MBC #2: 'Breathe In, Breathe Out' (James Version) (Patreon)

[Alternate Text: A header image of a simple bed with white sheets and two white pillows. The title, 'Breathe In, Breathe Out', is in a heavy, black font with some shading around it.]

A quick reminder for Evergreens and Hickories to read the extended and spicier version of this writing if they would like to! 🔥 This one still packs some heat for a Valentine's treat. 🥰

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Your eyes are already wide open when James carefully slips into his spot in your shared bed with a gentleness that very few truly possess.

He doesn't want to risk waking you up.

Too late, you've been waiting.

A whisper of touch on your shoulder isn't from the flannel sheets barely grazing you, but from his fingertips seeking out contact. It's as tentative as usual, a confirmation that you're there. He has his own extra blanket for late nights like this to let you have all of the cozy bedding. These nights drag on into the early morning hours when he has to tip-toe back into Turn the Page's apartment, navigating the dark like a shadowy specter without a word.

James has always been good at going unnoticed except where you're concerned.

He's still propped on his side, not quite leaning over you, yet the sensation of being observed is difficult for you to shake, especially when his hand eventually returns. He starts at the ball of your shoulder, resting it there before applying a bit more pressure, a weight. For someone so strong, he's always tender with you unless you demand otherwise or it's been a very long day.

James is wordlessly asking you to turn over and face him, but you stubbornly stare ahead, although you do kick off his quilted blanket. It lands lower on the bed with a muffled thump, barely disrupting the silence that's grown heavier. His hand has too, solidifying a grip on your shoulder before he pulls you close.

A cheeky smile threatens to curve your lips when you go along with the action, back flat against the plush mattress and head cradled by a pillow. Your preferred 'pillow' wasn't here for you to rest against. The down feathers lack a steady, soothing heartbeat and won't hold onto you through the grueling nights. Finally, you meet his gaze in the dim light of your room, nightlight adding a glow off to the side.

He's searching your expression, while you're too preoccupied carding your fingers through his damp hair to add weak spikes of ebony that Fernweh's detective wouldn't be caught dead having out in public. It took longer than you'd thought for you to see James with his hair down, less practical and buttoned-up. His faint concern starts to slip, slowly ebbing, as your attention continues. He's still shower-warm with his simple, white T-shirt snug in places; it was quick and efficient without you included.

"Why aren't you resting?"

He whispers that question as if afraid you'll lose the lull of sleep if he speaks too loudly. It remains unanswered—an unknown—much like the culprit he's currently after because you can feel the tension in the hand that's pressing you into the bed. It's goading you to ratchet it higher and higher before things unwind. You're about to finish the floppy, spiked hair design when James catches your wrist, though you're undeterred, easily able to cup his cheek instead.

He's balancing on his side, both hands on you and now half over you to better fill the space.

"Why aren't you resting?" you wonder. "I was laying here, minding my own business."

"You were lying in wait," he disagrees. "I know."

He could probably tell based on your breathing pattern or the fact that you do lay a certain way for him to slot into place. James does know, just like you know he needs to de-stress. "Then you've kept me waiting long enough"—your tone goes from bold to mildly bratty to create sparks against his innate steel—"Detective." His jaw briefly sets at the use of his job title.

The intense hue of his eyes is shaded by something darker after you refer to him by his role, pine needle green harboring something else. It has been a while since James has been this weighed down, carrying it with him back to your apartment. He cares so much—too much.

The case can't be going that badly, right…?

It isn't a legitimate—

James doesn't lean forward; no, he looms, giving you exactly what you asked for even if you're ready to push for more. Spiked hair and clinging T-shirt, he's handsome as ever while the nightlight adds a moodiness to how he's watching you, darkening the love and ingrained devotion. It's still there; it always has been, but you don't mind this side of him—all of James Corvin. His hand stays on your shoulder to pin you down while he joins your lips in a soft kiss, guiding your hand away to rest on his shoulder, so he frees up his other one to better explore.

It's a warning you don't heed.

Within seconds, you're teasing him, messing with the V-neckline of James's shirt that's ten times better than the crew cut ones. (It's as if you bought this Valentine's present with an ulterior motive. It was a small, pragmatic gift in addition to what else you gave him.) Heat from his skin seeps through the thin material as you trace the 'V', weighing if you should really tug on it or not. It would somewhat irritate him; he's conscientious about gifts given to him.

That's why you bought a six pack of them!

With this thought taking on a new, heated meaning in your mind, you stop your tracing to pull on the fabric, fingers meeting more and more skin as the neckline gradually stretches out. Your knuckles brush against his pecs as you fist the material that's hiding him from your sight. James's kiss turns insistent, yet you still push until he breaks away. His sharp exhale is like a blade of air against your neck that makes you shiver slightly after he was almost pressed up against you. You're barely aware of him unhooking your fingers from the cotton blend because he shifts to be on top, placing your hands on either side of your head in surrender.

More delicious pressure is applied whereas his actual grip is less gentle now; the pillow sinks.

"Tell me what you want," he requests.

It's obvious. The newfound 'U' neckline of his shirt, that provides a peek-a-boo effect of his chiseled chest, is all the clue he needs. Well, that and how you dare to shimmy some, not quite bucking. James just wants to hear it from your mouth once you catch your breath from the harsh kissing. It isn't happening. When you—

Your wrist is encased in down feathers before you can lift it a centimeter in the air. He didn't even let you try to reach out for his shirt again, easily putting you back into place. (There won't be any back and forth tonight.) James does lean down after your failed retaliation to softly kiss your cheek, a consolation. You manage to turn your head to steal a deeper kiss from him.

"Your words, [Name]."

After James murmurs that in a firm tone, your short-lived smugness turns needier. It doesn't help he purposefully shifted his leg, knee now nesting between your parted thighs to be out of reach. It's a suggestion of pressure—of how you could work against it or at least grind until he caves and takes care of you properly.

The problem is James is way more patient.

Your fingers clench at empty air, curling in the phantom bundles of his T-shirt that is still on, which should be a crime at this point. He's hovering over you, letting you get an ample view of the hardened six pack on display as you peer into the opening you forcibly widened. To be fair, you could be filling in some of the fine details of his body from memory and past encounters. You slowly glance back up at James.

He's waiting.

"I thought a detective should be able to figure out a motive," you taunt him, a touch breathy. "I could help you connect the dots? If you want?"

James's eyes narrowing is both a good and a bad sign along with the severity that cuts into how he was once openly admiring you beneath him.

Neither of you will be getting much sleep tonight.