#*wr

When she had first gotten the offer to be a camp counselor at the infamous Camp Redwood, the only thing she was really excited about was getting out of town for a few weeks and away from the hustle and bustle that never seemed to stop in L.A. Not to mention the fact that she didn’t have much to do this summer to begin with, besides sitting at home to watch the news on whatever weekly tragedy had happened on that day.

So when Montana brings up the idea of her joining the rest of them at the camp she didn’t hesitate in agreeing to tag along.

And for the most part she didn’t hate it. It wasn’t that hard to direct kids to do this and not to do that or to make sure they didn’t drown in the lake. It had been easier than she expected it too. The only things that really seemed to bother her were the incredibly hot days, especially the ones where Margaret insisted they go for a nature hike, or the suns rays being way to hot to be walking around in swim suits so no swimming on that day. And the occasional bug bite here and there.

But all of those things she could live with, easily, she could put on a fake smile and happy-go-lucky attitude if it meant avoiding Margaret or getting through the day without one of the kids being incredibly irksome.

The one thing she seemed she could not live, or deal with in the slightest, had blonde hair, wore too much violet colored clothing for it to be a fashion statement, and had a smirk anyone would want to slap away.

Xavier Plympton.

Someone who she knew prior to coming here. Thanks to Montana, introducing the two at a party once. An introduction she expected to be as simple as a ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye’ and to probably never cross paths again. But, fate and the cheap liquor in their cups, and recreational drugs that filled their lungs, had other plans, and the two ended up in Xavier’s van, which she found the interior very impressive and almost psychedelic up until he went on to tell her he named it ‘Vanta-C’. Something she found too hilarious and almost cute at the way his cheeks burned with slight embarrassment from it. But, Xavier being the suave guy he is, didn’t let that falter him. If it had not been for her eyes never leaving his face she wouldn’t of even noticed the pink tint in his cheeks or the way he played it off by fixing his hair and grabbing another blunt.

But not even something as painstakingly ‘full of himself’ as naming his van could derail the tension that filled the air once the two had entered the van. And it didn’t take long before clothes were shed and lips were trailing down bodies and Xavier was showing her just why he called his van ‘Vanta-C’. Something that in the moment had her toes curling in ecstasy, but now left her rolling her eyes, out of annoyance, and trying to hide the heat that started in her core and ran up her body.

Because of course Xavier was the one who initially invited the group to join him at Camp Redwood, and of course Montana failed to mention that, at least until she saw the oh-so-familiar van pull up to her house, a big smirk on Xavier’s face as he offered to help her with her bags and a sly Montana shrugging with a ‘you didn’t ask’. But Montana was slick and knew what she was doing. This she knew all too well. And didn’t come as quite as a shock when she tried to initiate conversation between her and Xavier. Saying things like “I love your shirt, it really shows off all the right places of your bod, don’t you agree, Xavier?” Which only lead to her scowling at her so called ‘best friend’ and Xavier turning around in his seat to smirk, his tongue snaking out of the corner of his mouth to wet his lips and say “definitely.”

Something so small, so irrelevant, if it had been anyone else. It has her giving him an annoyed smile and turning her head to look out of the window as she presses her legs just a little closer together. Which she chalks up to it being because Brooke and Montana need more room. Yeah, that’s definitely it. Because Xavier Plympton has zero effect on her.

And she kept that mantra in her head up until the second day of camp. Up until she was accompanying two campers to Montana’s aerobics class, following Margaret’s ‘buddy system’ to a T. The loud music coming from behind the recreation cabin, bouncing off of the forest around them, making it seem even louder. Montana’s exasperated yells and cheers becoming more coherent as they got closer. A smile on her face once they rounded the corner and she caught eyes with Montana who was sweating bullets but could not look more happier than teaching pre-teens how to really work their glutes.

She stood in the back, leaning up against the wood of the cabin, enjoying watching the kids try and keep up with Montana, something most of them failed at and looked as if they were seconds away from having a heat stroke. A smile on her face, until she see’s him. Well, until she see’s something. Light pink shorts that are almost too short, she expects Margaret to be out here yelling, labeling upper thigh shorts as a sin, as well as the matching colored crop top thats just shy of being above his belly button, a small patch of hair that trails down and under the waistband of the, too pink, shorts, being a sin all in its own. But Margaret’s nowhere to be found, and she can’t take her eyes off of the pink colored shorts, or the trail of hair, or the way the material of the crop top flows across their stomach with each move they make, or the person wearing them.

She doesn’t have to look at the persons face to know who it is. There is only one person who would wear something so bright, yet so enticing. And with hip thrusts like that, it has her cheeks burning at remembering those hips doing those same exact moves but in a different situation. A completely different one that has her shifting back and forth on her feet. Has her trying to look anywhere but at those damn pink shorts.

But it’s like she can feel his eyes on her. Like he is burning a hole through her, one that’s going straight to her core. And when she, foolishly, gives in to whatever feeling is causing her stomach to be in knots and her inner thighs to sweat from rubbing against each other, she almost regrets it. Because it takes the breath out of her and the only thing she can think about is their one night together. A night that she would deny she remembers at all if anyone were to bring it up.

He’s not smirking at her like he usually is. No. He holds her stare with an intensity that has her eyes shifting to see if anyone around them in watching, noticing. But they aren’t. It’s just them. In this intense stare down. So intense that it’s almost intimate. Almost too intense, that she’s quickly looking away and walking in the other direction.

And once she’s reached her cabin all she wants to do is lay in her bunk and let her fingers slip under her shorts. And she almost does. Almost strips her shorts right off and relieves the ache that’s pounding at her core, right then and there against the cabin door. But then that mantra runs through her head, ”he doesn’t effect me, it’s Xavier for fuck sakes, the boy thinks flirting is an Olympic sport.” It’s the heat outside that has her head going crazy right now, she’s probably close to heat stroke with how hot she is feeling right now. That is it. Definitely it.

Something she is so certain is truth that when night comes along, and the counselors have their annual campfire gathering after the kids have been sent to their cabins and knocked out for the night, she doesn’t pay any mind to Xavier who, just like earlier within the day, is burning her with his stare. She makes herself busy with talking to Montana and roasting marshmallows with Brooke who seems to find the small act more exciting than the kids do, it makes her smile. It makes her happy. Happy to be here. Happy to not be thinking about Xavier or even caring that she can still feel his lingering stare on her.

She seems to avoid him all night up until Montana decides to sneak off with Trevor and Brooke moves closer to Chet and Ray is too stoned to care about anything other than eating a whole bag of marshmallows. She thinks about getting up and going to her cabin but, she’s almost certain, that Montana and Trevor have most likely claimed it as theirs for the next hour, and she doesn’t want to walk in on that again.

So she stays sat upon the log and plays with the stick in her hand, poking it in and out of the fire. She doesn’t budge and or make it known that she noticed his presence when she senses, feels, smells his very intense cologne fill her nostrils, as he sits down beside her. He doesn’t try to talk to her. He doesn’t make a move or anything. He just sits beside her, and she’s glad. Thinks she playing it cool. Showing him just how much he doesn’t effect her.

But she doesn’t notice her eyes shift over in his direction every now and then, or the way she finds herself watching his hands. Something so minimal and normal that she doesn’t know why it has her breathing much heavier. Or the way she almost jumps out of her skin when Xavier chuckles under his breath and presses the blunt burning between his fingers to his lips.

“Want a hit?” He asks, moving closer to her, their thighs touching, a small action that has her pulling her legs so close together that it hurts her knees, just so she’s not touching him. He holds out the lit blunt out in front of himself, nudging it towards her.

“No, thanks.” She says flatly. Not looking at him. But maybe she should, maybe it would calm her down from whatever silent freak out her body has been having since this afternoon. She almost turns to say ‘nevermind’ and take him up on the offer, but she’s stopped by his proximity.

He is leaning into her, his shoulder flesh against hers, his face inches from hers, she can feel his warm breath on the shell of her ear as he says, “or would you like to smoke it somewhere else?” She turns her head slightly to see him, wanting, needing, to see his face, because she thinks she knows what he’s insinuating but doesn’t fully grasp it until she’s met with the same intense eye contact as earlier, only this time he has that stupid smirk on his face. It’s almost infuriating, and yet she can’t stop staring at his lips. How full they are. How soft she remembers them feelings on hers, along with other places on her body.

She knows she should be saying something snappy to him right now. Something just as irritatingly annoying as he makes her feel. But she’s not saying anything. Something she regrets when he leans back into her personal space and says, “I only ask because I saw how much you enjoyed watching me today.” His smirk grows, “thought, maybe, you’d want a more, physical reminder of how good my moves are.”

His eyes are shifting from her lips to her eyes and she fucking hates him for it because she finds herself doing the same. She finds her head almost nodding, but then it’s as if reality slaps her straight and she’s shaking her head and scowling at him, because he doesn’t effect her, he is a one night mistake with a stupid smirk and annoyingly perfect hair. She won’t let him think that she’s like every other jazzercise groupie, which she heard in full about from not only Montana but the rest of them, even Brooke had some stories to tell she’s heard. One night with Xavier Plympton was enough for her.

“The only reason I was staring was because I thought you were a little off beat.” She frowns, smirks. “Guess, that kind of stuff does follow you out of the bedroom. Pitty.” She smiles, throws her stick into the fire and walks off. She doesn’t turn back to look at his expression she already knows the full-of-himself Xavier is a pink tinted mess of scowls and nervously fixing his hair, as if that’s going to help him. But the way her body is burning as she walks away, now not being kept warm by the fire, the cold having no effect on the heat of her body right now. Her cheeks burning. Her stomach aching. Her hands almost shaking. It hadn’t been the first time she had said something snippy towards Xavier, and it wouldn’t be the last. And yet, her body was acting as if it had just committed a crime and was worried about being caught.

The feeling didn’t stop even when she lay in her bunk. Her body still on fire even as she slept with no covers. Her mind not settling on anything remotely dream worthy. Until it finds him. Xavier. That stupid smirk. What he said replaying in her head. The way he looked that afternoon. The way he looked with the shadows from the fire illuminating his face and how...amazing his hands had looked. Something she didn’t understand why it even made her feel anything. But, her mind was too busy to make sense of anything. Too busy thinking about Xavier. Too busy with filthy teasing thoughts that she doesn’t really comprehend that her fingers have slipped under the waistband of her pajama shorts until she is cuming on her fingers. Her teeth biting into her lower lip so hard she almost draws blood, as she tries to stifle the moans she wants to slip out. The only mantra in her head now being ‘Xavier, Xavier, Xavier,’.

“Fuck,” she sighs softly. Groans. Covers her face with her hands. Because fuck him. She is too busy scolding herself and feeling absolutely ridiculous, that she doesn’t notice her body is finally not warm. That the intense ache and burning is gone.

Or that each time she seems to think about Xavier from that night on, or make eye contact with him, or catch herself staring at his always too short shorts, her body heat rises a million degrees and she’s walking in the other direction of him and taking more cold showers, and has to sleep with her hands under her so she doesn’t catch herself finding a sweet release she so needs with Xavier’s name at the tip of her tongue.

It had been less than easy trying to ignore Xavier for the remainder weeks of them being at the camp. But she thinks, hopes, she’s done a good job at it. Even having switched some jobs and activities with Ray and Chet just so she wouldn’t have to see him one day, or less another. It had kept her, almost, sane for at least a week, she thinks. Even Montana noticed her avoidance of him and complimented her on how ‘totally cool’ she was playing it. But with her teasing smirk and laugh after, she thinks she was only joking and she has been anything but cool.

She doesn’t actually have to test just how cool she’s totally coming off, until fate decides it has other plans for her. That plan being her sticking her foot in an all but invisible hole on Margaret’s annual weekly hike, having her twisting her ankle and falling to her knees in pain. Chet, impressively, carrying her back to camp and to Rita. Who assured her it’s not broken, nor a sprain, just a nasty twist that would feel better within a couple of days. Something she’s grateful for. But not so grateful when she is sent back to her cabin for the rest of the day, a book in hand, trying to relax and ignore the small ache in her ankle, an ache that seems to intensify when she hears the cabin door creak open, her eyes lifting from the pages of her book to meet Xavier’s.

She sighs. Rolls her eyes. “May I help you?” She says, setting her book down in annoyance. Or what she thinks is annoyance. Her nerves suddenly at attention and her body shifting on its own accord once he smiles.

“I heard what happened. Wanted to make sure you were alright.” He smiles and sits at the foot of her bed.

“I’m fine. It’s not broke. I’ll live.” Shes short. Chaste. To the point. Hoping her less than friendly tone will make him leave sooner.

“Or sprained, so I’ve heard.” He grins. Moves closer to where her foot is propped up on a pillow. “But, I do know, even simple twists feel just as worst as sprains. I’ve dealt with a lot of people in my class suffering from them. Some people not knowing their limits.”

She’s sure he has dealt with many things from many people in his class. She’s heard the horror, or pleasure, stories before. She didn’t need a reminder. She gives him a pressed lipped, fake, smile and tries to show she’s anything but interested.

But all it does is make Xavier chuckle softly and move closer, his hand ghosting over her ankle, making her, on instinct, pull back faster than she means to, sending a sharp pain through her aching ankle, that has her crying out softly and moving up the bed.

“Hey, hey,” Xavier speaks concerned, his hand going out to land on her knee. “Don’t move it.”

“You were going to touch it! I had to!” She exclaims.

“Yes, but what I was going to do would cause less damage then you flailing like that.” He laughs.

She scowls. “And what exactly were you going to do?”

“I’ll show you.” He smiles. “Just don’t move.” He moves the pillow so it’s under her foot again, letting his fingers linger along the outside of her ankle before he moves them to the underside of her foot, using the pads of his thumbs to massage soft circles at her heel and up to her toes.

Her tense posture slowly dissolves as she watches him. Trusting that he won’t just randomly snap her foot out of place. She leans back against the pillow propped up against the wood of the bed. Watching him intensely as he massages the underside of her foot, it feeling a lot better than she thought, or wants it too.

His fingers move up her foot, slowly, gently, until they reach the swelled part of her ankle. She hisses when his fingers brush against it. He looks up at her, gives her a smile. A smile that makes her roll her eyes, him finding amusement in it.

He puts more pressure on her ankle, more than she thinks he should, it sending a ping of pain through her. “Ah, ah,” she winces. “That hurts!”

“It’s going to.” He says, obviously, smiles up at her. Continues what he’s doing like it’s not making ping’s of pain shoot through her right now. She almost wants to kick him. Move her foot from him and tell him to fuck off. But then the pressure he is applying becomes bearable. So much so that it has her body easing more into his touch. It has her eyes glued to his fingers. Glued to the way they move so effortlessly across her skin, how they make something that was just causing her pain, feel a little bit better. So much better that it has small whimpers falling from her lips. Something that has her heart stopping. Hoping praying that he didn’t notice it. Or notice the way her breathing is heavier. Or how with every press of the pad of his thumb has her wanting to push her hips up, because his hands are so soft. Too fucking soft.

She’s once again reminded of how good they felt on her, that night she wishes she denies remembering, because it would make this a hell of a lot easier to sit through. She wouldn’t be thinking about those fingers trailing up her legs, to her thighs, to the bottom of her shorts, his fingers pushing past the soft cotton of her red shorts, to the spot where she needs them so much. To the spot she remembers him touching with his fingers, his mouth, his tongue, his—

“How does it feel?” He asks and it makes her jump a little. Her eyes opening, not remembering that she closed them.

She lifts her head, looks at him, he’s not smiling like he once was, no smirk, just that intensity of his stare that is more torturous for her than any hip movement, touch of is fingers, or teasing, could ever do. She figures he’s waiting for an answer. That’s why he’s staring at her like this. She swallows, opens her mouth to say something but her mouths dry, her mouths at a loss for words, because this is all just too fucking much. Him touching her. The way he’s looking at her. It’s not a normal look, she thinks. She knows. It’s not a ‘please answer my question’ look. He’s feeling the same way she is right now. On fire. The tension that has her body aching.

“I can make it feel ev—“ he speaks low, languidly, his fingers moving from her ankle to move slowly up her leg. But he is cut off before he can finish that sentence, before he can finish his movements. The cabin door swinging open, Montana bursting through, Brooke and Chet in tow.

“How’s our little klutz?” She smiles, and Xavier is moving slowly off of the bed. He’s turning and smirking at Montana and the rest of them.

“She, is fine.” She rolls her eyes smiling, sitting up more on the bed.

“Oh, I’m sure.” Montana sits down on the edge of the bed beside her. “With Xavier taking care of you, I’m sure you’re real fine.” She smirks and it has her scowling at her and Xavier snorting and heading towards the cabin door.

And just like that all the tension and whatever was happening within the room is gone. If there even was anything. Her brain still fuzzy with pain and hormones to really comprehend what had just happened. Or why her skin still burned from where Xavier’s fingers had been. And the ache in her stomach from them being gone. Wishing that the moment had lasted. That they were still there. Something she finds herself scolding herself for. What was wrong with her? It was just a foot massage. It was just Xavier.

Like any rational person, she blames the heat. The pain, and pushes the moment, and burning in the back of her mind. At least for as long as she can.

Which is not long, having spent all day in her cabin, her mind only on one thing, one person, one fucking feeling. Montana even commenting on how she doesn’t look so good and if she felt ill. Something that makes her groan and cover her face with her pillow.

“She probably needs air, it’s stuffy in here.” Brooke suggests and she wants to scowl at the brunette, because air is definitely not what she needs right now. She needs a fucking grip.

But Montana agrees with the brunette and the two are convincing her to come to the campfire tonight and even with her protests she finds herself being helped to the fire, her limps and small sharp pains flowing through her ankle, not the only reason why she wished she had just stayed back at the cabin. But when Montana sits nexts to Trevor, Brooke next to Chet, the other logs being occupied by Ray, Margaret and Rita. Leaving no room for her. She sighs. Ready to sit on the small dirt pile next to one of the logs, limping her way over to it, when she feels someone grab her wrist gently.

“Sit.”

She turns to see Xavier, his hand wrapped around her wrist, a smile on his face.

“I’m going to, If you let me go.” She gives him a weird look, scowls, as if nothing that has happened earlier actually happened.

“On the ground?” Xavier raises his brows, Almost as if disgusted in her decision. “That won’t help your foot.” He pulls her towards him and before she can protest she’s in his lap. Sitting on one of his legs. Most of her weight on top of his thigh.

She’s about to hop up, scowl, push him, but he puts his arm around her, resting it at her side, leaning in to speak only so she can hear him, “just relax, it’s better than sitting in the dirt.” He’s rubbing a small circle in her side and she’s trying to act like it’s only soothing her, only making her feel calm, when in reality it has her swallowing hard. And trying to avoid any eye contact with anyone that’s looking at them. That can tell she’s feeling...things.

If Xavier notices, or can tell, she’s silently freaking out, he hasn’t shown it. He doesn’t show it at all throughout the rest of the night as his hand still rests at her side. Still moving against the fabric of her shirt, slow, gently circles.

Neither does anyone else as they all carry on conversation, sharing stories and waiting until Margaret goes to bed to bring out the liquor and blunts. Passing it throughout themselves as they continue to chat.

Xavier, however is not adding to any of the conversations going on around them. Instead he’s leaning down slightly, his hand wrapping around the back of her ankle. “How is it?” He asks, pinching the skin there slightly, making her wince softly.

“Better.” She says. Tries to regulate her breathing.

“Are you sure?” He asks, turns his head towards her, their gaze meeting, him smirking. “Because I can always come back to your cabin, later, and give you another massage.”

If her body was heating up, or if his fingers weren’t running up the back of her calf right now, to behind her knee, she’s sure she would roll her eyes at him. Scowl. Laugh. Anything but what she was doing right now: staring at him, breathing heavy, swallowing every ten seconds, pushing her legs closer together, a shift Xavier notices as she’s sat upon his leg.

“On your ankle.” He leans in, his face in the side of her neck, his hot breath against her neck, then her ear, “or something else.” He says, his voice coming out like liquid honey, liquid fucking gold that it has her legs spreading when she feels his fingers land on the inside of her thigh. They don’t move though. The heat coming off of them and on her just as hot skin almost too much. Making her body want to move. Move foreword, move sideways, any way just to have him touching her where she needs him to.

She almost panics when she hears Brooke laugh. Her head shooting up, embarrassment already present on her face, expecting to see all of them staring at her and laughing. But she’s met with none of that. Brooke is too busy laughing at Chet who has his face nuzzled into her neck. Montana and Trevor have already left. Ray and Rita are too busy sharing a cigarette and talking.

“No ones paying attention.” Xavier says against her neck, she can feel his smirk against her skin. “You don’t have to pretend like you don’t want it anymore. Or pretend you hate watching my hip thrusts and run away all flustered.” His fingers finally move, finally, moving up her thigh, pinching the skin right below her cotton shorts. A low whimper coming out as a deep puff of air from her lips, her hips moving on their own accord. “I know you do.” He laughs softly. “It’s hard not to notice. The stares. The longing looks. The whimpers you were making earlier when I was touching you. The way you press your knees together to stop that ache in your cunt.”

If her mind wasn’t clouded right now, or her core aching for his fingers to slip into her shorts, if he would only just move them a few more inches, please, she needs it. If that wasn’t messing her up she is sure she would scowl at him, say something snarky, not let him think, or know, that any of that is true. But, in the position she is in right now, how fucking wet she’s been the entire time she’s been here at camp, the entire time she’s been around Xavier. How her mind constantly goes back to their night spent together. Or how bad she wants him to just take her right now, not caring how or who’s watching, she knows that she can’t even begin to fake his words. To pretend that they aren’t true.

Because he’s right. Fuck he is so right and she hates him for it.

“Xav, we’re going to head up to the cabin, you coming?” Ray interrupts, Brooke and Chet hand and hand and already heading towards the Cabins, Rita in tow.

“Yeah.” Xavier smiles. “Just going to help Y/N, back to her cabin and I’ll be there.” He reassures and Ray is nodding and following the others, disappearing into the darkness and into their cabins.

She almost expects Xavier to help her off of him, to stand up and walk back to their cabins as if nothing happened. Again. As if this were some teasing game and he was winning by a long shot.

But that doesn’t happen. Instead Xavier’s pulling her more onto his lap so her legs are on either side of his own, open and spread.

“Xavier,” she says, means for it to sound stern. But it’s whiney and breathless.

“Do you want to go back to your cabin?” He asks, his lips at the shell of her ear. “Or,” he says slowly, his hand finding her inner thigh again, this time not stopping at the bottom of her shorts, but moving atop of them and rubbing against her clothed cunt. Making her hips move forward from the feathered touch, chasing his hand for more. “Do you want something else?” He presses a kiss to her neck. “Do you need something else?”

His fingers brush against her again and she’s letting out a breathy moan, because fuck yes she needs it. Needs him to just touch her already. To stop this endless game of teasing the two have been doing for the past weeks. She’s ready to give in. Needs to give in.

He does it again, and again, her hips having the same reaction of chasing his hand, whimpers and moans falling from her lips, whiney, needy, frustrated.

“Xavier. Just—please.” She says finally. Breathy with frustration.

“Please what? What do you need, baby?” He runs his tongue along her neck, kisses, sucks, the sensitive skin, her neck falling back on his shoulder as she moans softly. “You’ll get it, all of it, whatever you want.” His other hand comes up to trail along her neck, across her collar bones, his palm burning her skin as he grips her neck, pushing her head towards him, their lips inches apart. “Tell me what you need, what you’ve needed since we’ve stepped foot in this fucking camp.”

She groans. She’s not sure if it’s from pleasure or frustration. She tries to move forward and catch his lips with hers but he’s squeezing her neck, almost in a choking manner, and not allowing her to move any further. Keeping her dangling ever so close but not close enough. Not where she needs to be. Where she wants to be.

She can’t play this game anymore. Can’t deny the ache. Can’t deny the want. Fuck, she’s dumb for even trying. He had her once, a night that she hasn’t forgotten. A night that lives in her mind more vividly than any other hook-up she’s had before. A night that she finds touching herself to more nights than she can count. So she doesn’t fight it anymore, when she says breathy, so needy, “You.” She swallows. “Please, Xavier. I need you.”

And that seems to be the magic words he wanted to hear, because he connects their lips in a hungry kiss, his hand coming to the back of her head to hold and press her more into him. His other hand moving to her lower abdomen, to push past her waistband, into her panties, the warmth of his fingers meeting the warmth of her wet cunt.

She breaks the kiss to let out a loud moan. One that has her eyes shifting nervously, worried that she just woke up the whole camp.

“They’re not going to hear you, baby.” Xavier nips at her lower lip. “You’re fine. You’ve kept it in for too long, let it out. I want to hear you.” He kisses her again. His index finger making contact with her clit, making her lurch forward a little, moan louder, as he rubs small circles against her throbbing bundle of nerves. “You sound so fucking beautiful.” He groans against her skin. She can feel his very hard erection pressing against her ass and it makes her moan even more. Remembering just how amazing it had felt not only inside of her cunt, but other places as well. Making her hips move back and forth, rubbing her ass against it, making Xavier moan in unison with her.

“I’ve thought about you, almost every night since we hooked up.” He is kissing and nipping at her neck again. It has her eyes rolling in the back of her head, the burn of his finger rubbing faster circles on her clit, his other fingers teasing her entrance, it’s all so fucking good. His hot breath against her neck as he talks to her, “every time I thought about it it made my cock hard. I couldn’t think straight until I touched myself. Until I came. Your name always falling from my lips, wishing I was filling that sweet cunt of yours again.”

“Fuck, Xavier,” she moans, feels like she could explode right now. Cum right now. But it feels so good. Too good. She doesn’t want it to end. She wants to feel him. Wants to feel like this always. With him. Her breath hitches in her throat as she feels him slip two fingers inside of her. Stretching her so fucking good.

“And I know you’ve thought about it too. Haven’t you?” She feels him push his hips up and against her ass, grinding against her even more. His fingers pushing further into her soaked cunt. “Tell me, baby,”

She nods. Not being able to find her words, but knowing she needs to, knowing Xavier gets off on words and talking as much as he does with fucking. “Yes,” she finally says, barely audible as she moans. “I can’t,” she swallows, whimpers. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Xavier groans. “Fuck. I know baby.” His fingers are moving in and out of her at a tortuous speed that has her leaning her back more into his front, her legs spreading wider, her hands coming to grip at anything they can, the top of his knee, his jacket. “Did you play with your sweet little pussy while thinking of me?” He licks a strip up the side of her throat. “Wishing I was fucking you? Filling you?”

“Yes, yes,” she moans, her hips moving in unison to his fingers, fucking her so good, stretching her in a way that hers never could. In a way that she’s thought about for so long. Wanting to happen again and again.

“You know how hard it was for me to not fuck you? To not touch you while we have been here?” He groans, “so fucking hard. My cock has been hard the entire time we have been here.” He laughs softly against her neck. “All I’ve wanted to do was feel you again. Touch you again. Taste you again. It’s so good. You’re so good.” He is pressing open mouthed kisses to her neck again and it has her head spinning. It has her gripping onto him more. It was her biting her lip.

“Fuck my fingers, baby. Cum on them. Let yourself have it. Finally, baby.”

He moans against her flesh and edges her on and it’s all the encouragement she needs before she’s leaning further back on him, using him for balance as she finds the log beneath them with her feet using it as leverage as she moves herself up and down, back and forth, any way she can, on his fingers, hitting all of the right spots. The palm of his hand rubbing against her clit in a tortuously teasing way that has her closing her eyes and leaning her head back on his shoulder, letting every single thrust, touch, feeling, overtake her body.

“Xavier,” she moans, “it’s, fuck—so good.”

“I know, baby, I know. Cum for me Y/N. Show me how good it is. Show me how much you’ve missed getting off on me.” He mouths at her neck, her chin, her cheek, anything skin he can get his lips on. His thumb maneuvering enough so he can rub at her clit slightly, that touch alone being enough to send her over the edge. Her eyes clenched, her body shaking, her legs weak, Xavier wrapping his arm around her to steady her. To keep her from falling as she cums. His name falling from her lips as she moans loudly. As her body goes from being on fire to buzzing and sedated.

She doesn’t know how long it takes her to completely come down from her high. But when she opens her eyes again Xavier is staring at her with a smile, his hand is no longer in her shorts. It’s wrapped around her mid section and before she even has time to possibly regret this or to ruin the moment with stupid thoughts, he is pressing light kisses to her lips.

“You are so good, baby. So fucking good.”

They stay like that for a few minutes. Y/N wrapped in his arms. Trying to steady her breath. Kissing lazily, passionately. Him telling her that he meant every fucking word he said and her no longer denying that he has an effect on her. A big fucking effect. One that she can’t wait to feel again. Something he reassures is going to be sooner rather than later as he lets his hand travel back down her abdomen to rub her slowly and softly outside of her shorts again. Him whispering against her lips that she has a choice of getting fucked out here in the open or, for old time sake, in his van again. And her mind being too needy for the second option, quickly works on pulling down her shorts.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The house is much too quiet once evening comes, and Henrik grows restless with the book in his hands. It isn’t one of his, the fantastical story a far cry from his own periodicals, but he’d been urged to give it a try. Still, he sets the book facedown on the side table and pushes himself off the couch. It isn’t too late. He can still get some work in before retiring for the night, and perhaps if he busies himself with something worthwhile it will keep his mind off the silence.

His office is toward the front of their house, a large room filled primarily with stained oak furniture. A bookshelf lines the entire back wall, an arched window on the wall adjacent with its curtains pulled over the glass. Henrik bypasses the makeshift patient bed, a couch raised to hip-level, and takes a seat behind his desk. He’d left the lamp on earlier, the red shade casting warm light over the room.

It does not take long for him to become engrossed with his paperwork. He had been putting it off these past few days, and already the buildup is enough to last him a few hours.

Henrik quickly falls into a rhythm, eyes glazing over with the monotony of it all. At least now, after tonight, he will have a responsibility-free holiday tomorrow. But what a way to spend the Eve.

A knock on the front door breaks Henrik out of his reverie, loud and hurried and startling his heart at the suddenness of it all. It takes him a moment to react accordingly, tearing his focus away from what is left of the papers on his desk to the clock hanging on the wall beside him. It’s late, later than he expected to have stayed awake, and much too late for any one of his patients. He sighs as he stands, not wanting to have to turn away another family looking for a room. Thankfully tomorrow the inn will be open once more, once Sean comes back from his family in the North.

The knocking continues as he makes his way to the foyer, growing ever the more frantic the closer he gets, and Henrik frowns, a little put off by the insistence. He stands in front of the door and waits for a pause, the apology already on his tongue. When the pounding stops, he says, “Sorry, no rooms are available at the moment,” his voice raised to be heard past the wooden door. “The manager is away on holiday, he’ll be back—”

“What?”

Henrik stops, confused. He opens his mouth to try to clarify, but the voice continues.

“A-a room? What is this? I’m looking for a doctor—I had the name, shit, it’s something weird—something-stein or whatever!”

They stumble over their words, but sound healthy enough for Henrik to not feel bad for refusing to open his door. “My office closed at four, come back after tomorrow, I’m not open on the Solstice. Goodnight now.”

“No please, wait!” The very real panic in the voice roots him to the floor, and he clenches his jaw. “I’ve traveled all this way to find you, I’ve heard you’re the only person who can help me!”

Henrik has heard those words plenty of times before, and though he would rather not deal with whoever is desperate enough to bother him in the middle of the night while there are legal clinicians in the next town over, he compromises. Maybe that will be enough for them to leave.

“Alright, what is it? Broken bones, internal bleeding? You sound fine enough, you were healthy enough to make it here, what’s your problem?”

There’s silence for a long time on the opposite end of the door, he can hear his heart beating.

“It’s my ethos.”

Well, fuck.

Henrik opens the front door with a neutral expression, meeting eyes a much brighter blue than his own. The man on his porch is young, younger than himself at the very least, with disheveled clothes and a cap pushed low on his head. From what he can see, he looks a bit beat up—bruises on his hands, a scabbed-over scratch on his left cheek—but otherwise okay. The biting winter winds blow past them into the house, and the man shivers and pulls the torn jacket closer to himself. His shoes have a hole in the toe.

A vagrant, most likely. Lovely.

He’ll blame it on the holiday spirit that he opens the door wide and inviting and says, “Fine, dammit. Come inside, follow me, and take off that nasty coat before you sit anywhere.”

The smile he receives isn’t enough to lift the scowl from his own face.

—————

The man takes the mug of tea from Henrik with both hands, immediately bringing it to his nose to inhale the clean scent before taking a sip. “Thank you so much,” he murmurs, and the physician waves him off while taking his place behind the desk once again.

Without the horrid coat and cap, he can make out a bit more of his visitor. He’s a slimmer man, which is to be expected of someone continuously on the road, yet retains a modicum of fitness to his form. The tips of his short hair are a faded grassy color, which is unusual enough for Henrik to make note of it, and in the light of his office he can see more evidence of a rough patch—hollowed cheeks and dark bags under his otherwise hopeful eyes.

At least he seems to be relaxing, albeit slowly.

Henrik lets the man enjoy his drink for a moment more before leaning forward and steepling his hands together atop the desk. “What is your name?”

“You’ve got a real funny accent.”

Henrik tilts his head to the side and stares him down without saying a word.

“I-I’m—my name’s Chase, sorry, um,” Chase says and fidgets in the chair. “Chase Brody?”

Chase Brody is written on a blank sheet of paper. He doesn’t have anything more official for this side of his work, rather wanting to keep these documents as off-the-record as possible. “Okay,” he sets the pen down, “And how did you hear about me? I like to keep track of who has my name in their mouth.”

“Why?”

“Why do you care?”

“I-I don’t know—”

“Can you answer the question please?” Exhaustion is starting to pull at his eyes, making him snappier than he is on a normal day.

Chase sets his mug down on the floor beside the chair, shaking his head. “I really don’t know, I didn’t…talk to anyone, I was just in some town and overheard a conversation, I…” he trails off and shakes his head again, wiping his palm on the side of his head. His hair looks greasy, and the motion just makes it all the more unkempt. “I didn’t realize you’d want to know, what does it even matter, listen! Can you help me or not!”

Henrik is simultaneously appalled and impressed at this man—this absolute no-name—acting like he has any say in this interaction. Because, unless he’s misremembering the events of the past ten minutes, this Chase Brody came looking for him, not the other way around. They are in his house, on his time, and he’s the only one who can decide whether to help him or not.

But he can. Of course he can. He knows there isn’t another in the country who knows more of the ethos than him, which is why he’s the one that has to deal with the insanity of people treating him like he’s the answer to all their problems. However, he has to prepare for their Solstice celebration early in the morning, and he needs to make sure Sean returns home safely, and he can’t be wasting time with some pushy vagrant coming to him in the middle of the night and expecting his help before he’s even been explained the situation.

Instead of saying all of that, though, Henrik forces a smile and says, “I would have to understand your, ah, issue, but most likely yes, I can.”

So, Chase tells him.

The sheet of paper slowly fills up as Henrik grows more and more intrigued.

“I’ve heard of this before, though…” Henrik says once Chase is finished with his telling, trailing off in thought as he opens the bottom drawer of the desk and takes out the small stack of papers there. “Your situation is much different than his.”

“Whose?”

“You say you cannot understand your ethos, correct?” A nod. “What do they sound like then? And when did this start?”

Chase frowns, wiping at his eyes. “They just sound like a stupid animal!”

“Hey,” Henrik snaps, feeling his own ethos’ immediate offense to those words.

“Sorry,” the vagrant says guiltily. “All I hear are growls, and roars, and I don’t even feel them! It’s like—like they’re just…an animal. Not—no longer my spirit.”

Henrik hums to himself, nodding along despite this growing sinking feeling that he will not know how to help this man. This is unheard of to him, for someone with no problems communicating to suddenly lose that connection with their ethos. Still, he writes down just an animal on the paper.

“And it’s been, what, months?”

“Months?”

“Since September,” Chase clarifies. “I know because I had just been kicked out of my house, and—” he chokes off his own sentence and buries his head in his hands.

Henrik drops the pen and leans back in his chair, looking at everything but his patient. He’s not very comfortable with people crying in front of him, especially strangers. “Okay, okay, calm down now.” A wet sniffle is his only response. “I will contact my fr—someone I know who has dealt with…this.”

Chase quickly raises his head, eyes red and wet. Gross.

“Fair warning, I did not help him. I do not know how to help you—”

“What?”

“—but I do not doubt that he will have some advice for you to follow.”

Henrik quirks an eyebrow in question, waiting for the man’s nod and his shaky agreement.

His ethos already knows what is about to happen; Henrik can feel their anxious energy, wanting so badly to manifest. He sends out a silent assent, allowing them to emerge from his sternum and flap their broad wings, landing on his outstretched forearm. Their talons are a little sharper than last time, but do not pierce the skin there. The eagle finally settles, a calm and powerful presence, and they cock their head to the side and stare at the young man sitting with his jaw dropped in awe.

The physician picks up a long white primary off the desk, tutting. “You always make such a mess when you’re out here.”

“They’re very pretty,” Chase breathes, and Henrik grunts noncommittally.

“They thank you. Now, may I?”

His ethos doesn’t need to hear his voice to know what to do, but Henrik guesses that Chase will be more at ease if he knows what’s going on. So, he directs to the raptor, “Please go to the stag, the one in the South, you know who I’m talking about. Pass on this message. I have a patient who has lost contact with his ethos, who can no longer communicate with them. Is there anything I or he needs to do? Thank you.”