!Fae!Bf/Keller- Who calls it a gift when he binds you to him. Time bends strangely when youāre together; days slip away, memories blur. He swears youāre happier hereālaughing more, glowing brighterāso why would you ever want to leave?
He warned you about making promisesābut you, stubborn and grinning, had to test it for yourself.
āIām yours,ā you say.
āForever.ā
You smirk at him, waiting for somethingā
a spark, a pull, a shift in the air.
Nothing happens.
You almost laugh. Almost tease him for being dramatic.
What you donāt know is that heās been taking things from you long before you ever said it out loud.
A strand of hair left behind on his pillow.
A glass you didnāt finish, lips still warm on the rim.
The faint salt of your skin where your hands pressed into his back, fingers digging in, claiming without meaning to.
Gifts, in the fae sense of the word.
Alex watches you carefully when nothing happens, relief flickering across his face too slow to hide. His hand tightens at your waist, not possessiveāprotective.
āYou shouldnāt say things like that,ā he murmurs, softer now.
You roll your eyes. āRelax. I didnāt feel anything.ā
He doesnāt correct you.
Laterādays laterāyou start to notice it.
You smell him on your clothes long after youāve washed them. His food tastes richer, warmer, like itās missing something when heās not there. The flowers he brings you donāt wiltānot on the counter, not by the window, not even when you forget to change the water.
You joke about it at first. Magic boyfriend perks.
But then you realize youāve stopped buying flowers yourself.
Stopped craving food he hasnāt touched.
Stopped sleeping well unless his scent is in the room.
And when you mention it, half-laughing, he just watches you with that careful look againālike heās counting something you canāt see.
Your body starts reacting before your brain catches up.
Your thighs tense when you hear his voice on the phone. Your skin prickles when heās close, heat pooling low and slow, like your bodyās already preparing itself. You hate how easy it isāhow ready you are.
You catch yourself leaving things at his place. Intimate things. Things you shouldnāt forget. You donāt remember deciding toāyour body just does it for you.
He doesnāt rush it.
Thatās what makes it worse.
You start noticing how often his hand settles at the small of your back, thumb drawing slow, absent circles like heās grounding himselfāor you. How he watches you eat now, eyes soft, approving, like heās pleased youāre finally taking what he gives.
āGood,ā he murmurs once, when you finish your plate.
Not loud. Not teasing. Justā¦ pleased.
The word lingers longer than it should.
You find yourself seeking it out after that. The tone. The warmth in his voice when you do something right. Wearing the sweater he likes. Leaving your hair down. Letting him guide you through a doorway with a touch so light it barely counts.
Every time, he rewards you with quiet praise.
āClever girl.ā
āThere you are.ā
Each one settles somewhere low and deep, heat curling in your stomach before you can stop it. You tell yourself itās nothing. Just words. Just affection.
But his words don't sit idle.
You start leaning into him without thinking, body angling toward his warmth like it knows where it belongs. You catch his scent on your wrists and donāt wash it off right away. When he noticesābecause of course he doesāhis mouth curves, pleased.
He never tells you what to do.
He just notices when you do it.
When you leave your things at his place, he thanks you softly. When you choose him over safety, over anyone else, his touch grows reverent. Like youāve offered him something sacred.
āSuch a good choice,ā he whispers once, lips brushing your temple. You shiver, knees weak, and he feels itāhis hand tightening just enough to steady you.
He praises you for that too.
You realize, slowly, that heās been teaching you. Not commandsāhabits. Responses. How good it feels to give in a little more each time. How right it feels when he approves.
By the time you understand whatās happening, your body already does.
You glow under his attention now, warmth blooming whenever he looks at you like thatāfond, hungry, proud. When he murmurs your name, it sounds like ownership softened into devotion.
āYouāre doing beautifully,ā he says one night, fingers tracing idle patterns against your skin. āJust like this.ā
You nod without thinking.
Later, alone, you try to remember when it stopped being a choice. When his praise stopped feeling optional and started feeling necessary.
You canāt pinpoint it.
Only that when he smiles at youāslow, knowing, satisfiedāyour body responds like itās been waiting for permission all along.
And he gives it.
Softly.
Patiently.
Every time you deserve it.
