I’d like to request a domestic fluff Erik fic, please. Maybe early morning cuddles and deep kisses that takes place after smut from the night before? He’s just overall joyful and somewhat in awe that they enjoy being close to him because he craves it so deeply. I’m talking legs intertwined and him kissing the reader’s hands as they slip their fingers between his. Intimacy unlike anything he’s felt before.
Light peeked through the heavy velvet curtains Erik insisted on keeping, but it didn’t bother you. Not today. Not here, curled against him in the hush of morning, with sheets tangled around your hips and his breath warm and even against the top of your head.
His arm stayed wrapped around your back like he was afraid you’d vanish in your sleep.
You didn’t.
You stayed.
And Erik… Erik could hardly believe it. You felt it in the way he held you—like he was still waiting to wake up. Even without opening your eyes, you knew he was watching. He always did when he thought you weren’t paying attention. As if he still didn’t trust this softness, this intimacy, to be anything but a dream.
Your fingers lightly traced the edge of his silk robe, the fabric pooled loosely over one shoulder, left half-forgotten from the night before. His skin was warm and soft beneath your touch, no longer tight with tension. He hadn’t reached for his mask.
Another small miracle.
“You’re staring,” you murmured, voice hoarse from sleep.
His chest rumbled beneath your cheek with a soft chuckle. “I always do.”
You cracked an eye open and found his gaze already fixed on you, pale eyes open and full of something soft and raw in the morning light. His hair was tousled, lips parted slightly, like he might say something—but didn’t know how to.
“Don’t you ever get tired of looking?” you asked, voice teasing.
He caught your hand and turned it over gently, pressing a kiss to the center of your palm. His lips lingered there like it meant something holy.
“Never,” he said into your skin, reverent.
Silence fell again, but it wasn’t awkward. It felt full—full of meaning, of unspoken thoughts, of quiet joy. He held your hand like it grounded him. When you shifted, winding one leg between his, you felt him draw in a slow, shaky breath. Like even that little bit of contact was too much. Like it healed something deep in him.
You laced your fingers through his, slowly, deliberately, and watched his face as you did it. His mouth parted again, like he meant to speak—but no words came. Just the stunned, adoring look of someone who had no idea how to accept being wanted.
His thumb brushed over the back of your hand.
“Sometimes,” he said, after a long moment, “I wonder if I’ve truly woken up. Or if this is one of those cruel dreams I used to have.”
“What kind?” you asked gently.
“The ones where someone… stayed.”
You leaned in and kissed his jaw first, the unmarked side. Then slowly, gently, the other side too—just at the edge of the scar. You felt him still beneath you. Not in fear or shame, but in a kind of breathless stillness. Like he couldn’t believe you’d touched him there.
“I’m here,” you whispered against his skin. “I stayed.”
His hand moved up to cradle the back of your head, fingers twining in your hair with such delicate care, it almost broke your heart.
“I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this,” he murmured. “To deserve you.”
“You don’t have to earn love, Erik,” you said softly.
He shook his head slowly. “But I do. I always have.”
You sat up slightly, straddling his hips now, keeping your joined hands pressed to his chest where his heartbeat fluttered beneath your fingertips.
“You don’t have to with me.”
His eyes searched your face, lips trembling. Then he pulled you down into a kiss that was slow and deep and filled with everything he couldn’t quite say aloud. There was no rush in it, no hunger, just a reverent need to hold and be held. A wordless prayer made of lips and breath and closeness.
When you finally pulled back, you let your forehead rest against his.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered. “Not today. Not tomorrow.”
He lifted your joined hands to his mouth and kissed every knuckle one by one, like each of them was some sacred relic.
“Do you…” he began, voice raw, “do you like this? Being close to me like this?”
You blinked, surprised. “Of course I do.”
He swallowed, glancing down at your hands, still woven together. “But I’m not easy to touch. I’m not soft.”
“You’re softer than you think,” you said, brushing your fingers across his cheek.
He gave a breathless huff of something like a laugh, or maybe a sob. “No one has ever said that to me before.”
“Then they weren’t looking close enough.”
His mouth met yours again—so gently, it made your chest ache. He kissed along your jaw, your cheek, your temple, like he couldn’t decide what to cherish more. His hands slid over your back, holding you like something fragile and rare.
“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this,” he whispered. “To wake up with someone who doesn’t flinch. Who smiles when I touch them.”
“You’re wanted, Erik. Deeply.”
He made a sound then, low and trembling, and buried his face against your shoulder. His hands curled tighter around you.
“I never thought I’d live long enough to feel this.”
“You’re allowed to,” you murmured, stroking his hair. “Feel it. Let yourself have it.”
The two of you lay there like that for a while—legs tangled together, hearts beating in tandem, mouths brushing lazily over each other in a cocoon of warmth and silk. There was no rush, no world outside the bed. Just two bodies holding on. Just peace.
Eventually, Erik broke the silence with a sleepy, almost boyish murmur.
“Do you know what I dreamt last night?”
“What?” you asked, smiling against his shoulder.
“That you kissed me in a garden. And there was sun. I don’t often dream of sunlight.”
You kissed the tip of his nose. “Maybe you should start.”
He smiled—a small, soft one. Real.
“I already have.”
