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an: can you believe i've never written for this character before? the request asked for it to be smutty...technically it is? just more so subtly written. hope it's good for whoever requested this.
requested kiss challenge: charlie hunnam + morning kiss
pairing: william "ironhead" miller x reader | words: 1.1K | rating: 💙
sum: when he returns home, william finds there's a new tenant in 32 B.
William Miller takes his coffee black—always has.
When you're stuck on patrol in a foreign land—far from home—you're not awarded the luxury of stopping for a latte or adding cream and sugar to your cup. You take coffee how you get it, merely grateful for the boost. Scheduled shifts often ran hours over.
Even once the shift was over, you couldn't truly sleep. You didn't want to. For when you're in a battle zone, you don't sleep—not peacefully. You dream of the same horrors you've seen when your eyes are open. So, you drink as much coffee as you can to avoid sleeping. Once your body does finally crash, your mind is shut off. Exhaustion powers you down, granting you a few hours of soundless sleep. Only for the process to repeat once you are shaken awake for your next shift.
Upon the return home, the habit stuck.
William Miller takes his coffee black—always has.
That does not stop him from knocking on the red door of 32 B at seven this morning. He knew doing so would make him late to work—and you for that matter—but he didn't care. If you're going to be late—for any occasion—it should be for a great reason.
Seeing you is the best reason William can find.
The chipped blue mug, which had accompanied his smile upon his arrival, has long been abandoned. The dark liquid inside, no longer hot. Ice cold in comparison to the heat which has overtaken your skin.
"Got some sugar to spare?" He'd grinned as you opened the door, half asleep in your t-shirt.
It is a simple question—a neighborly question.
Neighbors share sugar—amongst countless things. Such as smiles and phrases of praise. Or phrases of praise which have slowly begun to turn into terms of endearment. But never quite seem to appear that way when you're entangled with each other.
This morning, his are lost against the warmth of your neck and shoulder— a feeble and half-hearted attempt of not waking your sleeping roommate. The shirt he'd taken the time to press the night before is wrinkled. His recently brushed hair is disheveled. The fingers gripping the thick blond strands encourage him to quicken the pace of his hips.
With the sun rising—the warm glow orange—against your lids, you know the silent request won't be satisfied. Mornings with William Miller are slow—purposefully so.
Each movement, each kiss, each chuckle, meant to linger in your mind for the remainder of the day. No matter how strong-willed you claim to be—keeping the man who lives beneath your apartment—out of your mind throughout a workday is an impossible task.
When William makes a point to kiss you the way he does.
Soft and warm, lips lingering against the curves of your shoulders and neck. The words William manages to speak are low—breathless—as his lips ghost along your jaw. He covers every inch of skin he can reach, leaving your lips cold because he knows it's where you wish for him to kiss you the most.
Each movement, each kiss, each chuckle, linger in your mind for the remainder of the day.
Until they are erased by a night with William Miller.
Nights with William Miller are rough—often fueled by a cocktail of stress, inescapable memories, and the foolish notion he isn't becoming dependent on your company.
It is part of a cycle. One the two of you did not know would happen the morning your paths initially crossed.
A box in your hands as you scaled the steps. The shitty elevator was under maintenance—something you have come to learn is a permanent statement.
Will was fresh off a flight. His body and mind bogged down by the foolish and greed-driven events in South America. You'd offered him a warm smile in your passing as he fumbled with his keys.
He was subjected to a knock on his door a few minutes later. William had planned on ignoring the sound. A hot shower and the thought of sleeping in his bed seemed far more appealing than entertaining a neighbor. Yet the knock was quite persistent.
He'd opened the door with the sole purpose of telling whoever was there to leave, but then he found you.
The soft smile and warm eyes he found waiting set the hook.
William Miller didn't bother interacting with his neighbors.
What was the point?
They often all looked at him the same.
Half admiration—for a man who has served their country and seen the horrors he has seen can only evoke respect from those who have never walked in his shoes.
The other half was a strange mixture of pity and fear—for a man who has served their country and seen the horrors he has seen can never come back home the way he left. He may appear fine on the outside, but the damage he's endured for the sake of defending his country can never truly leave him right. For everyone has heard the stories of men—both young and old—who have returned home plagued by visions and nightmares.
All of his neighbors knew the story of why William's fiancé had left.
Although she had left the building, William remained. Neighbors who once smiled at him in passing now resulted in a simple nod and a smile. None lingered in the stairwell for conversations as they once had. Out of fear they may end up on the wrong end of the deal when he relapsed into a episode of PTSD.
Maybe it was the smile you had given him that first day—or the simple fact he never saw pity or fear in your eyes when you looked his way—but Will was unable to stay away from you ever since.
"Got some sugar to spare?" The innocent question you had asked him that first morning.
He did not have any. But, Will found himself stopping by the store later in the evening. The next day, he stopped by your apartment. Overthinking prompted him to leave the fresh bag of sugar, and a welcome note, on the mat outside your door. The simple gesture would spark a cycle.
One where William Miller found himself answering the door each time you knocked. Where he stopped by your apartment on his return home from work, and he smiled as your eyes met his. A cycle where a simple friendship blossomed into something more. Something neither of you has bothered to label—for once you begin to label such things it only breeds complication.
Something which has trapped you between William Miller and your refrigerator door.
Heartbeat returned to normal. A soft smile on your lips as his playful blue eyes meet your gaze.
"You should go."
Will's brow arches. A grin settling across his lips as he considers your advice.
"I'm already late," he chuckles. His fingers toy with the hem of the t-shirt you wear. His eyes drop to the blue faded fabric. "Besides—I still haven't gotten my shirt back."
"Is that what you came up here for? I thought it was to borrow some sugar."
Will doesn't bother feeding into the teasing statement. He knows he's run out of excuses.
What excuse can a man have for climbing the flight of stairs to their neighbor's apartment for the third morning in a single week?
He saves you both from listening to a poor excuse by ducking down.
"You know..." The smile which presses against your lips is contagious. Yours grows as a second kiss is pressed against your lips. This one lingers, Will's body relaxing against yours as your fingers slip into his hair. "One of these days, you might actually leave with some sugar. Or everyone might start to think you like me."
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