something smug about the way he says it that makes you want to argue just to see where he’ll take this. “I’m doing something better. My turn.”
“Your turn for what?” You narrow your eyes, already suspicious.
“To review you.” He tilts his head, looking you over like he’s already made up his mind. “Grip’s a bit loose. You keep almost pulling away, like you’re hesitating.”
“I’m not hesitating,” and you tighten your arms around him as if to prove it.
“You are.” He hums casually. “Six. For now.”
“You’re supposed to be the one under review here.” You huff, though you don’t loosen your hold either.
“We can do both.” He pulls you a little closer, chin settling on top of your head, perfectly comfortable there. “Besides, someone’s got to keep the scoring honest. You gave me a seven with a complaint in the same breath. Numbers don’t add up.”
“They add up just fine.”
“Prove it.” His voice drops, just enough to make it sound like a challenge. His arms don’t move, so you tighten your grip just to make your point, and for half a second he actually goes still, slightly caught off-guard before that familiar smugness returns. “There it is. Eight, maybe. Getting warmer.”
“You’re not letting go either, you know. You’re still a seven.”
“Never said I would.” He pats your lower back a few times. “Keep going. I’ve got time to wait for a ten.”
𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁
He wraps you up the second you’re close enough, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other rests warm against your back. It’s the same hold you always seem to melt into, familiar enough that neither of you has to think about it anymore. You hum contentedly and mumble against his collar;
“Ten out of ten.”
“Obviously.” He shrugs it off, like you’re confirming something he already knew.
“Wait, you’re not even surprised I gave your hug a rating?”
“Should I be?” He pulls back just enough to grin down at you, looking far too pleased with himself. “Experience over years, you know, like how long before you get squirmy and pretend it’s because you’re ’busy.’”
“I don’t get squirmy.”
“You are squirming right now.”
“That’s different.”
“Sure it is.” He pulls you back against him. It’s obvious he’s done this enough times to know exactly what works, and he’s clearly not tired of it. “Ten out of ten and no notes. Kind of a boring review, though.”
You pull back just enough to give him a look. “Excuse me?”
“You’ve given me the same score for months.” His tone stays lighthearted with just enough complaint to make it obvious he’s fishing for something more interesting. “I want a challenge. Give me something to improve.”
“You’re asking me to critique a perfect score.”
“I’m asking you not to let me get complacent.” His eyes narrow with interest, the expression he gets right before he does something that is probably going to be both reckless and charming. “Come on. Surprise me. What’s the next level?”
“I don’t know, variety, maybe? You do the exact same hug every single time.” You shrug, only half expecting him to take the bait.
“Say less.” He doesn’t even give you time to brace. He lifts you clean off your feet for a moment, spins you, then catches you again, pulling you in tighter and laughing at the surprised yelp that escapes you. “New variant. Rate it.”
“That’s just showing off!” You cling to his shoulders, breathless from the surprise of it.
“That’s a ten with flair.” He presses a kiss to your forehead, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Don’t tell me you didn’t like it?”
“...I liked the original just fine.”
“Liar.” He settles back into that same familiar hold anyway, the one he knows works, arms loose and warm around you. “Give it a minute, and you’ll be asking for the variant again by tomorrow.”
You already know he’s probably right. You just aren’t going to give him the satisfaction of saying so.
Hope you enjoyed this one as much as I enjoyed writing it! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝
Just as you’re about to enter your apartment door, he folds you into a hug—no warning, no reason—just arms wrapping around you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You sink into it for a moment before mumbling against his chest:
“Six out of ten.”
He goes completely still. For a full second, he doesn’t even seem to breathe. “...What?”
“Your hug. Six out of ten.”
“You’re rating this.” His voice has gone completely flat, the way it does when his brain is clearly trying to catch up. He still hasn’t let go, arms locked around you like his body never got the message that something has gone terribly wrong.
“I mean, someone has to keep you sharp.”
“I wasn’t aware this was a performance.” He pulls back just enough to look down at you, expression unreadable except for the faint furrow between his brows. Oh, this is a challenge, because him and six out of ten? Unacceptable.
“Grip’s fine. You just let go too fast, usually.” You shrug, biting back a smile.
“I haven’t let go yet.”
“That’s—okay, that’s true, but historically—”
“Historically.” He repeats the word like it has personally offended him. Then, without another word, he pulls you back in—tighter this time, holding you for longer, chin settling against your shoulder like he’s daring you to complain. “Now?”
“...Seven.”
“Seven.” His jaw ticks, and he still doesn’t let go. If anything, his arms tighten slightly, like he’s recalculating the entire situation. Apparently, you’ve turned a hug into a problem he intends to solve. “What’s wrong with this one then?”
“Nothing’s wrong, it’s just not a ten.”
“Then tell me what a ten requires.” He’s completely serious, still holding you, still refusing to break position, apparently prepared to stay like this until he gets an answer he’s satisfied with. “I don’t want a seven.”
“You can’t just refuse a score—” You try to wriggle back, and he doesn’t budge an inch.
“Watch me.” He adjusts his hold again, slower this time, slightly tighter, one hand settling flat against your back like he’s actually been thinking about where to exactly position them. “Again.”
“You’re doing this in the hallway.”
“I’m aware of the location.” He is very clearly not planning to leave it. “Score it.”
“...Eight.”
“Not ten?”
“You keep asking before I even finish reacting!” You huff, arms still looped around him despite your protest.
“Then react faster.” He’s completely serious about winning a hug contest against a number you made up thirty seconds ago, which somehow makes the whole thing even funnier. He pulls you back against him again, in the very specific way that says he’s not leaving until this is settled. “I have all afternoon.”
He then gives you a determined smile. “Come on, give me a ten.”
𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄
He’s got you close in the quiet of the room, one hand resting lightly against your back. There’s nothing complicated about the hug—it’s just comfortable, cozy, the kind you can settle into without thinking. You rest your head against his shoulder.
“Seven out of ten.”
His hand goes still. “...Sorry?”
“I’m giving this hug a seven.”
He actually leans back to look at you. “You’re grading me.”
“Why not?”
“I wasn’t aware this required grading.” He says it slowly, like he’s still deciding whether you’re serious or not. When your expression makes it clear that you are, his face shifts, like he’s looking over a chart that doesn’t quite make sense. “So, seven out of ten. Explain.”
“Technically solid, just a little stiff.” You tap a finger against his chest, as if marking notes on an invisible clipboard.
“Stiff.” He repeats the word like he’s not particularly pleased with the diagnosis. He doesn’t pull away, if anything, he holds you a little longer, clearly thinking it over like this is a problem he can actually solve. Then, he asks again, quieter; “Tell me what to fix.”
“That’s not really the p—”
“Tell me.” His hands stay steady against your back as he waits for an answer. “I don’t like being average at giving you comfort.”
“It’s not a medical procedure, Doctor Zayne.”
“Everything can be improved with the right method.” He draws you back in, and this time the hug feels different. His hand settles more fully against your back, and he dips his head until his cheek rests against your head. “Better?”
“...Nine.”
“Not ten?”
“You’re overthinking it now. I can feel you overthinking it.” You poke lightly at his side.
That earns the faintest huff from him, almost a laugh. It’s quiet enough that you feel it more than hear it. “I’ll want the notes later. In writing, if possible.”
You blink up at him, half sure he’s serious. “You want a hug rubric?”
“I want to not be a seven.” His arms settle around you again, like he’s already decided this is something he’ll figure out. “Help me get there.”
𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋
He’s got you tucked against the studio window, watching the half-full moon above the ocean. The whole thing feels soft and familiar, almost domestic, until you break the silence.
“Eight out of ten.”
He freezes. His hands stop halfway through whatever they were doing against your back. “Did you just rate me?”
“Mhm,” you bite back a grin, watching his expression crumble in real time, before correcting, “your hug, specifically.”
“You just rate my loving hug…” He pulls back so quickly you nearly get startled, staring at you like you’ve just delivered a devastating review of his entire body of work, “...an eight?”
“It was good! Just not perfect.” You hold your hands up in mock defense.
“Nothing I do is an eight.” He looks at you like you’ve personally betrayed him and insulted his hugging skills. “I’m a ten minimum in every category, always, that’s not ego talking, that’s just fact—”
“So prove it.” You cross your arms, egging him on.
That’s all it takes. He pulls you right back in, arms tightening immediately, and before you can even react, he presses an audible smooch to your cheek with a smug little flourish. “There. Bonus points.”
“That’s not part of a hug, that’s cheating!” You squirm, though you don’t actually pull away. How could you?
“It’s innovation.” Another kiss lands at your temple, delivered with the confidence of someone adding one last stroke to a painting. “Artists don’t follow the rules.”
“Rafayel—”
“Shh, I’m working.” He sways you both slightly, far too pleased with himself, then drops a third kiss somewhere near your jaw purely because he feels like it. “Rescore me.”
“You haven’t stopped touching me long enough for me to think.”
“Good. That’s the strategy.” He tightens his hold, cheek pressed against yours, making absolutely no effort to give you the space needed for an ‘objective evaluation’. “Now, was that an eight?”
“Mhm… ten.”
“Was that an eight, I hear?” He pretends not to hear you.
“Eleven! It was an eleven! Are you happy now?”
“Ecstatic.” He finally loosens his grip, only to steal one more kiss at the corner of your mouth, grinning the entire time. “Should’ve started there. Would’ve saved us both the trouble.”
𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒
He pulls you into his side without a word, arm slipping around your waist like he’s already decided that’s where it belongs. It’s easy and effortless, the kind of certainty that seems to follow everything he does, including a simple hug. You let your head rest against him.
“This is nice... Seven out of ten.”
There’s a beat of silence. “Come again?”
“You heard me. Seven.” You keep your tone breezy, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
“So you’re reviewing me.” He tilts his head down to look at you properly, and the smirk in his expression quickly gives way to something almost delighted, like he wasn’t expecting this, but he’s already decided he’s going to have fun with it. “Didn’t peg you for the type to grade a hug.”
“Someone’s gotta keep you humble.” You pat his chest twice, like closing a case file.
“Bold assumption that you can.” He doesn’t loosen his hold. If anything, his arm settles a little more firmly around you, casual and completely sure of itself. “Seven, though. What knocked off the points?”
“Your hands are cold.”
“Noted.” His hands do not move. “Anything else, or was that the whole review?”
“You’re not even trying to fix it.”
“Didn’t say I was trying to fix it.” A low chuckle brushes your ear, completely unbothered. There’s something smug about the way he says it that makes you want to argue just to see where he’ll take this. “I’m doing something better. My turn.”
“Your turn for what?” You narrow your eyes, already suspicious.
“To review you.” He tilts his head, looking you over like he’s already made up his mind. “Grip’s a bit loose. You keep almost pulling away, like you’re hesitating.”
“I’m not hesitating,” and you tighten your arms around him as if to prove it.
“You are.” He hums casually. “Six. For now.”
“You’re supposed to be the one under review here.” You huff, though you don’t loosen your hold either.
“We can do both.” He pulls you a little closer, chin settling on top of your head, perfectly comfortable there. “Besides, someone’s got to keep the scoring honest. You gave me a seven with a complaint in the same breath. Numbers don’t add up.”
“They add up just fine.”
“Prove it.” His voice drops, just enough to make it sound like a challenge. His arms don’t move, so you tighten your grip just to make your point, and for half a second he actually goes still, slightly caught off-guard before that familiar smugness returns. “There it is. Eight, maybe. Getting warmer.”
“You’re not letting go either, you know. You’re still a seven.”
“Never said I would.” He pats your lower back a few times. “Keep going. I’ve got time to wait for a ten.”
𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁
He wraps you up the second you’re close enough, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other rests warm against your back. It’s the same hold you always seem to melt into, familiar enough that neither of you has to think about it anymore. You hum contentedly and mumble against his collar;
“Ten out of ten.”
“Obviously.” He shrugs it off, like you’re confirming something he already knew.
“Wait, you’re not even surprised I gave your hug a rating?”
“Should I be?” He pulls back just enough to grin down at you, looking far too pleased with himself. “Experience over years, you know, like how long before you get squirmy and pretend it’s because you’re ’busy.’”
“I don’t get squirmy.”
“You are squirming right now.”
“That’s different.”
“Sure it is.” He pulls you back against him. It’s obvious he’s done this enough times to know exactly what works, and he’s clearly not tired of it. “Ten out of ten and no notes. Kind of a boring review, though.”
You pull back just enough to give him a look. “Excuse me?”
“You’ve given me the same score for months.” His tone stays lighthearted with just enough complaint to make it obvious he’s fishing for something more interesting. “I want a challenge. Give me something to improve.”
“You’re asking me to critique a perfect score.”
“I’m asking you not to let me get complacent.” His eyes narrow with interest, the expression he gets right before he does something that is probably going to be both reckless and charming. “Come on. Surprise me. What’s the next level?”
“I don’t know, variety, maybe? You do the exact same hug every single time.” You shrug, only half expecting him to take the bait.
“Say less.” He doesn’t even give you time to brace. He lifts you clean off your feet for a moment, spins you, then catches you again, pulling you in tighter and laughing at the surprised yelp that escapes you. “New variant. Rate it.”
“That’s just showing off!” You cling to his shoulders, breathless from the surprise of it.
“That’s a ten with flair.” He presses a kiss to your forehead, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Don’t tell me you didn’t like it?”
“...I liked the original just fine.”
“Liar.” He settles back into that same familiar hold anyway, the one he knows works, arms loose and warm around you. “Give it a minute, and you’ll be asking for the variant again by tomorrow.”
You already know he’s probably right. You just aren’t going to give him the satisfaction of saying so.
Hope you enjoyed this one as much as I enjoyed writing it! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝
a post will have 500 notes and only 48 of them will be reblogs. i promise you that reblogging something will not ruin your aesthetic on this utterly swagless website.
“It’s raining,” Bakugou says again for what seemed to be the umpteenth time now.
You glance up from your magazine. He’s been acting like a child all week, with the news of a typhoon that might last for a few days of landfall at best given its current speed.
“Yes, hun. It’s raining,” you agree. “Bit cold, isn’t it?”
He grumbles from where he’s standing by the window. Slumping, he drags his feet to the bed, flopping down next to you. His face finds its way to the crook of your neck, half his body coming over yours. You’ve noticed, in the two years of married life and almost eight years of knowing him, that Bakugou has a tendency to be oblivious of your personal bubble whenever he’s adamantly upset about something.
“Something wrong?” You can’t help but laugh at your question. It was silly, but you already knew the answer.
He grumbles again.
“Hm? Sorry, what was that?”
“Fuckin’ hate it when it rains,” he sighs, almost sounding like a whine.
You smile, setting your magazine aside. You shift a bit to make yourself more comfortable, your fingers finding their way to comb through his not-so-surprisingly soft hair. He even has a thorough care routine for it, leaving you surprised to see that what you assumed to be spiky and dry the first time you saw him was actually soft and healthy.
“We could watch a movie?” A huff.
“Or cook something together?” Another huff.
“Clean up the already clean apartment?” Yet another huff.
You hum. His hold on you tightens just a bit, the weight a familiar embrace. “Or we could just get some sleep again,” you told him. He shifts, and you could tell it was a tepid nod. “Yeah? Sounds good, right?”
Without having to wait too long, Bakugou falls asleep on you. He’s quick to do so because work’s been hectic lately with back-to-back patrols and endless paperwork. It’s a small blessing that there were enough heroes on duty through this weather, even if you and your husband were available for any last-minute backup.
For now, at least, he has you even when it’s raining. It’s a good time to catch up on some sleep.
👉👈 Alejandro & Rudy can’t risk losing you 🥹 thank you for doing all the vaqueros requests!
Of course! I'm always happy to do a Los Vaqueros request! Always get excited when someone pops into my inbox and asks for them specifically, or adds them onto a new imagines with the rest of 141. This one is all sweet with a touch of angst. Enjoy!
For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE
Alejandro Vargas & Rodolfo "Rudy" Parra x gn!reader
Content & Warnings: angst, mild hurt/comfort, fluff, established relationship
Word Count: 315
ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist
Night is for contemplation and deep silence. It’s sticky skin and heavy breath. It is you, tucked between the two men you love, wondering how the three of you made it here.
You are on your side, cuddled against Alejandro’s chest, head resting in the crook of his arm. Alejandro stares at the ceiling, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting across your back. Rudy is on your other side, cheek pressed to your back, hand on your hip, fingertips lightly brushing the top of Alejandro’s hand.
“You scared us,” Alejandro finally says. Rudy hums with agreement, kissing your shoulder. “Can’t do that to us.” His voice breaks on us, and you want to draw them both in, curl inside, and never leave.
“I know. I—” you swallow, and steady your racing heart, “he was right there. Slipping away. If I hadn’t stepped in his path, tried to offer him a dance or two, you wouldn’t have him in custody.”
Alejandro isn’t angry. Neither is Rudy. They’re simply tired, overworked, hunting down cartel that want to act like kings. It’s not Alejandro or Rudy’s fault that the local cartel is leaving complete destruction in their shadow. Cartels are like hydras. Cut off one head and more take its place.
Rudy’s hand slips to your inner thigh, pulling you tighter against him. “We want you safe. Out of danger. Not taking unnecessary risks.”
You were being helpful, but that’s not your place. You’re a dancer these two men have fallen in love with, and you’ve done so in kind. They are your whole world, as much as you are theirs. You wield no gun, no badge, no bullet-proof vests, no training.
Rudy continues to kiss your shoulder as Alejandro cups your cheek, going in for a kiss of his own. In this moment, you are not regretful, just happy that they are alive, and so are you.
“We can’t risk losing you,” murmurs Alejandro.
Rudy presses his face into the curve of your neck. “You mean everything to us.”
#i swear this show has spoiled me #it gave me everything i wanted and more and i never expected that #tbh een with the ‘round and golden’ i was happy to read all the theories about it being a ring but i never actually really believed it
quick bkg thoughts is his resting bitch face when he’s sitting next to you in public while you both wait for his friends to appear.
he is impatient, waiting outside beside you but he looks mad. speech marks between his furrowed eyebrows. lips twisted mid snarl and his nose scrunched. his face does it unconsciously, on level one hundred all the time. he’s barely even annoyed since he has you to keep him company.
he hunches forward in his chair under the umbrella shade. elbows on his knees, phone in hand incase any messages come through. he’s got his bag slung across his body and he’s dressed in an outfit you chose.
you can tell he’s thinking about something work related, his mind often goes there without meaning to.
so you do what he always does to you, grabbing his chin so that grumpy face looks at you.
“what?” he blurts, not rude but curious.
his pupils are quick, skimming over your face, trying to judge your expression before you can tell him. he likes what you’re wearing today and you smell lovely.
“you look angry. relax your face.”
it’s something you tell him often and in turn, it makes him think about it often. he doesn’t want you to think he looks unattractive. god forbid.
but you punctuate your comment by providing an easy solution, kissing his lips in public and immediately everything goes doiwn.
the snarl, the frown, his nose.
you’re both not one for public displays of affection, but whenever you want it he welcomes it.
as you’re pulling away, he gives you another peck, like you’re playing a game and now it’s equal score. you let go of his chin so he can roughly (and quite dramatically) rub his face as if it’s an error he needs to erase.
“didn’t even realise i was doin’ it. fuck. sorry.”
you pout at the apology. he’s adorable when he doesn’t mean to be.
“i do love the face, don’t get me wrong. you just look like my guard dog and that’s not the vibe i’m going for today,” you laugh to yourself.
bakugou gives you his full attention as you lean back in your chair. he twirls his phone in one hand between his thumb and pointer finger.
“what’s the vibe you’re goin’ for?” the word vibe isn’t really in bakugou’s vocabulary.
“my gorgeous boyfriend beside me in his cute little outfit.”
bakugou raises his eyebrows. he likes that. he likes when you compliment him, claim him, put words in sentences he’s never heard anyone use for him before. he exhales deeply out his nose.
“i can do that,” he sits up, fixes his posture and even drags your chair closer to his. “we’re matchin’ too.”
his khaki button down shirt matches your khaki bra straps under your white cami top.
“i know! it’s like you only realise if you’re paying attention!”
many people walking by have. you and bakugou aren’t a couple people ignore.
