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Five More Minutes Of Having You

Hunter!Xavier x Hunter!MC Supernatural AU

—⊹ this work was originally commissioned and given consent to be shared (personal details about the commissioner had been edited out)

MDNI 🔞

Synopsis: A near-death encounter with a Djinn pulls you into a coma, poison rushing through your veins, and all you can do is fall victim to the potent dream its pulling you under. Showing you your deepest desire, it gives you the one thing you've never let yourself ask for. A life where Xavier loves you back. Content warnings: Supernatural AU, Winchester Xavier (if you squint), Hunting partners, Near-death experience, Hurt/comfort, Slow burn, Mutual pining, the Djinn made them Do It (sort of), Wet dreams, Monster poisoning, Fighting & Sexual tension, We-don't-talk-about-it kiss, Xavier is kinda mean & cold, Sharing a motel room bed, One-bed trope, Mentions of blood & injuries, Love confessions, Cunnilingus & Face-fucking, Possessive Xavier, Rough sex, Doggy style, Multiple orgasms, Orgasm edging & Overstimulation, Begging, Dirty talk, Lots of dirty talk, Praise kink, Creampie, Pet names, Aftercare. Word count: 13.2k Author's note: all credits go to my wifey mari who i love so much & who put this idea in my head & made me part of the winchester xavier fanclub cuz i had so much fun with this (besides all the headaches he pulled from me lmaooo) pfft anyway i hope you guys enjoy it~ pls mind the tags, ty

The worst part about hunting a Djinn isn’t the whole ‘getting trapped in a hallucinogenic death-coma’ thing—it’s the territory. Djinns love abandoned places. Warehouses, asylums, factories. Anywhere with enough shadows to hide in and enough rust to make your tetanus shot work overtime.

This one picked an old cannery outside of Tacoma, which means you’ve spent the last twenty minutes breathing in decades of rotted fish and industrial decay while trying not to slip on floors slick with things you don’t want to identify. The smell is so thick you can taste it, salt and metal and something sweet-rotten that coats the back of your throat.

Xavier, of course, looks completely unbothered. He’s been moving through the space like he’s on a casual evening stroll, his flashlight beam steady as it sweeps across rusted vats and collapsed catwalks. You’ve been hunting with him for three years now, and you still can’t figure out if the man actually doesn’t feel discomfort or if he’s just that committed to looking unflappable.

You’re betting on the latter. You’ve seen him get worked up exactly twice—once when you went off-script during a rugaru hunt in Montana and nearly got your throat torn out, and once when you drank the last of his honey milk tea. The man has priorities.

“We should split up,” you say, shining your light down a corridor that branches off to the left. “Cover more ground.”

“No.”

You glance back at him. He’s stopped walking, his expression as neutral as ever, but there’s something in the set of his shoulders that you’ve learned to read over the years. It’s the same tension he gets right before he tells you you’re being reckless, which is rich coming from someone who once walked into a nest of vampires with nothing but a machete and what you can only describe as way too much confidence.

“It’s a Djinn, not a pack of werewolves,” you point out. “I can handle one Djinn.”

“You can handle one Djinn when you’re not walking into blind corners in a building with structural damage and fifteen different ways for something to drop on your head,” Xavier says. His voice is calm, measured. Reasonable. It makes you want to do something unreasonable just to spite him.

“I’ve been hunting for six years,” you remind him. “I know how to clear a room.”

“I’m aware.” He steps closer. He’s been up for almost thirty-six hours, same as you, but he still looks like he could walk into this abandoned building and clear it without breaking a sweat. It’s infuriating. “I’m also aware that you have a habit of prioritizing speed over caution.”

“I prioritize efficiency.”

“You prioritize proving you don’t need backup.”

The words land harder than you expect. You’ve had this argument before—different words, same problem. It started about eight months into your partnership, right after a hunt went sideways and you’d insisted on going back in alone to finish the job. He’d followed you anyway, and you’d both made it out alive, but the lecture afterward had lasted the entire drive back to the motel.

You’d told him then that you didn’t need a babysitter. He’d looked at you with those narrowed blue eyes and said, “I’m not babysitting. I’m making sure my partner doesn’t get killed doing something I could have helped with.”

It had sounded logical. Practical. It also sounded like he gave a damn whether you lived or died, and you hadn’t known what to do with that at the time.

You still don’t.

“Fine,” you sigh, turning back toward the main corridor. “We’ll stick together. But if this takes twice as long because you want to check every corner like we’re defusing a bomb—”

“Then it takes twice as long,” Xavier says. He’s right behind you now, close enough that you can hear the quiet exhale he makes. “I’d rather be thorough than fast.”

You bite down on the urge to argue, mostly because you know he’s right and you hate that you know he’s right. The Djinn could be anywhere in this place. Splitting up would be faster, but it would also be a great way to end up poisoned and hallucinating while your brain slowly liquefies.

Still, there’s a part of you that wants to push back just to see what happens. To see if you can crack that perfect composure, make him admit that this isn’t just about tactics and efficiency. That maybe, possibly, he’s worried about you specifically and not just the general concept of his hunting partner getting hurt.

But you don’t. Instead, you start walking, your boots echoing on the concrete, and try to ignore the fact that you’re hyperaware of exactly how close he is behind you. That you can feel the space between you like a physical thing, six inches of air that somehow feels more conscious than any touch.

“There’s a basement access down here,” you say, nodding toward a rusted metal door half-hidden behind a stack of broken pallets. “If I were a Djinn, that’s where I’d set up. Dark space, enclosed, easy to defend.”

“Agreed,” Xavier says. He moves past you to examine the door, testing the handle carefully before pulling it open. The hinges scream, and the smell that wafts up from below is somehow worse than the rest of the cannery—stale air and old blood and something chemical that burns your sinuses.

“Ladies first,” you say, gesturing toward the stairs.

Xavier gives you a look that might be amusement or might be exasperation. With him, it’s hard to tell. “I’ll go first. You cover”

“Because I’m so delicate and in need of protecting?”

“Because if something comes up those stairs, I’d rather be the one in its way.”

He says it like it’s obvious. Like of course he’d put himself between you and danger, like it’s not something that makes your chest feel too tight and your pulse kick up in a way that has nothing to do with the usual nerves of hunting.

You want to argue. You want to tell him that you don’t need him playing hero, that you can take care of yourself, that this whole protective thing he does is unnecessary and borderline patronizing.

Instead, you say, “Your funeral,” and follow him down into the dark.

The basement is a maze of industrial vats and rusted catwalks, the kind of space that was probably dangerous even when the cannery was operational. Now it’s a death trap—metal groaning overhead, pools of stagnant water reflecting your flashlight beam, pipes dripping condensation that could be water or could be something worse you don’t want to think about.

Xavier moves through it like he’s reading a map only he can see, his light sweeping methodically across each junction before he commits to a direction. You follow, trying not to think about how many places something could be hiding. How many shadows deep enough to conceal a body.

“We should split up here,” you say when you reach a fork in the path. The left corridor is narrow, barely wide enough for one person. The right opens into what looks like a larger processing area, vats rising like monuments in the dark. “You take the big room, I’ll clear the corridor.”

“No,” Xavier says.

“It’s faster—”

“It’s reckless.” He turns to look at you, and there’s an sharpness in his voice you don’t hear often. “We stay together.”

“Xavier—”

“That’s not a suggestion.”

You should listen to him. You know you should. Xavier’s been hunting longer than you have, and his instincts are good—better than good, if you’re being honest with yourself. But there’s a part of you that bristles at being told what to do, that wants to prove you don’t need constant supervision.

“Fine,” you say. “You take the big room. I’ll be right behind you.”

You wait until he’s three steps ahead, his attention on the vats, and then you turn left into the corridor.

It’s a stupid move. You know it’s a stupid move even as you’re making it. But you’ve cleared a hundred spaces like this, and you’re not about to start second-guessing yourself just because Xavier has a bad feeling.

The corridor is tight, your shoulders nearly brushing the walls on either side. Your flashlight catches on old machinery, pipes that snake along the ceiling, a door at the far end that’s hanging half off its hinges. You move carefully, knife in your free hand, every sense straining for movement.

You’re halfway down when you hear a wet, sliding sound above you, like something heavy is dragging itself across metal.

Your training kicks in before conscious thought does. You drop into a crouch, flashlight swinging up, and that’s when the Djinn drops from the ceiling.

It’s fast—faster than anything that size should be. You get a glimpse of blue-gray skin, glowing tattoos that pulse with sickly light, and then it’s on you. You roll left, the knife coming up in a defensive arc, and feel the blade catch flesh. The Djinn hisses, a sound like steam escaping under pressure, and lunges again.

You’re good with a knife. You’ve had to be. But the Djinn is better, and it has the advantage of reach and speed and the fact that you’re fighting in a space barely wide enough to move. You manage to land another cut, this one across its ribs, but it costs you—the creature’s clawed hand rakes across your shoulder, tearing through your jacket and the shirt beneath.

The pain is sharp and immediate, but you’ve had worse. You pivot, trying to get your back against the wall so it can’t circle you, and that’s when the Djinn changes tactics.

It stops trying to kill you and starts trying to touch you.

You realize what it’s doing half a second too late. The Djinn’s hand shoots out, impossibly fast, and its fingers brush the side of your neck just below your jaw.

The effect is instant. The poison burns through your skin like acid, a white-hot line of agony that spreads from the point of contact down into your chest. You gasp, stumbling back, and the Djinn lunges forward to press its advantage.

You slash wildly, more instinct than strategy, and feel the blade sink deep into its shoulder. The Djinn reels back with another hiss, and you use the opening to put distance between you—three steps, four, until your back hits the wall and you can’t go any further.

The poison is spreading. You can feel it moving through your bloodstream, a cold fire that makes your vision blur at the corners. Your legs feel weak, your grip on the knife uncertain.

The Djinn is watching you now, its head tilted in a way that’s almost curious. Waiting for the poison to do its work.

You try to call for Xavier, but your throat feels tight, the words coming out as barely more than a whisper. You try again, forcing air through your lungs, and this time you manage something louder.

“Xavier—”

The Djinn moves again before you got a chance to finish the word. You see it coming, see the way it coils to spring, and you know you’re not fast enough to stop it. The knife feels heavy in your hand, your arm sluggish when you try to raise it.

The creature’s hand reaches for your face, claws extended, and you do the only thing you can think of.

You scream.

It’s not a word, not a call for help—just raw sound, terror and fury and the desperate need to not die alone in the dark. It tears out of your throat with enough force to hurt, echoing off the metal walls, and somewhere in the back of your fading consciousness you think, He’ll hear that. He has to hear that.

The Djinn’s hand closes around your throat.

The poison floods your system like ice water in your veins, and everything goes white. Not the beautiful white of snow or paper. This white is painful and jarring, every nerve firing at once until there’s no distinction between pain and light and sound. You can’t feel the ground beneath you anymore, can’t feel your own body. There’s just the whiteness, and the cold, and the distant awareness that you’re falling to the ground.

You think you hear Xavier’s voice, rough and urgent, shouting your name.

You think you hear the sound of a blade meeting flesh, the Djinn’s death-rattle hiss.

But you can’t be sure, because the whiteness is swallowing everything, pulling you down into a place where sound doesn’t reach and your body is just a distant memory.

Your last coherent thought, before the darkness takes you, is that you should have stayed with him.

Then there’s nothing at all.

—

You wake to sunlight.

That’s the first wrong thing. Sunlight doesn’t exist in the cannery basement. Sunlight doesn’t filter through windows in soft golden bars, doesn’t warm the sheets tangled around your legs, doesn’t make dust motes drift lazy and slow through air that smells like coffee and something floral you can’t place.

You blink. The ceiling above you is cream-colored, unmarked by water damage or mold. There’s a ceiling fan turning in slow rotations, blades clean and white. The bed beneath you is soft—actually comfortable, the kind of mattress that costs more than your car.

Your body moves before your brain catches up. You sit up, and your shoulder—

Your shoulder doesn’t hurt.

You look down. You’re wearing a t-shirt you don’t recognize, soft cotton that smells clean. There’s no blood whatsoever. No torn fabric. No bandages. Your skin is unmarked where the Djinn’s claws should have torn through.

The bedroom door opens.

Xavier walks in carrying two mugs, and the wrongness of it hits you like a physical blow. He’s shirtless, wearing only loose gray sweatpants that sit low on his hips, and his hair is slightly messed like he’s been running his hands through it. He looks at you, and he smiles.

That’s the second wrong thing.

Xavier doesn’t smile like that. He does the small half-curve that means he’s amused, the barely-there quirk that shows up when you say something that surprises him. But this—this is an open smile. Unguarded. The kind of smile that reaches his eyes and makes the blue there look warmer, softer, like something you could fall into and never find your way out of.

“You’re awake,” he says. His voice is rough in a way that makes you think he hasn’t been sleeping. “I was starting to worry.”

You stare at him. Your mouth is dry, your thoughts moving too slow, like they’re wading through something thick. “Where—”

“Safe,” Xavier says. He crosses the room and sets both mugs on the nightstand, then sits on the edge of the bed. Close. Close enough that you can see the faint shadows under his eyes, the tension in his shoulders that he’s trying to hide. “You’ve been out for almost twelve hours. How do you feel?”

“Like I got poisoned by a Djinn,” you wince. Your voice comes out hoarse. “What happened?”

“You went off alone,” Xavier says. There’s no anger in his voice, no I-told-you-so, but you can hear the edge underneath—the thing he’s not saying. “The Djinn got you. I heard you scream in pain.”

You remember that part. The white and hot burning sensation of the poison, the way your legs gave out, the certainty that you were going to die in that corridor, all by yourself at the hands of a very annoying, and very ugly creature.

“You killed it,” you say.

“Yes.”

“And brought me here.”

“Yes.”

You look around the room again, trying to make sense of it. The sunlight. The clean sheets. The smell of coffee and flowers. It’s too nice. Too comfortable. Too much like the kind of place you’d want to wake up in, which means—

“This isn’t real,” you say.

Xavier’s expression changes ever so slightly. The softness doesn’t disappear, not quite, but something else moves underneath it—something that reads almost like pain, if you didn’t knew better. “What makes you think that?”

“Because you’re—” You gesture at him, at the room, at everything. “This doesn’t happen. We never get to have this nice of a room and… We don’t—you don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Xavier asks.

“Like you’re glad I’m alive,” you say. The words come out sharper than you mean them to. “Like you give a damn whether I wake up or not.”

The silence that follows is heavy.

Things between you are complicated. Or rather, they are complicated on your part. You try as much as possible not to feed your own delusions, not to dwell on how Xavier looks at you at times, over the long drives in the Impala, over shared greasy hamburgers in diners. You mask your own consuming attraction toward him with playful jabs, and stubborn defiance because if you actually admitted your feelings, and he rejected you, it would ruin the only good thing in your life.

Xavier sets his mug down. He doesn’t look away from you, and there’s something in his eyes now that you can’t name—something that makes you want to run, except you’re already in bed and there’s nowhere to go.

“I thought I lost you,” he says. His voice has gone quiet. “When I heard you scream, I thought—” He stops. Swallows. Starts again. “I’ve done this for a long time. I’ve lost people. But the idea of losing you—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. You’re staring at him, your heart doing that complicated thing again, and you don’t know what to do with this. With him sitting on the edge of the bed looking at you like you’re something breakable, something worth protecting. It’s so far off the way he usually looks at you, and you don’t what you could even say to that.

“Xavier—”

“I care about you,” he continues. “More than I should. More than is smart, or safe, or—” He exhales, and it sounds shaky. “I’ve been trying not to. For three years, I’ve been trying to keep it professional, to keep my distance, because I know how this ends. I know what happens when you care about someone in this life. But then you let out that painful scream, and I thought I was too late, and I realized I’d wasted three years pretending I didn’t feel this about you.”

Your breath catches, voice shaky. “Feel what?”

Xavier’s eyes search yours. “Do I really need to say it?”

“Yes,” you whisper.

He leans in gently, giving you every chance to pull away. His hand comes up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing against your cheek.

“I’m in love with you,” Xavier says.

And then he kisses you.

It’s soft. Tender. Everything you’ve never let yourself imagine because imagining it would make the reality of not having it unbearable. His mouth moves against yours like he’s memorizing the shape of your lips, your taste, like he has all the time in the world and he’s going to use every second of it on learning you.

You know, objectively, that this is the Djinn feeding on your life force, siphoning the marrow from your bones while pacifying your brain with a perfect little hallucination. You know that if you give in, you are going to die on a filthy concrete floor covered in rat shit.

But god, his mouth is so soft.

You kiss him back. Your hands come up to his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, the steady thrum of his heartbeat under your palms. He tastes like coffee and something addictive, and you can’t get enough of it. It’s a complete and utter surrender. The second you kiss him back, Xavier’s hands slide from your knees up the bare skin of your thighs, gripping your hips that sends a violent jolt straight down between your legs.

He pulls you forward, and you go willingly, shifting your weight until you are the one now fully straddling his lap. The oversized shirt rides up, but you couldn’t care less. In fact, you tangle your fingers into his messy silver hair, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss until the taste of him completely rewrites every little thought in your brain.

He groans into your mouth, a rumbling sound of approval that vibrates against your chest as he kisses you eagerly.

Just five minutes. Let me have this for five minutes, and then I’ll wake up and stab that blue freak.

But five minutes is a dangerous bargain when the illusion is this potent. Xavier’s hands are mapping the curve of your waist, his thumbs pressing firmly into your hip bones. The hard ridge of his bulge presses up against the juncture of your thighs through the thin fabric of his sweatpants, and you want to grind on it, already turned on. The realization hits you like a shot of pure adrenaline.

You tilt your hips, grinding down against him with a slow roll of your hips. Xavier breaks the kiss with a sharp intake of breath, his head falling back slightly to expose the long line of his throat. His grip on your hips tightens to the point of bruising, his thumbs dragging down to ghost over your upper thighs.

“Feels so good with you on top of me...” he murmurs, voice thick, chest heaving under your palms.

You chase his lips again, peppering hot, open-mouthed kisses along his jawline, completely lost in the friction, the heat of him under you where you imagined so many times and then chastised yourself for it.

You rock your hips down again, harder this time, chasing the ache between your legs. You want to drag those sweatpants off him. You want to feel him press you back into this ridiculously soft mattress and ruin you for any other man on earth. Your lips melt together, shared soft moans the only sound you’re aware of in this dizzy state.

When he finally pulls back, you’re both breathing hard. His forehead rests against yours, and his eyes are closed.

“This is real,” he says. “You’re awake. I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

You want to believe him. You want it so badly it hurts.

But the sunlight is too perfect. The room is too clean. And Xavier has never, in three years, looked at you like this.

“I don’t think it is,” you say quietly.

Xavier opens his eyes. “What?”

“Real,” you say. “I don’t think this is real. I think I’m still—”

The room flickers. It’s subtle. Just a momentary distortion, like static on a television screen. The sunlight wavers. The walls blur at the edges.

Xavier’s hand tightens on your jaw. “No,” he says. “No, don’t—”

The room flickers again, harder this time, and you feel the pull. Something dragging you back, away from the sunlight and the soft bed and Xavier’s hands on your skin.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“Don’t apologize,” Xavier says. His voice is rough, desperate. “Just stay. Please stay.”

But you can’t. The pull is too strong, and the room is dissolving around you, the sunlight fading to gray, and Xavier’s face is the last thing you see before—

You wake to darkness and the smell of rust.

Your body comes back to you in pieces. First the cold concrete beneath you, seeping through your clothes. Then the pain in your shoulder screaming, your throat raw, every muscle aching like you’ve been hit by a truck. Then the sound of dripping water from the pipes, and breathing that isn’t yours.

You open your eyes.

You’re still in the cannery basement. Still in the corridor where the Djinn attacked you. The creature’s body is a few feet away, its blue-gray skin already starting to decompose, the glow of its tattoos fading to nothing.

And Xavier is kneeling beside you, his hand on your wrist, checking your pulse.

He looks up when you move. His face is streaked with blood—some of it his, most of it the Djinn’s—and his expression is—

He’s furious.

“You’re awake,” he says. His voice is flat, controlled in a way that makes your stomach drop. “Good. Can you stand?”

You try. Your legs shake, and Xavier’s hand shoots out to steady you, gripping your uninjured arm hard enough that you’ll feel it tomorrow.

“Careful,” he reminds you. Careful seems to not be in your vocabulary tonight.

You get your feet under you. The world tilts, and you have to lean against the wall to keep from falling. Xavier doesn’t let go of your arm.

“I’m fine,” you try to reassure him.

“You’re not fine,” Xavier scoffs. “You were poisoned. You’ve been unconscious for twenty minutes. And you—” He stops. His jaw tightens. “You went off alone.”

“I know.”

“After I told you not to.”

“I know.”

“You could have died,” Xavier states. His voice is still flat, but the words are clipped and devoid of any warmth. “If I hadn’t heard you scream, if I’d been thirty seconds slower, you would be dead right now.”

You don’t have an answer for that. He’s right. You know he’s right.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

Xavier’s hand tightens on your arm. “Sorry doesn’t fix this.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Xavier asks. He steps closer, and you’re suddenly very aware of how much bigger he is than you, how the space between you has shrunk to nothing. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you have a death wish.”

“I don’t—”

“You do,” Xavier insists. “You throw yourself into danger like it doesn’t matter. Like you don’t matter. And I’m tired of watching you do it.”

His voice cracks on the last word, and that’s when you realize he’s not just angry. He’s terrified.

“Xavier—”

“I thought you were dead,” His hand moves from your arm to the wall beside your head, caging you in. “I heard you scream, and I thought I was too late. And the entire time I was killing that thing, all I could think was that I should have followed you. That I should have stopped you. That if you died because I let you go off alone, I would never forgive myself.”

You’re staring at him. His face is inches from yours, and you can see the way his chest is heaving, the way his pupils are blown wide, the faint tremor in his hand where it’s pressed against the wall.

“I’m sorry,” you say again. It’s inadequate, but it’s all you have.

Xavier’s eyes drop to your mouth. “You keep saying that.”

“Because I mean it.”

“Do you?” Xavier asks. His voice has gone quiet, and he’s so close now that you can feel the heat of him, smell the blood on his skin and clothes and the faint scent of his soap underneath. “Or are you just saying what you think I want to hear?”

“I mean it,” you whisper it, as convincing as you can muster.

Xavier’s hand moves from the wall to your jaw, tilting your face up. His thumb brushes against your bottom lip, and the touch sends a jolt of heat straight through you.

“Prove it,” he says.

You don’t think. You just move, closing the distance between you and kissing him.

It’s nothing like the dream, and so much better all the same. There’s no softness here, no tenderness. This is desperate and rough and three years of wanting compressed into the press of his mouth against yours. Xavier makes a low sound in his throat, and his hand slides from your jaw into your hair, gripping hard enough to sting.

You kiss him back just as hard, if not even harder. Your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer like you want to merge yourself to him. He responds by pressing you back against the wall roughly. The concrete is cold against your spine, but Xavier is warm—burning, actually, like he’s running a fever—and you can’t get enough of it.

When he finally pulls back, you’re both breathing hard. His forehead rests against yours, and his eyes are closed.

“We need to go," he whispers.

“Okay,” you say.

“I’m still angry at you,” Xavier still sounds mad, and you can’t blame him for it.

“I know.”

“And we’re going to talk about this,” His breath fawns over your wet lips. You want to kiss him again. “About you going off alone. About you not listening. About—” He stops. Opens his eyes to meet yours. “About all of it.”

“Okay,” you say again, nodding.

Xavier’s hand is still in your hair. He looks at you for a long moment, and then he steps back, letting you go.

“Can you walk?” he asks, looking you over.

“Yes.”

“Then let’s get out of here,” Xavier says.

The walk back to the car is silent. Xavier moves ahead of you, his flashlight cutting through the dark, and you follow. Your legs are shaky, and your shoulder is screaming in pain, but you don’t complain. You don’t have the right to complain, not after what you just put him through.

The Impala is parked where you left it, and Xavier unlocks it without a word. You climb into the passenger seat, and he gets behind the wheel.

He doesn’t start the car. You sit in the silence, waiting for him to say something. To yell at you, to lecture you, to do anything other than just sit there with his hands on the steering wheel and his jaw tight.

“Xavier—”

“Not now,” he says.

You close your mouth. Xavier starts the car. The engine rumbles to life, and he pulls out of the parking lot without looking at you.

The drive to the motel is silent. You watch the streetlights blur past, your thoughts a tangled mess of the dream and the kiss and the way Xavier looked at you in the basement. Like he wanted to strangle you and kiss you at the same time.

You’re still thinking about it when you realize you’re wet.

It’s not even subtle. You can feel the slickness between your thighs, the way your underwear is damp and uncomfortable. Your body is responding to the adrenaline, to the fear, to the memory of Xavier’s hand in your hair and his mouth on yours.

You shift in your seat, trying to ignore it, but the movement just makes it worse. You’re acutely aware of every bump in the road, every shift of your hips, the way your jeans are pressing against you in a way that’s both uncomfortable and maddeningly not enough.

You glance at Xavier. He’s staring straight ahead, his expression unreadable, and you wonder if he knows. If he can tell.

You hope he can’t.

The motel comes into view, and Xavier pulls into the parking lot. He cuts the engine and sits there for a moment, his hands still on the wheel.

“We need to get you cleaned up,” he says finally. “And I need to check your shoulder.”

“Okay,” you sigh, not wanting to argue any longer. You know he won’t calm down until he makes sure your wounds aren’t going to get infected at least.

Xavier gets out of the car. You follow, your legs still shaky, and he unlocks the motel room door without looking at you. The room is small and dingy, the kind of place that rents by the hour and doesn’t ask questions. There’s one bed, a bathroom that’s seen better days, and a TV that probably hasn’t worked since the nineties.

Xavier drops his bag on the bed and turns to look at you. “Sit,” he says, nodding toward the edge of the mattress.

You sit. Xavier disappears into the bathroom, and you hear the sound of running water. He comes back a moment later with a first aid kit and a damp washcloth.

“Let me see your shoulder,” he gestures toward the wounded area. You peel off your jacket, wincing as the fabric pulls at the wound. Your shirt is torn and blood-soaked, and Xavier’s jaw tightens when he sees it.

“This needs stitches,” he says. You can’t distinguish if he is angry or pained, or both. But his voice is cold, and you know he doesn’t like how it looks.

“I know,” you sigh, defeated.

“And you need a shower,” Xavier points out. “You’re covered in blood.”

“So are you,” you point out back, narrowing your eyes.

Xavier ignores that. He sets the first aid kit on the bed and reaches for the hem of your shirt. “This is going to hurt.”

“I can do it myself—”

“Let me,” His voice is quiet, but there’s an air to it that makes you stop arguing.

You let him pull your shirt over your head. The fabric sticks to the wound, and you hiss when it tears free. Xavier’s hands are gentle as he examines the damage, his fingers tracing the claw marks.

“It’s deep,” His eyes furrow. “But clean. The Djinn didn’t get any poison in the wound itself.”

“Lucky me,” you try to joke, but it doesn’t land. You swallow, throat dry.

Xavier doesn’t smile. He picks up the washcloth and starts cleaning the blood away, his touch careful and methodical. You watch his face as he works, the way his brow furrows in concentration, the way his mouth is pressed into a thin line.

“I’m sorry,” you say again. Your chest hurts, and you don’t know if it’s from what you went through tonight or just because you made Xavier mad. You don’t like either options.

Xavier’s hand stills. “Stop apologizing.”

“I can’t,” you say. “Not when you’re—”

“When I’m what?” Xavier looks up at you, and there’s something in his eyes that makes your thoughts scatter off.

“Angry at me,” you continue at last, voice too small.

“I’m not angry at you,” Xavier says, tearing his eyes off your face and checking the wound.

“You said you were.”

“I lied,” Xavier goes back to cleaning your shoulder, his touch still gentle. “I’m not angry. I’m—” He takes a small breath in. “I don’t know what I am.”

You don’t know what to say to that. You bite your lip and sit in silence while he finishes cleaning the wound, and then he picks up the needle and thread.

“This is going to hurt,” he warns again, locking eyes with you.

“I know.”

Xavier’s hand settles on your uninjured shoulder, steadying you. “Try not to move.”

The first stitch burns, and you bite down on your lip to keep from making a sound. Xavier works quickly, his hands steady, and you focus on his face instead of the pain. On the way his jaw is still tight, the way his eyes are focused on the task at hand.

When he’s done, he ties off the thread and cuts it. “There,” he says. “That should hold.”

“Thank you.”

Xavier doesn’t respond. He picks up the first aid kit and carries it back to the bathroom, and you hear the sound of running water again.

You sit on the edge of the bed, your shoulder throbbing, and try to figure out what the hell just happened. The kiss in the basement. The silence in the car. The way Xavier is acting now—distant and controlled, like he’s trying to put as much space between you as possible.

You don’t know what it means. You don’t know if you want to know.

Xavier comes back out of the bathroom after a few minuts. “You should shower. I’ll go after you.”

You nod and stand up. Your legs are still shaky, and you have to grip the edge of the bed to keep from falling.

Xavier’s hand shoots out to steady you. “Be careful.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Xavier scoffs. “You were poisoned. You need to rest.”

“I will,” you say. “After I shower.”

Xavier lets go of your arm. “Don’t take too long. And don’t get the stitches wet.”

“I won’t,” you reassure him.

You grab your bag and head into the bathroom, closing the door behind you. The room is small and cramped, the mirror cracked and the tiles stained. You turn on the shower and wait for the water to heat up, then strip off the rest of your clothes.

Your reflection in the mirror is a mess. Blood-streaked skin, dark circles under your eyes, and the fresh stitches on your shoulder standing out stark and red. You look like you’ve been through a war.

You step into the shower and let the hot water wash over you. It stings where it hits the wound, but you don’t care. You just stand there, letting the water run over you, and try to make sense of everything that happened tonight.

Your hand drifts down between your legs almost without thinking. You’re still wet, still aching, and the memory of Xavier’s mouth on yours is enough to make you gasp.

You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t. But you can’t help it. Your fingers find your clit, and you start to move, chasing the release you need.

It doesn’t work.

You try for a few minutes, your breath coming faster, but the angle is wrong and your shoulder hurts and you can’t stop thinking about Xavier on the other side of the door. About the way he kissed you. About the way he looked at you like he wanted to devour you.

You give up with a frustrated sound and finish washing quickly. When you step out of the shower, you feel worse than when you went in—still aching, still wanting, and now frustrated on top of it.

You dry off and pull on clean clothes, then open the bathroom door.

Xavier is sitting on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. He looks up when you come out, and his eyes track over you—your damp hair, your clean clothes, the bandage on your shoulder.

“Your turn,” you say.

Xavier stands up. He grabs his bag and heads into the bathroom without a word, and you hear the shower start a moment later.

You sit on the edge of the bed and try not to think about him in there. About the water running over his skin, about the way he looked at you in that basement after your near-death experience. How he kissed you…

You fail spectacularly.

The shower runs for a long time. When Xavier finally comes out, he’s wearing a towel around his waist and nothing else. His hair is damp, and there are droplets of water still clinging to his chest. You have to force yourself to look away.

He grabs his bag, pulling out a t-shirt and sweatpants. You watch as he drops the towel and pulls on the clothes. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t acknowledge the way your eyes track over his body, and when he’s dressed he sits back down on the bed.

On the opposite side from you. The distance feels intentional, and you can’t read into it. You don’t know what to approach him, how to open the difficult conversation you need to have. So you just apologize for the tenth time tonight.

“I really am sorry, Xavier.”

Xavier’s jaw tightens. “You need to stop apologizing.”

“I don’t know what else to say,” you admit.

“Then don’t say anything,” Xavier says. He lies down on his side of the bed, his back to you, and pulls the blanket over himself.

You sit there for a moment, staring at his back, and then you lie down too. On your side of the bed. With a careful foot of space between you.

The silence is heavy. You can hear Xavier breathing, slow and controlled, and you wonder if he’s actually going to sleep or if he’s just pretending.

You close your eyes and try to do the same.

You can't sleep.

The heating unit rattles in the corner like it has for the last three nights in this same chain motel, and every passing car on the highway sends thin blades of light across the ceiling. Your body feels wrung out from the poison and the fight, but your mind keeps circling back to the basement. The way Xavier had pressed you against that damp wall, fingers twisted in your hair, mouth rough and certain like three years of swallowed words had finally broken loose.

What had he meant by any of it? The anger, the raw fear underneath, the kiss that still burns on your lips hours later?

Three years of this. Three years of learning exactly how he takes his honey milk tea, of watching him methodically clean blood from his blade while you ramble through newspaper clippings in the middle of the night. Of pretending that you don’t care about him more than you should. You've buried it under sharp jokes and stubbornness because admitting it could shatter the only steady thing you have left in this life.

Partners. Nothing more.

Until tonight.

You sigh before you can stop yourself.

“You're still awake,” he says, startling you from your thoughts.

The words come quiet from the other side of the bed. You flinch anyway. Xavier usually drops off the second his head hits the pillow. You've always envied that about him, the way he can shut everything down while you lie here turning mistakes over like stones in your hands.

“So are you,” you answer, keeping your back to him. Your eyes stay fixed on the neon blinking through the cheap curtains.

The mattress shifts. “You sighed. You only sigh like that when you're turning something over too many times.”

He knows you too well. Three years of shared rooms and shared scars will do that.

“I'm not turning anything over,” you lie. “I'm trying to sleep. Which would be easier if you'd stop talking.”

There’s a heavy silence stretching between you, only the passing cars outside can be heard. His voice comes softer, closer than before. “I'm sorry.”

You go still. An apology from Xavier is rare enough that it lands like a thrown knife.

“For what?” you ask.

“For how I spoke to you tonight. In the basement, after you woke up.” His tone stays even, but you hear the crack in it. “I was harsher than I needed to be.”

You swallow. “You were scared. I scared you. I get it.”

The bed dips again as he moves nearer. “I was.”

The admission sits between you, simple and heavy. You should let it end there. Accept it, roll over, and pretend tomorrow will take things back to how they were before. But you've never been good at leaving things alone.

“The kiss,” you say, throat tight. “Are you sorry for that too?”

The quiet that follows feels endless. You keep your eyes on the wall, too afraid to turn.

“No,” he murmurs after what feels like forever.

His hand settles on your shoulder, warm through the thin cotton of your shirt, and he eases you onto your back. You let him. When you finally face him, he's propped on one elbow. The neon from the sign outside paints faint red across his silver hair and his cheekbone. His eyes hold yours without flinching.

“No,” he says again, softer. “I'm not sorry for that.”

“Then why have you been acting like it didn’t happened?” you whisper.

His expression flickers with something you can’t make out in the dark. “Because I don't know how to have this conversation with you. Three years of keeping things professional between us. Of telling myself it was enough to be your partner, to stitch you up after hunts like tonight, to know your tells better than my own. And then I crossed that line. I don't know what it means for us now.”

The words sting, but the way his thumb brushes your collarbone takes some of the edge off.

“I didn't say I regret it,” he adds. “I don't.”

“Xavier...”

“Tell me what the Djinn showed you.”

You knew this was coming. He'd heard you in that corridor, the sounds you'd made while the poison pulled you under. Still, the question makes your stomach drop.

“Nothing important,” you say, defensive. “Some beach house. Winning the lottery. Nothing worth remembering.”

“You're lying to me.” He says it gently, because he knows you, and you’ve never succeeded in getting a lie past Xavier before. Why would this time be any different?

His thumb keeps moving in slow circles against your skin. “The Djinn gives its victims exactly what they want most. It makes them stop fighting. You stopped fighting for nearly three minutes after I injected you. You made sounds like you were somewhere else completely. Somewhere good.”

Heat floods your face. You close your eyes, deciding there’s no point in running away from this. “It showed me you.”

The silence feels alive now. His fingers stay steady on your jaw when you try to turn away.

“What was I doing?” he asks, voice rough in a way you've never heard from him before.

“We were in a house. Our house, I guess. You brought me coffee and said we had the week off. You smiled at me, a beautiful and easy smile you almost never show.”

You swallow, averting your eyes. You consider if you should tell him everything. You might as well throw it all out there. “You told me you loved me. Then you kissed me. I knew it wasn't real. I knew it was killing me. But I told myself just five more minutes. Let me have this for five more minutes before I wake up and fight.”

His breath draws in sharp. “Five minutes. You were ready to let it drain you dry for five more minutes of a dream with me.”

You close your eyes, wincing slightly. “Don't say it like that, Xavier. It sounds pathetic when you put it that way.”

“It sounds like you've been carrying this as long as I have.”

Your eyes open. He's a lot closer now, silver hair falling across his forehead, expression stripped of its usual calm expression. Maybe he is just as affected as you.

“Three years,” you whisper. “I've felt this for three years. But you're Xavier, my partner. You're always so steady, so certain. I thought I was the only one who felt it. That we were just partners who keep each other alive, who share bad coffee and worse motels and never talk about the rest.”

He lets out a low sound, almost pained. “Just partners. You think I learned how you tap your fingers on the wheel when you're worried, or how you always check the salt lines twice, or how you looked at me after that wendigo hunt in Colorado because we're just partners? You think I sat up with you after hunts like tonight because it was my job?”

The memory hits you hard. Two years ago, him pressing gauze to your side in the back of the Impala, voice quiet while you shook from adrenaline and blood loss. The way he'd stayed until you fell asleep even though he was bleeding too.

“I didn't know you felt that way,” you whisper.

“I've been in love with you since our first year hunting together,” he says. The words come out raw, like they've been waiting too long to come out. “Every time you ignored my orders and still came back breathing. Every time you made me laugh without even trying. I kept telling myself the line had to stay clear. Partners don't do this. But when I heard you scream in that basement, none of those reasons mattered. I couldn't lose you without you knowing how I felt.”

“Xavier,” you breathe, his name the only thing left to say.

He shifts over you in one smooth motion, braced on his forearms so his face fills your world. His hair brushes your forehead. His warmth sinks into your skin.

“This,” he murmurs against your mouth. “This is what I want all along.”

The kiss starts gentle, a careful question after years of careful distance. His lips move against yours a bit uncertain still, but it’s slow, and you’re sigh into his lips. You surge up to meet him, fingers sliding into his hair that’s still damp from the shower, pulling him closer. A soft moan slips from you the moment his mouth opens to greet you.

He chuckles into your mouth, makes a low sound of approval that vibrates through your chest, pleased and warm. The kiss deepens. His teeth catch your lower lip, tugging gently, then harder, until you gasp and arch beneath him.

His mouth trails down from your lips, pressing hot, slick kisses along your jaw and down the side of your neck until he finds that sensitive spot just below your ear. He scrapes his teeth against it, knowing damn well what he does because you shake against him. You moan louder, fingers tightening in his silver hair, yanking hard enough that a low groan vibrates through his chest.

He hums against your throat, tongue tracing the flutter of your pulse. “Pull harder. I like it.”

You obey instantly, twisting your grip until his head tips back. The sound he makes is deeper this time, raw approval that settles hot between your legs. He rewards you by sinking his teeth into the junction of your neck and shoulder, sucking hard enough to bruise. You already know it will bloom dark by morning, a mark you’ll feel every time your jacket shifts during the next hunt.

“Good girl,” he murmurs against your skin, voice soft and taunting in that same measured tone he uses when he’s telling you to stop being reckless. His hands slide down your sides, gripping your waist, thumbs pressing into the softness of your hips like he’s memorizing the shape of you after three years of only allowing himself stolen glances at your body. “Now tell me. Do you want the soft Xavier from your dream?”

His mouth moves lower, kissing along your collarbone, tongue dipping into the hollow of your throat. You shudder under him, words failing.

“The one who would have made sweet love to you?” he continues, calm even as his hands knead and massage your waist. “Took hours mapping every curve I’ve thought about during those long drives back from hunts, when you’d fall asleep against the window and I’d steal glances instead of watching the road? The one who brought coffee in your dream and said he loved you in that soft voice?” he continues, calm and measured even now. “The one who would have taken all night mapping every inch of you because he finally had the chance?”

He kisses the swell of your breast through your thin sleep shirt. “That version exists. He would worship you for hours. Make you feel like the only thing that matters after hunts like the one in Montana where you nearly got your throat torn out and I realized I couldn't keep pretending we were only partners.”

He looks up at you through silver lashes, blue eyes dark with three years of carefully banked hunger, and your cunt clenches hard around nothing.

“He would spend all night between your thighs if you let him. He would make you feel precious.” he says softly.

You swallow, breath coming out fast. His hands keep shifting between gentle strokes and bruising grips, keeping you off balance exactly the way he does when he overrides your reckless calls in the field.

Then he smirks, the expression so rare and sharp it sends heat flooding straight to your core. His hand slips under the hem of your sleep shirt, palm flat against your bare stomach, sliding up with agonizing slowness until his fingers find your hardened nipple.

“But that Xavier is for tomorrow. When the sun is up and I have time to do it right.”

He pinches the sensitive peak between thumb and forefinger, rolling it with deliberate pressure. Your back arches clean off the mattress, pressing harder into his hand as a broken sound tears from your throat.

“This version of me,” he rasps, watching every twitch of your face, “is not going to be soft tonight. Not after I heard you scream in that basement. Not after I thought I was too late again.”

He pinches harder, twisting just enough to send sparks racing down your spine. You cry out, hips bucking uselessly into empty air.

“This Xavier is going to mark you all over.” He leans down and claims your mouth in a bruising kiss, swallowing your whimper. “With kisses.” Another sharp pinch to your nipple. “With teeth.” His tongue slides against yours, demanding. “With bites left as reminders that you don't get to run off alone anymore.”

He pulls back, smirk deepening at the wrecked expression he finds.

“I’m going to eat you out until you’re shaking,” he tells you, fingers still working your nipple in tight, ruthless circles. “Lick every drop of how wet you are for me and make those pretty lips sing my name. Then I’m going to fill you up, bunny. Make you mine in every way that dream never could.”

You grab his wrist and drag his hand down, pressing his palm between your legs where your underwear is soaked through. “You—” you gasp as he makes contact with your needy pussy. “This version of you. The real one. Help me, Xavier. Please.”

He presses against the damp cotton, exploring the heat there. “Ah,” he says, maddeningly calm. “That little session in the shower didn’t do much for you after all.”

Heat floods your face. Of course he heard every frustrated gasp through the paper-thin walls. The same man who once tracked you across three counties after you went off alone now knows exactly how desperate you sounded trying to come to the memory of his mouth.

“I...” you start, but his fingers drag roughly down your slit, pressing the soaked cotton against your clit, and the words melt into a moan.

“You tried to handle it yourself,” he says, voice warm with something that sounds almost like affection. “After I kissed you against that wall. Kissing me got you this needy, bunny? You’re almost too sweet.”

His fingers keep dragging along your slit through the fabric, enjoying how you jerk under his merciless touch. Then his other hand pushes your shirt up, exposing your breasts. His mouth follows, closing around your nipple while his fingers rub circles over your clit through the underwear.

“Don’t be embarrassed, bunny.” His smirk widens as he rubs tight circles over your clit, enjoying how your eyes cross then roll in pleasure. “I enjoyed every second. Stood in there stroking my cock to the sound of you failing to come because you needed me instead.”

You moan brokenly, hands flying back to his hair, hips grinding against his palm. His tongue swirls around the stiff peak, teeth grazing then biting down hard enough to make your cunt throb. You’re mush under his pleasurable assaults, you can barely form thoughts.

“So responsive,” he hums against your skin, the vibration shooting straight to your clit. “You like when I’m mean, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you gasp, tugging his hair harder. “Fuck, Xavier, yes—don’t stop...”

He groans at the sharp pull, biting your nipple hard enough that the sting blooms into sharp pleasure, almost close to pain. His hand between your legs slaps down against your soaked panties, the wet smack and sudden sting making you jolt and cry out.

“Fu—ck,” you sob, hips jerking uncontrolably. “Xavier, oh fuck, so mean... need you b-badly...”

“Mean?” He pulls back to look at you, eyes glittering with dark amusement. “I haven’t even started being mean yet, bunny.”

You moan and grind up against his hand. “I'm so wet,” you slurr. “It's embarrassing. Won't you help your partner out, Xavier? You always have my back, right? A-ahh... hah...” you plead with your eyes, half-lidded and hazy.

He groans at the nickname, biting down on your nipple until you cry out. His hand between your legs keeps slapping lightly over your puffy cunt, the sting making your hips jerk because you need so much more.

His fingers finally slip beneath the waistband of your underwear, dragging through your dripping folds. The first touch of skin on your soaked cunt makes you cry out, back arching clean off the bed. He spreads your wetness from your entrance up to your swollen clit and back down, coating his fingers until they glide slick and easy.

He repeats the motion a few times before dipping down to tease your entrance again. “Always,” he rasps, voice gone rough. “I’ve always got you, partner.”

Then he slides down your body, broad shoulders pushing your shaky thighs apart, and you almost push his head down, impatient. He doesn’t pull your underwear aside. Instead he presses his mouth directly over the drenched cotton, tongue dragging a long, slow stripe up your slit through the fabric.

You almost cum then and there.

The wet heat of his mouth combined with the feeling of cotton against your swollen clit makes your eyes roll back, pushing his head unbashfully until his face is all up in your cunt. He moans at the taste of you soaking through, licking again and again, sucking the fabric between his lips like he can’t get enough of how desperate you are for him.

You have three years of swallowed want and one ruined hallucination to make up for, and Xavier is finally showing you exactly how hungry he’s been the whole time.

You moan brokenly and buck up against his face, chasing the maddening friction of his hot tongue bullying your sensitive nub. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you wider and wider until your hips ache, and when he looks up at you his blue eyes are dark with three years of held-back hunger.

“Such a desperate partner I have,” he murmurs against you before his tongue presses harder into your hole, pushing the sticky cotton inside. You whine and thrash unde him as he laughs. “Can't even wait for me to take these off.”

Your hips roll shamelessly against his mouth. He chuckles, clearly amused you’re this desperate. This sound you’ve only heard a handful of times across motel rooms and long drives in the Impala, and you never thought you’d hear it from between your thighs. Your hips jerk toward the sound.

“Already fucking my tongue through your panties,” he taunts, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes when you dare a glance down at him. His chin glistens with your arousal, lips swollen. His eyes are like two black holes, nothing but lust and desire lingering in them. “Is that what you are, starlight? A desperate girl who wants to fuck my mouth and come on it?”

“Yes,” you sob, fingers clawing at the sheets. The confession spills out raw after years of biting your tongue every time he handed you coffee or stitched your shoulder after hunts like the rugaru incident in Montana. You wanted to confess so many times. You’re done holding back. “Yes, please, Xavier, I need—”

“Need what?” His thumb keeps bullying your clit with rapid flicks of his thumb. He laughs delightedly when you shake and thrash under his touch. “Use your words. Tell me exactly what you need.”

The words tangle in your throat. All that escapes is a broken moan as your head thrashes against the pillow. He keeps the slow, taunting circles going, thumb dragging the drenched cotton over your swollen clit again and again until it’s almost painful. You’ve been so close to your orgasm all this time, but Xavier seems to want to play cat and mouse first.

“Cat got your tongue?” he chuckles, voice soft and playful in that measured way that always makes you want to both kiss him and argue with him. “You’re already this fucked out from just my mouth on you? After everything we’ve been through together—three years of you defying me on hunts and me still following you anyway—you can’t even tell me you want my tongue inside your cunt?”

“P-Please,” you manage, voice cracking. “Need your m-mouth, your tongue inside me... No more teasing, Xavier. Please? I can’t—h-hah, can’t cum like this…”

“I heard you.”

He yanks your underwear roughly to the side. Before you can draw breath his tongue plunges into you, hot and thick and relentless in its assualt. The sound that rips from your throat is raw, nothing but static flooding your mind. Your hands fly to his silver hair, yanking hard as you start fucking his face. His tongue curls inside your cunt every time your hips roll, stroking that spot that makes your thighs shake while his thumb works your clit in tight, fast circles.

“M-More,” you gasp, pulling his hair harder. “Faster, Xavier—h-harder—ohfuck…”

He groans against your dripping pussy, a sound of pure approval at how you use his face without mercy. The same quiet satisfaction he shows when you finally listen to him out on a hunt, except now it’s filthy and possessive. His tongue fucks into you deeper while his thumb flicks fast over your clit.

The slurping sounds of his mouth devouring you fill the dingy motel room.

“That’s it,” he rasps against your cunt, breath hot on your oversensitive flesh. “Fuck my face. Use me, bunny. Take what you need after all those nights I lay awake listening to you breathe and wondering how you’d sound with my tongue inside you.”

You obey without shame, grinding down on his mouth, riding his tongue as the coil in your belly winds tighter, making you shake without control. His hand slides up your body, finds your nipple, and pinches hard. The sharp spark of pain shoves you over the edge.

You come with his name tearing from your throat, thighs clamping around his head, fingers twisted tight in his hair. Your cunt pulses around his tongue, flooding his mouth and face as he keeps working you through every wave, licking and sucking like he’s been starving for you since that first year you started hunting together. He doesn’t stop until you’re trembling and gasping, hips twitching away from his face with aftershocks.

When he finally pulls back, his chin is slick with your release, lips red and shiny. He licks them slowly, holding your gaze while he savors every drop. Your gasps fill the room as you try to come back from the mind shattering orgasm your partner pulled from you. You never came so hard in your life.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a biting kiss to the inside of your thigh. He sucks hard, leaving a dark mark you’ll feel for days beneath your hunting jeans. “You taste much better than I imagined all those nights sharing beds and pretending I wasn’t hard as steel just from the sound of you breathing.”

He sits back on his heels. Your eyes drop immediately to the thick outline of his cock straining against his sleep pants, the material hiding almost nothing. A wet spot darkened the fabric where he’s leaking. He palms himself slowly, hips rolling into his own hand, and the sight makes your cunt clench again.

You need to feel that cock inside you.

Mewling, you reach for him. He catches your wrist before you make contact, dark smile curling his lips.

“Eager little bunny,” he says, amused. “Can’t help yourself, can you?”

He guides your hand to his clothed cock, wrapping your fingers around his thick length through the fabric and covering your hand with his own. He’s burning hot, impressively thick, and you feel him throb against your palm as you squeeze.

“Feel that?” he whispers, almost conversational even as his hips push into your grip, needy for your touch. “We’ve shared so many motel beds before this. Would it be bad for me to admit you got me like this so many nights? Hard and leaking on the other side of the same mattress after watching you nearly die in that cannery, or after stitching up your shoulder like I did tonight, knowing exactly how reckless you are and still wanting you anyway.”

“Xavier,” you breathe, tightening your grip and stroking him slowly. The wet spot grows under your palm. “I want to taste you. Let me—”

He chuckles and gently removes your hand from his cock. “Patience, bunny. I have other plans for you first.”

Before you can protest he flips you onto your stomach, one large hand pressing between your shoulder blades to keep your chest pinned to the mattress. His other hand grips your hip, lifting until your ass is high in the air, knees spread, face down in the cheap pillow.

“Play with yourself,” he instructs, calm and commanding in that same tone he uses when he tells you to stay behind him on the field. He can be so commanding at times, but you can’t say you dislike it right now. You’re hot all over. “Show me how you touch that pretty cunt when you think about me.”

You whimper into the pillow. Your hand slides between your legs almost on its own, fingers finding your swollen, dripping hole. The first circle makes you moan.

“Good girl.” Warm approval fills his voice. “Now spread yourself open for me. Let me see exactly what’s mine.”

You obey, trembling fingers parting your folds, exposing your dirpping, puffy cunt to his gaze. You can feel your own wetness coating your fingers, can feel it dripping down your thighs as he stares, the cool air of the motel room brushing over your most sensitive places while Xavier drinks in the sight of you displayed for him.

His voice drifts over you, low and amused. Taunting. So fucking sexy. “You’re spreading yourself for me, bunny?” He sounds almost conversational, the same calm tone he uses when he’s mapping out a hunt. “Such a good girl. Look at you leaking all over your fingers. Do you feel how wet you are for me?”

“Mmm, y-yeah,” you gasp. Your fingers slip through the mess dripping from your cunt, the slick sounds loud in the quiet motel room as you finger yourself slowly.

“Was it the same in the dream?” He shifts closer. You feel the heat of his body behind you, the mattress dipping under his weight. “Did that soft version of me make you spread yourself open like this? Or was he too busy bringing you coffee and whispering sweet things to ever bend you over and take what he wanted?”

You glance back over your shoulder. The sight steals whatever words you had left. He has shoved his sleep pants down, only just, cock standing thick and flushed in his fist. He strokes himself slowly while he watches you, thumb spreading the steady bead of precum over the mushroomy head. He is bigger than the dream let you feel, heavy in his fish. Veined, with the purple tip already glistening.

Your cunt clenches hard around your fingers. It’s so embarrassing, your face must be in flames, but you need him. You want him inside you, make you forget everything else.

He catches you staring and smirks, hand still moving in that lazy rhythm. “Like what you see, starlight?”

“Xavier…” The name comes out shaky. Your eyes stay locked on the way his cock twitches in his grip, another drop of precum rolling down the shaft.

His hand covers yours between your legs. You gasp as he pushes two of his fingers inside alongside your own. Four fingers stretch you open at once, the burn sharp and perfect as he scissors them and stretches you open. He curls them slowly, stroking that spot inside you that makes your thighs shake and your vision spark white, making sure you’re as wet as you can be to receive him.

“You bargained with the Djinn for five more minutes of that dream,” he murmurs, chest pressed to your back, lips brushing your ear. His fingers pump deeper, stretching you wider with every thrust. “Was this what you really wanted? My fingers in your cunt while I tell you how many nights I lay awake in the Impala after patching you up from hunts, hard and fucking my own fist because I couldn’t fuck you just yet?”

“Yes—ohgod, y-yes, Xavie,” you sob, pushing back onto your joined hands. The stretch burns so good it makes your eyes water. “Wanted t-this… You should’ve taken me, I-I would’ve let you—haahh, oh fuck…”

“My good, sweet partner.” His voice stays soft against your ear even as his fingers curl harder and pump even faster into your squelching hole. “How about you bargain with me instead? Tell me how long you’ll last before I even get inside this tight cunt. Five minutes? Less?”

“Xavier, p-please,” you gasp, free hand clawing at the sheets. “J-Just push inside me. Can’t wait anymore, I-I’ll cum before you g-get a chance to fuck me...mmmhm, please—”

He chuckles against your ear, the sound warm and dark. He pulls your fingers free along with his own, leaving you empty and clenching. The blunt head of his cock nudges your entrance, hot and slick with precum, rubbing through your folds in teasing strokes.

“So impatient, like always.” he murmurs. “My desperate little partner.”

You pant, reaching back blindly until your fingers dig into his hip, nails biting skin. He smacks your ass, sharp and stinging to get you to take your hand back. The sudden heat blooming across your skin makes you cry out, hips jerking onto his cock. He uses the moment to push forward.

He sinks in with one long thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The stretch is blinding. Your scream muffles into the pillow as your walls flutter and clamp around his thick cock, too big for you even wet as you are, so it stings. He groans behind you, voice tight.

“You really are so damn tight,” he rasps. “Relax for me, bunny. I can feel you squeezing every inch. If you keep that up, I won’t fit all the way.”

He is leaking inside you already, hot pulses of precum mixing with your own wetness as he rocks forward, working another inch deeper. His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, the same steady grip he uses when he hauls you out of danger.

You remember the wendigo hunt in Colorado, how those hands had pressed gauze to your side while his voice stayed calm even though his eyes had been wild. You wanted those firm hands to do so many inappropriate things to you, haul you in whatever position he wanted. Now those same hands hold you open while his cock stretches you wider than you thought possible.

“B-Big,” you slurr into the pillow, drool wetting the fabric. “So big, Xavier, f-fuck, can’t relax, you feel t-too good—”

He smacks your ass again, harder. The sting makes you gasp and unclench just enough for him to slide the last inch home. The head of his cock kisses something deep that makes your toes curl and your cunt flutter wildly around him.

“There you go,” he praises, voice rough but warm as he soothes the skin of your ass when the slap landed. “That’s it. Who would’ve thought you’re turning so pliant and obedient bent over for your partner’s cock, hm?”

“Want you to fuck me,” you sob, pushing your hips back until his balls press against your clit. “Fuck me, baby…”

You barely realize the pet name slipping out your mouth and slurring against the pillow. But Xavier catches it either way. He fists a hand in your hair and pulls your head back, arching you beautifully. His hips snap forward, burying himself to the hilt again, rocking his thick cock in and out of your squeezing warmth. The new angle makes him drag over that spongy spot with every thrust.

“Good girl,” he rasps. “Now arch your back. Ass up higher. Let me get even deeper.”

You obey instantly, spine curving, hips tilted so he can drive in at the perfect angle. He moans at the sight, slow deep thrusts turning into something faster, wet skin slapping against wet skin.

“So beautiful,” he breathes. “I can see my cock sliding in and out of your pretty puffy cunt. You’re dripping down my balls, bunny. Does it feel that good?”

“S-sooo good…” you sob, voice breaking on every thrust. “Yes, so good, fuck—”

“Then let me hear you.” His pace picks up, hips slamming into your ass with every stroke, cock dragging mercilessly over that spot inside you. Your toes curl. “Sing for me, starlight. Let the whole motel know how good your partner makes you feel.”

You let go. Every moan, every broken cry, every desperate plea pours out of you as he rails you exactly the way you needed after three years of swallowed want and fingering yourself in showers or under the duvet, searching something you never found. His hand stays tight in your hair, the other gripping your hip, hauling you back onto his cock like he never plans to let you go again.

“That’s it,” he groans, his rhythm growing more punishing. “Fuck, you feel incredible. So wet and tight around me. You were made for my cock, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” you gasp, barely coherent. “Yes, yours, only yours...”

“Good girl. My good girl.”

He adjusts his grip, one hand kept fisting your hair while the other slides around to find your clit. His fingers press down hard, rubbing tight circles in time with his thrusts. The pressure building again, tighter and tighter, fast and vicious.

“Xavier,” you gasp, your vision starting to blur. “Ohfuck, ohfuck—fuck, ’m gonna cum, ’m gonna...”

“Already?” His voice is rough, his rhythm faltering slightly before picking back up even harder. “Fuck, me too. Shit, I’m so close, I’ll cum inside you...”

“K-kiss me?” you beg, craning your neck back toward him. “Want to feel you while I...”

He complies instantly, twisting your head to capture your mouth in a desperate, messy kiss. His tongue slides against yours, teeth catching your lower lip as his hips keep their brutal pace. The angle lets him grind deeper, cock throbbing heavy inside your clenching cunt.

“Beautiful girl,” he rasps against your lips, fingers flicking faster on your clit. “I’m so deep, aren’t I? Feel me all the way inside you.”

“Yes,” you sob, squeezing around his cock. “So deep, Xavier, so full...”

“Going to cum around my cock for me, are you?” He bites your neck, sucking more marks on the sweaty skin. “Do it, starlight.”

His hips snap forward one final time, burying himself to the hilt as his fingers pinch your clit.

“If you cum for me,” he groans against your throat, “I’ll pump you full right after. Deal? Come on, my stubborn partner, let go.” His cock throbs inside you, and you can tell he’s right on the edge. “I’ll fill you to the brim. You’ll be so full of me for days. Begging for more than just five minutes.”

You shatter.

The orgasm crashes through you harder than anything you’ve ever felt, your entire body seizing up as you scream his name. Your walls clamp down around his cock in rhythmic pulses, milking him, soaking his length and balls while your thighs shake uncontrollably. He follows as he said he would.

With a broken groan, his hips continue grinding as thick ropes of cum flood your spasming cunt, filling you up until it starts to leak out around him, dripping down your thighs in messy white trails. He holds you through it, his hips grinding against your ass, pumping every last drop into your hole.

For several long breaths neither of you moves. You stay collapsed face-down into the mattress, trembling, his weight warm and heavy along your back. His cock stays buried inside you, softening slowly while his release leaks steadily around him, warm and sticky on your skin.

Then, impossibly, he laughs.

It slips out soft and breathless, more exhale than sound, but it blooms something warm and bright in your chest. He presses a gentle kiss to the nape of your neck, then your shoulder, then the curve of your spine where sweat has gathered.

“Okay?” he murmurs against your skin, and his voice is soft again, tender. It’s almost like the Xavier in the dream.

“More than okay,” you manage, voice hoarse. “I think you broke my brain.”

He laughs again, real this time, warm and a little embarrassed. But he doesn’t pull out. Instead his hips roll forward in a slow, possessive thrust, stirring his cum inside you with a wet sound that makes you whine.

“Xavier,” you gasp, oversensitive and full.

“Mmm.” He kisses your shoulder again, hips rolling once more, keeping himself nestled deep inside. “I like this. Feeling you around me. Feeling how full you are with me.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you groan, but the words come out fond, cracked with leftover pleasure.

He hums in agreement, face buried in your hair, hand sliding up your side to cup your breast, his thumb brushing lazily over your nipple. His hips thrust forward again, and you can’t help but whimper at the sensation of his cock stirring inside you, hardening again.

“I may have been overly optimistic about my own self-control after I kissed you tonight Three years of watching you walk into danger and pulling you back out, I thought I will handle kissing you a lot better.”

“And how did that work out for you?”

“Poorly,” he admits, smile clear in his voice. “But I regret nothing.”

He eases out slowly. You both hiss at the loss, at the rush of his cum that follows, leaking down your thighs in thick, warm trails. Before you can complain about the mess he rolls you onto your back, pulls you into his arms, and tucks you against his chest.

“Tomorrow,” he whispers against your forehead, pressing a gentle kiss there, “I will make you coffee the way you like it. I will check your stitches. I will be soft and sweet like the version you saw in that hallucination.”

He tilts your chin up, kissing you slow and tender, the same careful way he first kissed you in the dream.

“But tonight,” he murmurs against your lips, hands already sliding down your body again, “I’m not done with you yet.”

His fingers slip between your legs, gathering the mess of his cum and pushing it back inside your sensitive cunt. You shiver, already aching for more, and realize you don’t mind this version of Xavier at all.

After all, it’s the one you fell in love with.

The one you’ll always love, no matter the other many sides of himself he’ll show you in the future.

They’re all your Xavier. Your partner.

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