#softttt

❝ did you get new soap? ❞ it's something subtle that ilya picks up on when shane comes back to bed after his shower. something about tonight was different. the sex was slower, quieter. he felt something deep in his chest he never really had before.

ㅤ ✦ : 🖊 ! ᨓ 𝘁ell me why, even after all this 𝘁𝗶𝗺e I still love you ? . . .

He rises before you to prepare it, the waft of delicacies surging to meet you the moment you rouse. He’s been up for awhile; if the cold, undisturbed bedding on his side is any indicator.

You pad down the stairs to the kitchen, biting down a stray shiver as you lean against the doorframe to admire the sight; your lean, shirtless sniper working fastidiously at the stove in nothing but lowly tethered sweatpants.

You study Crosshair, because your entire relationship with him demands scrupulousness, and he moves with the knowledge of your presence, whipping up eggs with a bit more dedication than previously.

He says nothing, waiting for you to make the first move.

And it’s a predictable one, in which you traipse up and plaster yourself to his warm back, taut muscles flexing briefly at the contact before relaxing into your embrace. Your hands wrap around his midsection, and he takes a measured step back from the hot stove so as to remove you from the proximity. He is safety and security in its most prolific form.

You press an open-mouthed kiss between his shoulder blades. “Ram’ser.”

“Mornin’, sweetheart.”

His voice confesses residual sleep, meeting your ears with a hard rasp while you’re soft and dreamy behind him.

You turn your head so that his warmth sears into your cheek. “Smell so good.”

“Me or the bacon?”

A sleepy giggle bubbles up in your throat. “Both.”

Crosshair shifts then, stretching to the cupboard off to your left and producing two mugs. He recognizes, you need your morning pick-me-up something bad.

The gentle clink has you perking just slightly, giving way to delirious sentiment.

“You’re the best,” you purr.

He basks in it anyway. “I know.”

He removes the pan from the burner and switches it off, because he’s methodical and deliberate—and considerate—before turning and giving you his undivided attention.

He meets you full on in a sensual kiss, the taste of mint on his tongue and the smell of aftershave on his chin, because Crosshair prefers to clean up before meeting you like this, where he’s pulling you close and swallowing you whole in the saccharine hours of the morning. You kiss him boldly, because he doesn’t care about your morning breath or your mussed hair or rumpled clothes. He finds solace in your presence in and of itself, to have such a soul fare alongside his makes him feel not quite so alone in this universe.

And so he quite literally places breakfast on the back burner to kiss you for one sweet, cosmic moment.

But he recognizes the sleep still thick on your tongue, fueling your languid movements, and so he doesn’t indulge you for long. You need to eat and drink first and foremost, and he tells you as much.

“Rude,” you offer petulantly, though you know it to be furthest from the truth.

Crosshair always takes care of you.

He scoops you up and your heart soars at the contact. His ‘rudeness’ carries you to the table where he stands you carefully before pulling out the chair for you to sit, to which you eagerly oblige.

All the better to watch him work.

You plant your elbows on the table and rest your chin in your hand, merely a floppy sleeve of sweatshirt as you take to ogling at him from across the way.

“Like what you see?”

“Mhm. Those pancakes are calling my name.”

Crosshair has only recently discovered his affinity for cooking; he’s learning a lot about himself in the absence of his brothers, which paves the way for a constant confusion (and more piquant dishes, now that Hunter is not present to whine over the flavor).

Cooking is one of those oddities that met Crosshair softly; he can make basic dishes and he’s content with the fact. It’s just you and him these days; there aren’t any other mouths to feed.

Without burying the lede: he’s finding ways to apply himself in this new transition, anything to feel like himself again; find himself.

It warms your chest to see his progress.

It warms his knowing you can.

He prepares you a platter first, a lavish spread of eggs and bacon and pancakes, an array of sticky syrups and jams on the side to indulge your every inclination; the pinnacle of a perfect breakfast.

Settled in your seat, the static of slumber washes over you heavily, and you must’ve dozed off because your eyes flutter open suddenly to warm lips pressing to your temple, a steamy mug of caf placed before you.

“Thank you,” you hum, lacing your fingers around the mug with all immediacy.

His fingers are a brushstroke of tenderness on your cheek.

You take a cautious sip and your chest is warm, both from the laving of Crosshair’s affection, and the caffeine producing the lucidity to appreciate it.

He situates you with your meal but he doesn’t indulge himself right away, taking to dicing up various fruits as an afterthought.

Waiting patiently for him as you do, he has to gently prompt you to “Eat.”

And you do, but not without watching as he takes to consuming more fruit than he procures, the stockpile of the bowl seemingly at an impasse.

“There’s not gonna be any left at that rate,” you tease through a fluffy mouthful of eggs.

Crosshair turns to you with a glint of humor, his eyes never leaving yours as he flicks a cubed jogan up with deft fingers before tipping his head back and catching it in his mouth.

“But if you’re gonna be that hot about it, please, by all means.”

Crosshair’s low chuckle sends shivers down your spine. You watch as his whole chest shakes.

“I aim to please,” he concedes, and you bat your lashes as he approaches with the bowl, a piece of fruit captured between his teeth that he smoothly transfers over to you. Your lips just barely graze his as you take the fruit in your mouth with a giggle. You bite down and are met with a zealous burst of flavor that has you moaning in surprise, and him simpering as he kisses the spurt of juices gushing past your lips. He takes care to suck up a spot under your chin that has you shuddering with a distinct buzz of pleasure before he finally takes a seat across from you.

“Good girl. Took it so well.”

You scoff, swiping at your sticky chin. “Got it all over my shirt.”

“My shirt.”

“That you love on me.”

“Mmm,” he leans back in his chair. “Can’t argue with that.”

“Because you love me.”

He quiets. “That’s right, cyar’ika.”

His smile is soft and open, like the sun spilling in from every window, allowing natural luminesce to reveal a look so achingly young on his war-torn face. For a moment, you can almost fool yourself into thinking he’s been groomed for domesticity, not war.

Okay this song is just so whumpy and angsty and reminds me of recovery whump/ hurt-comfort. Especially recovery from pet whump, but really it could fit any whumpee learning self love and how to trust. Also besides the lyrics, it just sounds really pretty too 💜

The entire thing has immaculate vibes, but here are some lyrics that really stand out:

“Prove to me, I’m not gonna die alone. Put your arm ‘round my collarbone, and open the door.”

“Well, my trust in you is a dog with a broken leg, tendons too torn to beg…”

“Don’t lie to me, if you’re putting the dog to sleep. That pet you just couldn’t keep…”

“You said: ‘I can’t prove to you you’re not gonna die alone, but trust me to take you home and clean up that blood all over your your paws.’”

“Put your trust in me, I’m not gonna die alone... I don’t think so.”