ayo

Frank wasn’t a very heavy sleeper. You’d worn him down, over the years together. He was a man trained to stir at the slightest bump in the night; the upstairs neighbor stepping onto the fire escape, the AC whirring to life after a preprogrammed period. A man whose nightmares steered him away from falling asleep at all. It’s taken thousands of weekday mornings snoozing his alarm to get to the worksite, weekends turning them off altogether (who chooses to wake up at eight on a Saturday?) to turn Frank into a homebody. To convince him to spend weekend mornings pliant, limbs heavy and warm under a duvet like his were now.

So, he doesn’t rouse immediately when you touch him. It’s only when your fingers thread into his dark hair that he lets out a low sound, some mix of a heavy sigh and a grumble. Like a pitbull, you think again.

Frank only shifts slightly, his arm remaining anchored over your legs, but his face moving back to nose against your skin; this time, your hip, a move the hem of your underwear. The heatwave has you ditching your matching pajama sets, the ones Frank claimed made you look like a little Grandma. You’d given his shoulder a smack for that one.

“Morning, sleepy.” You mutter, gently scraping your nails across his scalp. He grunts in reply, cracking one almond eye open to peer up at you.

You smile down at him. He manages a lazier, more crooked one at you, and drops a kiss to your hip. His eyes close at the contact, and don’t reopen. When Frank finally opens his mouth, his voice is gravelly, slow to start. “..What time’s’it.”

Giving the clock on his nightstand a glance, you hum. “About eleven.” A longer, more sustained grumble from him. Much time passes like that, your fingers against his scalp, him making little effort to resist falling right back asleep, periodically making quiet and involuntary noises, grunts.

“Your hair’s getting long, Frankie.” You murmur eventually, with a tilt of your head. Another one of those old man sounds in reply. “Maybe you need a trim.”

“Y’think so?”

“Mm. We can get it done before breakfast,” you push the hair from his temple, internally considering the exact cuts needed.

“Sounds good.” But, he doesn’t move an inch. A minute passes, you in your own thoughts, before you catch his breathing evening again, and the subtle part of his lips.

“..Frank.”

“Uh.” He grunts, a muscle in his cheek jumping. You bite back a laugh.

With your fingers in the hair at his forehead, you gently tug his face away from your hip. “You’re falling asleep again.”

Frank cracks an eye, mumbling. “..m’awake.”

“Oh, are you?” You can’t hide a grin now. He makes an affirmative sound. Looking up now, you look around the bedroom. Morning light infiltrates through the thin white curtains, one of your many additions to his previously barren apartment before you. Where the sheets once only smelled like his cologne and faint musk, there’s a hint of your favorite linen spray and traces of the nightstand candle you like to burn in the evenings.

Well. That’s all what a deep breath of the space tells you, before you shuffle out from under the trap of Frank’s arm and stand with a small sigh. You stretch your arms above your head, twisting slightly to relieve the sleep-stiffness, and glance over your shoulder at Frank. Still in bed, laying in about the same position, though your absence made him shift further onto his stomach. The difference is that his eyes are open, only slightly bleary from sleep, and free of any hard creases or hardness. The only lines around his face now are the perpetual ones, from half a lifetime spent squinting and grimacing. There’s a softness, a near reverence to the way he watches you, bearded cheek against the fitted sheet that’s still bearing the impression of where your body was.

“You getting up, or what?” You hum, dropping your arms to your sides and turning slightly.

Frank nods simply, eyes not leaving you as he props a bent arm under his head, tucks his chin into the crook of his elbow. “Yeah, yeah.” A pause, where you grin and he huffs through the nostrils. He finally moves to lift himself up. “..Yeah. Getting up.”

—

“don’t leave it too long,” Frank reminds.

“I know!” You snip, both in tone and, well, wielding scissors.

He sits backwards on the closed toilet lid, his bare back to you. You’ve laid a dish towel over his shoulders, catching some of the brown strands of hair that fall as you cut. Being a hairdresser comes with exponential benefits; one being that you get to do your man’s hair exactly how you want it. He doesn’t complain too much.

It’s wet as you cut, you comb up sections to trim layers into with the shears you keep in the apartment. Your shared bathroom is quiet, save for sparse, unforced conversation and the sound of hair being snipped.

“Curt wants me to go back to one of those veterans.. group circle, things.” Frank mentions, offhandedly. He knows better than to give into instinct and bob his head as he speaks; with how long you’ve been together, he’s been reprimanded enough to learn.

“Yeah?” The subject would be touchy, if it were anyone but you.

“I think I might.”

“That would be good for you.” You agree. The conversation doesn’t die, but pauses for a good time. You move around him, taking more sections of hair with the comb. When you begin to trim the hair that falls around his temple, he turns his face to give you easier access.

You can feel his eyes on you, breaking through your concentration. You spare him a brief look. Sure enough, there’s that unreadable stare. “What?”

Frank shrugs, eyes averting to the far wall, you, who forgot that you were supposed to be giving him a brief look. “Nothin’.” You squint at him, then back to the task at hand. Stepping around him, you dust some hair off the skin of his back and reach for the other side of his forehead. He turns his face again for you.

Still staring. It’s practically tangible. You try to bite back a smile by the inside of your cheeks, cutting away as he speaks, “Damn gorgeous woman.”

You let out an easy laugh. Everything felt easy, when it was just the two of you. “Trying to compliment your way into a free haircut?”

Frank huffs at that, the corners of his lips turning up. “I thought livin’ together covered that.”

“Nope. Gotta pay the bills, y’know.”

“.. I pay those.”

“Whatever- turn around.” Frank shakes his head at you, but is unmistakably smiling as he turns on the lid to face you. He tips his chin up. That look hasn’t left his eyes; sweet content. Comfort. Some kind of quiet love, that couldn’t be louder to someone who knows how to read it on his features.

“Y’think I should shave it?” Frank mumbles, trying not to work his jaw too much as you bring the scissors to his beard. You scoff in disbelief.

“I’d kill you.” He laughs from the chest, brief and real. It’s a well known fact that you adored his gruff look. You only trim the facial hair, and you’re done in a minute. Carefully lifting the towel from his shoulders, you shake out the loose hair into the small trash bin beside the toilet as he stands to full height.

You can’t, and can never, resist raking your eyes down Frank’s chest, to his shoulders and arms; the movement of well-earned muscle under scarred skin as he makes his way to stand in front of the sink mirror.

He squints at his reflection, rubbing a large paw of a hand down his beard and turning his head this way and that. Coming to stand on tiptoes behind him, you reach up and shake out the freshly cut hair. He grumbles in interest, though there’s a crease between his brows.

“Left it kind of long, huh, sweetheart?”

You rest your hands on his shoulders, tipping your face up to peer at him through the mirror despite the height difference. “It looks better like this.” He grunts, noncommittally, his eyes moving from the haircut to you. “I’m the one who has to look at you, Frankie.”

A smile, toothy and lopsided, creases Frank’s features at that. He crosses his arms around his chest, covering your hands on his shoulders and muttering with a slight squint at you through the glass; “Well, you’re the boss, mama.”

You wake up slowly, the first thing you register being warmth. It was solid, steady, protective.

Frank is still asleep beside you.

The room is quiet in that early-morning way, sunlight barely slipping through the blinds and casting soft lines across his bare shoulders. One of his arms is wrapped around your waist like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go. His grip isn’t tight, just… certain.

You shift slightly, testing the space, and his arm tightens immediately. Instinct.

“Don’t go,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep, barely conscious.

You smile to yourself.

Last night lingers in the air, not in details, but in feelings. The closeness. The way he looked at you like you were something rare. The way he stayed, instead of pulling away like he usually does.

You trace a finger over the scars on his chest, careful, reverent. He stirs again, eyes fluttering open. For a moment he looks disoriented—then he sees you.

And everything softens ever so slightly.

“Hey,” he says quietly, thumb brushing your hip. “You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. I am.”

He studies your face like he’s committing it to memory, jaw tense, like he’s bracing for you to regret staying. When you don’t move away, when you lean in instead, he exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” he admits.

You kiss his shoulder. “I wanted to wake up with you.”

That’s what gets him.

Frank pulls you closer, forehead resting against yours. No armor. No walls. Just a man who stayed the night and woke up to someone choosing him in the morning.

He presses a gentle kiss to your hair.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Me too.”

You wake up tangled in warmth, limbs lazy, sheets a mess that tells a story neither of you are pretending didn’t happen.

Remy’s half on top of you, one leg hooked over yours like he claimed you in his sleep and never let go. His hair is a disaster, eyes still closed, lips curved like he’s already amused by something.

You shift just enough to get comfortable.

He hums immediately.

“Mmm… careful, chère. Dat kinda movement’s dangerous.”

You snort and grumble a grouchy, “You’re the one crushing me.”

One eye opens, cherry red on black, bright with mischief.

“Crushing?” he repeats, offended. “Non. Dis is cuddlin’. Very affectionate.”

“Your knee is practically a weapon.”

He grins wider and adjusts — somehow making it worse on purpose, pressing intentionally against the inside of your thigh.

“Funny. Didn’t hear you complainin’ bout my knee between your legs last night.”

You swat his chest, but he catches your wrist easily, presses a kiss to your knuckles instead. The teasing fades just a notch, replaced by something softer.

“You still here,” he says quietly, thumb brushing your palm.

“Still here,” you confirm.

That earns you a slow, satisfied smile. He leans down, kisses you properly this time — unrushed, warm, smiling into it like he’s got all the time in the world. His hand traces familiar paths, unhurried, like he’s savoring the morning as much as you.

“You know,” you murmur, “most people make coffee when they wake up.”

Remy laughs low in his throat.

“Chère,” he says, voice dropping, “I got somethin’ sweeter in mind.”

He slides down under the blankets, eyes never leaving yours. There’s a crooked smile on his lips now. Pure Remy. But his gaze is soft, reverent, like this isn’t a game so much as a promise. He settles between your thighs, spreading you gently as his breath ghosts warm and slow, hitting your bare cunt, making you gulp in anticipation.

— and he looks up at you like he’s exactly where he belongs. The softness of that crooked grin sending shivers through your body.

“Bon matin,” he murmurs.

Morning comes quietly.

You’re the first to wake, tucked against Matt’s side, his arm slung loose but possessive around your waist. The city hums faintly outside, distant traffic and early footsteps filtered through the cracked window. His breathing is steady, warm against your shoulder.

You shift just a little.

“Mm,” he hums immediately. “If you’re trying to sneak away, you’re terrible at it.”

You smile. “You were asleep.”

“I was resting my eyes,” he says lightly. “Big difference.”

You roll onto your elbow, looking down at him. His head is turned toward you, looking just over your shoulder, lips curved in that knowing little smile that always makes you feel like you’ve already lost.

“You know,” you say casually, “I expected more stamina from the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.”

One brow lifts. Intrigue. “Oh?”

“Tapping out after four rounds?” you continue, thoughtful, “Kind of pathetic.”

He hears the lie immediately, hears the amusement threading through your pulse, the way your body gives you away even when your mouth doesn’t.

And he grins like you just handed him a winning lottery ticket.

“Four,” he repeats, savoring it. “That’s tapping out now?”

You shrug, trying to hide your smile so that he wouldn't be able to hear it in your voice,“I had higher expectations.”

He lets out a soft hum, deep in his chest, clearly enjoying himself far too much.

“Funny,” he says, voice warm, teasing. “Because your heart says you were very… satisfied.”

“Your hearing is overrated.” you scoffed, tugging his earlobe for emphasis, making him chuckle.

“Mm. Maybe.” He tilts his head, “But you’re smiling.”

Before you can fire back, his hands are on you — confident, gentle — sliding up your bare thighs as he pulls you easily on top of him. You barely have time to register the movement before you’re straddling his hips, his touch grounding, familiar.

His hands settle at your waist, thumbs brushing slow, deliberate arcs that make it very hard to remember your argument.

Matt smiles up at you — innocent, almost angelic, like he isn’t absolutely enjoying this.

“Well,” he says softly, “I wouldn’t want you walkin’ away disappointed.”

That hum again, low and pleased.

“Go on,” he adds, brown eyes somehow finding yours as they scrunch cutely with amusement, “Prove your point.”

Your cup his cheeks and your press your lips to his for the sole purpose that he would be able to feel your smile," You asked for it, counsellor."

You wake up warm, pleasantly sore, wrapped in blue limbs and silk-soft sheets that smell faintly like incense and ozone.

Kurt is curled around you protectively, one arm tucked beneath your neck, the other resting light at your waist like he’s afraid to hold too tight. His face is peaceful in sleep, lashes dark against his skin, lips parted just enough to look tempting.

And then there’s his tail.

It’s draped lazily over your thigh — except not lazily at all. The tip twitches the moment you shift, curling, tightening, giving him away long before his eyes open.

“Kurt.” you murmur.

His eyes snap open immediately.

“Guten Morgen, Liebes,” he says, voice gentle, careful. Too careful.

You tilt your head, “You look… composed.”

He nods solemnly. “I am being very good.”

The tail flicks.

You bite back a smile. “Your tail disagrees.”

He freezes.

Slowly, he glances down. The traitorous appendage tightens around your thigh like it’s trying to make a point of its own. His ears flush a darker blue.

“…It has a mind of its own,” he says weakly.

“Uh-huh.” You stretch deliberately, enjoying the way his breath catches despite his best efforts. “You’re staring.”

“I am not,” he protests.

The tail tightens again.

He exhales, resigned, rubbing a hand over his face. “Forgive me. It is just-” He gestures vaguely, “You look very… happy.”

“Happy?”

He swallows. “Deliciously… content.”

You laugh softly, reaching out to trace the fuzzy edge of his ear. “Well... you were pretty damn good last night.”

That makes him smile — soft, shy, pleased in that uniquely Kurt way. “I tried to be restrained this morning,” he admits, “Out of respect.”

His tail betrays him by sliding higher.

You raise a brow and snort,“You’re doing a terrible job.”

He laughs quietly, giving up, pressing his forehead to yours. “Ja,” he murmurs. “I fear my self-control is… limited.”

The tail curls possessively around your waist now, and Kurt sighs like a man who has accepted his fate. His golden eyes warm, affectionate, absolutely undone by you.

“But,” he adds softly, smiling, “I regret nothing.”

Morning light cuts through the blinds in thin, pale stripes. You wake up first, tucked against a solid wall of warmth that is very much Eric Brooks pretending he isn’t awake.

His arm is heavy across your waist. Protective. Familiar.

You shift and feel him tense instantly.

“You’re awake,” you say softly.

A pause. Then a low sigh.

“…Yeah.”

You turn slightly, catching sight of the faint mark at your shoulder in the mirror across the room. Two small impressions, already fading. You touch it without thinking.

Eric notices immediately.

His jaw tightens. “ fuck, I’m sorry,” he says, quiet but firm. “I didn’t mean to—”

You roll toward him before he can spiral, smiling. “Hey. You stopped.”

He frowns grouchily, “Still shouldn’t have happened.”

“You’re half-vampire,” you point out gently, “And you were hungry.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

You reach up, thumb brushing along his cheek, forcing him to look at you. “It kind of is. And you showed a lot of control.”

That does it.

He snorts softly, shaking his head, clearly uncomfortable with praise. “You’re givin’ me too much credit.”

But you hear it — the tiny hitch in his breathing. Feel it in the way his grip tightens just a little, like the words landed somewhere deep.

You grin. “C’mon. Most people would’ve left more than a mark.”

He leans down abruptly, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. Right over the bite like he’s trying to erase the compliment before it sinks in. Then another, softer one. Then one to your jaw.

“You talk too damn much,” he mutters.

“And you hate being appreciated,” you shoot back.

A corner of his mouth lifts despite himself.

He pulls you closer, forehead resting against your shoulder, voice low but warm. “You scared?”

You shake your head, “Not even a little.”

That makes him pause. Then he exhales slowly, tension easing, and brushes his thumb across your waist with surprising gentleness.

“…Good,” he murmurs.

You smile, completely content, while Eric Brooks pretends he isn’t glowing inside over being trusted.

You wake up to exactly zero peace.

“Mornin’, beautiful~ wow, okay, still unfairly hot. Did I ever tell you how talented you are with your mouth?”

His mouth is everywhere. Your cheek. Your jaw. Your temple. Each kiss punctuated with commentary delivered at machine-gun speed.

“—seriously, Olympic-level effort last night, ten outta ten, would absolutely risk my life again—”

“Wade,” you mumble, trying to surface from sleep.

“And the confidence? The enthusiasm? The way you—”

You pinch his nipple.

Hard.

“YOW—!” He jerks back, eyes wide, then immediately breaks into a grin," Oh no. Oh wow. File that under unexpectedly into that.”

You roll your eyes. “Please shut up.”

“Can’t. Won’t. I am physically incapable of not praising you for-”

You cut him off by leaning in, pressing a quick kiss to his scarred cheek, softer than all the others.

“Wade,” you say sincerely, “you were really sweet last night. And you make me feel… safe. Wanted.”

Silence.

Actual, honest-to-god silence.

His grin falters. Not gone, just stunned. His eyes soften in a way that makes your chest ache. For half a second, he looks like he doesn’t know what to do with something that genuine.

Then-

You blink, and suddenly he’s above you.

Pinned.

Your wrists gently but firmly held over your head, his weight settling between your legs, hips pressing just enough to make your breath hitch.

He’s grinning wildly now, unrestrained joy written all over his face.

You swear - swear - you see little cartoon hearts practically floating in his eyes.

“Well,” he says, delighted, “now I gotta reward you for how fucking cute that was.”

You groan out an amused," you slut.”

He leans down, nose brushing yours before he literally licks the tip of your nose, “And you looove me.”

You do, unfortunately.

You wake up before him, which feels rare enough to be a small miracle.

Logan is sprawled beside you, sheets tangled around his waist, broad chest rising and falling slow and steady. For once, there’s no tension etched into his face. No scowl, no clenched jaw. Just calm. Rest.

It makes your chest flutter stupidly.

You prop yourself up on one elbow, studying him like he might disappear if you look away too long. His dark hair is mussed, lashes resting against his cheeks, brow still faintly furrowed even in sleep.

You reach out carefully, smoothing your thumb over that crease.

He snaps forward without warning, teeth chomping the inside of your wrist — not hard, but just enough to make you yelp.

“Logan!” you gasp.

He doesn’t even open his eyes at first. Just smirks hotly.

“Shouldn’t poke dangerous animals,” he murmurs from having your wrist beteeen his teeth, voice rough with sleep.

“You were asleep!” you accuse with a glare.

“Was restin’,” he says with a snort, “You’re noisy.”

You glare harder at him. “I was being affectionate.”

He releases your wrist, bringing it closer to inspect like he’s deciding whether to apologise for the faint mark he had left. His thumb rubs over the spot, gentler now.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”

That’s as close to soft as he’ll get, and it makes you grin.

“You looked peaceful,” you tease. “Didn’t know you were capable.”

“Careful, darlin'. ” he warns. “I got a reputation.”

You lean down and press a sweet kiss to his scarred knuckles — slow, deliberate, affectionate.

That’s all it takes.

Logan’s breath hitches immediately. His eyes darken, and in the next second he’s pulling you down against him, hand fisting lightly in your hair as he claims your mouth in a heavy kiss. All heat and hunger and unmistakable intent, tongue sliding against yours like he’s been waiting for an excuse.

When he finally pulls back, forehead resting against yours, he exhales sharply.

“…You do that on purpose,” he growls.

You smile, completely smug. “Maybe.”

He snorts, already leaning back in. “Smart mouth’s gonna get you in trouble.”

"Well, my smart mouth made you cum three times last night, so-"

His teeth nips your bottom lip, glaring at you but the smile twitching onto his lips told you all you needed to know.

You wake slowly, cocooned in warmth and soft sheets, your body pleasantly heavy. For a moment, you don’t move. Just breathe.

until you realize the weight against you isn’t just the blankets.

Scott.

He’s curled into you, his head resting against your chest, one arm loosely draped around your waist like he belongs there. His face is relaxed in sleep, lashes resting against his cheeks, mouth parted just slightly. For someone who always carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, he looks… peaceful. Safe.

Your heart does a small flip.

His hair is a complete mess, dark strands sticking up in every direction, and when your gaze drifts lower, you notice them... two faint bite marks along his collarbone, already blooming into soft bruises.

Heat rushes to your face as last night crashes back into your mind in vivid fragments.

“Oh my god,” you mumble to yourself, mortified and amused all at once. “I’m such a horny mess.”

A quiet snicker answers you.

You freeze.

Scott looks up at you, his eyes shut tight as he gives you a charming smile, “You say that like I didn’t enjoy every second.”

You groan, lifting a hand to cover your face. “You were awake.”

“Mm. For a while.” His voice is still rough with sleep, low and warm. He shifts closer, tilting his head so his lips brush your skin. “Couldn’t bring myself to move.”

You reach toward the nightstand, fingers searching blindly, and he takes that as an invitation as your body hovers over him more.

His mouth trails along your collarbone, slow and lazy, punctuated by soft kisses that linger just long enough to make you shiver. A gentle nip here, a teasing suck there - like he’s leaving reminders.

“Scott,” you laugh breathlessly, finally grabbing his glasses and nudging them toward him, “You can’t even see.”

“Minor detail,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss before slipping them on. Once his glasses are secure, he looks up at you properly, that familiar fondness settling into his expression, “Besides, I know you pretty well by now.”

You roll your eyes, smiling despite yourself. “So confident for someone who uses a laser-proof sleep mask.”

“Hey,” he protests lightly, fingers tracing idle patterns along your side. “You like my sleep mask.”

“I tolerate it.”

He hums, clearly unconvinced.

The banter fades into something quieter as you lean down, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth. Then another. You let them trail lower, over his jaw, down his neck, across his chest, feeling his breath change beneath you.

By the time you disappear beneath the blankets, his breathing is already uneven, a sharp inhale catching in his throat as your breath ghosts against the inside of his thighs.

His hand slides into your hair, fingers threading through gently - not guiding, just holding on. You were his tether.

“God,” he exhales, head tipping back with a pant, “You’re dangerous.”

You smile to yourself and take him into your greedy mouth.

You wake up warm and hazy, reaching instinctively for him—

— and finding nothing.

Your eyes blink open, frown forming immediately as your hand pats the empty space beside you. The sheets are still warm, which somehow makes it worse. You let out a quiet, dramatic huff and flop back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling like you’ve been personally wronged.

Then you hear it.

The toilet flushes.

A moment later, the bathroom door creaks open, and Peter pads back into the bedroom in nothing but soft pajama pants and a sheepish grin, chocolate brown hair still damp from splashing water on his face.

“Oh no,” he says immediately, voice amused. “That face. That’s the ‘I thought you disappeared forever’ face.”

You turn your head slowly, eyes narrowed. “You left.”

“For, like, thirty seconds,” he laughs, crossing the room. “I promise I didn’t swing off into the sunset.”

He barely gets back under the covers before you’re on him, arms and legs wrapping around his middle like a sleepy octopus. He lets out a surprised laugh, automatically curling into you, one arm snug around your back.

“Missed me that much, huh?”

You mumble something incoherent into his chest, fingers clutching his shirt. He smiles softly, pressing a kiss into the top of your head, lingering there. His hand drifts lazily over your side, warm and familiar, tracing over your hip and down your thigh.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “You okay?”

“My legs are sore,” you mumble, half-asleep.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Peter stiffens just slightly.

“Oh,” he says, flushing instantly. He clears his throat, ears definitely red now. “Uh— I mean— I can— I can carry you? Today. Around the apartment. If you need. Like, totally heroic bridal carry situation.”

You snort, lifting your head to look at him. “You’d do that?”

He nods earnestly, trying very hard not to think about why your legs are sore. He needs to remember you're not as flexible as he is. You seriously were put through the ringer last night, your legs being manhandled in every which direction.

“Absolutely. Doctor’s orders. I’m the doctor. Of… being your boyfriend.”

You laugh, settling back against him as he relaxes again, pressing another gentle kiss to your hair.

“Stay,” you whisper.

He tightens his hold just a little. “Wasn’t going anywhere.”

You wake to friction and heat, your body responding before your thoughts can form. Johnny is behind you, breath ragged against your ear, every exhale hot enough to make you shiver. There’s a slow, deliberate pressure as he moves, unhurried, like he’s savoring the way you melt beneath him.

You groan, half protest, half invitation.

“Easy,” you mumble, trying to sound annoyed.

He laughs softly, low and dangerous, and shifts closer. One of your legs is lifted with effortless confidence, opening you to him, fitting you exactly where he wants you. The contact sends a spark straight through your core, your back arching without permission.

“Funny,” he murmurs into your ear, voice rough with memory, “you weren’t saying that last night. Pretty sure you were the one pulling me closer.”

Your breath stutters. The words do things to you— do things with him pressed so close, heat radiating off his skin. Johnny always runs warm, but this is different. Sweat gathers along your spine, the air thick, charged. He’s a heater, coiled and barely contained.

A faint flare ripples along his shoulders, light licking through his hair. He swears under his breath and moves quickly, smoothly, rolling you onto your back before the fire can get out of hand. The mattress dips as he settles between your legs, bracing himself above you.

“Hold on,” he mutters, grin flashing as the glow fades. “Don’t need to set the place on fire.”

His hands slide to your hips, firm and grounding. He leans in, forehead resting briefly against yours, breath mingling with yours, the tension unbearable.

Then he shifts — just a fraction — and the world narrows to sensation. There’s a slow, steady press, a shared inhale, the unmistakable feeling of being filled as your cunt welcomes him again. A sound slips from your throat as he stills, eyes locked on yours, heat humming between you.

Creak.

Derek’s eyes snapped open.

Creak. Again—slower this time, like someone was trying not to be heard.

At first, there was only the dark.

Not cozy, blanket-dark. No. This was the thick, swampy kind. Heavy across his chest, clinging to the walls, warping the shape of every coat hook and bookshelf into something not-quite-right. The curtains stirred slightly—no wind—and shadows from the tree outside jittered across the ceiling like restless fingers.

He held his breath.

Silence.

Too much of it.

The fridge wasn’t humming. The heater hadn’t kicked in. No faint upstairs pipes clanking in protest. It was the kind of silence that doesn’t soothe—it listens. That primal kind of quiet that precedes something awful.

Then— Creak.

The precise one outside the bathroom—that floorboard. The one that always squeaked unless you stepped on it just right.

Morgan hadn’t stepped on it.

You were still in bed. You’d dozed off curled into his chest, snoring like a kitten with allergies. If you were up, he would've felt it. And that step hadn’t been yours. Too heavy. Too slow.

That wasn’t the fridge. That wasn’t the neighbor’s cat. That wasn’t anything normal. That was a “get your ass stabbed” kind of sound.

He sat up fast, sheets hissing against the mattress, breath locked tight in his chest. Years of habit sent his hand flying toward the nightstand—

Gun? Gone. Badge? Not even close. All he found was a glass of water and the sad realization that this was the one night he’d let himself go off duty completely.

Hydrate or die-drate, you’d said with a grin. And now here he was—hydrated and about to square up with a ghost, barefoot and half-naked in his own damn house.

Another sound—a soft, almost polite shuffle. Then the quiet click of the bathroom door.

Derek froze.

Nah. Nope. You don’t just pick my house to rob. Not this house. Not with me in it. You think you’re gonna sneak in here, steal my TV, maybe grab a chocolate bar on the way out and leave like it’s DoorDash? Not happening.

He moved like instinct. Muscle memory. Silent, precise, deadly. His feet glided over hardwood. His breathing slowed. Even his heartbeat seemed to hold its rhythm.

I’ve tackled unsubs through barbed wire fences, strip malls, and once—once—during a bouncy castle birthday party. You think I won’t throw hands in my own damn hallway? In my socks?

As he moved, the fridge whined—a sudden mechanical sigh—and Derek nearly elbowed it on reflex.

He hissed under his breath.

God, I need to sleep more. Or maybe less.

A flash of a memory hit him—Chicago. An unsub had broken into a family’s home at 3 a.m., left the husband unconscious, and tied the mother up in her own bathroom. Morgan had shown up too late to stop the bruises from forming. That woman’s terrified eyes had been burned into his memory for years.

He wasn’t going to be late tonight.

The bathroom door creaked open.

A silhouette stepped out. Backlit. Slow. Unaware.

Gotcha, punk.

He surged forward in one flawless motion—tackle clean, grip tight, momentum precise. Years of FBI training kicked in as he brought the figure down, pinning them to the floor with a practiced hand and a sharp growl—

“Gotcha, punk—”

“THE HELL—?!”

There was a pause.

A beat of silence.

A very familiar groggy voice.

Your voice.

Derek blinked down, and sure enough—

There you were.

Hair sticking out in all directions, t-shirt bunched awkwardly around your waist, blinking slowly at him like a confused owl. You squinted up at him, one arm pinned, the other flopped dramatically beside you.

“…Babe?” you asked, voice hoarse from sleep, face squished against the tile. “Can we, I dunno… cuddle in bed and not on the bathroom floor?”

Derek froze.

Like a statue. Like a dumbass. Like a dumbass statue.

“…Oh my God,” he breathed, eyes wide, pupils dilating in horror. “Baby. Baby, I’m so sorry. I thought—I thought you were—Jesus, are you hurt? Are you okay?!”

You blinked up at him again, unimpressed.

“I woke up to pee, Derek.”

“I tackled you.”

“You tackled me.”

“I tackled my partner.”

“To the floor.”

“Yeah.”

A long pause.

“…Y’know what’s fun?” you said, eyes still mostly closed. “This tile is cold, and my spine hurts.”

That did it. Derek immediately scrambled to gather you into his arms like he’d just drop-kicked a newborn puppy.

“Nononono, come here—God, I’m such an idiot. I didn’t see—I wasn’t awake—fuck, I tackled you. Oh my God. You’re never sleeping over again.”

You let him scoop you up bridal-style, but your face was already pressed against his shoulder, the beginnings of a smirk tugging at your lips.

“I can’t wait to tell Garcia.”

That made him pause mid-carry. “You wouldn’t.”

You yawned. “Oh, I would. I’ll tell her you yelled ‘Gotcha, punk’ like a Saturday morning cartoon villain while I was barefoot and half-blind.”

Derek groaned. “You’re evil.”

“And you love it.”

He deposited you onto the bed like you were made of glass and his own unrelenting shame. He fussed over you—pulling the blanket up, tucking it beneath your chin, running his hands over your arms like he expected to find bruises.

“You sure you’re okay? Your back? Your neck? Baby, I could’ve—God, I didn’t mean to—”

You silenced him with a kiss. Lazy, warm, still sleep-drenched but affectionate.

“I’m fine,” you murmured. “Though…” You tugged him down beside you, a teasing glint in your eyes. “That was kinda hot.”

He blinked. “Hot?”

You grinned. “I mean, you did tackle me to the floor with surgical precision. Bit much for a midnight cuddle, but the form? Chef’s kiss. Nine outta ten.”

“...Nine?”

“Lost a point for trying to arrest me.”

Derek buried his face in your hair with a groan. “I hate how much you’re enjoying this.”

“Oh, come on, babe. We’ve had like two fights and neither involved a full-body takedown before tonight. Milestone achieved.”

“You’re never letting me live this down.”

“Top three most dramatic Morgan moments. Number one: tackling your half-naked partner. Number two: yelling ‘Gotcha, punk’ like you’re on an old cop show. No, I'm not letting you live this down.”

A long beat. You were drifting now, warm and safe in his arms, your breathing slowing.

Then, quietly, casually:

“…If you do wanna pin me down again though…”

Derek pulled the blanket over your head. “Go to sleep.”

Your muffled voice replied from beneath it:

“Love you, too.”

.

.

.