Summary: You can’t sleep. Loki can’t sleep without you.
Detective Loki x Female!Reader
Word count: 1992
Warnings: None, really. Fluff. Needy Loki. You can tell he’s hurting a bit. Possibly being pathetic? Idk. I’m so tired. Had to get this out. Like 1 sexual innuendo. Just some nice feels on this Jan 1 night.
Note: Reader is ALWAYS 18+, and always a consenting adult relationship. Minors DNI, even if there’s no smut. I did not proofread this and I’m sleep deprived. I’m sitting on my bathroom floor cleaning writing and pretending this is me. This might not make any sense, idk, idc. HAPPY NEW YEAR! 🎈
Loki considers himself a light sleeper. Knows all the noises in the apartment. The way the wind whistles through the loose sash lock where rust’s done a number on it. The thunk of the freezer dropping seven cubes of ice because that’s all he takes, so that’s all there’s room for. He counts. Every time. The jarring crack of the floor settling exactly three steps outside of the bedroom door at two fifty-one each morning.
David’s a light sleeper.
…
…
With the exception of working seventy-eight hours in a row, chasing dead leads and working with infuriatingly low IQ individuals.
Tonight, sleep’s less of a necessity, and more of a near death experience in his nonexistence.
Tonight, David doesn’t hear the bed creak as you slip from it.
Doesn’t bolt up when the floor squeaks under your weight, bare feet padding towards the door in practiced stealth from too many nights waking him.
Doesn’t move a muscle or change breath when you leave, the door squeaking shut behind you, eager to betray your escape.
The digital clock on the nightstand clicks to 3:03 a.m.
With it, David’s eyes snap open. The reorientation to consciousness is abrupt and cold, brows cinching with an immediate focus. Over the plush of the pillow his face is smashed in, Loki reaches blind over the bed. No warmth. No body. No indication of you.
The sheets pool to his hips as he sits up. Moonlight spills in thin shafts from the blinds, cutting him in silvery light, shadows, and sleep-hot skin. The chiseled muscle of his back knots, exactly between his shoulder blades where he carries tension. Alert. Silent. Breath stifled in attempt to hear you.
Nothing. For ten seconds.
That’s nine seconds too long.
Muscle memory pulling action before thoughts can, Loki’s out of bed. Feet quiet. Maneuvering over every memorized floorboard that holds his weight without sound. His eyes slip to the off-duty piece on the nightstand. One singular step, he passes it. Being paranoid, right? No one’s here. No one but them. You’re… somewhere. Doing… something. God knows what, but something.
…
…
What if?
That’s not a risk he’s willing to take, when protection’s sitting idle in arm’s reach.
He snatches it, low in his hand, barrel at the ground.
The door opens in sections, inch by inch, until light spills from the other room and over his face. Then enough room for his shoulder. Then the other. Soft clatter comes from the kitchen, followed by your whispered expletives. They’re creative, really. If it wasn’t such an ungodly hour, if he didn’t exist as the personification of death currently, David might even compliment you on it.
No time for that. He needs eyes on you—now.
You’re out of sight. You’re out of reach. That means you’re out of his field of control. Not in the sense of inhibiting or governing you, but in matters of protecting you.
Armed, half-naked, and disoriented to the point of hallucination, Loki sweeps through the apartment with his back against the walls. No surprises, no room for error.
Then, finally…
There you are.
The mere sight of you—back to him, putting the entire force of your weight into scrubbing a pan, water dripping from the counter to the floor—deflates his chest.
In the safety of being unseen, David smears a hand over his face. Opens his eyes with a sluggish, disjointed fit of tics. Without a sound, deliberate in his handling, Loki abandons the piece on the sofa table.
Hands free, all yours now, still without your awareness, Loki indulges in the art of candid observation. Always assessing and gathering information, even when he should only be present in the moment.
A concoction of cleaning bottles line the kitchen counters. Glass cleanser. Disinfectant. Something that promises it’s highly effective with essential oils, and lists about twenty things it’s good for. Fabric spray. Two rolls of paper towels both actively used, definitely unnecessary, both lost amidst the tufts of garbage bags. The duster lays on the tile like a soldier fallen to your insomnia. May it rest in peace.
The shirt you wear is one of his. It almost makes him cringe. The shirt—not you. Fucking Megadeath, of all bands (Megadeath fucks, okay? Fuck off). Comfortably worn, from a time he doesn’t care to talk about, but can’t bear parting with because if he owns it… it’s his. That means something.
It means something to have something nice, to keep it nice, and keep it even when the threads start to thin and the color fades.
It’s his.
He never had many things that belonged to him.
Now you’re in it.
You’re his.
The hem brushes your thighs, hiking just enough to expose the sleep shorts beneath. Sleep doesn’t dishevel your hair, but your stress does. The fit of insomnia bleeding out of you in each scrub, every spray of a bottle, and every frantic dusting.
In his boxer briefs, solid black, no bullshit, Loki looks around the apartment like he’s the intruder. For once, he’s unsure where to step. What to do, what to say. Never’s been the best with talking, social interaction.
So…
Leaning on the wall next to him, the broom offers him a solution. Raking a hand through his hair to tame it, he grabs the it. Through the sleep deprived haywire in his face, Loki begins to sweep across the room. The bristles catch in whispered rasps on the floor.
The sound startles you, and you whirl around in your cleaning frenzy.
“David?” Soap suds on your arms, a hike in your brows that comes as apology. “Did I wake you up? I’m so sorry. I was trying to be quiet.”
David shakes his head, collecting a pile equivalent to nothing because it seems you beat him to this spot. “Can’t sleep without you in bed.”
You lean back against the counter with an exhale of relief, but your eyes track down. “I needed to get up. I was going stir crazy.”
“Good thing I woke up.” He doesn’t look at you yet. “Could’ve found you unconscious on the ground from all this shit.” The very corner of his mouth twitches.
That’s your sign. You breathe a halfhearted laugh, shoulders coming to ease from the tension. “Yeah. Yeah, probably.” You palm at your eye, smile sheepish.
“Activity makes insomnia worse. You’re engaging your brain.”
“I know. I tried the couch, tea, even took melatonin… Didn’t help. I had to do something with my hands before I exploded.”
David nods his understanding, the broom halting. His eyes stare through the floor, and you stare at him.
Circles so dark they bruise sag under his eyes. The slump in his shoulders carries more than any man should. The muscle under his skin jumps involuntarily, different places, different triggers, just enough to be noticed. He scratches the side of his neck, middle fingertip over the tattooed star you insist on kissing like it’s your mouth’s personal landing pad.
“Place looks great,” he says, rough, sincere.
“Thank you,” you murmur, heavy with the tangibility of his internal conflict, hushed with the delicacy of the hour.
“You didn’t have to.”
“I know. I wanted to.”
“Thank you.”
“For what? I live here too.”
“Feels like I barely do.”
“David… I get it. I do. I knew what this was going to be before I moved in.”
When his eyes finally lift, they meet yours without hesitation. The hoarseness of his voice says more than his words can, throat scraped raw from commanding orders, interrogations, nonstop confrontation for days on end. “Come to bed.”
That’s all he says.
Three words.
A desperation disguised as a request.
It’s enough to make your feet shuffle forward, hands raising to find him, feel him.
The instant your hands bracket his face, a shaky breath ratchets him down a few notches. The warmth of your palms, the pressure of your skin on his, it undoes him. Always does. Loki drops his forehead to yours, eyes shut, brows pinched. You mirror without thinking, falling into his orbit: your place of safety.
The broom clatters to the floor.
His hands find your waist, drawing you against him. The shirt to his bare chest, your hips fit against his, perfectly balanced like two halves cut from a whole.
Old habit of restraining his words—had no one that cared to listen when he grew up—his lips part and struggle to find what he has to say. “…Come to bed.” All he can manage, a rasp through his voice.
“Hey. I’m here. I’m here, David. I’ll come to bed. I’m coming to bed with you.”
Through a short nod, David finds your mouth. Slots it with his quietly, desperately, breathing you in, tasting the flowery chamomile you drank. It’s a short kiss, but it’s a plea. Without words, he’s begging.
Come to bed. Come to bed. Come to bed. Be with me. Choose me. I don’t want to be alone.
When he leaves your mouth, he doesn’t go far. Every breath, his lips graze yours. Unhurried, but consuming, recycling the oxygen you give him so he can find center.
You share a whispered exchange, his exhaustion ebbing to the recognition of time spent apart. Time you were alone.
“You okay?” He murmurs, unwilling to open his eyes when he tastes peace in your breath.
“I’m fine, D. I’m good. Just another bout of insomnia, I’ll be okay.”
“Nothing on your mind?”
“No, nothing. I was just trying to exhaust myself. That’s all.”
“…Got a better way to do that.”
The laughter you give fans his mouth enough to make his flit, but the smile doesn’t fully. That’s a rare thing—and that’s okay. That’s David.
“How was your week?”
“David.”
“Go okay? Anything happen at work?”
“David.”
“Are the fumes making your head hurt, too?”
“David—” but you’re laughing, and it’s a soft sound appropriate for the dead of night. “How about this…” Your arms loop around his neck. David’s hands splay over the small of your back, keeping you in place, every inch in line with his. “Whenever you decide to wake up tomorrow, we’ll get some coffee in you, some real food, then we’ll talk about our week. How’s that sound?”
“Perfect.”
It is perfect.
You’re perfect.
The mattress groans as you both settle in. David slips in behind you, body heat climbing beneath the layers of blankets. Moonlight stripes the room, your two bodies molded together, both going pliant when his arm drapes over you. Safety, love, comfort.
The duster stays on the floor.
So does the broom.
The cleaning supplies will wait until tomorrow.
The crust on the pan will still be there to irk you.
The crumb under the stove will somehow inch further back.
The duster will leave the scene having seen better days.
You’ll wake up feeling groggy, but you’ll wake up with David’s arm around you.
You’ll wake up to sunlight, the warmth of his skin, the addictive smell of his body heat and sleep-heavy musk.
Tomorrow, you’ll wake up in the bed you love, with the person you love, and it’s going to be perfect, because…
Well…
He loves you, too.
What’s his—and it isn’t much, but it’s all he has—is yours.
What’s yours, is his—so you told him.
How can he offer something that compares?
You’ve given yourself to him.
Words can’t express how it feels to be wanted. To be loved.
When words fail, his body talks.
Loki tugs you in until you’re flush against him. Your back to his chest. Where your knees bend, his follow. Where your chest rises with breath, his replicates.
With his hand over your chest, thumb stroking the weathered cotton, David nestles his nose in your hair. Your hand covers his, fingers curling over one of his. You match the cycle of your breath to his, but he’s following your lead.
Soon, his breath evens out. His body surrenders to sleep, heavy and warm. You drift a minute later, wrapped in the happiest place you’ve known, and you’re glad you came to bed.
⌕When he first started to work with you, he was very professional and awkward. A tight lip smiled after you said a joke. It wasn’t that he didn’t find you funny; he just didn’t laugh easily.
⌕Surprisingly, he didn’t underestimate you, which was the first clue to you that he didn’t dislike you. He gave you the same amount of work as he did, sometimes even more than himself when he felt sick. You noticed this about a month into working with him. He didn’t question if you could handle it or not; he just gave it to you and expected you to say something if it was too hard for you. You talked a lot; he knew you would say something.
⌕You were the only person to visit him in the hospital while he was awake. He had noticed that after an intense case, everyone seemed more on edge around him, except you. You rambled on about what was happening at work and how the victims were doing. And when he asked where everyone was, you didn’t have the heart to tell him they were nervous around him now, and said that you didn’t know, but they had visited. Even though you knew it wouldn’t hurt his feelings, it hurt yours.
⌕David grew a soft spot for you the first time you were injured on a case. It wasn’t bad, a knife cut along her forearm, it wasn’t even that deep, but he was beyond anxious you would bleed out or something from how long the cut was. He didn’t run after the suspect when it happened, even though you were screaming at him to catch him and even tried to run after him yourself. He caught you and tried to force you into the car, but eventually with enough resilience, she got away and got close enough to him to tase the suspect. Later he apologized for being irrational about the situation.
⌕David wasn’t dumb. He had suspicions you liked him more than just as a friend when he gave you a cookie for Valentine’s Day (nervously and begrudgingly), and you blushed like a teenager. He acted super nonchalant about it, shrugging his shoulders as he gave it to you, saying it was from a coupon and he didn’t really enjoy sugar cookies. He was lying. He spent 10 minutes picking out the frosting design and flavor for you.
⌕He started doing little things you didn’t notice, making sure to park away from puddles on your side, opening doors for you. He didn’t pay for dinner whenever they went together on lunch; they always split, but he always did insist on tipping the waitress out of his pocket instead of splitting the tipping. It’s not like he didn’t want to pay for you; he just didn’t want you to know about his romantic interest in you.
⌕He caught you staring at him often, your guys’ desks right next to her due to being partners. You once shrugged it off as needing the paperwork he was looking at, even though he always printed an extra copy for you. He didn’t mention the loophole to your lie, simply handing his to you and taking the copy on your desk while staring at you. One of his more bolder moves he felt was appropriate to do.
Summary: She’s starting to get a little fed up with having such a pretty boyfriend.
Consider Donating: Here
“Babe, stop glaring at the waitress.”
“Maybe she shouldn’t be hiking up her tits every time she comes over to the table.”
David sighed into his beer, the sound long-suffering but not annoyed. If anything, there was something fond in it. This was, unfortunately, a fairly common occurrence whenever David went out anywhere. It did not matter that his girlfriend was usually with him. Or that her zodiac sign was tattooed on his left ring finger, etched into his skin with more permanence than most people ever bothered with.
She was always watching women flirt with her boyfriend.
The waitress came back a moment later, all smiles and leaning a little too far forward, asking David if he needed anything else. David did not even look up at first, fingers idly spinning the condensation ring on his glass.
“No,” he said, flat and polite. Then, because he was David Loki and incapable of not being deliberate, he added, “We’re good. Thanks.”
We.
The waitress lingered half a second longer than necessary before retreating. His girlfriend huffed, arms crossing over her chest.
“I swear to God,” she muttered, “one day I’m going to start barking.”
David snorted despite himself. “You do that, I’m absolutely recording it.”
She shot him a look. “This isn’t funny.”
That made him look at her fully then. Really look. Her jaw was tight, eyes sharp, irritation sitting just beneath the surface. Not jealousy exactly, not the kind rooted in insecurity, but exhaustion. The kind that came from being constantly reminded that other people saw what was hers and felt entitled to acknowledge it.
David leaned back in his chair, studying her the way he studied crime scenes— careful, thorough, intent on understanding.
“You wanna tell me what this is really about?” he asked.
She hesitated, then exhaled sharply. “I’m just… tired, David. Everywhere we go, someone’s got something to say. A look. A comment. A linger. Like I’m invisible.”
His brow furrowed instantly. “You’re not invisible.”
“That’s not the point and you know it.”
She dropped her gaze to the table, fingers picking at the edge of her napkin. “I didn’t sign up to be dating the precinct heartthrob.”
David blinked. Then barked out a laugh. “The what?”
“Don’t play dumb,” she said. “You know what people say about you. You know how they look at you.”
He leaned forward now, forearms on the table, voice quieter. “I know how you look at me.”
“Yeah, well. I’m not the one blatantly flirting with you while your girlfriend’s sitting right there,” came her scoff.
David’s jaw tightened, something darker flashing behind his eyes. “Hey.”
She looked up at him then, caught by the edge in his tone.
“That’s not on me,” he said firmly. “And it sure as hell isn’t on you.”
There was a beat of silence between them, the low hum of the bar filling the space.
“You think I don’t notice?” he continued. “You think I don’t see it happen? Every time?”
Her shoulders slumped just a fraction. “Then why don’t you say something?”
“Because I don’t owe them anything,” David said. “And because I don’t want to make you uncomfortable by turning every night out into a confrontation.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it again.
David reached across the table then, fingers wrapping around her wrist, grounding. “Listen to me.”
Her eyes darted up to his hesitantly, but enjoyed the comfort of his hold.
“I don’t flirt back,” he said. “I don’t encourage it. I don’t even entertain it. Because I go home with you. I wake up with you. I chose you.”
Her throat bobbed.
“And that tattoo,” he added, lifting his left hand slightly so she could see it. “That wasn’t a joke. That wasn’t a whim. That was me saying, ‘This is my person,’ in a way that doesn’t wash off.”
Her expression softened, frustration giving way to something more vulnerable. “It just feels like I have to share you with the entire damn world.”
David smiled faintly. “You don’t.”
She raised an eyebrow. “No?”
“No,” he said. “Because they don’t get me. They get a look. A fantasy. You get the reality.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
He stood, tossing some cash onto the table. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“Home,” David said, already pulling her up with him. “I need to remind you of something.”
The ride back was quiet, tension buzzing low but different now, charged instead of sharp. When they stepped into the apartment, David kicked the door shut behind them and backed her up against it gently, one hand braced beside her head.
She swallowed, “David.”
He leaned in, voice low, dangerous in that calm way of his. “Do you know how many people think they know me?”
She shook her head.
“Hundreds,” he said. “And not a single one of them knows how you sound when you laugh at stupid shit. Or how you steal the blankets. Or how you look at me like I’m something worth keeping.”
Her hands slid up his chest, fingers curling into his shirt. “You’re really laying it on thick.”
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Because you need to hear it.”
He kissed her then; slow, sure, unhurried. The kind of kiss that was not about proving anything to anyone else. Just about them. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers.
“You’re the one I want,” he said quietly. “You’re the one I go home to. Anyone else can look. That’s all they get.”
A small smile tugged at her lips. “So I don’t need to bark?”
He smirked. “Only if you want to.”
She laughed then, finally, tension breaking. David kissed her again, deeper this time, hands settling at her waist like he knew exactly where they belonged.
And if anyone else thought he was a heartthrob? That was their problem.
He was hers. And damn proud to show it off. With the marks the next morning to show for it.
Chapter Summary: David Wayne Loki has always felt like a prisoner to his past, but being with you makes him believe it doesn’t have to hold him.
Series Masterlist
Word count: 8.3k
Warnings: I don’t even know anymore y'all? Fluff! Lots of fluff, little bit of angst, (I think that's it, let me know if i forgot anything)
A/N: gifs credit: @sweeetestcurse 🫶. Apparently there’s a scene in Prisoners where Loki flashes his badge and we can see his middle name and apparently his full name is David Wayne Loki. (According to google) I rewatched it and can’t see it but oh well. At one point there was another author on Tumblr who used his middle name but i cant remember who.
Now that the series has been published in full and because I’m dramatic, I’m revealing the lyrics that inspired the title and content of this series below:
“I don't bother anyone// Never make demands// Chokin' on the circumstance/ Self-sabotage is a sweet romance/ Seems like all I'm worth is/ what I'm able to withstand// Sooner I can realize/that pain is just a middleman/// I see no volunteers to cosign on my fears/ I'll sign on the line/ Alone, you're gonna change my circumstance”
David Loki didn’t have a lot of experience being loved well.
He’d known attachment, expectation, even obligation—but this? This steady, intentional, chosen kind of love she gave him? It got under his skin in a way nothing else ever had.
What struck him most wasn’t just that she stayed.
It was how she stayed. She didn’t love him quietly from a distance, like she was waiting for him to become easier, softer, more convenient. She loved him right where he was—on the hard days, the quiet days, the days where he didn’t have much to give.
She loved him.
That part still caught him off guard sometimes.
The way she looked at him when he was rambling about a case, fully locked in, mind racing. The way she smiled at his dry, half-muttered comments. The way she reached for him—casual, instinctive, like touching him was the most natural thing in the world.
There was no hesitation in her. No hidden scale he was being measured against. Just… choice. Every day.
And David, being who he was, he didn’t just feel that—he observed it. Noted the pattern. Tested it quietly, without meaning to. He’d pull back sometimes, not fully, but just enough to see if she followed.
She always did.
Not in a way that crowded him—in a way that met him, matched him, and reminded him: I’m still here.
At first, it made him uneasy. He kept waiting for the shift. The moment where the consistency broke, where something changed, where she decided he was too much or not enough.
But it never came.
And slowly… that fear started to loosen its grip. Not disappear entirely. He wasn’t built that way.
Because she didn’t just say she wouldn’t leave. She proved it in a hundred small, quiet ways.
And that… changed him.
More than he expected.
More than he wanted to admit.
David Loki was deeply, hopelessly devoted to her.
And it terrified him at first because he couldn’t believe he felt this way. Couldn’t believe he was capable of loving someone this much—this completely. There was no exit strategy in it, no contingency plan. Just her.
Just them.
He found himself watching her sometimes—really watching her—and thinking, almost disoriented by it: How did I get here?
How did he end up loving someone this deeply? The man who built ten foot walls around his heart? The man who swore he'd end up alone...
But once he stopped fighting it… once he let himself feel it fully—
He understood. He understood why people did reckless, crazy things for love. Why they crossed lines, took risks, made impossible choices.
Because if it meant her being safe? If it meant her being okay?
There wasn’t a question.
He would do anything.
He would stand between her and whatever tried to hurt her. He would take the hit, take the fall, take the consequences. He would lay down his own life without hesitation if it came to that.
And the wildest part?
It felt… obvious.
Natural, like the most certain thing he’d ever known.
Because loving her wasn’t something he had to brace himself against anymore. It was something he stepped into. Something he chose—just like she chose him.
And it made him want to be better.
Not for show, not to earn her, but because she made him see himself differently.
She saw him as dependable, steady. Worth choosing.
And instead of rejecting that—like he might have once—he started trying to live up to it.
He caught himself thinking before reacting. Slowing down instead of shutting down. Staying present in moments where he would’ve withdrawn before.
He started confronting things he’d buried for years—not all at once, not dramatically, but in pieces. Letting her see more. Letting himself see more because she wasn’t afraid of those parts. So maybe… he didn’t have to be either.
And the fear—the constant, underlying fear that she would leave, that this would disappear the second he leaned into it too much—It didn’t control him the way it used to. Every time it surfaced, there was evidence against it.
Her choosing him—again, and again, and again.
For David Loki, loving her wasn’t just about what she gave him, It was about what she awakened in him too; a man who didn’t run. Didn’t shut down. Didn’t expect the worst. A man who could stand still, look at something good—something real—and believe, without flinching:
This is mine.
And I would protect it with everything I have.
And I’m not letting it go.
----
you were hoping David would propose soon, which is what you initially thought when you notice a change in David’s routine, in his habits.
It starts small. At first, it’s just a couple late nights, maybe he was working overtime to pay for the ring, or maybe he was planning something to do with the proposal.
But then it turns into missed dinners. Shorter texts. The kind of distracted “yeah, I’m listening” that tells you he isn’t—not really.
David’s always worked a lot. You know that.
But this feels… different.
—
You’re sitting on the couch when he gets home one night, the clock pushing past ten. The TV is on, but you haven’t been watching it. Not really.
The second the door opens, your chest tightens.
“Hey,” he says, like always—low, tired, already shrugging off his jacket.
You study him.
There’s something worn into his posture, something heavier than just a long shift. But he doesn’t look at you long enough for you to figure out what it is.
“You’re late,” you say.
Not accusing.
Just… stating it.
“Yeah,” he replies, heading toward the kitchen. “Got held up.”
Again.
You nod slowly, even though he isn’t looking.
“Dinner’s in the fridge,” you add. “I kept it warm as long as I could.”
“Thanks.”
Short. Automatic.
It shouldn’t sting.
But it does.
—
It builds over days.
A week.
Two.
He’s gone more. Quieter when he is home. Distracted. Always somewhere else in his head.
And you start filling in the blanks.
Because that’s what people do when they don’t have answers.
Maybe I’m too much.Maybe he’s realizing this isn’t what he wants.Maybe… there’s someone else.
That last one makes your stomach twist.
You hate that your mind even goes there.
But the distance? Him pulling away? It feels real.
—
One night, it finally spills over.
He comes in late again—later than usual this time. You’re still up, sitting at the kitchen table instead of the couch.
Waiting.
He pauses when he sees you.
“…Hey,” he says, slower this time. Cautious.
“Hi.”
Your voice is tight, and he hears it immediately.
His brows pull together slightly. “Everything okay?”
And that—
That almost makes you laugh.
You push back from the table, standing. “Are you okay?”
He blinks, caught off guard. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”
You shake your head, letting out a breath that’s been building for days.
“Because you’re never here anymore, David.”
That lands.
He stills.
“I am here,” he says, a little more firmly.
“No, you’re not,” you push back, voice wavering despite your effort to keep it steady. “Not really. You come home late, you barely talk to me, you’re always somewhere else—”
“I’ve just been busy,” he cuts in.
“With what?” you ask, sharper now. “Because you won’t tell me.”
Silence.
And that silence?
It feels like confirmation of every fear you’ve been trying not to believe.
Your throat tightens.
“…Is it me?” you ask, quieter now. “Did I—did I do something? Am I just… too much for you?”
His head snaps up. “What? No.”
But you keep going, because now it’s out and you can’t stop it.
“Or is there someone else?” you say, the words barely above a whisper, but they hit like a gunshot in the quiet room.
That does it.
“Hey—no,” he says immediately, stepping closer. “No, that’s not—”
“Then what is it?” you ask, voice cracking now. “Because I feel like I’m losing you and you won’t even tell me why.”
He stops a few feet in front of you, like he doesn’t want to crowd you but also doesn’t want to stay away.
For a second, he just looks at you.
Really looks at you.
And something in his expression shifts—guilt, heavy and immediate.
He exhales slowly, dragging a hand over the back of his neck.
“I’ve been going to classes,” he says.
You blink. “What?”
“For work. Firearms advancement,” he clarifies, voice low. “A couple other things. Evaluations. Paperwork.”
Your confusion deepens. “Why?”
He hesitates—just for a second—then forces himself to keep going.
“Trying to clean up my record,” he says. “Trying to show I've learned from my mistakes- like the Dover case with Bob Taylor..complaints from people, stuff that’s… been sitting there.”
Your breath catches slightly. “David…”
“I want to go into state,” he continues, like if he stops, he won’t be able to finish. “Been working toward it.”
That wasn’t what you expected. At all.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” you ask, softer now.
He lets out a quiet, humorless breath. “Because I didn’t know if I could actually pull it off.”
There it is. That fear again. Failure. Not being enough.
“I didn’t want to get your hopes up,” he adds. “Or mine.”
You take a small step closer. “But… why now?”
He looks at you then—really looks.
And his voice softens in a way that makes your chest ache.
“Because of you.”
You go still.
He swallows, like the next part costs him something.
“You moved here for me,” he says. “Left your friends, your family, your home. And I keep thinking—what if one day you want that back? What if you miss it and I’ve got nothing to offer you except… this?”
Your throat tightens.
“So I figured,” he continues, quieter now, “if I can get into Pennsylvanie State Police… we could move. Closer to where you’re from. You’d have the option. You wouldn’t feel stuck here because of me.”
The room feels very still and very quiet. All those nights. All that distance. And this is why.
“You’ve been doing all this… for me?” you whisper your voice catching as your eyes search his face.
He shakes his head slightly. “For us.” he says, taking both your hands in his.
Your eyes well again, but this time it isn’t from hurt. It’s something deeper. Something that aches in a different way—the realization of how much he’s been carrying on his own, how quietly he’s been thinking about you, protecting you, planning for you without ever making it about himself.
“Dave…” you breathe, your voice unsteady as you step closer, closing the space between you until there’s nowhere else to go. Your hands rise, cupping his face gently, thumbs brushing against his skin as you try to steady yourself.
His eyes flicker over your face, searching, uncertain, like he’s bracing for your reaction.
“I know that you said you’re okay living here,” he murmurs, quieter now, almost vulnerable. “I just… wanted you to have options.”
That’s when it breaks.
Your arms wrap around him suddenly, tightly, pulling him into you with everything you have, like you’re trying to hold onto the feeling as much as the person. Your face presses into him, and a few tears slip free as your grip tightens.
“That’s the most thoughtful thing anyone’s ever done for me,” you manage, voice muffled against him, shaking with emotion.
Your arms stay wrapped around him, like letting go would somehow undo the moment, your fingers clutching lightly at the back of his shirt as you try to steady your breathing. A few quiet tears still linger, but now they feel different—full, warm, overwhelmed in the best way.
You pull back just enough to look up at him, your hands still resting against his chest. “How… how can I ever thank you for something like this?”
David’s expression softens immediately. He lifts a hand, brushing his thumb gently under your eye, catching a tear before it can fall further.
“You don’t have to thank me,” he says quietly. His hand lingers at your cheek, steady and grounding.
A small breath leaves him, almost like he’s choosing the words carefully. “I did it because it matters to me that you feel safe… that you feel like you have choices.”
His gaze holds yours, firm but gentle, something certain settling behind his eyes now.
“And I need you to know something,” he adds, voice softer but more assured. “No matter what changes, no matter where we are…”
His hand slides slightly, resting more fully against your cheek as his thumb brushes there again.
“I’ll always choose you.” The words leave him quietly, but they carry weight—steady, certain, like something he’s known all along and is only now giving voice to. “You’re it for me.”
There’s no hesitation in him when he says it. No doubt, no wavering—just a calm, unwavering truth that settles in the space between you like it belongs there.
You look up at him, eyes still glassy, your hands resting lightly against him as you take him in. Your voice comes out soft, but firm in its own way.
“You’re it for me too, David. No one else—just you. You’re the one.”
A quiet breath leaves him, something in his expression shifting—softening, easing, like those words reach a place he doesn’t always let himself show.
And then he smiles.
Not the teasing kind, not the guarded one—but something deeper, more genuine, fuller. The kind of smile that comes when everything inside him settles at once, warm and certain and real.
For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.
Because he feels it—completely, quietly, fully— he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.
Later that evening, he’s got his arm around you, fingers absentmindedly tracing along your sleeve.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper.
“For what?” he questions, looking over at you.
“For assuming the worst…” you trail off, shaking your head.
He exhales, “I’m sorry too,” he says. “I didn't mean for it to come off as me pulling away.”
“I should've talked to you about it sooner, instead of letting it snowball.”
“It's alright, babe. Promise.” he assures.
A pause.
“I didn’t just do it for moving,” he says after a while.
You tilt your head slightly, looking up at him. “The state police?”
He nods once.
There’s another pause—then he exhales, like he’s committing to something.
“It’s a lot of things,” he admits.
You don’t interrupt. You’ve learned that with him—if you give him space, he’ll fill it.
“Pay’s better,” he starts, almost brushing it off. “Benefits too. More… stable.” His jaw shifts slightly. “Means we don’t have to worry as much. About bills. About a house, you know..different things we want.”
You soften at that, but stay quiet, letting him keep going.
“Schedule might be better,” he adds. “Still work, still cases—but not… like this.” He gestures vaguely, like he doesn’t have the words for the chaos he lives in now. “Might actually be home more.”
That one lands heavier than he means it to.
His thumb pauses against your arm before it starts moving again.
“And…” he hesitates, then continues anyway, “it’s different work. Not always the same kind of stuff. It’s more than murders and missing kids..I could help convict someone who..I dunno..evades their taxes or something.” he chuckles. “Figured it might help,” he says quietly. “Not bring as much of it home with me.”
You stay silent, only nodding along.
“I’ve… messed up before,” he admits, voice lower now. “Temper. Calls I shouldn’t have made. Stuff on my record.”
You shake your head slightly, but he continues.
“I don’t want to be that guy anymore,” he says. “Not with you.”
That’s the core of it. You can hear it.
Your heart seizes.
“This—” he gestures vaguely again, meaning the classes, the effort, the whole process “—it’s me trying to fix it. Do it right.”
Your hand slides over his, squeezing gently.
“I know you are,” you murmur.
He nods, swallowing.
“State means more reach too,” he adds after a second. “Bigger cases. More ability to actually… do something.”
That protective edge slips into his voice without him noticing.
“Handle things out there,” he says, quieter now, “so I don’t have to worry as much about what comes close to you.”
Your heart aches a little at that. He’s not just thinking about a job. He’s thinking about keeping you safe in every way he knows how.
“And…” he hesitates again, this one different—more unsure.
You wait.
“I want you to be proud of me,” he says finally, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.
Your breath catches.
He shakes his head faintly, like he wants to take it back but doesn’t.
“Not that you aren’t,” he adds quickly. “I just—this is… something. It matters.”
You shift closer, your hand coming up to rest against his chest.
“I am proud of you,” you say gently.
He looks at you then, searching your face like he needs to confirm it’s real.
Then his gaze softens.
“I just don’t want your life to get smaller because of me,” he continues. “You already gave up a lot.”
Your thumb brushes lightly over his shirt, comforting and real.
“State gives us options,” he says. “Where we live. What things look like. You’re not stuck in Conyers.”
Your throat tightens
“And…” he exhales slowly, leaning his head back slightly against the couch. “If I’m doing this—with you—I want it to last.”
That word hangs there.
Heavy. Honest.
“I don’t trust things to stay,” he admits. “Never have.”
Your hand tightens slightly against him.
“But I’m- we’re building something that does,” he finishes.
Silence settles between you—but it’s not empty.
It’s full of everything he just gave you.
You shift up, gently pulling his attention back to you, your hand coming to his face.
“David,” you say softly.
He meets your eyes.
“You don’t have to become all of this just to deserve my love. I love you exactly as you are.”
His jaw tightens slightly—not defensive, just… emotional. “I know,” he says.
But he’s still going to try. Because that’s how he loves.
You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips.
And when he pulls you closer after, holding you a little tighter than usual—
you understand.
This isn’t just about a job.
It’s about a man trying, in every way he knows how, to build a life with you.
--Christmas time, Conyers, Pennsylvania.--
The kitchen smelled like butter and cinnamon, the warmth of the oven mixing with the pale afternoon light streaming through the window. You were carefully rolling out pie dough, explaining the finer points of technique to David.
“Even pressure, gentle but firm,” you said, guiding his hands on the rolling pin. “You don’t want it too thick, but not so thin it tears.”
David leaned over a little too close, pretending to concentrate, but the sparkle in his eyes betrayed him. “Got it,” he said, though the corner of his mouth twitched with mischief.
Before you could ask what he was thinking about, his hand came down with a quick, playful smack—leaving a bold, floury handprint right on your backside.
You gasped and spun towards him, “David Loki!” you exclaimed, your flour-dusted hands on your hips, cheeks warming.
He raised his hands innocently, though his grin was anything but.
“Oh, it's on!” you challenged.
You lunged to get him back, quick and determined—but he was faster.
Then, with a crooked smirk, he added, “Can’t help it—you’ve got nice buns. Get it? Because we’re baking.”
His joke was so corny it was funny; you couldn't help but giggle, but what you found more humorous was him laughing at his own joke.
And that was all it took. You swatted at him, he ducked and flicked a cloud of flour back at you, and suddenly the calm afternoon had dissolved into a playful whirlwind.
You barely had time to recover before you were both moving—lunging, dodging, grabbing fistfuls of flour like weapons. It turned chaotic fast. A puff hit his shoulder, and then he retaliated, sending a soft white cloud exploding against your arm.
Laughter filled the kitchen, loud and unrestrained, bouncing off the walls as flour dusted the counters, the floor, your clothes, your faces.
David ducked as you aimed for him again, grinning in a way that felt almost boyish, almost unfamiliar. He grabbed the bag, tipping just enough to send a light cascade your way, and for a second he just looked at you, still smiling, a little breathless, a little softer now.
“Y’know,” he murmured, shaking some flour from his hands, “I think I’m starting to like baking.”
“Oh are you, now?” you questioned, sending another fistful of flour his way.
He never thought he’d be standing in a kitchen like this—laughing, covered in flour, tossing careless handfuls of it at the woman he loved like it was the most natural thing in the world.
For a moment, he just took it in—the mess, the noise, the way you were looking at him like this was normal, like he was normal.
Growing up, kitchens hadn’t looked like this. They hadn’t sounded like this. No teasing, no mess, no one chasing him around with flour-covered hands. No one to be silly with.
But now—standing there with you, covered in white dust and laughter—he felt something he didn’t quite have a word for.
Like he’d stepped into a moment he’d missed out on as a kid… and somehow, impossibly, gotten it back. It was loud. Warm. Alive. And he was right in the middle of it.
Flour dust clung to his hands, his shirt, his hair, and he didn’t even care. Didn’t think about the cleanup or the consequences or how ridiculous he probably looked. All he could focus on was you—laughing, trying to get him back, eyes bright with something that made his chest ache in the best way.
He let out another laugh, softer this time, almost disbelieving, like he was still catching up to the moment.
Because somehow, somewhere along the way, he’d found himself here; throwing flour in a kitchen, making a mess, being happy—with the woman he loved.
The flour fight fizzled out in bursts of laughter, both of you a mess—faces dusted white, clothes streaked, the kitchen looking like a disaster zone. You were still catching your breath when David suddenly closed the distance, his hands finding your waist as he pulled you into him.
“Hey—” you started, laughing, but the words melted away when he kissed you.
It wasn’t rushed or teasing like before—just warm, lingering, full of something softer, yet still tasting like flour. His arms wrapped around you tighter, holding you there like he didn’t want to let go.
This… this would’ve never been okay before. The thought slipped in quietly, almost startling him. In foster homes and the group home, mess like this, noise like this wouldn't have been tolerated. He would’ve been scolded, told to clean it up immediately, to be more careful, to not make trouble. But now things were oh so different.
He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breath still uneven from laughing.
His grip on you tightened just a little, like he needed to make sure this moment was real. Flour on the floor. Flour on you. On him. And the only consequence is cleaning it up. That was it. No raised voices. No tension forming in his lower gut. Just… You.
His thumb brushed along your side absentmindedly, like he couldn’t quite stop touching you.
God… I get to have this.
Another kiss—softer, almost grateful this time—before that familiar spark crept back in, something lighter, easier.
His gaze flicked over the flour covering both of you, and a grin tugged at his mouth. “We’re a mess”
“Such a mess.” you replied, smearing flour from your hand onto his shirt. “We’re gonna have to hurry and clean up before we head to Cole and Ruby’s.”
And just like that, his thoughts shifted, turning playful again, a little cheeky. His lips curved more, eyes flicking back to yours.
You quirked a brow, knowing that expression very well.
“We’ve gotta clean ourselves up too…so it would be better for us to shower together, y’know to make sure we wash all the flour off.”
You poked him in the side, trying to look unimpressed despite the warmth creeping up your neck. “Wow. Look at you, using logic.”
He shrugged, arms still around you, completely unbothered, that crooked smile finally breaking through. “I’m just saying… seems efficient.”
You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. “Efficient?”
“Absolutely,” he said, nodding with mock seriousness. “Conserving water. Very responsible.” He pulled you a little closer, pressing a quick kiss to your temple, warmth lingering in his chest.
“I love that you're environmentally friendly.” You joked. “Lets go save some water then.” you said, taking his hand and leading him towards the bathroom.
As you pulled him along, he thought to himself:
God, I love this. I love her. I love that this is what it’s like now.
—-
You and David had been invited by his childhood friend, Cole, and his wife, Ruby, to have Christmas dinner at their house. David would've normally refused, saying he had to work, or that your family already had plans, but they insisted.
You hover just outside the door, fingers fidgeting with the edge of the foil you wrapped the pie in. “What if they don’t like me?” you whisper, barely looking up at David.
He pauses, really looking at you for a second, like the question doesn’t quite compute. Then he exhales through his nose, stepping closer, his voice low and steady.
“They’ll love you” It’s simple, certain—like a fact, not a hope. When you hesitate, he reaches for your hand, squeezing it once, firm. “Because I love you” he adds, softer now, eyes flicking toward the door before coming back to you. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, grounding.
“Love you too.” you murmured, then inhaled deeply in an attempt to settle your nerves.
You and David stepped inside as the front door opened to a wave of warm air, laughter, and the soft glow of Christmas lights strung across the living room.
Ruby was the first to greet you both, her face lighting up as she hurried over to the door. “There you are!” she said, pulling you into a quick hug before turning to David. “And you brought pies! They look delicious.”
You lifted the dish slightly with a grin. “You can probably guess who made which one.” you joked.
Ruby’s eyes dropped to the pies as you set them down on the nearby counter. The Two of them sat side by side—clearly homemade, but noticeably different in appearance. One was neatly decorated, its edges clean, lattice work carefully placed. The other… was a little more rustic. Slightly uneven edges, a few imperfect lines in the crust, but still clearly made with effort.
David bumped his shoulder lightly against yours, a quiet, good-natured reaction as he let out a small laugh. “Hey, as long as it tastes good.”
“I’m sure it does,” Ruby teased, glancing up at him with a grin. “It’s just got personality.”
Cole chuckled, reaching for one of the pies. “I like personality.”
The conversation flowed easily after that—warm, relaxed, the kind of back-and-forth that didn’t feel forced. David stayed close to you, but there was a visible ease in him too, like he was settling into the space rather than observing it from the outside.
A little while later, a small voice piped up from nearby.
“Hey… can she do a craft with me?”
You turned to see Caroline, Ruby and Cole’s daughter, standing there with hopeful eyes, holding up a handful of supplies she’d clearly already gathered. You guessed she was about 4 or 5.
Your expression softened instantly. “With me?” you asked, pointing to yourself.
She nodded quickly and smiled.
You glanced back at Ruby, who gave a small approving nod.
“Absolutely,” you said, crouching slightly to her level. “What are we making?”
Caroline’s face lit up as she led you toward her small table already talking excitedly about the project.
Behind you, David watched the moment unfold, something warm settling in his chest as he observed how naturally you moved—how easily you fit here, how quickly you were welcomed, how effortlessly you made space for others, especially a little kid eager to share something with you.
He leaned back slightly against the counter, a faint smile on his face as he followed your voice across the room, listening to you laugh softly with Caroline as you sat down together to start the craft.
She wanted to make snowflake ornaments out of popsicle sticks, she insisted on making one for everyone, putting extra glitter on David’s. You assured her that it was perfect.
When Caroline finally decided craft time was over, she hopped down from the table with clear determination, her little creation held carefully in both hands.
She made her way straight over to David, who had been watching quietly from nearby, a soft smile already forming as he noticed her approaching.
“David!” she called, stopping right in front of him. With a proud little flourish, she held up her ornament—a slightly wobbly arrangement of glue and popsicle sticks, absolutely covered in far too much glitter that caught the light every time she moved it.
“I made this for you,” she announced, beaming up at him with a wide, toothless grin—missing one side tooth and one right in the front, which only made her smile somehow even brighter and David couldn’t help but grin back.
Something in his chest tightened, his eyes softening as he crouched down to her level, carefully accepting the ornament like it was something far more delicate than it was.
Thank you,” he said softly, voice catching. “I love it.”
Caroline beamed even brighter, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “You really do?”
David nodded, looking down at her with a warmth that made his heart feel too full. “Really.”
Caroline ran off with her remaining ornaments, determined and proud as she handed them to her parents.
You took the moment to plop down beside David on the couch, letting out a small, content sigh as you settled in.
His arm came around your shoulders almost immediately, like it was second nature—pulling you in close against his side, warm and steady.
He glanced down at you, a faint smile on his lips. “Having fun?”
You leaned into him slightly, your hand resting against his chest as you nodded. “I am, actually.” A small smile tugged at your lips as you looked up at him. “How about you?”
He didn’t answer right away. His gaze stayed on you for a moment longer, like he was taking in the question—and everything around it. The noise of the room, the soft movement of people, Caroline’s excited voice in the background, the steady warmth of your presence right beside him.
His arm tightened slightly around your shoulders, drawing you a little closer as he exhaled through his nose, a quiet, almost disbelieving smile forming.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “I am.”
There was a small pause, and then his eyes flicked back to yours.
“I didn’t really have… this growing up,” he admitted, voice low but steady. “Holidays like this. People just… together. No tension. No one waiting for something to go wrong.”
His thumb brushed absentmindedly against your arm, a grounding, almost unconscious gesture.
“So yeah,” he added, a hint of something warmer returning to his expression, “this is… good. Better than good.”
He tilted his head slightly toward you, his smile softening into something more personal.
“Being here with you makes it even better.”
You smiled and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.
David Loki doesn’t have a house full of family to bring you to—no parents, no aunts nor uncles, no cousins filling the space with noise and history. It's not that they don't exist , just that they aren't part of his life- not in a way that matters. Tonight, It’s just one friend, one worn-in living room, one small piece of a life he doesn’t let people see. And still… he brings you, lets you step into it like it means something, like you mean something- because you mean everything.
He watches you more than anything else, shoulders a little tense, like he’s waiting for you to realize it isn’t much. But you don’t. You take it exactly as it is—quiet, imperfect, his—and hold it gently and close to your heart. And when your hand finds his, squeezing once, steady and sure, something in him settles in a way it hasn’t in a long time.
…
After dinner, the house continues to hum with warmth—the lights on the tree flicker as classic Christmas songs fill the space.
David sits on the couch, body angled toward the TV, but his attention is nowhere near it.
It’s on you.
You’re in the kitchen with Caroline and Ruby, helping them make cookies for Santa.
Caroline’s got your full attention now, you're completely unaware of David's staring. You and Ruby are laughing as the little girl presses the cookie cutter into the dough with way too much force. You smile at Ruby then take a sip of your wine. His chest tightens again. Not sharp this time. Just… full.
“Man,” Cole mutters beside him, glancing over. “You are gone.”
David huffs quietly through his nose, shaking his head a little, but there’s no bite to it. No denial this time.
Because what’s the point?
His friend leans back, arm slung over the couch. “So,” he says, casual as anything, “when’s the wedding?”
David stills for half a second—then instead of deflecting, instead of brushing it off, he just smiles. Small. Shy. Almost to himself.
His gaze drops briefly, thumb rubbing along the edge of his glass before he shakes his head.
“…Don’t know yet,” he admits.
There’s something softer in his voice now. Less guarded.
His friend catches it immediately. His brows lift. “Oh, you’ve thought about it.”
David exhales a quiet breath, like he’s debating how much to say.
Then, low—almost like he doesn’t want it overheard—
“I got the ring.”
That gets his full attention.
“Yeah?” Cole says, sitting up a little straighter, a grin pulling at his mouth. “And?”
David glances toward the kitchen again—toward you—his expression shifting into something more serious. More vulnerable.
“Haven’t… figured out how to do it yet,” he admits. “I'm afraid I'll mess it up.”
He lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “You’re overthinking it.”
“Yeah,” David mutters. “I know.”
Another glance toward you—this one lingering.
Cole smirks a little. “I mean, hell—anyone who can put up with you this long? She’s gotta be a saint.”
That earns a quiet scoff from David, but there’s no real offense in it.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, softer now. “She is.”
They sit in that for a second—the easy quiet, the background noise of the kitchen filling the space.
Then Cole nods toward you again, watching as Caroline drags you by your sleeve to something else that grabs her attention. “So what about kids?” he asks. “You two thinking about it?”
David leans back slightly, eyes still on you, but calmer now. More settled in himself.
“I dunno. Maybe,” he says. “But for now, we’re good like this.”
A beat passes, then he adds, a little quieter—
“But you might have to let us be aunt and uncle until then.” he says nodding towards you and Caroline.
His friend huffs a small laugh. “Spoil her ‘n send her home?”
“Exactly.” he chuckles.
Another glance toward you—this one softer, almost fond in a way he doesn’t try to hide anymore.
“Maybe get a dog,” he adds after a second. “Or a cat. Something like that.”
Cole grins. “Yeah, I can see that. You as a cat guy.”
David shakes his head faintly, but there’s a hint of a smile still there.
Because the future doesn’t feel like something terrifying. It feels… simple.
And when you look over from the kitchen, catching his eye from across the room, smiling at him like he’s everything you ever wanted, he thinks to himself: I’m gonna marry the fuck out of her.
------
The idea didn’t leave him alone after that night.
If anything—it settled in deeper.
David found himself thinking about it at the most random times.
At work, halfway through something important.Driving, hands on the wheel, eyes on the road but mind somewhere else.Standing in the kitchen with you, watching you hum to yourself while you stirred something on the stove.
How do I propose?
The first idea came quickly.
A big one.
A crowded room, maybe. Friends, family, everyone there. Lights, music, something memorable. Something people would talk about.
He sat with it for about five seconds before shaking his head to himself.
No.
Too much.
You’d smile, you’d say yes—but that wouldn’t be you. And honestly… it wasn’t him either.
The second idea was softer.
A nice restaurant. Candlelight. Maybe dessert comes out with the ring.
He actually pictured it for a minute. You across from him, dressed up, the glow of the lights catching your eyes.
That could be nice- like something straight out of a romantic movie.
The third idea stayed longer.
The park. It would be pretty with all the flowers blooming. He could set up a picnic, it would be private, but also something special.
David exhaled slowly, a small, certain smile forming as he leaned back against the couch, staring ahead but not really seeing the room.
Now he just had to figure out exactly when to do it.
——-
The place is too nice.
David knows it the second the host leads you through the dim lighting and polished glass, the kind of place where everything feels… intentional.
His hand rests at the small of your back as you walk, steady, grounding—but his pulse is anything but. The small box in his jacket pocket feels like it weighs a hundred pounds.
He shouldn’t have picked somewhere like this.
Too much pressure. Too many eyes. But you look so happy.
That’s what he holds onto.
You’re smiling across the table now, candlelight catching in your eyes, talking about something light—work, maybe, or something one of your friends said. He’s trying to listen.
He really is.
But his focus keeps slipping.
To the ring.
To the words he hasn’t figured out how to say.
To the fact that he’s been accepted to PSP—even if the official letter hasn’t come yet. It’s real. It’s happening. Everything he’s been working toward is finally within reach.
This is the moment.
It should be the moment.
“…David?”
He blinks, snapping back.
“Yeah?”
You smile softly. “You’re somewhere else.”
He huffs a quiet breath, shaking his head. “Sorry.”
You tilt your head, studying him. “Everything okay?”
There it is.
The opening.
His hand shifts slightly in his lap, fingers brushing the edge of the ring box through his jacket.
He could do it now.
Right now.
Say your name. Stand up. Drop to one knee. Tell you everything he’s been holding in his chest for months.
His throat tightens.
What if he says it wrong?
What if this—this—isn’t the way you deserve? Everyone, every. single. person. in the restaurant watching you.
He looks at you again.
Really looks.
And instead of the speech he rehearsed a hundred times in his head, what comes out is—
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Just… thinking.”
You smile, reaching across the table to take his hand.
“About?”
He squeezes your fingers gently, grounding himself in you.
“Us,” he admits.
Your expression softens immediately.
“Yeah?” you ask.
He nods once, a faint, almost shy smile pulling at his mouth.
“Yeah.”
An awkward pause.
“I love you.” he blurts out.
“I love you too.” you say with an easy smile, not knowing what's going on in David's mind.
And that’s where it stays.
The moment passes.
Dinner continues.
The ring stays in his pocket.
And later, when you’re laughing on the walk back to the car, slipping your hand into his like you always do—he tells himself it’s okay.
He’ll do it right next time.
—
It’s quieter this time.
No pressure. No crowd. No expectations.
Just the two of you.
You’re already half-asleep, curled into the couch with a blanket wrapped around you, some movie playing low in the background. Your head rests against his shoulder, your breathing slow and even.
David hasn’t moved in a while.
He doesn’t want to wake you.
But his mind won’t shut off.
The ring is in his hand now, not hidden away. He pulled it out twenty minutes ago, turning it over between his fingers like he’s trying to memorize it.
This should be easier.
This is what he wanted—something real, something quiet. Just you. No distractions.
He looks down at you, at the way you’ve tucked yourself into him without thinking.
At how safe you look- because of him.
His chest tightens.
“You deserve better than this,” he murmurs under his breath—not even loud enough to wake you.
Something bigger. Something planned. Something that proves how much you mean to him.
His grip tightens slightly around the ring.
But then you shift in your sleep, pressing closer to him, your hand curling lightly against his chest.
And that? That undoes him.
Because this? This is it.
This is the life he wants. Simple. Real. Yours.
He could wake you. Say it right now- no script, no pressure.
Just the truth.
His thumb brushes over the ring again and then slowly, he closes his hand around it.
Not yet. He tells himself. Not quite this casual.
He leans down instead, pressing a soft kiss to your hair, lingering there for a second longer than usual.
“Soon,” he whispers. “I promise.”
You don’t hear him, but he means it.
—
The house smelled faintly of (y/n)’s candles, mingled with the crisp aroma of the huge bouquet of flowers David had carefully picked out. It was all of her favorites expertly wrapped into one bouquet. He told the florist it was an “emergency” and told her his plans to propose. She happily obliged, giving him a knowing smile.
Now, he paced nervously near the kitchen bar, adjusting the ring box in his back pocket every few seconds. The letter sat in plain view on the bar, official and crisp—acceptance to the state police.
-
The door opens. And you step in, keys still in your hand, your expression shifting the moment you take in the lights, the candles, the setup.
“Hey,” David said, grinning, grabbing the bouquet and holding it out. “For you.”
Your eyes lit up as you took the bouquet. “David… they’re beautiful! They’re…” you paused, taking in the flowers. “All my favorites…Thank you, honey!” You leaned in to kiss him quickly, then glanced around everything. “What is all this?”
“C’mere,” he says gently.
You do, setting the bouquet on the bar.
Your hand slides into his without hesitation.
“I got something today,” he tells you, holding up the letter.
Your eyes brighten. “You got the job?”
He nods.
And the way your face lights up—pride, relief, happiness—it grounds him immediately.
Your arms wrap your arms around him immediately and he holds you back just as easily.
“I’m so proud of you,” you murmur.
“Thank you.” He says.
Your eyes softened, and a small laugh escaped escaping your mouth. “State Police Officer David Loki… “ you stated, testing the words out on your tongue. “That sounds good, sounds sexy.” You said, wiggling your brow suggestively.
David stepped closer, exhaling a laugh, and that’s when his expression shifts. His voice dropped low, teasing but tender. “You know what else sounds good?”
Your brow quirked and your head tilts, curiosity sparking. “What?”
He took both your hands in his, holding them gently, tightly, as if he could say everything through that touch. His gaze searched yours, raw and earnest.
“Your first name and my last name.” He grinned, then added quietly, “Or you can hyphenate or uh- whatever you want to do.”
You grinned and your smile was as bright as the sun.
“I’ve been thinking about this for a while,” he admits. I… I’m not good with words,” he says, voice rough with emotion. “I’m not great at saying what I feel, but...um... I didn’t think I’d ever have this,” he admits quietly. “Love like this.”
Your expression softens immediately and your heart begins to beat out of your chest.
“Someone who’s patient with me.” He continues, “Someone who doesn’t rush me, or give up on me when things aren’t easy.”
His thumbs brush over your hands, slow and grounding.
“That’s you.” His voice warms, just slightly.
“You’re patient. Kind. Caring… in a way that doesn’t come and go. It’s just… who you are.”
A small breath leaves him.
“And that’s what makes this real for me.”
His grip tightens just a little—not nervous, but certain.
A small, knowing look passes between you.
Because you understand him; you understand what he’s doing - he’s proposing to you
“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he says, his voice low—then it falters, catching in his throat.
He swallows, breath uneven, eyes flickering for just a second like the weight of it all hit him at once.
“You’re… everything,” he manages again, softer this time, his voice rough with emotion, like he’s holding it together by a thread.
Your eyes glisten now, emotion rising as you absorb his words.
For a moment, the room feels still.
Then he releases one of your hands, reaching for the ring in his back pocket.
He lets go of your remaining hand— and in one smooth motion, drops to one knee.
The box opens, revealing a ring. The ring. Your ring.
His eyes lift to yours, steady, intent, full of quiet certainty and something deeply sincere.
“Will you marry me?” he asks softly.
The question is simple but everything behind it—everything he feels for you—lands in that moment, fully and completely.
For a moment, everything hangs still.
The candles flicker, the ring catches the light of them. His gaze stays locked on yours—steady, hopeful, open in a way that feels rare and raw all at once.
And then it hits you.
All at once.
Your breath breaks, your eyes filling instantly as a wave of emotion rushes through you so fast you can’t hold it back. A small, shaky laugh slips out through the tears, your hand flying to your mouth as you stare at him like you’re trying to make sure he’s really there.
“David…” your voice cracks.
You don’t let the moment linger any longer; in one sudden movement, you’re stepping forward—then practically falling into him, arms wrapping around his shoulders as you throw yourself into his embrace.
He catches you immediately, one arm sliding around your waist, the other bracing you as you come into him, steadying you without hesitation.
Your face presses into his shoulder as you cry, not holding it back anymore. It’s overwhelmed, happy, all of it coming out at once.
“Yes,” you manage between breaths, your voice muffled against him. “Yes… yes, of course yes.”
His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head for a moment, holding you there, grounding you as you cling to him.
“Yeah?” he says softly, almost like he needs to hear it too.
“Yeah.” You mutter through tears.
After a moment, he gently pulls back just enough to look at you, his thumb brushing at your cheek, catching a tear as it falls.
“C’mere,” he murmurs. “Let me see your hand,” he says quietly, a small, almost shy smile forming now that the hardest part is over.
You sniff, nodding quickly, offering your hand to him.
His movements are careful, deliberate as he slides the ring onto your finger.
It fits perfectly.
Your breath catches again as you look down at it, then back up at him, your face lighting up through the tears.
“It’s… perfect,” you whisper, voice thick but full of joy.
He exhales softly, a hint of a relieved smile tugging at his mouth.
“Glad you like it.” lightness slipping into his tone now, something a little more like him.
You nod, still looking at the ring, then back at him. “You did that… really well.”
He lets out a quiet, almost amused breath, the corner of his mouth lifting.
“Yeah?” he repeats, a hint of teasing in his voice now. “You liked that?” It’s soft, playful—just enough to break the intensity, just enough to let the happiness settle in.
You laugh through your tears, shaking your head as you wipe at your face, still holding onto him.
“Yes,” you say, smiling wide through the emotion. “I loved it… all of it was perfect. I love you.”
He leans in, resting his forehead against yours, your breaths mingling as the moment settles around you.
“I love you too,” he murmurs, before pressing a soft kiss to your lips.
You pull back just slightly, sniffling with a small smile. “That part about our names sounding good together… that was real smooth.”
A hint of pride flickers across his face. “Spur of the moment,” he says, a little smug.
You giggle, shaking your head as you lean back into him.
And then, without needing to say anything else, you pull each other back into a tight embrace—this time different.
His arms wrap around you and your hands press into his back, clinging a little closer, like you can feel it too—that quiet shift, that deeper settling between you. It’s commitment; a promise.
It’s choosing each other, forever.
His chin rests against your head, your breath steadying against his chest as everything sinks in.
And somehow, the space between you feels smaller—like the world just narrowed down to this. To him. To you.
To the life you’re building.
Together.
Y’all it’s finished I’m crying real tears 😭🥹
-Because I’m delusional and I live in delulu land, I made a Pinterest board for their wedding/elopement. See it here!
let me know what you think/ what kind of vibe you think their wedding would have. (Im a firm believer they elope/ have a civil ceremony at the courthouse. But whatever floats your boat 🫶)
a/n : I blame @joshlmbrt for this. u asked for it and it got me horny so here you go 🧡
prompt: men who knead your thighs and hip as you sit on their lap with their big hands as you slick their hair back and tell them about your day. who get so hard when you kiss their forehead and tell them you have to go shower. who don’t let you go and fuck you on the couch — deep, thoroughly, filled with love
pairing: david loki x f!reader
warnings: 18+ only, no minors please. language, smut, creampie, cockwarming, david gets horny from feeling loved.
SHARING IS CARING, REBLOG IF YOU LIKE IT
Parking your car in the driveway just behind David’s Crown Vic, you switch the alarm on as you make your way over the grassy pathway paved from David’s walking over time.
Despite the dull day you had, you smile at the butterflies that still flutter every time you’re about to see him. Using the spare key he had gifted you, you unlock the front door and step inside.
You take the liberty of making yourself at home by kicking your shoes off and walking further inside towards the kitchen, you set your bag on a chair and drape your coat over its’ back.
“Baby, that you?” he asks from the living room.
“Yeah, it’s me, honey” you reply walking over with a smile.
He leans back and manspreads against the couch after crouching over the files and documents all fanned out over his coffee table along with his gun holster and badge. You take in the sight of him, hair slicked back from his shower, dressed in a tight white tank that accentuates his muscles. He usually wears them under his button-ups, but you love it when he wears them in the house, paired with a pair of gray sweatpants.
“You look so tired, baby.”
“I am tired” he smiles reaching for your thighs to guide you closer and unspokenly invites you to sit on his welcoming lap.
You accept and lean against his broad solid figure, lazily draping one arm around his neck while your other hand rests against his chest.
“Too tired for me?” You smirk watching his eyes trail down your body to your crossed thighs.
“Never too tired for you, honey” he replies taking your knee and pulling it towards him to let you drape your leg over his as his other hands sits at your waist.
“I hope not” you chuckle and press your lips against his to properly say hello. “I missed you” you whisper.
“I missed you too, honey… Didn’t get to see you this morning.”
His eyes close as he nuzzles his nose into your neck, taking in the lingering scent of your sweet perfume as his palm glides up and down your thigh.
“I know. You spent the whole night on duty, so I figured we wouldn’t anyways. But we’re together now hm?”
“Yeah, honey. You’re right. How was your day, hm?” he questions lifting his head to admire the gentle details of your face.
He listens to you vent about your day, kneading your thigh as his other hand slowly rubs your back up and down. He listens thoroughly, making a comment here and there, asking questions as you go on, but the glimpses he takes down your shirt and at your thighs don’t go unnoticed by you.
They make you feel loved and desired although you decide not to call them out because you’re drinking him in just the same; eye roaming up and down his chest, fingers gently twirling the hairs that peek out from the top of his tank or delicately squeezing at his biceps as you mindlessly rub his strong arm.
“How about your day, baby?”
“I don’t wanna talk about my day, honey. Just…” he sighs closing his eyes.
You know how his job takes a toll on him. Being a detective means having to see and witness things that are generally hard to stomach, let alone forget. And, although he can never forget certain things he wishes he could, he’d rather treasure the moments you get to spend together because, not only are they too few, they help him shut the rest of the world out. These moments with you melt away all worries he carries as a detective and allows him to just be David, a loving and caring boyfriend.
“It’s ok, babe. You don’t have to,” you answer with a tender kiss to his forehead.
You let your kiss linger there for a moment as he groans contently, wrapping his arms around your waist to hold you closer. You’re almost certain you could feel his dick hardening as your fingers comb through his damp hair.
You chuckle imagining how good and relaxed he must when you take care of him.
“Why don’t you put this stuff away then and order us a pizza? Or whatever you’re in the mood for? I’m gonna go shower.”
You move to try to stand up, but he shakes his head. His arms tighten around you and hold you in place.
“No, baby. Stay here with me. Wanna be with you” he pleads wrinkling his forehead as his brows pinch together. His hand rises from your waist and his palm rests against your cheek when his lips meet yours. “Missed you so much, honey. Feel so good when you’re with me.”
You smirk noting how his breathing hitches and his cock twitches when you kiss his forehead again.
Gently peppering his forehead with kisses, he exhales sharply clenching his jaw as he pulls your legs to fully straddle his lap. His hands greedily grope at your thighs, at your hips and at your ass, enjoying your body’s fullness through your stretchy leggings.
You pull your head back a bit, letting your fingers meet at the back of his head to continue their therapeutic scratching on his scalp.
“I haven’t even showered yet, babe” you whisper shyly concerned, fearing your natural scent might be slightly more noticeable.
“No, honey, no. You smell so good for me” he frowns with eyes closed and shakes his head. “Just wanna be with you right now.”
“Yeah?” you whisper letting him kiss on your neck as he grinds his hardened dick against your sex.
“Yeah, baby. Feel so good on me like this. Can you feel it?”
“Y-yeah” you answer breathlessly as you give in and grind your dampening pussy against his crotch. “I feel your cock, baby. Feels so nice and hard.”
“Yeah? You like how it feels like this?”
You nod licking your dry lips as you continue dry humping his clothed cock, whispering how you love his dick so much as it throbs in his sweatpants when his hands pull your leggings up to make your ass and mound more noticeable.
He groans gently biting at your collarbone as he relishes the friction your body provides. Panting softly, you move your hips faster as his hard dick rubs against your sensitive nub.
“Fuck, Dave. Right there… That feels so good.”
“Ride me, baby. Just like that. It’s ok, I got you.”
Lost in the intoxicating pleasure that is washing over you, he rests his forehead against yours watching your face contort as you chase your orgasm.
“Cum for me, baby girl. You can do it. Feels so good, right? You like it, don’t you?”
“Fucking love it” you whimper feeling it build in your core. “So close, Dave. F-Fuck!” you pant as his hands grip your hips to pull them closer. “Gonna-gonna cum!”
“That’s my baby girl. Cum for me, sweetheart.”
The pleasure snaps in your core as you moan and slowly still your hip to soothe yourself with slow thrusts against his dick.
Running his fingers up and down your obvious camel toe, he clenches his jaw realizing how wet your leggings are from the dry humping and your orgasm.
“Honey, can I rip these? Please? Please? I need to feel you.”
“But they’re new, babe. I just got them.”
“I’ll get you new ones, I promise. Promise you” he quietly begs with the softest voice. “I’ll get you a hundred if you let me rip these right now. I’m so fucking hard, it’s hurting.”
He might as well; you’re almost sure they’re ruined now from the slick that’s gushing out.
The second you nod and approve, all eyes go straight to your crotch. You hold onto his knees as you angle your hips forward for him. David quickly gropes at the fabric, pulling it carefully away from your skin. Digging his finger into a small tear, he rips a hole into the middle of your leggings to expose your wet panties.
"Hold them for me, honey" he asks, fumbling with his sweatpants to push them down enough to free his dick.
You eagerly obey and pull your panties to the side to reveal your soaking cunt. With one hand on your hip, he pscoots you close as his other hand holds his cock to guide it against your folds.
"Fucking..." he sighs closing his eyes as his head lulls back at the pleasure of your warmth against his cock.
Taking advantage of the moment, you dip your head to kiss his neck but David's quick to capture your lips with his. He stills his kiss for a moment as he stares hungrily at you, letting his hands do the work of guiding his dick into your entrance.
You smirk as you ease down slowly on his cock, watching how his mouth slowly opens into an O. The pained expression is purely based on the pleasure and self control he's got over himself to not cum right away.
"Easy, baby. Easy." You remind him by pressing kisses to his forehead as you start to slowly move your hips.
His hands squeeze at your hips and ass, so desperate to sink his fingers into your soft flesh.
"Fuck, you're wet on my cock, honey. Can't hold back too long" he begs.
"I got you, baby. It's ok" you pant riding his cock.
You gently grip at his hair while his mouth mauls at your neck. The moans he elicits out of you are aphrodisiacal music that weave through his veins and make straight for his dick.
He replaces your hand with his, holding your panties to the side from behind with his hand resting against your ass.
"Tell me you love me" he pleads, shutting his eyes hard as he feels his orgasm building.
"I love you, baby. I love you so fucking much. Love every single bit of you" you pant heavily rocking your hips roughly against his.
"God, don't stop, honey. Don't stop!"
I love you's spill from your mouth as you chase his release until you feel his broad body tense under your arms that hug him, filling you with hot white cum. Noting the way he stills your hip from the sensitivity, you pause long enough to let him calm down and slowly regain your movements to help soothe him.
Lifting his head, he kisses you, letting his tongue invade your mouth hungrily as his arms lock around your waist like a belt to hold your pussy on his bottoming out dick.
Summary: David Loki processes his feelings through cooking. What happens when you’re woken up to the promise of a delicious dish and a boyfriend carrying something heavy on his heart.
Warnings: Just some fluff, a bit of angst because it's cold, so cold surprisingly where I’m at and I like a fluffy fic to warm up my insides. Also curse words. And if you squint some sexual innuendos (I mean you don’t need to squint but this is PG13 so you’ll be fine)
Still, this account is for 18+ so leave if you are not
A/N: Here’s a little Detective Loki fluff piece, with him winning as our lead for this one shot I've been sitting on. The more I write David, the more I fall in love with the idea that he would be into these little things with his lover, these glimpses that he hides from the world and I la, la love it I need him to be real and to be mine lol
Also sorry if there’s typos I’m tired and I’m trying lol
Tags are open | Header made by me
_
It’s the smell of cured meat that lures you from the deep sleep that you were in.
You groan as you haphazardly feel around for your phone, forgetting you were in David’s bed, not yours, so it takes longer for you to realize that your phone isn’t on the left nightstand, it's on the right one, your side at his place.
You pull the little glass device to your face, clocking the time.
3:45 a.m.
You groan as you fall back into your pillow face first, phone temporarily forgotten in your hand as your brain tries to lull you back to sleep.
Something caramelized starts to mingle with the savory scent and your stomach rumbles, trying to jar you awake.
Then it hits you.
You’re not in your little apartment in downtown Philly. Even if you were, the Greek restaurant that you lived above has never cooked anything as delicious smelling as this. I mean, that wasn’t true, it's just how you felt in the moment, sleep slipping in and out of your brain. Even if they did open for breakfast, the smell wouldn’t hit your nostrils until at least another two hours.
You were in your boyfriend's apartment, he did not live above a restaurant so this smell was coming from within.
Which meant he was home.
This realization has you snapping up, senses suddenly heightened. It's dark in the room, you’ve used the black out curtains he hung up for you a while back so no other light source leaks in, minus a small sliver from under a crack in the bedroom door.
You move to swing your legs out of bed, cracking your neck before placing them on the cool hardwood. It was winter and despite the warmth the heater provides, it still couldn’t counter the cool feel the worn wood holds onto.
It’s welcomed.
You walk to the door blindly, cracking it open slowly as more light greets you.
It's jarring, the contrast of light and dark, and it takes a minute for your eyes to adjust.
When they do the smells overwhelm you, the soft sound of chopping and low music, a soft sizzle.
You softly pad your way to the kitchen, anticipating what you’ll be greeted with.
David’s jacket is thrown over the couch. His gun and badge are placed carefully on the coffee table, within reach always, his shoes tossed haphazardly underneath. His phone hangs out on the counter, the source of music, a jazz song playing faintly.
His back is to you, he’s humming softly to himself as he flips something in the pan, you think the sweet caramelized onion scent you pegged earlier.
You can’t help the small smile that instantly comes to your face and you lean against a wall, drinking him in. Beyond pieces of hair that softly sweep over his eyes, he was relaxed, looked absolutely adorable and at peace in this moment.
Loving David was easy.
Simple.
New.
Fresh.
It was going on ten months, David had given you a set of his apartment keys, liking how you were slowly encroaching into his home.
Your toothbrush next to his.
You’re makeup, haphazardly thrown on the counter.
The soft throw blanket he liked to throw over the both of you while you cuddled and watched TV.
Your clothes slowly starting to eat up his closet space.
He wanted the space to feel as much as home to you as you were to him.
You both had yet to tell each other that big word, starting with ‘L’ and ending with ‘E’. You danced around it, hinted, teased, but never said those eight letters, three words.
Yet you knew it as you gazed at him now, watching as he peacefully cooked who knows what and for what reason this early in the morning.
You loved that he was thoughtful, kind, and reflective. You loved his touches and the way he made you feel like the most beautiful person in the world with just a look. You liked that he’d indulge you, even when he was exhausted, and that he trusted you enough to share pieces of his broken past, that he trusted you with his heart.
You loved David.
You also loved how much he had clung onto cooking. Before you started dating, David knew how to burn ramen effectively.
Now he was sending you recipes that you both could cook together and apparently, when you weren’t around, he was cooking on his own.
You were glad, it felt like a good outlet for him, cooking. A way to distract his busy brain, to work through the heavy weight of his job.
You know you should alert him that you were here, greet him, he hadn’t been home for days only talking to you through random texts, but you didn’t want to disrupt his peace.
So you move to the couch, grabbing a blanket to sit back and watch him. Capture it so you can cling onto it when he is gone again.
David’s anxious, has been for most of the day. The case he was on had been solved, this time it wasn’t a bleak and tragic closure, so he had spent most of his time at the station wrapping up reports.
Thinking, reflecting.
He wants to ask you to move in.
He knows that technically you were as close to moved in as one could observe. You spent more time at his place than you did your downtown loft in Philly, but it wasn’t official. You weren’t on the lease, hadn’t infiltrated his space with the eclectic taste he’d come to prefer. You were always driving back and forth from Conyers to the city to check on your cat, Chestnut, and he felt guilty that you were going back and forth constantly, that Chestnut missed you. So much so that he had worked for two months to adjust to having a feline, getting to know him, and now he missed the little brown and black Tabby as much as you did.
Yeah, Chestnut could move in too.
Also, he knew with the work that you did that living in Philly was more convenient. You were a photographer, one that was popular enough to have work both throughout Philadelphia and New York, and moving to Conyers would mean that your commuting time would be permanently longer. He’d offer to move into your place, he would, except he was a detective here and until PSP picked him up it didn’t make sense to transfer.
He felt selfish, he felt he would be implying his career was more important than yours. Really, you were just in a job that was less rigid and more flexible, and you had told him that driving and commuting to far away places was just part of the description.
That was all, with that knowledge his place was just the most logical solution.
The both of you made sense together. Between how much both your jobs demanded, moving in felt like the next best thing to ensure the stability of the relationship.
All of this was weighing on his mind on the drive home, so he decided he’d make a quiche, something that you could enjoy when you woke up and the recipe that you had sent him days earlier looked easy enough.
He’d make a quiche and allow his brain to take a break.
Except he forgot that like him, you were a light sleeper. When he hears the shutter of a camera click, he’s not surprised to turn around and be greeted by you.
You're wearing one of his shirts, he loved when you wore his clothes, the oversized Conyers Police Department text faded as it hung loosely over your frame. You were sitting comfortably on the couch, hair messy from waking up from the deep sleep he saw you in when he got home, thighs exposed and because the only lighting was coming from his small kitchen, hiding the secret between your legs.
A camera was steady in your hands, he felt like you always had one, and you pull away from the lens to give him a soft smile.
God, he loved you.
He loved you so much it hurt.
He loved your smile, the way you would giggle before erupting into laughter. He liked the dedication to your craft, the eye you had when viewing the world. That you could be equal parts sweet and sarcastic, patient, tender. He loved the way you looked when you came and that he always felt like the center of your world, even when he was gone for days on end.
He was afraid to tell you though, afraid that if he said the words out loud he would lose you.
So he kept them in, safe and close to his heart, just like the thought of you when you weren’t around.
But it was there.
“Good morning handsome.” Your voice is cracked, low but the weight of care wraps around him as he moves the onions off the burner, moving to check the pie crust in the oven. One of them is ready, so he pulls it out before saying,
“Good morning, beautiful. You should be asleep.”
“I should be asleep?” your voice is teasing as he flickers his eyes towards you, nods.
“Yes. It's almost 4 a.m. What are you doing up so early, don’t you have work in a few hours?”
His voice is light, teasing even if his face stays straight and you giggle as you place the camera down, shrug,
“Meh. They cancelled the shoot I was going to do so figured I’d get up and bother my boyfriend. You might know him. Tall, dark, and handsome with the most beautiful blue eyes and a great ass.”
He smiles to himself, shaking his head as he moves to start chopping broccoli.
“I might’ve heard of him.”
“Figured as much,” you lean further back, reaching for the camera because you needed something to fidget with, something to keep your hands busy, “Seriously though, how are you? Haven’t seen you for a few days.”
He pauses from chopping, sighs,
“Sorry about that. I just…I was-”
“Don’t apologize David, I don’t need one remember. I understand that you were working,” a pause, “But you’re avoiding the question. How are you? Is everything okay?”
He resumes his chopping, moving faster as his eyes furrow together. Grateful that his back was to you. That he could try to hide the truth from you.
“Oh, I’m fine. The case was….we wrapped it up with no casualties. I just had paper work and then came home and wasn’t tired so I decided I’d surprise you with a quiche.”
You knew David, had learned to pick up on his personal cues, understand his little mannerisms. It was easier for you, for him, he struggled to articulate himself and this helped meet him halfway.
.
When his eyes would blink in a series of tics, typically in sets of three or four, he was deep in thought, usually trying to sort out how to articulate a problem he had yet to answer. Ingesting and processing.
When he twirled the freemason ring on his pinkie, he was anxious and needed a place to put his energy, something to occupy his hands while he occupied his mind.
When he was tense his shoulders squared up, hard and unforgiving, like they were now. Something was on his mind.
Something was on his mind and it was going to be a bitch to pull out.
Not because he didn’t like to share. Because it was personal, and you knew he’d either feel comfortable to share with you over time or choose to hold it in. You didn’t care either way, you just wanted to help ease the weight however he needed.
You move off of the couch, placing the camera down for good and move towards him. The closer you get, the more you smell the scent of his cologne, the even stronger scent of coffee that lingeried on him and it makes you feel safe.
You wrap your arms around him, hands tugging him to you as you rest your face into his back.
Yeah, he was stressed.
“What’s wrong?” you mumble into his clothed back and he tenses up more and says low,
“Nothing.”
“You're the worst liar D.”
“No I’m not. I’m telling you the truth.”
“Uh huh, right.”
You move so that you can shift to the island, hopping on it as you avoid the variety of ingredients.
He stops chopping, missing your touch, your presence, and turns around as you beckon him with your finger.
“Come here.”
He blinks, a succession of five, and you know there’s something heavy on his mind.
“Baby, please come here.” you ask him again more tenderly, lower and he exhales as he puts the knife down, wipes the flying broccoli florets from his hands.
He moves to you and you’re at his eye level from this angle, he watches you carefully as you move your hands up to his shoulders, digging into the tough muscle.
The moan he lets out reverberates within him, trickles out to your fingers and he falls into your neck, hands wrapping around your waist as he exhales,
“That’s nice.”
“I bet. You’re holding so much tension.”
He grunts, breath tickling your neck and you smile as you work through his shoulders, around his neck, resisting kissing his neck tattoo because if you did that you know he’d move to shifting the tone to something sexual.
While you would love for him to fuck your brains out on his kitchen counter, that isn’t what he needed right now.
“What’s on your mind?” you finally ask, your voice faint and he sighs as he mumbles,
“It's nothing.”
“It must be something if you’re holding this much tension on a case that seemed pretty mild compared to what you’re usually working.”
“I-” he hesitates, pauses. You continue to work his shoulder, slightly humming, letting him take his time.
“I’m unsure how to ask.”
“Just say it. Say it messy. Say it bad. But just say it. You know I won’t judge you.”
“I’m worried you’ll say no.”
You try not to stop your ministrations on him, a smile creeping on your face as you wrap your thighs around him to pull him closer,
“Tell me and we can see what I say. If it's no, we can talk through it.”
He sighs deeper, before mumbling something that you can’t hear and you frown.
“What? I can’t hear you when you're mumbling so low.”
Another pause.
“I want you to move in with me.”
That gets you to stop, and he freezes, breath heavy on your collarbone as his hands grip you. You can feel his heart beating fast, hard, and you try to process the words.
He wanted you to move in?
David has always felt like a…..not a free bird per say but something akin to it, something you couldn’t cage. He liked his freedom. He liked his independence. You even felt like the time you did spend around him was probably too much for him, the amount of random things you texted him in a day.
He never said anything or complained, you just assumed it did because of the way he operated. You respected it, understood why, you knew about his tough childhood. He was attentive in his own way so it was fine, you never felt neglected.
David kept people at a distance. It’s how he protected himself.
But he wanted you to move in?
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Oh wow,” you pause as you roll it through your brain. Technically, your lease was coming up in three months and you were debating renewing or finding a new place. This would solve that. You could bring Chestnut and you didn’t mind commuting, that was just life as a photographer on the east coast. Most importantly, you’d have access to David all the time, well, at least when he wasn’t deep in a case.
The promise of that made the answer easy.
“Okay, yeah sure. Let’s do it.”
His breath hitches, he grips your waist tighter, before he lets out,
“Really?”
This time you move to pull his face towards you, caging it in your hands as you whisper,
“Yeah.”
“....why?”
He knew that he wanted you to say yes, that he shouldn’t question it, but also he was shocked at how quickly you answered.
He wanted to make sure it was for the right reason, not because he was having a mild panic attack.
You look into David’s eyes, ocean orbs that say so much more than he would ever communicate directly to you. Tenderness wrapped up in something deeper, something that you’ve felt in his touch, the way he left little gifts for you, the way he held you.
Fuck it. No need to hold out any longer. Might as well tell him first.
“Because I love you and I love when I’m here, the routine we have.”
David’s breath hitches again, you’re worried you might have killed me, that he might actually have a panic attack and you sigh as you rub your hands over his jaw, your skin melting into his scratchy shadow.
He doesn’t say anything, just watches you and now you feel like you're going to have a panic attack.
“Say something.”
He blinks once, twice.
“You do?”
“Yes,” a pause, “But that's no reason for you to feel pressured to say it back. You just asked why I wanted to move in and I’m giving you a reason.”
“I want you to move in because I love you too.”
He says it low and quick, so quick you think you’ve misheard him. Except he’s still looking at you in that same way he had been before the words fell out of his mouth, and you pull him closer as you wrap your arms around your neck.
“Yeah?”
“Yes. I….I was hoping to….I probably should have told you while doing something more romantic. Been meaning too for weeks. Just been…afraid.”
“I get that, me too. Also, what’s not romantic about your boyfriend waking you up at four in the morning to make you quiche and tell you he wants you to move in because he loves you?”
“....the shit timing of it?”
“I’m a photographer, you learn to work with shit timing.”
You offer him a small smile that he reciprocates, eyes flickering to your mouth. It only takes a second before he’s ducking down to kiss you and you sigh, missing his lips, missing the way it felt to be claimed by him.
You loved him. He feels like he’s jumped off a cliff, plunging into nothingness only to fall into water, swallowed around safety. He allows you to lead the kiss, allows your tongue to softly dance with his, tender and slow, needy and loving.
When you both pull away he rests his forehead against yours as you mumble,
“You know that means Chestnut is moving in too.”
“Oh I know. The Three Amigos.”
You smile at the nickname he had dubbed the three of you, still holding him tight.
“He’ll jump on your shoulders while you cook and get hair all over your clothes.”
“I know. We talked about it. I’m willing to meet his terms as long as he keeps to mine. He stays an indoor cat.”
It wasn’t fair how much he loved you, to the point that he understood how important it was that Chestnut never left the house again. A few months back, the tabby had snuck out and disappeared for three weeks. David had stayed with you every night, always doing a sweep of the neighborhood before coming in to console you.
When you had finally cried yourself to sleep accepting your best buddy was gone for good, he had decided to come out of hiding and confront David as David walked to the door of your place. David was going out to look for him, one last time, and Chestnut had nuzzled his legs like he had been gone an hour. That was the last time the tabby smelled fresh air from outside your loft.
You smile as you squeeze him closer to you. You loved him and he was all yours. You keep this in mind as you say seductively,
“Baby can I ask you something?”
“Yeah?” he moves your hand to your exposed thigh, fingers caressing up to the hem of your shirt, liking the low tone of your voice, knowing what you were most likely going to ask.
It pains you to say the next words, the idea of fucking on his island was appealing. It was the one place he had yet to claim you on in his space, but fate had other plans.
“Did you have two pie crusts in the oven? Because something is smoking at a crazy high level.”
“Oh shit!” David snaps away from you, pulling the oven open and yanking out the now very burnt pie crust.
You laugh as he curses, moving quickly to open the window before the smoke detector starts to go off.
Oh yeah.
Moving in with David was going to be the best thing you ever do in your life.
_________
All work was written originally by me, please do no repost or use as your own
