#✨winging it✨ | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

itneverendshere · 4 months ago

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wait for your love - liam mairi (one shot)

⋆ ★ pairing: childhood best friends to fwb.

⋆ ★ warning: not canon (it's completely self-idulgent, hardly mentions the original plot); part two

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・． .・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．

The first time it happens, it’s not premeditated.

It’s after a brutal sparring session, when the stress of training and a looming war has turned everyone exhausted. Xaden’s pissed off at something—probably something Violet said—Bodhi’s too busy running drills to breathe, and Liam’s juggling leadership responsibilities while still trying to be the glue that holds the rest of you together.

You’re tired, of all of it.

When Liam finds you sitting on the edge of the cliffs, overlooking the stormy expanse of Navarre’s skies, and wordlessly sits beside you, it feels natural.

He doesn’t ask if you’re okay or offer useless reassurances, he simply leans back on his elbows, letting the wind whip through his blonde locks, and exists beside you. When you turn to look at him, at the way the moonlight carves shadows along his jaw and the stress stiffening his broad shoulders, you do something stupid.

Liam is safe, he’s always been safe.

Since childhood, when the two of you raced through the training fields, bruised and breathless, always finding each other in a crowd, always watching each other’s backs. He was the one who taught you how to throw a punch when the older cadets pushed you around, the one who pulled you out of trouble when you bit off more than you could chew.

So when you press your mouth to his, it’s not tentative. It’s a safe way to escape the mess in your head for a moment. He makes a startled sound against your lips, but he doesn’t pull away. He never would.

That’s how it starts and it’s perfect, really.

Neither of you talk about it.

The second time, Liam tries, catching your wrist when you move to leave, thumb brushing the inside of your palm. But you shake your head, and he lets you go.

By the fifth time, there’s no point pretending it’s a one-time thing.

You’re both too busy for romance, too jaded to believe in it, traumatized by a war that killed you families, scarred by loss to trust anyone the way people are supposed to trust their partners. You don’t have time for softness, for moments of vulnerability.

But you have time for this.

For slipping into Liam’s room after another grueling day, throwing your boots off while he locks the door behind you. He always lets you shove him back against the mattress, the floor, the wall. Most nights he lets you take control because he knows you need it.

Most nights, you end up by his desk.

Liam rarely has time to turn the lock before you’re on him, dragging him down to meet your mouth. He groans when you back him up against his chair, when your hands splay across his chest, shoving him down until he’s sitting. His breath stutters when you climb into his lap, when your knees press on either side of his thighs.

It’s good, easy, until it isn’t.

You don’t know when things start to change.

You think it’s because of the way Liam pulls you against him after, dragging you to bed, letting you catch your breath with your head on his sturdy chest. He never speaks loudly in those long minutes, only murmurs your name in that voice, reserved mainly for you. He always makes sure you’re okay before he’s okay.

You ignore it, because you have to. The entire point of this was to avoid emotional entanglements, to keep things uncomplicated.

But then there are the other moments.

When you’re sparring in the training yard, and he knocks you off balance and catches you before you can hit the ground, grinning, dimples on full display because he’s the only person in the world who knows you can take it.

Or when you’re sitting with Bodhi and Xaden, discussing battle formations, and he tosses you a waterskin without you even asking, because he always knows exactly what you need. Or when you wake up tangled in his sheets, and he’s already awake, just watching you, fingers tracing idle patterns on your back.

It’s stupid, fucking reckless even, it makes the strategy meeting a nightmare.

Xaden’s arms are crossed, his face set in that familiar poker face that pisses you off most days. Bodhi sits beside him, uncharacteristically silent, flipping his dagger between his fingers. Liam leans forward, elbows on the table, scanning the map spread across the wooden surface.

You stand behind him, arms folded, watching as the conversation unfolds. Or, more accurately, watching as Xaden, once again, volunteers Liam for something reckless.

“We need someone on the ground, close enough to gather intel without drawing attention,” Xaden says. “Liam can handle it.”

Of course he can, because Liam always can. No one ever stops to consider another option when throwing him into the fire is so fucking convenient.

Liam, unsurprisingly, doesn’t protest. He nods, studying the map, already formulating a plan. This is nothing to him, he always acts like his life isn’t worth more than a tactical advantage.

Your jaw clenches, but you keep your mouth shut. You love Xaden like a brother, you trust him with your life. But this is different.

Because Liam is Liam.

You hate that his life is discussed like it’s expendable, you hate that he allows it. You know how much Xaden cares about him, but still.

Liam doesn’t push back, doesn’t question it. He takes carries the burden because that’s what he does. That’s who he is.

You grip the back of his chair, nails digging into the wood, focusing on the rhythm of his breathing. He’s calm, ready and it makes you want to scream or knock some sense into his head, physically.

Violet shifts uncomfortably in her chair, arms crossed as she watches the conversation. She’s newer to these meetings, but she’s quick to notice things the rest of you might miss. Her eyes move between Liam and Xaden, her frown deepening. "There has to be another way."

"There isn't," Ridoc mutters from the other side of the table, leaning back in his chair with an exhausted sigh. "Not unless you’ve suddenly developed a way to make us invisible."

Imogen stands near the door, arms folded, she doesn’t speak much in these meetings, but when she does, it’s usually something worth listening to. Now, she exhales, looking at Liam with something close to reluctant acceptance. "You can handle it. But you shouldn't have to."

Liam shakes his head. "We don't have time for should or shouldn’t. We just have to do."

Xaden doesn’t disagree. He never does when it comes to Liam. And that’s part of the problem.

Liam he reaches out, fingertips brushing against yours—just barely, it’s reckless, standing this close, letting your hands linger in a room that’s still half-occupied. But it’s Liam, and you don’t move away.

“Fine,” Xaden says, satisfied with Liam’s silence. “We move in two nights. Everyone, be ready.”

The meeting dissolves, people scattering, murmuring amongst themselves.

You don’t move, neither does Liam.

He finally turns, looking up at you, reading you.

“I’m fine,” he says quietly.

The words scrape against something inside you. You force a breath through your nose. “You always are.”

Meetings like these have become routine.

War strategies, supply shortages, enemy movements—conversations that determine who lives and who doesn’t. It’s why you started having them more frequently, why Xaden calls you in even when you’re not in leadership. Because war isn’t looming anymore. It’s here. And between all of you—Xaden, Bodhi, Liam, even Violet—you’re just trying to stay ahead of it.

Violet has changed too, and that’s the problem. She’s no longer the first-year who struggled to hold a sword properly. She’s deadlier, and every day she inches closer to becoming the warrior she was never supposed to be. But it’s also made her reckless. She’s willing to throw herself into fights she shouldn’t survive, willing to make sacrifices that make you sick to your stomach.

And then there’s her mother.

General Sorrengail has been more involved than anyone wants. Her orders are colder, her strategies efficient to the point of cruelty. She makes decisions as if she’s playing a game of chess, except the pieces on her board are the people you care about. And she’s made it clear that she won’t hesitate to sacrifice any of you—including her own daughter—if it means winning.

It’s why these meetings always leave you drained. Because it’s never just about strategy, it’s about how many risks Xaden is willing to take to save Violet and your entire world, how much weight Liam can carry before he breaks. About how long you can sit quietly, pretending you don’t care as much as you do.

Liam moves beside you, and you realize you’ve been silent too long, when you glance at him, his eyes are questioning.

“You should push back more,” you almost speak through gritted teeth, “Make them pick someone else for once.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You know that’s not how this works.”

“It should be.”

Liam steps closer, lowering his voice. “I can do this. You know I can.”

“That’s not the point,” you snap. “Just because you can doesn’t mean you have to.”

“What do you want me to do? Say no? Let someone else take the risk?”

“Yes,” you bite out.

“That’s not who I am.”

You already know that, and it only makes you angrier. He’s always been like this—so willing to throw himself into the fire without hesitation. But you also know what happens to people like that, you’ve seen it before.

He reaches for you, slow enough for you to pull away—but you don’t. His fingers close around your wrist, “You don’t have to worry about me.”

You laugh, and it sounds nothing like amusement. “That’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.”

He doesn’t let go. “I know what I’m doing.”

You yank your hand back. “So did my mom.”

It’s a low blow, and you both know it. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say something hurtful back. That’s not who he is, either. Instead, he steps back, arms crossing over his chest.

“This isn’t the same.”

You shake your head, frustration growing under your skin. “Of course it is. You think throwing yourself into danger is the only way to matter. Your life is just—” you break off, exhaling hard, fingers pressing against your temples. “It’s just another fucking resource to be spent.”

Liam stays quiet.

He doesn’t deny it, he doesn’t argue. You know he’s already made peace with whatever comes next and that’s the part that makes you want to scream in his face.

“You’re pissed at me,” he says, softer now.

“No shit.”

He glances down the hall as if he’s making sure no one’s coming before his eyes find yours again, dark blonde brows frowning.

“I don’t want to fight with you.”

“Then stop making me watch you walk into missions you might not walk out of.”

He hesitates, considering his next words and you almost want to tell him not to bother. You already know what he’s going to say.

“I have to do this.”

You inhale sharply, shaking your head as you take a step back, then another. “Fine,” you say, voice bitter. “Don’t expect me to stand here and pretend I’m okay with it.”

“Wait—”

Liam moves before he thinks. Because that’s what you do, isn’t it? You fight, you snap, and then he grounds you. Touches your shoulder, your cheek, the small of your back, so he can keep you from slipping too far into the voices in your head.

But this time, you jerk away like he’s burned you.

“Don’t touch me.”

The word lashes between you, as his fingers curl into a loose fist at his side, and for the first time tonight, you see it—he’s confused between stepping forward and stepping back.

“Hey,” he says, careful. “It’s just me.”

It makes you angrier. You don’t even know why—yes you do. He says it like that means something, as if it should be enough to make you okay. It's not, not when he keeps doing this, saying yes to things that should make him hesitate, should make him selfish, for once in his fucking life.

“I said don’t.” Your tone is icy enough to hurt.

You can’t let him touch you and let him settle that patient warmth into your skin so he can make you forget how fucking reckless he’s being.

Liam’s closes his eyes, you think he’s going to push—his shoulders drop, hurt flickers across his pretty face before he smooths it over.

“Okay.”

It’s too easy, and that only makes it worse.

You don’t want okay, you want him to fight back, to give you a reason to stay here, instead of walking away before you say something you can’t take back.

He tries to talk to you the next day, you brush past him, nodding at Violet instead. When he throws you a waterskin in the training yard, you let it hit the ground. At dinner, when he drops onto the bench beside you, knee knocking into yours, you stand and take your plate elsewhere.

By the time the sun sets on the second day, you know he’s losing it. Liam can handle a lot—bruises, broken ribs, near-death experiences—but not this. Does that make you cruel? Yeah.

You see it in the way he takes three deep breaths when you ignore his goodnight, the way his hands twitch at his sides when you spar with Ridoc instead of him, how he stands just outside your periphery, like a ghost, waiting for you to acknowledge him.

You don’t. Because fuck him.

You don’t want to be the one who cares more, if you let yourself forgive him too quickly, he’ll think he can keep doing this, keep throwing himself into danger.

By the third day, he stops trying.

That should be a win. It isn’t, it just makes you feel worse.

He doesn’t sit next to you anymore, doesn’t throw you a waterskin, doesn’t bother making sure you’re eating or sleeping or breathing. He doesn’t step between you and Xaden’s bad ideas, doesn’t linger in doorways when you walk into a room.

For the first time in years, Liam isn’t there. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?

He still walks the same paths as you, still trains at the same time, still sits at the same table. Not close enough to crowd you, not far enough to feel like absence, only close enough that, if you wanted to reach out, you could.

But you don’t.

You’re in the sparring yard, breath heaving, sweat dripping down your back, and instead of Liam across from you, it’s Garrick this time. His stance is solid, his strikes fast, but he doesn’t know you—not the way Liam does. He doesn’t push you to your limit, doesn’t parry the way Liam does. And then you get a glimpse of him watching from across the yard, and you hate how much his sad eyes affect you.

You keep yourself moving, your head down, your hands busy until exhaustion is the only thing filling your thoughts. It’s easier that way. Because the second you stop, the second you let yourself think—it’s gonna hurt even more.

He’s waiting for you to come back on your own terms, giving you the choice. You never know what to do with that kind of kindness. He doesn’t demand, doesn’t take, doesn’t need you to be anything other than what you’ve always been.

It’s three in the morning when you finally break.

You can’t sleep, you’ve been lying in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling, thinking about how quiet everything has been without him. Your body moves, slipping out of bed and through the dimly lit halls until you reach his door.

You hesitate for a second before pushing it open.

He's asleep, sprawled on his stomach, face half-buried in his pillow, his breath steady.

He looks peaceful like this, and you should turn around.

You don’t.

You climb into his bed, careful not to wake him but the second your weight hits the mattress, he's already stirring, muscles tensing before his body recognizes yours.

His voice is groggy, “You’re here.”

You press your face into the back of his shoulder, inhaling deep. “Yeah.”

There’s a pause, you think maybe he’s fallen back asleep but then, his fingers find yours in the dark, a cautious brush before he interlaces them.

“I’m still mad at you,” you mutter, staring at your hands.

“I know.”

“You don’t even care.”

He exhales. “Of course I care.”

You turn to him, he’s already watching you, the moonlight turning his eyes into an art piece. He smiles—small—but it’s there. The dimples that have always been your undoing carve deep into his cheeks.

“Are we okay?” he asks, voice cautious.

“Liam…” You don’t even know what you want to say.

“I can’t promise you I’ll stop,” he says before you can find the words. “I can’t.”

You inhale sharply. “I just want you alive.”

His lips press together. You sigh, leaning forward, pressing your forehead against his broad shoulder.

Liam's other arm comes up, carefully, resting against your back.He moves slightly, his breath against your temple.

“Are we okay?” He repeats.

You tilt your head, just enough that your nose brushes against his chin. His breath hitches.

“Ask me again after the mission,” you whisper.

His hand slides up, fingers threading through your hair, cradling the back of your head as he leans in.

Because you’re tired, because you’re reckless, because he’s Liam—you press your mouth to his, parting your lips for him to take more.

It’s not desperate, not the way it usually is when you need him to fuck the anger out of you. His lips move against yours lazily, stealing your breath and giving you his in return. He tilts his head, grip tightening as his tongue brushes against yours—it makes you wonder how you ever survived without knowing how he tasted.

You sigh against him, body limp and he takes advantage of it, slipping his tongue further into your mouth, taking his time.

Liam hums against you, approving, the sound only makes you want to kiss him stupidly for hours. His hand, the one not tangled in your hair, slides down your back, tracing the curve of your spine before settling at your waist.

He’s not pulling you in—he doesn’t have to because you’re already eagerly pressing closer. Maybe if you get close enough, you’ll understand how he does it, how he can give and give and never ask for anything in return. He takes his time with your mouth, swallowing the shaky exhales when he drags his teeth against your lower lip, the small noise you make when he soothes the bite with his tongue.

He’s patient with you tonight, even though you know he isn’t.

He rolls onto his side so he can slot a thigh between yours, his fingers tilting your head to give him a better angle. And fuck, it should make you mad—the way he handles you, how he takes control because knows you’ll let him.

“Liam,” You breathe his name against his lips, and he groans, low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your mouth.

In return, he presses forward, his chest flush against yours.

It’s not enough after days without him.

Your fingers slide from his chest to his jaw, feeling the scratch of stubble under your fingertips as you tilt his face, deepening the kiss. He lets you, lets you take, but the second your teeth scrape against his lower lip in frustration, he flips you. The mattress dips beneath you as he settles over you, holding himself up on one forearm, his other hand still holding your head. His lips are swollen, kiss-bitten, red and so pretty, his blue eyes dark and heavy-lidded as he stares down at you.

You stare back, chest rising and falling, heat pooling low in your panties at the way he looks at you.

It’s what got you in this mess in the first place.

“Liam.”

His name comes out quieter than you mean it to this time around. He swallows hard, then presses his forehead to yours, exhaling shakily.

“I missed you,” he murmurs into your lips, nose tenderly nudging yours.

You should be mad, you are. But in the quiet, in the warmth of his breath against you, in the way he holds himself close enough that you could pull him the rest of the way if you wanted—

You don’t answer, only pulling him back down, kissing him again.

Liam lets out a sound that’s half a moan, half a laugh.

Sometimes you forget how big he is compared to you, to most people, his body completely swallows yours, broad shoulders and thick arms bracketing you, he’s a breathing wall of muscle. It makes you arch up into him, curl your fingers into his neck, dragging him down until his chest is back against yours and fuck—you can feel everything. The solid plane of his chest, the way his abs flex when your fingertips graze his tanned skin, the ridiculous way his arms cage you in, strong and safe, even when you’re still supposed to be mad at him.

His hand drops from your waist to your thigh, fingers teasing the bare skin there, and you shudder. Liam notices—of course he does.

He knows you.

“You’re still mad,” he hums, lips dragging along your jaw, down your throat, pressing deliberate kisses to every inch of skin available.

He takes his time, relearning the way you whine when his nose tickles beneath your ear, how your breath catches when he traces his tongue along your pulse. It’s not fair. It’s hard to remember why you’re mad when he kisses you like this—hands already slipping beneath the hem of your flimsy top, fingertips ghosting over your skin.

He’s warm, impossibly so.

Liam's lips part against yours, his breath is uneven, just like yours.

Good.

You dig your fingers into the back of his head, threading into his hair, tugging enough to make him faux glare in your direction.

"Yeah," you breathe, your hands skimming down the expanse of his back, feeling every taunt muscle beneath your palms. "I am."

"I can tell."

You don’t answer, instead, you kiss him for the third time, open-mouthed, letting him feel just how much you’ve missed him.

His tongue sweeps against yours in a way that makes you regret wearing panties, thumb brushing the sensitive skin above your hip.

It makes you lightheaded, makes you forget anything exists beyond the slide of his mouth against yours. You make a quiet, breathless sound against his lips, and Liam groans in response, pressing you deeper into the mattress.

“Fuck, I missed this,” he mutters against your mouth, hoarsely.

You want to tell him you missed it too, that you’ve felt empty without him, but the words get lost when he kisses you again—needier.

His thigh is still slotted between yours, and you don’t realize you’re rocking against him until his fingers start guiding you.

“That’s it,” he mutters against your lips, voice nearly a growl. “Take what you need.”

You hate him for the way he knows you, how easily he gives in when you finally let yourself want.

“Shut up,” you mumble against him, but it comes out breathy, desperate. Your hands slip under his shirt, his muscles tensing under your touch. You push at the fabric impatiently, and Liam exhales a quiet laugh, sitting up.

You almost pout in frustration, your hands pawing at his shoulders, trying to pull him back down, but he grins.

“Impatient.”

You glare, lips parted, chest hurting in all the right ways as you stare up at him. He yanks his shirt over his head before he’s back on you.

You don’t get a second to appreciate him before his hands are back under your shirt, greedy. His touch is everywhere except where you want him most, and you whine—fucking whine—and that smug bastard laughs.

“You gonna ask nicely?” His breath hot against your ear.

You glare up at the ceiling. “Go fuck yourself.”

Liam grins, all teeth and dimples, before he rolls his hips into yours, eager to make you swallow your own words. You gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders, and his smile falters.

“Don’t need to,” he murmurs, dipping down to peck your mouth again, his hands sliding up, up—He pauses. “Still mad?”

You grab the defined frame of his jaw, dragging him back to your mouth, biting his lower lip just hard enough to make him wince.

“I’ll let you know in the morning.”

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