#IF I DID IT MYSELF IT WOULD ALREADY BE DONE

[ilovolderman]

The Secret Notes

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Bucky leaves little notes for you.

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings: humor, fluff, secret dating, cute doodles

A/N: this can be read as a standalone even though it's part of a series called "You Said What". It doesn't necessarily follow a specific order, but if you want to check out the other parts, here they are: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5. thanks for reading, i hope you like it :)

It all started one afternoon when you fell asleep on the couch, a book slipping from your hand. Bucky passed by and found you there, peaceful and unaware. Smiling to himself, he gently picked up the book and noticed the page you’d been reading.

With a quiet laugh, he scribbled a note on a scrap of paper:

“You stopped here. Heroine’s rule: naps first, saving the world later. - B”

He slid the note inside the book, marking the page, and placed it on the table beside you. As he left, he couldn’t help but smile at the idea of you finding it when you woke up.

The next day, you found the note in your book, and you couldn’t help but smile. It was silly, but it made your heart warm. You had to reply, of course.

Taking a fresh piece of paper, you wrote:

“A nap is a hero’s secret weapon, Bucky. Thanks for the reminder. If I do end up saving the world today, I’ll be sure to credit you. - Y/N”

You tucked the note inside his jacket pocket, hoping he’d get a good laugh when he found it. It felt so simple, so small, but the thought of sharing little moments like this with him made everything else seem a little brighter.

It wasn’t long before the notes became a daily exchange. They started off funny—sometimes quoting ridiculous lines from movies, or making playful jokes about the Avengers’ absurdly weird missions. You would find them in your locker, under your coffee mug, or tucked inside your boots. They never failed to make you smile.

Even now, after months together, he still took the time to leave you notes and little reminders.

After a particularly brutal mission, you found another note tucked into the pocket of your jacket. You nearly missed it in the rush to get ready for a debriefing. But when you unfolded it, you found it written on a torn piece of notebook paper, and a doodle of a sleeping cat at the bottom.

“You’re allowed to rest, you know. I’ll guard your coffee while you nap.”

You smiled before you could stop yourself, warmth blooming in your chest. It had been a rough couple of days—bruised ribs, no sleep. The note felt like a soft exhale in the middle of chaos.

Unfortunately, you weren’t the only one in the hallway.

“Whatcha got there?”

You spun around to see Sam squinting at the piece of paper now very obviously in your hand. And before you could shove it back into your pocket, the man had already snatched it like he was intercepting a rogue football.

“Sam, come on—”

He blinked and read it once. Then again. Then a third time.

 ““You’re allowed to rest, you know. I’ll guard your coffee while you nap”...and there’s a little cat at the bottom. Why is there a cat?! WHO DRAWS CATS?!”

You stared at him, trying very hard not to look like someone caught hiding a secret. “You done?”

“Oh, I’m so not done,” Sam said, holding the note like it was radioactive. “This is a nap-themed love letter, Y/N.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s just a...friendly reminder.”

“With a doodle,” he said, as if that was damning evidence in a court of law. “Who writes you sweet notes about coffee and naps after a mission? That’s like—domestic.”

“Maybe I wrote it to myself,” you tried.

“You’re not a cat doodler. I know your vibe. You don’t doodle.”

You grabbed for the note. He dodged you.

“Sam—give it.”

“I will not. I’m onto something here.”

Just then, Bucky strolled around the corner with a cup of coffee in hand and a granola bar between his teeth, looking way too casual.

Sam froze.

You froze.

Bucky stopped mid-chew, immediately sensing the chaos in the air. “…Did I miss something?”

Sam, eyes narrowed like a detective in a sitcom, turned slowly toward him.

“Barnes.”

Bucky blinked. “Wilson.”

Sam raised the note like it was a badge. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about this, would you?”

Bucky looked at the paper. Then at you. Then back to Sam.

There was a half-second pause.

And then Bucky shrugged. “Cute cat.”

You choked on a laugh and immediately turned it into a cough.

Sam squinted. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got? ‘Cute cat’?”

Bucky popped the last of the granola bar into his mouth, completely unfazed. “You’re getting worked up over a doodle.”

Sam pointed at both of you, eyes wide with dramatic betrayal. “Okay, I don’t know what is going on, but something is going on. I feel it in my soul.”

You patted him on the shoulder. “Maybe you just need a nap.”

“I—NO! No, you don’t get to use the nap line on me! That’s part of the conspiracy!”

Sam was already walking away. “I’ll guard your coffee, Wilson,” Bucky called over his shoulder, deadpan.

The hallway finally settled into silence after Sam’s echoing footsteps disappeared around the corner. You let out a small laugh, shaking your head in disbelief.

Bucky lingered beside you, coffee in hand. His eyes flicked toward you, and the smallest smile curved at the corner of his lips.

“So… cat doodles are suspicious now?”

You laughed under your breath. “Apparently. Next time, maybe draw a dragon or something. Keep him guessing.”

“Well,” he said, voice low and amused. “That could’ve gone worse.”

You glanced down at the note in your hand, then back at him. “I mean... he didn’t accuse you of writing love sonnets. So, yeah—definitely could’ve been worse.”

Bucky huffed a laugh, leaning casually against the wall. “Should I stop? The notes, I mean. I didn’t mean to... cause a scene.”

You looked up at him, warmth already blooming in your chest. “No. Don’t stop.”

His brow quirked slightly, curious. “No?”

“They’re one of the best parts of my day,” you said honestly, your voice soft. “They make the hard days easier, and the quiet ones feel full. I’d rather risk a hundred Sam-level interrogations than miss even one of them.”

A grin pulled at Bucky’s mouth, slow and sweet. “Yeah?”

You gave him a playful nudge. “Even if Sam tries to launch a full-scale investigation.”

Bucky let out a quiet laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Let him. He doesn’t scare me.”

Then, softer, with that familiar gentleness he always saved just for you, he added, “I’ll keep leaving them, then. Every note, every doodle... they’re little pieces of me. And you’re the only one I want finding them.”

Your smile widened, heart fluttering in that helpless, happy kind of way.

“I guess that makes you my favorite mystery author,” you said lightly.

Bucky leaned in, his shoulder brushing yours. “Only for you, doll.”

You reached into your jacket pocket and pulled out a folded note—you’d planned to tuck it under his pillow later, but something made you decide to give it to him right now. You held it out to him, your smile a little shy.

He opened it slowly. Inside, your handwriting was a little messier than usual, but still clearly yours.

“You’ve got a way of making everything seem a little brighter, even when it’s a rough day. I’m lucky for it.”

Bucky looked up at you, lips parted just slightly. For a long second, he said nothing.

And then he stepped closer, closing the small space between you. His hand brushed yours, slow and warm, and he laced your fingers together.

“You’re gonna destroy me with these notes,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

You leaned into him, heart full and beating a little too fast. “Guess we’re even.”

Bucky pressed a kiss to your forehead—gentle, lingering, like a promise he never needed to say out loud. Then he tucked your note carefully into the inside pocket of his jacket, where all the best ones lived.

“Don’t tell Sam,” you whispered with a smile.

Meanwhile in the kitchen...

Sam sat at the table, muttering to himself with a pen tucked behind his ear and a spiral notebook open in front of him. On the top of the page in large, underlined letters:

Case #109: WHO THE HELL IS Y/N DATING???

Underneath it were four bullet points:

suspicious nap note

Bucky is too chill

cat doodle = code??

is Steve somehow involved???

This was war now.

And you and Bucky? You were winning.

taglist: @svtbpbts @cupids-mf-arrow @whitewolfluvr @cece2608 @yehfitoormera @yesiamthatwierd @poodleofstardust @poodleofstardust

next part

[qivrae]

static - nsfw

spencer reid x afab!reader

a/n: 😲😲😲😲 phone sex with reid (inbox open, please request)

You’re just about to fall asleep when your phone buzzes softly against the pillow. The screen lights up with a contact photo you didn’t realize you’d memorized—Spencer, blurry and smiling, probably mid-laugh from the day you took it. You answer without hesitation. “Hey,” you murmur, voice still heavy with sleep. There’s a pause, like maybe he didn’t expect you to pick up so quickly. When he speaks, his voice is low and hoarse but gentle in the way only he can manage.

“Did I wake you?”

You turn onto your back, staring at the ceiling with a sleepy smile. “Kind of. But it’s okay.” He exhales into the line and something about the sound makes your stomach flutter. It’s not relief, exactly. More like… release. Like hearing your voice made something inside him loosen.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he says finally. “Too much noise in my head. I didn’t want to be alone with it.”

You tug the blanket up to your chest. “Rough case?”

“Yeah,” he says. And that one word carries so much: long hours, too many victims, the weight of responsibility he always takes on alone. “We’re just in the waiting phase now. Interviews are done. Morgan and Hotch are going over timelines. It’s a lot of hurry-up-and-wait.”

“And you’re in a motel?” you ask, already picturing it: a dimly lit room, stiff sheets, the hum of a bad AC unit in the background.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Small town. Two-star situation. The mattress feels like cardboard.”

You smile softly. “Poor baby.”

“I’m not fishing for sympathy,” he says, a little defensively.

“No,” you tease, “but you’re definitely hoping I’ll say something to make you forget it.” He’s quiet again.

Then a little rougher, “Maybe.” There’s a shift in his breathing. Something you wouldn’t notice if you didn’t know him so well but you do. It’s subtle, barely there but it makes your heart thump. You recognize that sound. That shallow inhale like he’s trying not to let it show.

Your voice drops. “Spence. What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” he answers too quickly. Then, quieter, “Just… thinking.”

You smirk against the phone. “Thinking about me?” You swear you can hear him swallow.

“Yes.” Another pause. This one longer. And when he speaks again, his voice is soft but not shy. Not embarrassed. Just real. “I’m sorry. I know it’s late. I didn’t call to— I wasn’t trying to make it weird.”

“You didn’t,” you say, sitting up slightly, your pulse starting to pick up. “It’s not weird. I like knowing you think about me like that.” He doesn’t say anything at first. But the sound of him breathing shifts again, deeper now. More purposeful. “Tell me what you’re doing,” you murmur.

A beat. Then slowly, carefully: “I’m just… lying on the bed. Still dressed. But I—” he pauses like he’s deciding how much to give away. “I have my hand over myself.”

Your breath catches. “Are you hard?”

“Yes.” You press your thighs together under the sheets, already warm from just imagining it. Spencer in some creaky motel bed, trying not to get too into it because his team is down the hall.

“Touch yourself,” you whisper. “I want to hear what it sounds like when you do.” There’s a hitch in the line—movement, maybe fabric shifting or his hand adjusting.

“I—okay,” he says breathlessly. “I’m… pressing against the shaft. Through my pants right now. Applying slight pressure—uh—engorgement of the corpora cavernosa has already occurred, so stimulation is…” He trails off, like he just realized what he’s doing.

You laugh softly. “You’re giving me a lecture, Doctor Reid.”

“I know,” he groans, embarrassed. “I can’t help it. I—It’s just how I process. When I get nervous or—aroused—my brain defaults to clinical terminology. I—fuck, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” you breathe. “It’s hot.”

He lets out a choked laugh. “You’re the only person on Earth who would say that.”

“Maybe,” you tease, “but I’m the only one who gets to hear it, so I’d say that works out.”

He’s breathing harder now, trying to keep his voice steady. “I’m unzipping my pants. It’s… a little awkward lying like this. But I can feel the friction through my boxers. It’s—god, it’s warm. I’m leaking already.”

Your stomach flips. “I haven’t even touched myself tonight,” you whisper, running a hand slowly down your body beneath the sheets. “I was waiting for you to call.” You hear a low sound from him—almost like a whimper but he catches it before it escapes fully.

“I wanted to hear your voice,” he says, voice thick. “But now I can’t stop picturing your hands. Your mouth.”

“Mmm. You like when I use my mouth, don’t you?” You ask and his breath stutters.

“I think about it too much. Sometimes during briefings. During flights. I’ll remember the way you looked up at me from between my legs and I— I can’t focus.”

You moan quietly. “Tell me more.”

“I—I can’t get enough of the way you hum when you’re doing it. Or how your fingers dig into my thighs. You’re so soft and warm and—fuck—I’m touching myself now.”

You squeeze your legs together, slick already pooling in your panties as his voice drips into your ear like molasses. “How?” you ask breathlessly.

“My fingers,” he pants. “Wrapped around the base. I’m stroking slow, not too tight yet. The pressure is increasing blood flow but—fuck—there’s already too much. It’s… overstimulating.”

“Do you want me to slow you down?”

“No,” he whispers. “Don’t stop. Don’t let me stop.” There’s a tension in your chest now, rising with every breath he takes.

You slide your own hand lower, easing the ache that’s been building since the second he said your name.“Spencer…”

“I keep picturing you with your hand between your thighs,” he gasps.

“It is,” you breathe. “I’m touching myself, Spence. I’m so wet just listening to you.”

He groans, a low sound that rips through the speaker. “I’m close,” he chokes out. “Already. But I don’t want to come yet. I want to listen to you. Tell me what you’re feeling.”

“I’m pulsing,” you murmur. “My fingers are soaked. I wish it were yours. I wish I could slide you inside me right now, slow and deep.”

“Fuck.” You hear the bed creak beneath him, hear his sharp inhale as he tries to keep control. He’s falling apart but he’s not there yet—not quite. And neither are you. So you both breathe into the silence. Desperate. Flushed. Teetering on the edge. Spencer’s breath is heavy in your ear. It’s the kind of sound that tightens your stomach and makes you ache, like he’s caught between wanting to speak and not wanting to break the fragile control he’s still holding onto. You can’t help the rush of heat that spreads through you at his small curses. He’s fighting his body, fighting the need to come, all while trying to be considerate of you. It’s so damn Spencer.

You whisper, running your hand over your body, mimicking the movements you know he’s making. “You need to let go a little, don’t you?” He gasps, the sound cutting off abruptly. You hear the shift of his body as his hand speeds up, the friction becoming more intense.

For a long moment, he doesn’t answer. You wonder if he’s going to try to hold back, but when he finally speaks, his voice is raw, needy. “I—I don’t want to come yet,” he confesses, so quietly that you almost miss it. “I don’t want to rush it.”

“Then slow down,” you tell him, your hand slowly moving beneath your sheets in tandem with the rhythm of his voice.

He breathes a shaky laugh escaping him. “It’s hard. It’s really hard.”

“I know, baby,” you murmur, the word slipping out without thought. “It’s hard for me too.” There’s a slight catch in his breath, a slight trembling and you know he’s fighting with everything he has to keep himself in check.

“I… I can’t explain it. It’s not just the physical… it’s the mental stimulation. The proprioceptive feedback is off the charts. I’m—fuck, I’m getting lightheaded just talking about it.”

You can’t help but laugh at his attempt to keep things academic, even now. “You’re so hot when you do that,” you tell him, voice thick with desire. “I think I might get off just listening to you try to sound all scientific while you’re on the edge of losing it.”

He groans at that, and you can almost see his face, flushed with embarrassment, as he shifts around in his bed. “I—I’m sorry. I don’t know how else to—”

You cut him off gently. “You don’t have to apologize, Spence. I love hearing you like this. You can let go. You can talk to me, tell me exactly what you need.” He takes a shaky breath and for a moment, you think he’s going to argue or retreat back into his overly-analytical shell but then he says your name, low and desperate. The desperation in his voice makes your heart race. You’ve never heard him like this—raw and open, breaking away from his usual restraint. You’re so close to pushing him past that edge. You don’t let him finish his sentence. Instead, you keep him on the brink. “Tell me what you need, Spencer,” you whisper, your voice thick with anticipation. “You’ve got me right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I need you to…” he starts, but his words get stuck in his throat. “I need you to make me feel good. I don’t want to—fuck, I need to feel you.” Your pulse quickens as you hear the vulnerability in his voice.

“You can feel me, Spence. I’m right here. You just have to focus. Focus on how good you feel right now.”

“I’m trying,” he whispers and there’s that catch in his voice again. “I just—fuck, I don’t think I can hold back much longer.”

Your body aches at his words as you whisper back, “Let go for me. Let me hear you.” Spencer’s breath hitches again, faster. Like he’s teetering on the edge. You’re both so close. So close. But he’s still holding back, still refusing to let go completely. You feel the tension, the urgency in his voice. You’re both quiet for a moment now. Just breathing. And even through the static of the phone, you can hear every soft puff of air he exhales. Every subtle shift of movement on that scratchy motel bedsheet. He’s being so good. He speaks up through the groans. Just your name. It’s broken but like it’s the only word left in his vocabulary. You press the phone tighter to your ear and close your eyes, your free hand sliding between your legs as your voice softens. “Still with me, baby?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, hoarse. “I’m just—my hand’s shaking.”

“How long have you been like this?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

There’s a beat before he says, “Since before I called you.”

Your heart flutters. You shift in bed, biting back a moan. “That long?”

He hums a pitiful little yes. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I tried to, but everything felt… empty. Like my skin was too tight. I—I kept getting hard every time I thought about your voice. About your hands. About the last time we—” He cuts himself off with a sharp inhale. You know he’s fighting, hard. Harder than he should be.

“Spencer,” you murmur, “you’ve been so good for me. So patient. But I don’t want you to hold back anymore.” He exhales like he’s just been told he can finally breathe. “Come,” you whisper. The word is barely out of your mouth before you hear him fall apart on the other end of the line. The soft, slick sounds of his hand meeting skin. The choked gasp that gets caught in his throat. The deep, trembling groan like it’s been trapped in his chest for hours.

“F-fuck,” he hisses, his voice breaking. “It’s—it’s too much, God.” You can hear the rhythm. He’s fast. Desperate. Probably fucking into his own hand with nowhere near the control he had earlier. You let your fingers glide through your own slick heat and sigh into the phone.

“Does it feel good, baby?” His breath hitches again.

“Yes, it’s—I’m gonna—”

“Yeah?” you coo, “Feels so good, hmm?” A strained whine escapes him.

“It’s—it’s throbbing. It’s pre-cum. My whole body feels like—like I’m on fire. My hand is wet, I don’t—I don’t even know how much came out, it’s so fucking sensitive and I’m—I’m gonna lose it.”

“You’re doing so well,” you breathe. “I’m touching myself too, Spence. You’ve got me so wet.”

He whimpers. “Please,” You feel your own orgasm building, slow and steady like a wave about to crash. You want to finish with him. You want to feel it in his voice when it finally hits him. You don’t even get another word out before he gasps so loud it cuts through the speaker, his breath catching in his throat as he falls over the edge. It’s not even a groan—it’s a sound you’ve never heard before. Desperate, stunned, overwhelmed. You hear the wet slap of his hand faltering, the breathless moans as he rides it out.

“ah— please.” he keeps saying your name like it’s the only thing tethering him to reality. And that’s what sends you over. You press the phone harder to your ear, hips stuttering against your hand as your orgasm hits you like a tremor. Your whole body arches as you cry out, biting your lip to keep quiet but knowing he hears it—feels it—because you can hear him panting through his own aftershocks. It’s messy. Loud. Intimate in a way that phone sex usually isn’t. Neither of you talk for a while. Just the sounds of two people on opposite sides of a phone line, breathing like they’ve just been pulled from underwater.

Eventually, Spencer breaks the silence with a soft laugh. “That was… wow.” You smile, sinking back into your bed.

“Yeah. Wow.” He’s still breathless but there’s a note of wonder in his voice, like he’s not entirely sure that just happened. “I’ve never… I mean— that was…”

“Good?” you offer. He laughs again, quieter this time.

“Yeah. Very.” You imagine him lying there, hand limp on his chest, flushed and dazed and probably trying to mentally calculate how many calories he just burned. It makes you ache with affection.

“You okay?” you ask gently.

“More than okay,” he says and you can hear the smile in his voice. “I just… wish I could hold you right now.”

You let out a breath, soft and sincere. “Me too.”There’s a pause before you sheepishly ask, “Think you can sleep now?”

He hums. “Eventually. I’ll probably fall asleep picturing you.”

You laugh softly. “Pervert.”

“Your fault,” he says, voice already thick with sleep. And it is. And you’re okay with that.

[whirlwindwonderland]

“What if I forgave you?”

…

What?

“What if I forgave you?” - “If I were to decide you had already done enough to ‘earn’ forgiveness, and declare you absolved of guilt on the behalf of myself and the other gods, would that make it easier for you to stop blaming yourself?”

Commission for the lovely @thesilverdreamer of a moment from my Holding It Together AU Fanfic, Vigil! Which you can read in the link below! I had a LOT of fun with this one, the mental images for this fic were super strong and it was so fun to get to capture one of my favourites of the bunch ;v; I really did love working on this

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64552696

The mortal Click Clack design I used here is Modmad's, and was very fun to draw!

[maskedbyghost]

Okay but I think it would be so fun for the roles to be flipped for once. A man flirts with out possessive reader and simon absolutely loses it. Tells her she belongs to him, maybe leaves a big ole lovebite on her neck. Ugh I need him

Alright, this one’s for all of you who wanted Simon to be just as possessive as the reader. I didn’t hold back here, did I? Hope this hits the spot! Let me know your thoughts in the comments, ly byee!

You were just going through the aisles, minding your own business, when it happened. You barely noticed at first, just some guy hanging around, trying to offer you help with a box of cereal. You smiled politely, not thinking much of it, but when you glanced over at Simon to tell him something, you saw his jaw tighten, his grip on the cart getting a little too hard. He didn’t say anything, but you knew that look. You’d seen it before, but never directed at you.

You didn’t really care when the guy leaned a little too close, standing too near you while you picked out what you needed. You knew Simon was behind you, just a few steps away, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was watching, his eyes boring into the back of your head. The guy didn’t know it, but he was already in the danger zone.

The worst part? The guy was talking to you like he owned the place. Smiling too much, leaning into your space, trying to keep the conversation going like you were the one who wanted it. You saw Simon shift, his eyes narrowing, and you didn’t need to be looking directly at him to know that his patience was running out.

When you caught his eye again, he didn’t look mad, not exactly. He looked… frustrated. Frustrated in a way that you didn’t quite understand, at least not yet. You hadn’t ever been on the receiving end of Simon’s jealousy before, but you were starting to get it now. He didn’t want to share you, not even a little, and it made him uncomfortable in a way you hadn’t expected.

Before you could say anything, Simon was there. He didn’t make a scene, didn’t grab the guy by the collar or push him away. He didn’t even address him directly. All he did was slide his hand around your waist, pulling you just a little closer, just enough for the guy to see the way Simon looked at you, possessive and silent, his presence like a barrier.

But the guy didn’t get it. He tried to keep talking to you, but Simon wasn’t having it. Not once did he raise his voice; not once did he look at the guy. He simply turned his head and said one word, flat and cold: “Mine.”

You weren’t even sure if the guy heard him or not, but you saw his expression falter, a little unsure now. He stepped back, hands raised like he was trying to say ‘hey, no harm done,’ but the damage had already been done in Simon’s mind. That was the first time you realized just how much Simon hated the idea of anyone even thinking they had the right to get too close to you.

As the guy walked away, Simon didn’t let go of you. He just kept you right there, close enough that you could feel the heat of his body against yours. His voice was low, just for you, but you heard every word. “Don’t know why I have to share you with the world,” he muttered, almost to himself, like he was angry at the universe itself. “They get the privilege of seeing you, but they won’t ever touch what’s mine.”

The words made you pause for a second, something heavy settling in your chest. “You’re not mad at me,” you said, almost a question. You were used to being the one who got possessive, who got territorial, but now… it was Simon. And it was different.

“No,” he muttered, his voice low, but there was no mistaking the possessiveness behind it. “I’m not pissed at you.” He sounded almost… conflicted, like he was trying to get across something without making it seem like a big deal, but his anger was still there, simmering. “It’s just… I fucking hate the way everyone else gets to see you. I hate that I can’t keep you all to myself.”

Your heart raced, a little thrill running through you at the thought of Simon—normally so in control—suddenly feeling like he had to fight for you. You liked it. You liked that he couldn’t hide it, that this was the first time you’d ever seen Simon struggle with the fact that other people even noticed you. You could feel it in the way he kept you close, his hand tight around your waist, like he didn’t want to let go.

He wasn’t done, though. His voice came again, this time with a rough edge to it. “Every time someone thinks they can get too close to you, it just makes me want to remind them that you’re mine. And when I see you talking to someone like that…” He trailed off, his lips curling into a snarl. “I fucking lose it.”

You were too busy soaking it all in to answer at first, too caught up in the way his words made you feel. You weren’t used to him like this, so out of control, and you had to admit that part of you thrived on it. You were always the one getting possessive, but now, for the first time, it was his turn.

The tension between you both was thick, so thick you almost didn’t notice when he started pulling you toward the exit. You only realized what was happening when you were outside, the cool air biting at your skin, and Simon was already pushing you up against the side of the building, eyes wild with that possessive hunger you’d seen a hundred times before.

“Simon,” you breathed, but he wasn’t listening. He was too busy claiming you, lips crashing into yours, hands rough on your neck. He pulled you close, body pressed tight against yours, and you could feel all the anger in his kiss.

He didn’t stop kissing you and didn’t stop his hands from roaming your body. He was marking you, claiming you in a way that sent shivers down your spine. When he pulled back just enough to drag his teeth across your neck, you bit back a gasp, and that’s when he spoke again, voice low and dangerous.

“You think anyone else could ever have you like I do?” His voice was rough, filled with jealousy, but there was a dark satisfaction in it, too. He kissed you again, rougher this time, like he was trying to erase every trace of anyone else from your skin. “You’re not theirs to want. You’re mine in ways no one will ever understand.”

The words struck something deep inside of you. You could feel the weight of them, the truth in them, and your chest tightened as he pulled you even closer, his body pressing hard against yours.

His hands roamed down your body again, finding that spot where your skin seemed to burn just for him. "No one will ever touch you the way I do. No one will ever make you feel like this. They can’t. They won’t."

You let out a shaky breath, your hands tightening in his hoodie as your body pressed against his even harder. "Simon, you—"

He cut you off with another deep kiss, his lips fierce and demanding. “You’re not just mine,” he murmured against your mouth, his breath ragged, “You belong to me. In every way that matters. And no one will ever be allowed to take that from me.”

His grip on you tightened, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, forcing your face upwards to meet his gaze. “Every time someone thinks they can just walk up to you, I’m going to remind them,” he snarled, his voice a dark promise. “You’re mine. And I’ll make damn sure no one gets the chance to look at you, touch you, or speak to you like that again. They’ll all learn the hard way that you don’t belong to anyone but me.”

Your heart raced, blood rushing in your ears. This wasn’t just possessiveness anymore—it was something deeper, darker. And for the first time, you felt the intensity of Simon’s own jealousy, something you hadn’t fully experienced before.

“Simon,” you whispered, trying to catch your breath, “I’m yours, you don’t have to—”

“No,” he growled, cutting you off, “I don’t have to do anything. But I will. And every single person who dares think they can come close to you will be reminded exactly who the hell you belong to.” He kissed you again, his lips pressing hard against yours, claiming you, his hands tight on your hips, pulling you closer, as if he couldn’t get enough.

When he finally pulled away, his breath was shallow, and his eyes were darker than you’d ever seen them. His fingers were tracing the line of your jaw as if he wanted to memorize every detail of your face. “I don’t share, sweetheart,” he whispered. “And you’re not going anywhere.”

Your chest tightened with desire, the intensity of his words sinking into you. The way he spoke—like he was ready to fight for you, to own you in the most raw, primal way—made your heart race. You gripped him tighter, breathless with how much you wanted him.

"Fuck," you whispered, your voice heavy with understanding, "now I get it... why you get hard every time I show my possessive side." You smirked, feeling that rush of heat at the back of your neck. "You're just as insane as me, aren't you?"

Simon’s gaze darkened even more, if that was even possible. His lips curled into a grin, predatory and wild, his grip tightening on you. “You’re damn right I am.” He leaned in close, his voice a harsh whisper against your ear. “And that’s why no one else will ever have you like this. Not now, not ever.”

---------------------------------------------

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @bunnyxiis

[callsign-rogueone]

splinter

Liam Mairi x reader (spark!) words: 2.3k 🏷: this one is heavy. mentions of passive suicidal ideation (wanting to die but not doing anything about it), spark goes to RSC and Bodhi is with her, canon-level descriptions of torture and injury, liam being the sweetest as per usual, some of Spark’s Issues™️ are explained, SMALL ONYX STORM SPOILER (GARRICK’S SIGNET) but that's it.

You snarl, pulling forward against the chains. “Touch him again and I’ll fucking kill you.”

The infantry officer just smiles down at you. “I’d like to see you try, cadet.”

You should have known he’d take your warning as an invitation. He turns back to Bodhi, examining him for a moment, as if deciding what would hurt most — and then takes a boot to his already-bruised ribs. 

His screaming covers the snapping sound.

Water starts to rise from thin air, filling the room.

“We’re below ground,” you tell them. “Right next to a river that has claimed the souls of thousands over the years. It won’t hesitate to take yours, either. You two do have souls, don’t you?”

The woman seems to realize you’re serious, her eyes widening, but her counterpart stands firm. “There’s one problem with your plan, cadet,” he condescends, not minding the water that’s up to his knees now. “You’ll drown, too, and so will your friends.”

Quinn is silent beside you, knowing better than to intervene. Bodhi is still trying to catch his breath, his exhales rattling and wet. There’s blood in his lungs, from the sound of it. After you’re done with these two, you’ll draw it out.

You don’t bother to tell the officer how it’ll work. He can see for himself in a minute. “One last chance to let us go.”

“I don’t think I’ll take it.”

You know exactly how long it takes to drown; you’ve walked the knife’s edge yourself many times at Tuile’s orders, in the name of eliminating weakness. “Then I suggest you use the next twelve seconds to settle up with your gods.”

The water rises, a tidal wave of murky black headed straight for their faces. It pushes forward as they step back, unable to escape it. 

“I don’t know why you didn’t do this hours ago,” Tuile huffs. “It would have made things much easier.”

You ignore her as usual, watching the officers for a sign of surrender. You won’t kill them if you don’t have to. But after all they’ve done, anything short of setting you all free won’t be enough. And even then, they wouldn’t be safe.

“It’s okay,” Bodhi says quietly, still panting. “We’re okay.”

You feel that gentle push against your power, but it’s weaker than normal — he’s too tired to stop you properly. You reel it back yourself, not wanting to exhaust him further. 

The water drains, seeping back into the ground, and the two infantry officers gasp for air. 

Professor Grady flings the door open, seeing the four of you perfectly dry as they still kneel, shivering and coughing the water from their lungs. “I told you this one wouldn’t be easy,” he says, no pity in his eyes as he looks at them.

You glare up at him. “Are we done now?”

He doesn’t answer the question. “I’ll admit, nobody has been able to turn the tables on their captors as you did,” he says carefully, “but had you killed them, three more would have taken their place, and made things quite a bit worse for you.“

“Then I’d keep going, until I found one who valued their life enough to set us free.”

Something changes in his eyes as he looks at you. “Release the others,” he orders, “but keep her here.”

“What? How is that fair?” Quinn asks.

“War isn’t fair,” the male infantry officer answers, eyeing you with contempt. He’s still soaked, trying to suppress his shivering. “Unless the both of you would rather stay here all night and watch?”

“Go,” you tell your friends, staring him down. “I can handle myself.”

————————

There are eighteen steps leading up to the second-year dorms. You take them one at a time, grinding your teeth as the movement strains your muscles. At least you don’t have any broken bones. 

Liam is sitting in front of your door, a small knife in one hand and a block of wood in the other, a little bag of shavings beside him. He’s been carving a lot of dragons lately. You’re just thankful that he hasn’t done yours. Tuile doesn’t deserve the honor, nor the hours of his time. 

He sets the materials aside as soon as he sees you, putting everything back in the bag and standing up. Neither of you have to say anything. This isn’t the first time he’s been there to patch you up, and it won’t be the last. He never asks questions, either, just gets to work disinfecting and bandaging. 

But this time, he looks at you differently. Maybe it’s the severity of your injuries. They hadn’t broken your nose, but you’re pretty sure that you have two black eyes and a split lip — you can feel that, even though you can’t see it. And then there’s the rest of you. They’d left no stone unturned, being incredibly thorough with your punishment for nearly killing two ranking officers.

The door unlocks as soon as you set your hand on the knob. You hadn’t expected it to work, after they’d forced whatever was in that little vial down your throat, disconnecting you from Tuile and her magic. That was a relief, honestly. Until they’d beaten the shit out of you, that is.

You don’t have it in you to be embarrassed as you tug off your tunic and kick aside your boots. Liam’s already seen you in a state of partial undress once, and the sooner you can get this over with, the sooner you can curl up and sleep for the rest of the weekend. It is the weekend, right? If it isn’t, you’re skipping class today. Maybe you can earn yourself another dose of that stuff, or maybe they’ll push too far and actually kill you. 

It feels like it’s been a full day since they released Bodhi and Quinn, but the days and hours have blurred together. It’s hard to guess how long you were down there, but it’s early morning now. Did Liam stay outside your room all night, waiting for you? 

You sit down in your desk chair and close your eyes, waiting. He knows where you keep all your supplies at this point; this is the fourth, or maybe fifth time you’ve done this since his arrival at Basgiath. He’s never once suggested that you see the healers — he knows better than that, knows you’ll never set foot in the infirmary here or anywhere ever again. You get by well enough with the things you’d learned from your parents, anyway.

There’s a few minutes of comfortable silence before he finally speaks. “Bodhi told me what happened,” he says softly, and you burn with shame, avoiding his gaze.

“Then why are you still here?” you ask. “Why aren’t you afraid of me, like everyone else?”

He tilts your chin back up to disinfect a cut below your eye. “Because I care about you, and because I want to understand why. I know that isn’t you — that isn’t my Spark.”

You’ve never felt such profound shame before, seeing the softness in his eyes as he gazes down at you, feeling the gentle touch of his hand on your cheek. 

He expects better of you. 

You aren’t the girl you used to be. 

You’ve disappointed him. 

That hurts so much worse than any of your physical injuries.

“I get it if you don’t want to tell me. I’m just worried about you. I don’t know what changed in the last year, or why, but I know something’s wrong, that you’re hurting, and I want to help you.”

You don’t say anything, and he drops the subject, continuing his work silently. 

But you need to tell him the truth, before it’s too late. “Everything I feel, every emotion has multiplied by five, and I can’t make it stop,” you blurt. 

He stills, looking back at you.

“I can’t sleep, I can’t think about anything but how angry I am, but most of the time it’s not even my anger, it’s hers,” you whisper, scared she’ll hear you. It’s unclear when this stuff will wear off. She could come back at any moment, hear any whispered confession and make you pay the price for your weakness later. 

You continue, your voice wavering. “Every morning for the last year I’ve woken up wondering if today will be the day that I’ll cross the line, that I’ll take things too far and Bodhi and the others won’t be able to stop me.”  You can’t stop the words from entering the air, the thing you’ve never told anyone, never admitted, not even to yourself. “Sometimes I wish she’d killed me during Threshing, that she’d hit a vein and let me bleed out in the forest.”

His eyes widen as he realizes the three thick scars crossing your collarbone were from Tuile. She’d scratched you, as many dragons do with their bonded to mark their riders — like the scar through Xaden’s eyebrow — but he’s never seen one this severe.

She must have wanted it to hurt.

He kneels down in front of the chair, at eye level with you now, and pulls you forward into a gentle hug, wrapping you in warmth. “I’m so grateful she didn’t, Spark. I couldn’t bear to lose you.”

You finally crack, a soft sob parting your lips at the pressure it puts on the cuts and bruises covering your skin. You clutch at the soft black fabric of his shirt with aching hands, needing him close even though it hurts, and the idea of him taking care of you after everything you’ve done makes you sick.

He strokes your back, speaking softly. “I mean it. You’re the world to me. And we’ll get you help, I promise. I’m sure my older sister would know what to do. She knows everything there is to know about dragons. I can’t send letters as a first year, but Xaden could. And you know he’d do it in a heartbeat.”

You shake your head no against his shoulder. “There’s nothing you or anyone else can do. I’m going to lose my mind.”

“Don’t say that,” he chides softly. “Please don’t give up, Spark. I know it’s difficult, but you’re so strong, and we’re all here to help you. Me, Bodhi, Xay, the girls…”

“You don’t get it,” you sniff. “Tuile was bonded to my grandfather for thirty years. A direct relative.”

He’s quiet, not sure what this means. They haven’t covered this in Kaori’s class — they never will.

You explain in a wavering voice. “The books say that anyone bonded to a dragon who was formerly bonded to their direct relative will either get a second signet or go completely mad, and I’ve tried everything, but all I can do is the water.”

Garrick had gotten a second one, as did Imogen and a few of the others who had riders in the family. But you ended up with your piece-of-shit grandfather’s piece-of-shit dragon, who probably decided that you didn't deserve a second signet, that you were too weak, too soft.

“That’s why I can’t control myself half the time,” you say in a cracked whisper, your breathing unsteady. “I’m already starting to lose my grip.”

He rests his chin on top of your head, keeping you tucked into his arms. “I’m so sorry, sweet girl.”

Nobody else has ever apologized to you about this, just given you pitiful looks and kept their distance — except Bodhi. But he’s only stuck with you out of responsibility, because he can keep you leashed with his own signet. 

“I’ll stay with you until the end. Even if you forget my name or try to kill me, I’ll be by your side.”

You manage a bitter laugh — a dry huff of air that makes your bruised ribs throb. “That might actually happen.”

“I know,” he says softly, still rubbing your back. “But if it does, I’ll know that it isn’t you, and it isn’t your fault. None of this was your fault. But I’m so proud of you for telling me, and for making it this far. And I promise you I will do everything I can to help slow this down, and to make life easier for you.” 

Your tears have dried, leaving you with a hollow feeling in your sinuses, but Liam still holds you, your breathing now synchronized with his. 

You take the opportunity to try some of the advice a friend had given you, that had seemed like complete and utter bullshit at the time, but might be worth it now.

Three things you can feel: the softness of Liam’s tunic and the warmth of his skin against yours, the ache of the bruises covering your body.

Two things you can see: Liam’s arm around you, and the definition of the muscle there. The mess of used medical supplies on your desk. 

One thing you can taste: the coppery blood that still coats the edges of your teeth. 

You’ll drag yourself to the bathing chambers to brush before you go to sleep. Should probably shower, too. It’ll be exhausting, but if you’re truly disconnected from Tuile and her magic, you won’t have to worry about drowning.

You hate to admit it, but you feel a little better now, a little safer with the familiarity of your room, and Liam in it with you. 

The bells ring — each of the six chimes making you wince. “Y’ should get to formation,” you murmur. 

His hand smooths over your hair once more, not minding the blood, dirt, and grease in it. “Are you gonna be okay on your own?” he asks softly. He doesn’t say it outright, but you know what he’s really asking.

“Mm. Jus’ gonna shower and sleep.”

He’s satisfied with your answer, but still lingers a moment longer. “I’m proud of you.”

“For what?”

“For surviving this long. For not giving up, and for telling me what’s going on.”

You don’t tell him that he’s the only reason you’re still going. 

Your words blur together with exhaustion. “Thank you. Fr’ cleaning me up.”

He lays a featherlight kiss to your forehead before he pulls away, careful not to brush the bruises there. “Always.”

[possesseddesiress]

The Midnight Ritual. Part Two

CONTENT WARNING: This story includes themes of transformation and body control with a suggestive approach. If this type of narrative is not to your liking or you do not meet the recommended age, we suggest you do not continue. All images used (if any) belong to their respective owners. I claim no authorship over them and they are only used for illustrative purposes.

If you decide to go ahead, welcome to Possessed Desires, where mind and body are never completely under your control.

The Midnight Ritual, part one (English Version)

Part One: The Midnight Ritual I

At that point was when I lost all reasoning, I didn't even think about my friend, or the consequences of my actions, I was filled with jealousy.

I wanted something, and if I could get it, I would do it without hesitation.

I waited for Jacob to fall asleep, it was the afternoon and I knew he always took a nap at that time. I was tossing and turning in my room, until I felt it. How my consciousness was subtracted to be thrown all at once into my friend's body.

I smiled smugly, raising my arm to kiss my bicep and sniff my armpit.

- Hey... - I muttered to myself, touching my chest hard and squeezing it. My other hand went to the relief in my pants to start stroking the area insistently, squeezing as I let out loud gasps - Ugh, shit....

I sighed heavily but not giving up, I had a plan already laid out, and I would stick to it to the letter. I stood up, noticing that Jacob was wearing a sleeveless compression t-shirt, he looked so good... I flexed my arm hard, puffing out my bicep and then took a picture and sent it to my number.

- Hey buddy, do you like the way I look?

I didn't wait for him to respond. I took off my shirt to change it for a red one, but it still exposed my big, thick arms, my broad chest or even my stinky, hairy armpits. I looked amazing.

- Gosh, I look good. That's what a real man looks like, isn't it?

I smiled smugly, lifting my armpit to inhale again in total lust.

I then headed to the gym. It was the first time I had ever done that, I always tried to stay away from the gym in Jacob's body because I was worried I wouldn't know his exercises and cause him to start doing them wrong, plus it was his safe space. But what did it matter?

I walked in, exuding confidence and swagger, watched the receptionist, winking at him to go inside and head to the weights area. First of all because they were easy to operate, it was just lift, flex and lower, but there was also something very special about the area: consecutive mirrored panels that covered the entire wall, perfect for watching me.

I lifted a weight, starting to do the exercise, I had to admit I loved how the pumping felt, how my big arms would inflate and I would start sweating, permeating the area with my scent.

Once I was drenched in sweat, I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket to flex and start taking pictures, straight to my phone.

- Hey buddy, what do you think?

I was surprised I hadn't already responded to my old body, I spent most of my time looking at my phone. Was I playing video games?

I went back to working out, ready for the next step. I flexed my arms again, raising and lowering the barbell, as I began to make more effort, I began to think about something: Me.

I glimpsed my original body, my face, my hips, everything from head to toe. Even things I only knew about.

- Eric has a nice body, Eric is cute, Eric is desirable...

I mumbled lifting the weight again and again between grunts, then I felt something... how the contour between my pants started to lift, that was something unexpected but it was perfect for all that.

I slowly and calmly rubbed the area, enjoying the sensation without letting go of the weight. I continued to think about my body, imaginary scenarios... Jacob and I kissing, him slamming my slim little body against the wall.

- Eric is so... cute - I murmured - I like him, I like my best friend.

It was like feeling a strange sensation, as if I knew that what I had just done had definitely sealed something in poor Jacob.

I was about to regret it, trying to think how to fix what I had done when I felt the phone vibrate, it was me.

- Jacob, are you feeling okay?

- Yeah, bro. Great, I've only been thinking about you all afternoon, tell me something, wouldn't you like to be here with me?

And again, another picture.

I knew "I" wouldn't dare turn down this opportunity, to have the guy of his dreams, finally gay and at his feet. A perfect lottery ticket.

- Dude?

- Come on, don't complain and say you like him.

I then proceeded to throw myself on the floor, I didn't care if others saw me, I had to get this right if I wanted to perfectly realize this. If I wanted to stay only with Jacob.

"I want Eric, just him. I want him to be my boyfriend, just him, I don't want to think about other guys, him to be the only one for me. My only belonging, for him to be mine. Me only his, always obedient to whatever whims he asks of me."

I lifted my T-shirt, revealing my abs and also placing my pelvis up for the picture, and sent it back to the chat.

- Or don't you like it?

She left me on hold, it took her a while to respond. I thought she was even going to ignore me and just put me on hold.

- I love it, come to my house.

I didn't need anything else. I got to my feet as fast as I could, grabbed my stuff and ran out of the gym to the surprised looks of everyone.

I ran to my house, knocked on the door and then opened it myself.

It was strange to see me acting without me being in control, as if an android was impersonating me or I was living in an alternate reality.

- Jacob, what's wrong? - he said in a nervous tone - Yes you're kidding, I don't like how this is getting, I...

He said in a nervous tone, to which I preferred to silence him. I grabbed him from the back of his neck to kiss him intensely, sticking my new tongue hard into his mouth, he only sighed before we closed the door.

We rushed up to his room, our hands eager, him trying to touch every inch of my well sculpted skin, even inhaling my armpits with need, to which I smiled.

- What do you want?

- W-what are you talking about?

- Ask and I will.

I muttered with a stern look in my eyes though also, perfectly willing to oblige whatever came from those thin lips.

He thought awkwardly, though then said with certainty.

- Get down on the floor and lift your legs.

I obeyed him, throwing myself on the floor and bending my legs, showing off my plump, round buttocks encased in the sports lycra. My feet encased in his somewhat smelly sneakers. I stood there still, waiting for him to do something else.

He knelt down to start kissing my legs, then slapped my buttocks.

- Uh!" I grunted loudly, then he reached up to the relief to pull down my pants to swallow my manhood in one fell swoop.

I let out a deep gasp, closing my eyes, smiling; I grabbed him by the back of the neck to pull him down against the base - That... That's it, good boy.

He broke for air, then took off my shoes and placed the sole of my foot against his face, inhaling like crazy. His face full and impregnated with my new scent.

- You don't know how much I dreamed of this - murmured my old body.

- I can imagine - I smiled.

That day we ended up against each other, me slamming my body against his, my hands clutching his as I let out screams and grinned like a fool, or even let him try to shake my buttocks himself.

Although I always thought my rod was quite modest, having it inside was another sensation altogether, it had me with my tongue hanging out and my eyes unfocused for hours. We were both cuddled up in my old bed, him lying on my chest.

- Jacob... I... I love you.

He murmured.

- I love you too.

I answered

He smiled. And the final move of my plan:

- Do you want to be my boyfriend?

I asked.

I shouldn't even count that he answered.

Since then Jacob's behavior changed radically, we stopped being friends and became a couple. He was a very attentive boyfriend although sometimes very perverted, it seemed that all that had raised his libido to the sky, but I knew that he would always be mine, and that was a great advantage.

Very occasionally I can still get into his body, and I love to stay hours and hours playing with my huge pecs, although it's more fun when my original body joins in.

----

I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you liked it, don't forget to follow it and share it so more people can discover it.

I'm always open to suggestions and ideas, so if you have any fantasy or scenario in mind, let me know in the comments or in messages. See you in the next story... Who knows what body you will occupy this time?

---

[acourtofthought]

I feel like it's so easy for Lucien's story to get lost in the chaos of the main characters arc but when you pull apart what Sarah has given us for him it's wild to me that anyone doesn't think he could be possibly be next:

ACOWAR:

Tamlin just shook his head, loathing simmering in his green eyes, and walked past. Not a word. I looked at Lucien in time to see the guilt, the devastation, flicker in that russet eye.

Lucien wasn’t foolish enough to beg for forgiveness. That conversation, that confrontation—it would take place at another time. Another day, or week, or month.

Helion was the last of the High Lords to arrive. I didn’t dare look through the ruined doorway to where Lucien now stood in the sitting room, close to Elain’s side.

ACOFAS

His jaw worked as he studied the fire. Fire. His mother’s gift. Not his father’s. Yes, it was Beron’s gift. The gift of the father who the world believed had sired him. But not the gift of Helion. His true father. I still hadn’t mentioned it. To anyone other than Rhys. Now wasn’t the time for that, either.

“I don’t have anywhere else to go.” Before I could object, he said, “You ruined any chance I have of going back to Spring. Not to Tamlin, but to the court beyond his house. Everyone either still believes the lies you spun or they believe me complicit in your deceit. And as for here …

“Tamlin sent it to our manor yesterday,” Lucien hissed. “My clothes. My belongings. All of it. He had it sent from the Spring Court and dumped on the doorstep.”

I didn’t quite feel guilty enough to warrant apologizing for it. Not yet. Possibly not ever. “Why?” It was the only question I could think to ask. “Perhaps it had something to do with your mate’s visit the other day.” My spine stiffened. “Rhys didn’t involve you in that.” “He might as well have. Whatever he said or did, Tamlin decided he wishes to remain in solitude.” His russet eye darkened. “Your mate should have known better than to kick a downed male.” “I can’t say I’m particularly sorry that he did.” “You will need Tamlin as an ally before the dust has settled. Tread carefully.” I didn’t want to think about it, consider it, today. Any day. “My business with him is done.” “Yours might be, but Rhys’s isn’t. And you’d do well to remind your mate of that fact.”

ACOSF

Cassian ignored him, and asked Lucien, “How’s the Spring Court?” Lucien’s face revealed nothing of how Tamlin and his court fared. “It’s fine.” Cassian didn’t know why he’d expected an update regarding the High Lord of Spring. Lucien only gave those in private to Rhys.

“But Tamlin is already hanging by a thread. You and Lucien have made it clear that he’s barely improved this past year. Learning of Feyre’s pregnancy might make him crumble again. With a new war possible and Briallyn up to her bullshit with Koschei, we need a strong ally. We need the Spring Court’s forces.”

“No. But we need to summon Lucien,” Azriel said, just a shade tightly, as if he didn’t like it one bit. “We need to tell him the news, and permanently station him at the Spring Court to contain any damage and to be our eyes and ears.”

“I would like to remove myself from the Mask’s odious presence, and perhaps enjoy your palace, Rhysand. It’s been a long while since I was in a place of such quiet. If you’ll allow it, I’ll stay here for an hour or two.” “Something bothering you at home?” Rhys inquired, falling into step beside the High Lord.

“How’s the Spring Court?” Nesta asked. Lucien’s jaw tightened. “How you’d expect.” Tension rippled through the room, confirmation that Tamlin had heard the news of Feyre’s pregnancy. From Lucien’s grim face, she knew he hadn’t reacted well.

It seems long overdue to resolve the fallout between Lucien and Tamlin, the downfall of the Spring Court and the reveal that Helion is Lucien's father and that's not even accounting for the control he's been maintaining over his bond despite the struggles he's felt because of it.

[porcelainstarrr]

CHAPTER 14

⌖

Chapter 13 Recap:

Today started normally, laughing with Gigi at the bookstore, lingering like we didn’t want to go home. But on the walk back, everything shifted. Gigi grew tense, silent, almost scared, clutching her coffee like a shield. At my apartment, she brushed it off, but I could feel something heavy under her skin. When I pushed, she admitted she thought she saw someone. Someone from back home, but insisted it was nothing. I wanted to believe her. I almost did. But the way she flinched, the way she lied so quietly… I knew something was wrong.

I just didn’t know what yet.

⚠︎ This chapter contains sexual content and mature themes (18+) Please read responsibly. ⚠︎

─────── ⌖ ───────

CHAPTER 14

⌖

The movie flickered across the TV, a soft, muted glow casting long, slow-moving shadows across the apartment walls. Some mindless rom-com Gigi had picked. I wasn't really watching it. 

Neither was she.

 We sat on opposite ends of the couch, half-covered by the same worn blanket, bowls of half-eaten popcorn cooling between us. Gigi's legs were curled up under her, socked feet tucked against the cushion. Her head leaned back against the armrest, eyes glazed over, not laughing at the punchlines. I wasn't much better. The room smelled faintly of buttered popcorn and rain, the storm outside thudding gently against the windows, a steady, familiar rhythm. For a while, neither of us spoke. We just let the noise from the TV fill the space between us, pretending we didn't feel how heavy the air had gotten.

Until I couldn't anymore.

I shifted, pulling the blanket tighter around my waist, and cleared my throat. Gigi's eyes flicked to me for a second, curious but guarded, before settling back on the TV.

"Can I talk to you about something?" I asked, voice low. Careful.

She muted the TV immediately, remote clicking under her thumb. "Yeah," she said, sitting up a little straighter. "What's up?"

I hesitated, teeth tugging at my bottom lip. My fingers toyed with the hem of my sweatshirt, picking at an invisible thread. "I don't think..." I exhaled. Shook my head. "I don't think I want to keep doing this with Mason."

Her eyebrows lifted slightly, but she stayed quiet, waiting.

I pressed the heels of my hands into my thighs, grounding myself. "It's not like he's done anything wrong," I said, the words tumbling out faster now, like they'd been waiting for permission. "He's kind. He's dependable. He's... safe. But it just feels..." I faltered. Searching for the right word. "Empty."

Gigi's mouth pressed into a thin line. Not judgmental. Just listening.

"I don't feel anything," I whispered. "Not really. I mean, I care about him. But it's not... it doesn't feel like it should." 

I didn't have to say it.

She already knew who "it" really belonged to.

"I think," I continued, voice barely above a breath, "I've been missing Dex more than I want to admit."

Her reaction was immediate.

The shift in her posture. The slight jerk of her head. The quick intake of breath she tried to hide.

I caught it all.

She covered it a second later with a quick. "Wait, what? Why? Did something happen? Did you see him? Did you guys talk or...?"

I shook my head quickly, cutting her off. "No. No, nothing like that. I haven't seen him. I haven't talked to him. I mean, he's still in the facility, I can't see him. I don't even have access unless it's a formal session, and obviously, that's not happening."

Gigi's gaze flickered. Just for a second.

"He's probably still there," I said, more to myself than her. "I don't know. I don't know anything."

"No," Gigi blurted, too fast, too loud.

I blinked. "What?"

She wet her lips, looking anywhere but at me. "I mean... maybe not."

My heart thudded once, painfully.

"What do you mean, 'maybe not'?"

She shrugged, casually. Forced. "It's been months. People get transferred. Released. I don't know. I'm just saying... he's probably not there anymore."

I tilted my head. Studying her.

"How would you know?" I teased, trying to keep the tone light, even though something inside me had already started to twist.

Gigi's eyes widened slightly. "I don't. I swear. I haven't seen anything. I haven't heard anything. I'm just guessing. You know, statistically."

Her words tumbled over each other. Too fast.

Too rehearsed.

My stomach tightened.

"Right," I said slowly.

"Yeah." She reached for the remote again, unmuted the TV with a shaky hand. "Anyways, when are you planning on telling Mason, what are you going to tell him?" I let out a loud sigh and looked at the TV, avoiding her eyes, “I don’t know, probably soon. I'll tell him the truth, tell him it’s not his fault, it’s mine."

She didn't answer.

She just watched me.

I can see her from the corner of my eye. I turn my head and stare back. I let out a small laugh and said, “What’s wrong with you, did you zone out of my face?" She snaps out of it and looks at me, “What? No, no, I heard you, yeah, that’s good, you should say that." 

She looked down

She kept adjusting the blanket around her legs, even though it hadn't moved. The way she wouldn't meet my eyes. The way her fingers tapped silently against her thigh, restless, nervous.

Something was wrong.

I knew it like I knew my own name.

But I said nothing.

Not yet.

Because sometimes, when you push too hard, things break.

And I wasn't ready to break this.

I stared at her, then looked back at the TV. Let the silence grow roots between us. Let the TV fill the room with scenes and sounds I couldn't focus on.

And I wondered.

What the hell is wrong with Gigi? 

As we were watching the movie in silence, rain started to drip harder. Loud enough to register over the noise of the TV. I barely noticed it, caught somewhere between Gigi’s words from earlier and the heavy weight still pressing against my chest from our conversation.

Gigi glanced toward the window, then down at her phone. She hesitated for a second, chewing the inside of her cheek the way she always did when she was debating something. Then she pushed herself up from the couch, brushing nonexistent lint from her jeans.

"Probably a good idea if I leave now," she said, forcing a lightness into her voice that didn’t quite reach her eyes. "Before it gets worse." I nodded, feeling a strange twist in my gut. I didn’t want her to leave. Not really. The apartment already felt a little too empty, a little too hollow, and the rain was only making it worse. But I wasn't going to trap her here either.

"Okay," I said, standing up to walk her to the door.

She pulled her coat tighter around herself and gave me a quick hug, the kind that said "I'm fine" even when everything about her body language said otherwise. Her arms were stiff. Her fingers curled tighter than they needed to.

"Text me when you get home," I said.

"I will," she promised.

She said goodbye, a half-smile tugging at her lips, and then she was gone.

The door clicked shut behind her, and for a second, I just stood there, staring at the wood grain, listening to the way the rain picked up against the windows.

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

I sat back down on the couch, curling into the throw blanket Gigi had tossed aside, and let the low hum of the TV fill the silence. The movie she picked was still playing, but I barely paid attention. My mind kept circling back to our conversation. To Dex. To the way Gigi's face had shifted when I mentioned him. I sighed, scrubbing my hands down my face, and grabbed my phone from where it was wedged between the cushions. Without thinking too hard about it, I scrolled to Mason’s name and hit call.

The phone rang twice before he answered.

"Hey," his voice was distracted, a little rushed. Background noise buzzed faintly on his end. "Can’t really talk right now. What's up?"

"Can you come over tonight?" I asked, trying to sound casual, like my stomach wasn’t knotting itself into something ugly and tight.

"Sorry," he said almost immediately. "Really busy."

I closed my eyes and let out a loud, tired sigh, pressing my fingers into my temple. "It's really important," I said, sharper than I meant to. "I need to talk to you."

That seemed to catch his attention. There was a pause, then, "Is everything okay?"

"I just..." I swallowed. "We need to talk."

Another pause.

Then he said, "Okay. I'll come over when I'm done here. Might be a bit late."

“Okay,” I said.

I hung up before either of us could say anything else. I tossed my phone onto the couch beside me and slumped back against the cushions, staring blankly at the movie. The rain outside grew heavier, slapping harder against the windows, the wind picking up and howling low against the edges of the building. A cold draft slid under the windowpane, and I pulled the blanket tighter around me, feeling the weight of the night settle onto my skin. After a few minutes, I grabbed my phone again and called Gigi.

She picked up on the third ring. "Hey," she said, a little breathless.

"Did you get home safe?"

"Yeah, yeah," she said. "Barely missed the worst of it. It's pouring now, though. You good?"

I hesitated.

"Yeah," I lied. "Just… checking."

"Good," she said. "Call if you need anything, okay?"

"I will."

We hung up, and I stared at the black screen for a long moment before setting the phone down again. The apartment was dark except for the flickering light from the TV. Shadows stretched long across the walls. The rain hammered harder against the windows now, each gust of wind rattling them slightly in their frames. I tucked my knees up to my chest, letting the blanket pool around me, and tried to lose myself in the mindless noise of the movie. But my thoughts kept drifting. Circling. Tightening around things I didn’t want to think about.

About the way Mason didn’t even ask what was wrong.

About the way Gigi reacted when I mentioned Dex.

About how empty this apartment felt with just me and the storm.

Ten minutes later, my phone buzzed.

I grabbed it without thinking, expecting a "I'm on my way" or a "be there soon" text from Mason.

Instead, it was-

"Can't make it."

No explanation.

No apology.

Just that.

Something hot and ugly flared in my chest. I didn’t respond. I tossed the phone back onto the couch with more force than necessary, watching it bounce once and land face down. 

"Asshole," I muttered under my breath.

I sat there for a minute, jaw clenched, heart pounding too hard for a reason I didn’t fully understand. Then I pulled the blanket tighter and tried to force myself to focus on the movie again. Halfway through, there was a knock at the door.

I froze.

My head snapped toward the sound, the remote slipping from my fingers onto the couch.

Knock.

Steady. Firm.

Not hurried. Not frantic.

Just… there.

I reached for the remote and lowered the volume of the TV until it was little more than a murmur. Then I just sat there, staring at the door.

My heart picked up speed.

Mason.

He probably felt guilty. Or maybe he changed his mind. Maybe he realized how serious I sounded on the phone. I sighed, a mix of frustration and exhaustion, and pushed myself up from the couch. My bare feet were silent against the floor as I crossed the living room, the knock echoing once more in my ears even though it had already stopped. My hand hovered over the doorknob for a second. Then, with a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, I unlocked it and pulled it open.

The door creaked open under my hand.

For a moment, I couldn't breathe.

At first, all I saw were boots.

Black, worn at the edges, drops of rain clinging to the leather like tiny beads of glass.

Not Mason’s neat brown loafers. Not the shoes I was expecting.

My stomach flipped, sharp and cold.

My gaze lifted, slower than I meant for it to, like my body already knew what my mind couldn’t process yet.

pants

Dark, almost black. Heavy from the rain, clinging slightly to strong thighs. A few droplets slid down the fabric, darkening it further.

A jacket.

Black. Old but well-kept. Raindrops clung to the shoulders, sliding down in lazy, uneven paths.

The jacket was unzipped halfway, exposing the steady, deliberate rise and fall of his chest.

Hands.

At his sides.

Tense.

Fists clenched so tight the tendons in his forearms strained under the skin.

The breath lodged in my throat.

Jawline.

Sharp. Clenched. A muscle feathered beneath the skin as he gritted his teeth once, a brief flash of tension he didn’t bother hiding.

Mouth.

Neutral.

Unspeaking.

But something, something almost like a smirk ghosted there. Faint, like he was barely holding it back. Like it wasn’t amusement at all, but something much darker. Something feral.

I knew before I let myself look higher.

Before I trapped myself in it.

Eyes.

Those eyes.

God- those eyes

familiar

Cold and burning all at once.

The man who was standing in front of me wasn’t my man- 

it was…..

Benjamin

Leonard

Poindexter

Time didn’t just slow; it collapsed.

I stood there, frozen in the doorway, my hand still loosely wrapped around the knob, heart slamming against my ribs like it was trying to tear itself out of my chest.

It wasn’t possible.

It couldn’t be.

He couldn’t be standing here.

He couldn’t be real.

He’s locked up. He’s supposed to be locked up. This isn’t real. You’re imagining it.

But the droplets of rain slipping off his clothes said otherwise.

The weight of his stare, crushing and grounding and terrifyingly familiar, said otherwise.

Dex didn’t speak.

He didn’t have to.

He just stood there, the storm behind him, the storm inside him, his presence filling the threshold like a damn breaking.

And then, slow, sure, he moved.

He crossed the line between us like it meant nothing.

Like it had never existed.

One foot stepped inside.

Boots squeaking faintly against the hardwood.

A trail of rainwater in his wake.

I stumbled backward instinctively, pulse roaring in my ears, back hitting the wall with a muted thud. My fingers scrambled for something, the door frame, the edge of the console table, anything to anchor me, but there was nothing.

Only him.

My heart beat so hard it hurt.

My mouth opened, closed, and opened again.

"What..." My voice cracked.

I swallowed and tried again, steadier this time, forcing air into my lungs.

“Why are you here?” The words fell out sharp, defensive, trembling.

Dex didn’t answer immediately.

His head tilted slightly, studying me.

Like I was some riddle he hadn’t quite solved yet.

I hated the way relief mixed with the fury inside me.

Hated that some small, weak part of me was glad he was here, breathing, whole, alive.

But mostly, I hated him.

For removing me.

For breaking me in ways I hadn’t even realized until now.

“No,” I hissed, voice breaking halfway through.

"You got rid of me, Dex."

He inhaled slowly through his nose, chest rising sharply.

No defense.

No excuses.

I pushed at his chest with shaking hands, weak, pathetic, but it was enough to feel the heat of him under my palms.

Enough to remind me just how real he was.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

It was like shoving a mountain.

Tears blurred my vision, hot and unwelcome, but I blinked them back viciously.

"Why?" I demanded, voice ragged.

"Why did you get rid of me?" The silence between us grew, thick and unbearable. It weighed on my chest, pressing harder and harder, until I thought it might crush me.

Dex’s eyes flickered down to my mouth, then back up to meet my stare.

Something raw and broken passed through his expression, gone in an instant, but I caught it.

He stepped closer.

Slow.

Measured.

Like he thought I might run if he moved too fast.

I pressed myself harder against the wall without meaning to, my body reacting even when my mind was too tangled to catch up.

His hand lifted, hesitating in the air between us.

I should’ve flinched.

I should’ve turned away.

Instead, I stayed rooted to the spot, helpless, burning under the weight of it all.

He touched my jaw with the backs of his fingers, barely there.

Soft. Reverent.

It made something inside me crack wide open.

His voice, when it came, was rough and low and carved straight out of his ribs:

"I had to do it-”

Two words.

Two fucking words.

And somehow, they ruined me more than anything else he could’ve said.

I squeezed my eyes shut against the tears threatening to spill over, jaw trembling under his touch.

"You left me." I whispered, voice breaking.

Dex’s breath stuttered out like a punch.

His hand dropped from my face.

"I had to," he said, and his voice sounded like it was breaking, too.

“NO,” I cut him off.

"You think I wanted to?" he rasped.

“I had to do it, I didn’t have a choice.” His words hit me like stones, sharp and bloody.

I stared at him, chest heaving, rain still dripping off the edges of his jacket.

I swallowed hard, blinking at him, feeling the pressure build and build inside my chest like a dam about to break.

"You did have a choice," I said, low, bitter.

"You always had a choice. No one forced you to do this but yourself."

Dex’s jaw flexed, tight, furious.

Not at me.

At himself.

He stepped closer again, just half a step, and it was too much.

I shoved at his chest again, harder this time, and he let me, the muscles in his arms flexing but not resisting.

"No, you left me!" I said, louder now, the words scraping out of my throat like broken glass.

"You left me like I was nothing. You disappeared, and I had to, I had to pretend like it didn’t kill me!"

His face twisted, something ugly, something pained.

But he didn’t speak.

Didn’t defend himself.

"I go to work every day knowing you're in there and I can't physically see you or talk to you, why? You wanna know why? BECAUSE YOU ASKED FOR IT!" I snapped, pushing him again, hands trembling, nails biting into his jacket.

"YOU. TOLD. THEM. TO. GET. RID. OF. ME."

His hands shot up, not to grab me, but to catch my wrists, gentle but firm, holding them still between us like he could anchor both of us that way.

"I had to," he said, voice low and gutted.

"You need to understand, I had to."

I stared at him, disbelief crashing into me like a wave.

"HAD TO? You didn't have to do anything!"

He responded immediately, voice cracked, desperate: "I had to protect you-“

I laughed, a bitter, breathless sound that didn’t even feel like it came from my chest.

"You think leaving without a word made it better? You think it kept me safe? I didn’t ask for your protection, Dex."

He flinched, just barely, but I saw it.

A crack in the armor.

"Y/N, please. You need to understand why I did this," he said, words raw and desperate now.

"I had to." His voice caught. He shook his head sharply, like he hated himself for every syllable.

"If something happened to you while I was locked up, I couldn’t do anything about it. I couldn’t get out. I couldn’t protect you. I couldn't reach you. I had to do it."

I yanked my hands free of his grip, chest heaving.

"Six months, Dex," I hissed, voice shaking.

"You got rid of me for six months."

“i had to-“ he says as i cut him off

"No, you didn’t have to do it, not this way. You don’t get to decide and do things for me. I’m not yours to protect." 

That came out harsher than I meant, but I didn’t care.

Silence.

Heavy. Suffocating.

The rain outside hammered harder against the windows, a distant echo to the storm unraveling in the room. Dex’s hands hovered uselessly at his sides now, like he didn’t know if he was allowed to reach for me again. Like he was afraid one touch would tear everything apart.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, "I'm so sorry."

"Six months," I repeated.

My voice broke halfway through, but I didn’t care.

"I couldn’t see you, or talk to you, or know anything about you, for six months." I swiped at my cheeks angrily when a tear slipped free.

Hating myself.

Hating him more.

"I had to," he said again, softer now, almost pleading.

"I thought if you stayed... it would’ve gotten you hurt."

"And you think leaving didn’t almost do the same?" I snapped.

"I had to live six months, day and night, wondering why you did this, wondering if you thought this was a mistake, wondering if you regretted me."

My voice cracked.

"I thought you used me to get yourself out of that facility."

The silence cracked at that.

Dex moved so fast I barely saw it, a stuttering, broken step forward, not touching me, but close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him.

"No," he said, voice rough, torn open.

"No, I didn’t use you. I don’t regret you. You’re not a mistake." He ran a hand through his hair, pushing back the damp strands, breathing harshly. "I worked my ass off day and night for six months to prove to those pricks that I was fine, when I'm not."

He admitted it, his voice almost too quiet to hear.

"I still need help. A lot of help. But I lied to them. Acted like I was made of sunshine and roses, just so I could leave and come back for you. Without guards, without cameras, without worrying that someone would hurt you while I was caged up like an animal."

The room tilted, reality shifting under my feet.

I just stared at him.

"I couldn’t let you stay... but I didn’t leave you either," he whispered.

My chest physically hurt.

I pressed my hand against it, trying to hold the pieces together.

My eyes burned.

He stepped closer again, so close our breath mingled, shaky and shallow.

Something inside me broke open at the sound of it, messy, wild, uncontrollable.

I hated him.

I loved him.

I hated that I still loved him.

His hand slid to the side of my face, cradling it carefully, like he was scared I'd disappear if he touched too hard.

I could barely breathe.

My body moved before my brain could stop it, leaning in, drawn to the familiar pull of him, and for a split second, everything was quiet. Everything made sense.

He bent his head, lips brushing against my forehead first, a whisper of a touch.

And then he held me.

Both arms pulling me into him, strong and sure, like he was anchoring himself there. Like he needed the feel of me to stay standing.

For a moment, I let him.

My hands pressed against his chest, not pushing, not pulling, just there. Feeling the heat of him through his soaked jacket. Feeling his heart pounding against my palms, frantic, wild, matching mine.

But then my mind caught up.

The memory of Mason.

The memory of everything Dex had done, or hadn’t done.

I pushed.

Light at first. A nudge against the solid wall of his chest.

He didn’t move.

Instead, his grip on me tightened, not painfully, not cruelly, just enough to make it clear:

He wasn’t letting go.

Before I could protest, his mouth was on mine.

Hard.

Demanding.

Breaking me open in a way I didn’t have the strength to fight.

A choked sound escaped my throat, half protest, half something else, and still, still, I kissed him back.

God help me, I kissed him back like I needed it to survive.

His hand slid up to the back of my head, fingers threading into my hair, angling my mouth against his deeper, hungrier, like he’d been waiting an eternity for this.

I whimpered into the kiss, a sound I didn't recognize coming from myself, and shoved weakly at his jacket again, finally finding the strength to tear my mouth away.

Our foreheads stayed pressed together, both of us breathing hard, hearts racing like they'd sprinted across the city to get here.

"No," I gasped, voice shaking.

"I have a boyfriend."

Dex laughed

Low, rough, unbothered, the sound rumbling against my chest where he still held me pinned.

The corners of his mouth curled into something wicked, something inevitable.

"I know," he said, voice like gravel.

And he didn’t move.

Didn’t let me go.

His thumb brushed the edge of my jaw again, slow and deliberate, tilting my face up to his.

"But you don't love him," Dex murmured, so quietly I almost didn’t hear it.

The words struck something deep inside me, a fault line splitting wide open.

Because it was true.

And we both knew it.

He leaned back in for a kiss, 

I should’ve pulled away.

I should’ve pushed harder, said something, anything, that would shove this moment back into the realm of sanity.

But I didn’t.

Because when he said it, 

You don't love him,

Something inside me cracked.

And Dex saw it.

His grip on me shifted, rougher now, hungrier, one hand sliding down my back to anchor at my hip, fingers flexing like he needed to feel me, like he needed proof I was still real under his hands. His forehead stayed pressed against mine, our noses brushing. His breathing was wrecked, harsh, uneven, every exhale dragging across my skin like a confession he couldn't say out loud.

"You can tell me to stop," he murmured against my lips.

A low, broken promise.

His voice vibrated straight through my bones.

"You can tell me to leave."

He pressed his mouth to the corner of mine, not quite a kiss, but close enough to steal my breath.

"I'll listen."

Another kiss, the edge of my jaw, the line of my cheek.

Soft. Worshipful.

"I'll walk away."

He said it, but his hands betrayed him, dragging up under the hem of my sweatshirt, fingers splaying across my bare waist like he couldn’t help it.

Like he had to touch every inch he was starving for.

I opened my mouth to say what, I didn’t even know, but nothing came out except a shaky breath.

Because I didn’t want him to leave.

I didn't want him to stop.

And he knew it.

He made a sound, low, wrecked, somewhere between a groan and a curse, and then he kissed me again.

For real this time.

It was nothing like before.

Not gentle.

Not patient.

It was hungry

Months of aching, missing, wanting, crashing down between us all at once.

He kissed me like he was drowning and I was the only thing keeping him alive.

And I answered, God help me, I answered, my fingers fisting in the front of his jacket, yanking him closer like I needed him just as badly. His mouth slanted over mine, hot and frantic, teeth catching on my bottom lip, not rough enough to hurt, just enough to make me gasp against him.

That gasp undid him.

He growled low in his chest, a real sound this time, and backed me up, walking me blind toward the nearest wall until my back hit it with a soft thud.

The rain hammered outside.

The TV played forgotten behind us.

The world shrank down to just this.

Just him.

Just me.

Just the aching, electric pull between us.

Dex broke the kiss for half a second, forehead still pressed to mine, his chest heaving against me, his hands framing my waist like he was afraid I'd vanish.

"Tell me to stop," he rasped again.

My hands slid up to his jaw, rough with stubble, still damp from the rain, and I shook my head.

I couldn’t speak.

I couldn't breathe.

I just pulled him back down.

And he broke.

His mouth crashed into mine harder this time, messy, desperate, like he was trying to pour six months of silence into this kiss. His hands moved, slow but sure, under my sweatshirt, skimming over bare skin, dragging goosebumps in their wake. I gasped against his mouth, arching into him without meaning to, and he groaned, the sound deep and guttural, vibrating against my ribs. His palms mapped every inch of me, my sides, my back, my hips, slow and reverent, like he was committing me to memory.

His mouth left mine to trail lower, my jaw, the side of my neck, soft, biting kisses that made my knees buckle.

I whimpered, couldn't help it, and his hands slid down to my thighs, hoisting me up against the wall like I weighed nothing. I clutched at him, heart slamming against my ribs, head falling back against the wall as he kissed a line down my throat, slow, slow, savoring me.

He didn’t rush.

Even though every part of him was trembling with restraint, I could feel it, 

He took his time.

Like he wanted to taste every second he lost.

My hands fumbled with the zipper of his jacket, yanking it down clumsily, desperate to get closer, to feel more.

He shrugged out of it without breaking the kiss, the leather falling to the floor with a heavy thud.

His body pressed against mine, solid, burning hot despite the cold rain still dripping from his clothes.

I shivered against him, not from the cold, and he noticed.

Pulled back just enough to look at me.

His eyes were dark. Wild.

But underneath it, that same unbearable tenderness.

The way he always looked at me.

Like I was the only thing that had ever made sense.

"You still want me?" he whispered, voice breaking at the edges.

I couldn't lie.

Not when he was looking at me like that.

Not when my heart was breaking open in my chest.

"Yes," I breathed.

The tiniest smile ghosted across his mouth, crooked, shaky, real.

Not rough.

Not frantic.

Deliberate.

Savoring.

His hands mapped my body with reverent slowness, fingers skating under the hem of my sweatshirt, dragging up my spine, pulling me against him so tightly I could feel the rapid, brutal pounding of his heart.

I barely had time to gasp before he bent, hooking his arms around my thighs, lifting me off the ground like it cost him nothing.

A soft, startled sound slipped out of me, half-whimper, half-laugh, but it died against his mouth as he carried me, crossing the room in a few long strides. The backs of my knees hit the couch, and he eased me down onto it like I was something precious. Something he couldn't bear to let go of even for a second. He hovered over me, arms braced on either side of my head, chest heaving, rainwater dripping from the ends of his hair onto my skin, staring down at me like he was drinking me in.

"God, I missed you," he breathed.

The words ghosted over my lips, my jaw, my neck as he kissed his way down. I arched helplessly into him, hands threading into the soaked fabric of his T-shirt, pulling him closer even when I should’ve pushed him away.

You shouldn’t be doing this, some part of me screamed.

You Shouldn’t-

But all of me ignored it.

Because when Dex's mouth found the pulse point under my ear, the world spun out of focus.

I whimpered, soft and broken, and he groaned, a deep, guttural sound, as if the noise I made physically hurt him. His teeth grazed the sensitive skin there, not enough to mark, just enough to make my body jolt, and then he whispered it:

"Take it off."

A command.

A plea.

A confession.

His fingers tugged at the hem of my sweatshirt, insistent but careful, like he was barely holding himself back from just tearing it away.

I swallowed, chest heaving under the fabric.

My hands shook as I grabbed the edge of the sweatshirt, trembling not from fear but from everything else crashing through me, and pulled it over my head. The fabric caught for a second, a clumsy, breathless second, before I finally peeled it off and tossed it blindly to the floor.

Dex sat back slightly, dragging his eyes over me.

Slow.

Savoring.

His gaze was a physical thing, hotter than fire, heavier than any touch, branding every inch of exposed skin.

I felt naked under him.

Worse: I wanted to feel naked under him.

He exhaled a shaky breath through his nose, dragging a hand through his wet hair like he needed the grounding.

Then he leaned in, slow enough that I could've stopped him, and kissed the top of my breast, just above the line of my bra, so softly it made my lungs collapse.

I gasped, back arching instinctively off the couch.

His hand slid up the side of my ribs, thumb grazing the edge of the lace, and he pressed his mouth lower, tracing the delicate line with infuriating slowness.

“Dex, please,” I whispered, voice wrecked.

His mouth curved against my skin, not quite a smile, but close.

“Tell me what you want,” he rasped.

I didn’t respond, not right away, I said “you”

And then he kissed me again, really kissed me, claiming my mouth with a hunger that had no end. His hand roamed everywhere, slow, greedy strokes down my sides, my stomach, my hips.

Every touch left fire in its wake.

Every kiss left me more undone.

He moved with painful patience, like he was memorizing me, refusing to rush even when his own body trembled with restraint.

And God, it made it worse.

Made it better.

Made me wild.

I fumbled at the hem of his soaked shirt, yanking it up, and he broke away just long enough to rip it over his head and throw it aside.

His skin was warm and damp, muscles shifting under the streetlight-glow of the TV.

Beautiful.

Scarred, and I wanted to cry and kiss every one of them at once.

But I didn’t get the chance.

Because Dex crushed his mouth back to mine and pressed me down into the cushions, his body sliding over mine, fitting against me like he belonged there.

Like he always had.

My legs wrapped around his waist without thinking, pulling him closer, needing more, and he ground against me, a ragged noise tearing from his throat as our hips aligned.

I gasped into his mouth, fingers sinking into his hair, pulling, anchoring.

He groaned against my lips, deep and desperate, and kissed me like he was going to swallow me whole. One hand slid under my back skillfully, assuredly unhooking my bra with a flick of his fingers like he’d done it a thousand times in his dreams.

The straps slid down my arms.

The bra slipped away.

And Dex froze.

For half a second, he just looked at me.

Stared at me like he had when he first opened the door.

Like I was something he’d prayed for and never thought he’d get again. His hand lifted, reverent, brushing a knuckle over the swell of my breast, so lightly it made me shudder.

"Perfect," he whispered.

The word barely made it out of him, like he couldn't even believe it.

I was trembling under him now, not from cold, not from fear, but from the unbearable pressure building under my skin.

"Dex," I breathed, not even knowing what I was asking for.

He answered anyway.

He ducked his head and tasted me, his mouth closing over one aching peak, tongue flicking, teeth grazing just lightly enough to make my back arch clean off the couch. I moaned, high, broken, humiliatingly needy, and his hands clamped down on my hips, holding me steady, grounding me. He devoured me slowly, no rush, no mercy, lavishing every inch of skin he uncovered like he had all night.

And maybe he did.

I didn’t even realize I was pleading until the words slipped out, wrecked, breathless, broken against his mouth.

"Please… Dex… please," My hands clutched at his back, nails raking lightly down his damp skin, desperate to pull him closer, to feel all of him, to disappear into him like I used to.

But he didn’t move faster.

He didn’t give in.

He smiled against my skin, a slow, wicked, hungry smile, and kissed his way down my body like he had all the time in the world.

"No rush," he whispered against my chest, the vibration of his voice sending a shudder through my bones.

“Let me take my time with you."

His hands skimmed up my sides, fingers tracing every rib, every curve, memorizing me with brutal, aching tenderness. I whimpered, high and shaky, writhing under him, arching my back, offering more.

Begging.

But he only chuckled low under his breath, nipping at the sensitive skin just beneath my breast, soothing it immediately with a soft, open-mouthed kiss that made my whole body tense.

Every nerve in me burned.

Every cell screamed for him.

Still, he took his time.

His lips traveled lower down the center of my stomach, slow and reverent, like every inch of me was sacred. He paused at my navel, dragging his tongue in a lazy, languid circle that made me buck up against him. He pinned me easily, one large hand splayed over my hips, holding me still with effortless strength.

"Stay still," he murmured, mouth ghosting over my skin.

I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood, fists clenching the cushions beneath me.

The need 

The ache was unbearable.

I needed him like I needed oxygen.

Like I needed blood in my veins.

And he knew it.

God, he knew it.

He kissed the inside of my hip bone, slow, savoring, before hooking his fingers into the waistband of my sweatpants. He paused, glancing up at me with dark, molten eyes, asking without words. Begging for permission he didn't need.

I nodded, 

frantic,

desperate, unable to find my voice.

He peeled the sweatpants down slow, slow, slow, baring me inch by devastating inch until I kicked them off the rest of the way, trembling. His hands gripped my thighs, spreading me just slightly, and he groaned, a deep, guttural sound that made my skin flame.

"You have no idea-” he muttered, dragging his mouth up the inside of my thigh, teeth grazing lightly.

"You have no idea what you do to me."

I was shaking so hard it felt like the couch might fall apart underneath us.

"Dex," I gasped, threading my fingers into his hair, tugging. "Please, please, I can’t-“

He shushed me with a soft kiss to the inside of my knee.

I was falling apart, completely undone, before he even touched me where I needed him most.

And he loved it.

He worshipped it.

His hands roamed my thighs, slow and rough, squeezing, petting, teasing, his mouth leaving a hot, wet trail up and up and up.

By the time his lips brushed between my legs, I was whimpering shamelessly, hips straining toward him, the need a sharp, raw ache.

Dex didn't dive in.

Of course, he didn’t.

He knelt between my thighs like a man worshiping at an altar, palms firm against the insides of my legs, keeping me open for him, wide and trembling.

He lowered his head slowly, excruciatingly slowly, until I could feel the heat of his breath ghosting over my skin, sending a full-body shiver through me.

He hadn’t touched yet.

He just breathed on me.

I watched, wide-eyed and shaking, as his nose skimmed lightly, almost teasingly, up the sensitive inner line of my thigh. The rough stubble on his jaw scraped a whisper of sensation against my skin, making my hips twitch helplessly in his hands. He growled, low and approving, feeling the way my body reacted under him. His hands tightened just a little, thumbs pressing slowly, grounding circles into my thighs as if to anchor me there, make sure I didn’t run even if my instincts screamed at me to.

And then, finally, 

finally,

His mouth touched me.

Not a kiss.

Not a lick.

A breath.

Warm air spilling against the part of me that was already dripping, aching, begging. I whimpered, my hips jerking again, but he only growled softly and pushed them flat against the couch with more pressure, his strength obvious even when he was gentle.

"Stay open for me," he murmured, voice low, roughened with hunger.

I sobbed a tiny, broken sound, clutching at the couch cushions beside me, fingers digging in, body burning with the need to be touched, properly touched, but he didn't give it to me.

Not yet.

Instead, his tongue flicked out, the barest tip, and traced a slow, agonizing line up my center. I gasped, thighs trying to snap shut, but he held me effortlessly in place. His mouth moved again, this time a kiss, barely a kiss, soft and maddening, right over the sensitive bundle of nerves that was already throbbing for him. I cried out, the sound raw and desperate, my head falling back against the couch, nails dragging helplessly over the fabric beneath me.

Dex hummed low in his chest, pleased, the vibration of it sending another jolt of pleasure straight through my core.

He mouthed at me, slow, lazy strokes of his tongue, tracing every fold, every quiver, every shaking inch, like he had all the time in the world.

He wanted to take his time driving me completely insane.

Every time I thought he would give me more, that he would finally give in and devour me the way my body was begging him to, he pulled back just slightly, teasing me to the brink before easing off again. I was sobbing by the time he flattened his tongue and dragged it slowly, torturously up the full length of me. My thighs quivered, my toes curling where they pressed against the couch cushions. My stomach tensed, spasming with the effort of holding back the orgasm that was already building like a tidal wave inside me.

"Please," I gasped, tears sliding hot and fast down my temples, disappearing into my hairline.

"Please, Dex- please."

He finally lifted his head just enough to meet my eyes, his pupils blown wide, his mouth shiny with me, and he smiled.

Slow. Wicked.

"That's it," he said softly. 

I sobbed again, too wrecked to feel humiliated, and tugged at his hair desperately, trying to pull him back down where I needed him most.

Dex gave in.

Finally.

He latched onto my clit with his mouth not harsh, not brutal but devastating in how steady, how focused he was. His tongue licked in slow, deliberate circles, over and over, so rhythmic, so perfect it had me clawing at the couch for something, anything, to hold onto. My hips writhed, trying to jerk up and away, but he pinned me down with his whole upper body, his chest pressing into my thighs, his strong arms wrapped around them, locking me in place.

Nowhere to go.

Nothing to do but take it.

He sucked 

Slow, sweet, devastating, and flicked his tongue against the sensitive bud, the movements maddeningly patient, keeping me on the knife’s edge.

I cried his name, broken, wrecked, the sound barely human. My legs tried to close again, overwhelmed, overstimulated, but Dex only growled deep in his throat and gripped my thighs tighter, forcing me open, forcing me to feel every second of it.

"You stay open for me," he murmured again, words hot against my dripping skin, the ownership in his voice making my stomach flip violently.

Tears streamed down my face, pleasure too sharp, too sweet, too much, and he still didn’t stop.

He wanted it all.

Every twitch. Every moan. Every sobbing, broken plea.

I was so close I couldn't see straight, vision swimming, body tensing up like a live wire about to snap.

"I can’t- Dex, I can’t- please-“ I gasped, trembling uncontrollably, nails dragging down my own thighs because I needed something to ground me. He hummed again, smug and wrecked at once and sucked harder, his tongue swirling in firm, deliberate circles until-

I shattered.

The orgasm ripped through me so violently that for a moment, there was nothing.

No couch.

No rain outside.

No air.

Just pure, blinding white heat.

I screamed his name hoarse, broken my entire body seizing up under him, my thighs quivering, hips trying to jerk away, escape, anything.

But he didn't let me.

He held me there, devouring every shudder, every aftershock, dragging his tongue through the mess he made of me, moaning like he couldn’t get enough.

When he finally lifted his head, slowly, lazily, his mouth was slick, his lips swollen, his face flushed and wild.

He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, almost absentmindedly, eyes locked on me like I was the only thing that existed.

Dark.

Wild.

Starving.

It wasn’t enough.

For either of us.

I could barely breathe, my chest heaving, my whole body buzzing and oversensitive, but still, it wasn't enough.

Dex pushed himself up over me, hands braced on either side of my head, his weight a comforting, suffocating presence caging me in. He ducked his head low, so low I could feel the humid heat of his breath skating over my lips.

And then he kissed me.

Hard.

Desperate.

Claiming.

His mouth crashed into mine with a hunger that bordered on feral, and I gasped against him, immediately tasting myself on his tongue, salty, sweet, hot, a taste that made my toes curl and my thighs clench all over again. Dex groaned into the kiss a low, broken sound, deepening it immediately, sliding his tongue against mine with devastating slowness, like he wanted me to savor the taste of myself on him.

Like he needed me to know exactly what he'd done.

I whimpered, actually whimpered, clawing at his skin, dragging him closer, needing more, needing everything. His body pressed against mine, solid, heavy, grinding just barely enough that I could feel the thick, throbbing hardness straining against his pants. He kissed me like he was trying to crawl inside my skin. Like six months of restraint and misery were pouring out of him all at once. My hands fisted the back of his hair, but he caught my wrists again, gently but firmly, holding me in place, his kiss slowing, teasing now, until I was gasping into his mouth.

I broke the kiss with a broken whisper.

"More," I breathed, my voice cracking, desperate.

Dex pulled back just far enough to look at me.

His eyes.

God, his eyes.

Blown wide with lust, dark and molten, hooded with something almost painful in its intensity.

He stared at me like I was air after drowning.

Like, he couldn’t believe I was real.

"More?" he repeated, voice rough and low.

I nodded frantically, unable to form words, my whole body arching up toward him, begging without shame.

He didn’t make me ask again.

Dex slid his arms under me in one fluid, effortless motion, lifting me off the couch as if I weighed nothing. I gasped, arms wrapping instinctively around his shoulders, clinging to him as he carried me across the room. The rain battered the windows harder now, wind howling, but the only sound I could hear was the ragged breathing between us, the pounding of my heart against my ribs. He kicked open my bedroom door without ceremony and carried me straight to the bed, dropping me gently onto the mattress.

I reached for him the second he lowered me down. He crawled over me, straddling my hips, pinning me with his body weight, catching my mouth in another kiss.

This one was different.

Slower.

Deeper.

Full of a hunger that no amount of time apart had dulled.

I moaned into his mouth, 

He chuckled softly against my mouth, a low, dangerous sound,

My mouth went dry.

Before I could even catch my breath, I was reaching lower, fumbling for the button of his pants, desperate, frantic, needing more, needing everything.

Dex caught my hand mid-movement.

He smirked, a real, cocky, devilish smirk and leaned down to brush his mouth against the shell of my ear.

"Not yet," he whispered, voice dark and teasing, sending a full-body shudder through me.

I whined 

An actual whine, arching my hips up against him, feeling the thick, throbbing outline of him still trapped behind his pants. He growled low in his throat, grinding down once, slowly, deliberately, making my eyes roll back in my head.

But he didn't give in.

He kissed me again, harder, rougher this time, swallowing every sound, every gasp, every broken plea.

And when I tried to roll my hips against him again, desperate for friction, for contact, for anything, he caught my wrists again and pinned them over my head, his grip unbreakable.

He pulled back just enough to look at me, his chest heaving, his face flushed, sweat and rain mixing on his skin, and he smiled.

"You're not getting what you want yet, sweetheart," he rasped, his voice sending a violent shiver down my spine.

“not yet”

And then he dipped his head again and started kissing his way down my body.

Slow.

Devastating.

Mouth and tongue and teeth tracing the line of my throat, the hollow of my collarbone, the slope of my breast. He sucked gently at the skin just above my heart, leaving a mark that made me whimper and squirm uselessly under him.

But he didn’t let go of my wrists.

He kept me pinned, helpless,  his mouth dragging lower, lower, torturing me with every second, every burning inch. His grip loosened around my wrists, finally letting me go.

But I didn’t move.

Couldn’t move.

Every nerve ending burned with the need for him, and still, he didn’t rush. He moved lower, lips ghosting across my ribs, my stomach, every touch making me arch and whimper, aching for more.

My body was vibrating with it, with need, with desperation, with him.

Then he paused, hovering above me.

His face flushed, his eyes lifted to meet mine.

“Are you sure about this?” Dex asked with a rough whisper,

I nodded immediately, frantic.

"Yes," I whispered, voice cracking. "Please, Dex. Please."

For a beat, he just stared at me, like he was memorizing everything.

Every sound, every look, every desperate gasp I'd made for him.

And then he kissed me, hard, deep, overwhelming, and reached between us. I felt his fingers slowly move down to my waist, then to my hip, slow and deliberate, sliding down to my thighs with torturous care. Dex groaned, a deep, raw sound that vibrated against my chest, and finally pushed his own pants down just enough. His hand wrapped around himself once, slow, stroking, and I shivered helplessly at the sight.

So thick.

So hard.

All for me.

He nudged my thighs apart, his hands firm but careful on my hips, spreading me wider, and lined himself up.

I could barely breathe.

Could barely think.

Every muscle in my body tensed, anticipation and need coiling so tightly it hurt. He pressed forward, just the tip, slow, achingly slow, letting me feel every inch of him as he stretched me open. I gasped, clawing at his shoulders, overwhelmed by the sensation, the hot, thick pressure, the brutal, sweet burn of it.

He didn’t slam into me.

He sank in inch by inch, groaning my name against my throat, holding himself back with a restraint that made my heart ache. And when he was finally fully seated inside me, buried deep, deep where I was slick and pulsing and desperate, he stilled.

Panting.

Letting me adjust to the size of him, the feel of him. I buried my face in his neck, breathing him in, moaning low and broken.

“Dex,” I said out loud, too loud.

He whispered back gently, “I know, baby, I know.” He kissed my temple, rough, messy, and then he moved. A slow, grinding thrust that had me sobbing his name into his skin. He set a rhythm, deep, deliberate strokes dragging against my walls with every pull back, every thrust in. The slick sound of our bodies meeting filled the room, mingling with the ragged gasps and broken moans tearing from both of us. He braced one hand against the mattress beside my head, the other gripping my hip, pulling me into every thrust.

I was crying again, couldn’t stop, tears slipping down my temples into my hairline from the overwhelming pleasure.

Dex kissed them away without slowing.

Without stopping.

His mouth brushed my cheek, my jaw, my lips between desperate, hungry kisses.

"You feel..." he panted, breaking the kiss, forehead pressed to mine.

"You feel so good, fuck-“

I tightened around him in response, clenching, trembling, and he groaned so low and guttural I swore I felt it in my bones. He slammed in deeper, grinding slowly, wringing a choked cry from my throat. My nails dug into his back, desperate to anchor myself to something, anything, as he ruined me in the best way possible.

I was close.

So close it hurt.

Every nerve, every cell in my body was straining toward him, breaking apart under him.

"Come for me," Dex rasped against my lips.

"Let go. I've got you."

One more thrust, one more devastating, perfect drag against that spot inside me, and I shattered.

Screaming his name, sobbing it.

Dex cursed low and rough, hips snapping once, twice, before he groaned, deep, wrecked.

The weight of it, the finality, settled between my ribs like something tangible, something thick and heavy and real.

Dex didn’t move at first.

Didn’t even breathe.

His head was dipped on my shoulder, my hand resting at the back of his neck, his heart thundering against my chest where we were still joined, still trembling from everything we’d just shattered through. Then, slowly, he leaned in and kissed me again.

Soft.

Lingering.

A kiss that tasted like everything we just did, and everything we couldn’t say yet.

When he pulled away, he shifted us, flipping me with a low grunt, careful and slow, until I was sprawled on top of him, my bare body pressed against his chest. He wrapped his arms around me immediately, strong and sure, and dropped a kiss to the crown of my head, breathing me in like he needed the scent of me filling his lungs. His fingers found my hair, slow, soothing strokes, and I felt myself melt against him, my cheek resting over his heart, listening to it pound against my ear.

He kissed my forehead again.

Then again.

Soft, lazy kisses scattered across my sweaty skin like he couldn't help himself, like he needed to keep touching me, keep reminding himself I was here, real, his. I was still gasping for air, my body humming, every nerve raw and sensitive and so, so full, feeling the way our bodies still clung together even after.

But then-

Reality crept in.

Sharp and cold and unforgiving.

It stabbed at the edges of my mind, twisting its way in through the haze of pleasure, through the comfort of Dex’s arms around me.

Mason.

My chest tightened, a painful squeeze that made it hard to breathe. I let out a loud, shaky sigh, loud enough that Dex’s hand in my hair paused, and my throat burned.

My eyes burned.

I squeezed them shut, trying to force it down, force it back, but a tear slipped free, hot and heavy against my cheek.

I sniffled without meaning to.

Dex stiffened immediately underneath me.

His whole body went rigid, his heart stuttering under my ear.

“Hey," he said, voice rough, panicked. "What's wrong?" His arms tightened around me, trying to pull me closer, trying to shield me from whatever he thought had hurt me. I didn’t move for a second, too caught up in the shame, the guilt, the awful twisting ache in my gut. Finally, I lifted myself just slightly, pushing up on his chest with shaky hands, lying half across him, half propped up.

I blinked down at him, and my heart squeezed at the look on his face.

Full-blown panic.

Pure, raw fear.

Like he thought he'd hurt me.

Like he thought he'd broken something too badly to fix.

I forced a small, wobbly smile, more a tremble of my lips than anything real, and shook my head quickly.

“No, no," I said, voice soft and hoarse. "It's not what you think."

Dex’s shoulders slumped in visible relief.

He exhaled sharply, a breath he’d clearly been holding, and closed his eyes for a second like he was trying to steady himself.

His hand came back to my hair, stroking, soothing, a grounding touch.

"What is it then?" he murmured, voice still rough, still cautious.

I hesitated.

For one long, shattering second, I hesitated.

Then I whispered, "Mason."

His eyebrows furrowed immediately, his whole expression darkening.

“Who the fuck is Mason?” he asked, almost too calm, as he lifted a hand to wipe the tears that had slipped down my cheeks.

I let out a broken laugh, half hysterical, half miserable, and ducked my head against his chest, trying to hide.

But he wasn't letting me hide.

He tipped my chin back up with two fingers, eyes boring into mine.

I sniffled again, smiling through the mess of it.

"My boyfriend," I admitted in a small voice.

Dex's entire face shifted.

For one second, he just stared at me.

Then he sighed, long and slow, almost like he was annoyed more than anything, and looked away, scrubbing a hand down his face.

I watched him, heart pounding, unsure what he was going to say.

But then he turned back, eyes dark, mouth set, and said simply:

"You don't have a boyfriend."

And before I could even think about responding, before I could find words or guilt or anything at all, he placed his big hand on the back of my head, not hard, not rough, but firm and gently pushed me down, guiding me to lay against his chest again.

The gesture was final.

I lay there, stunned, the weight of him under me, around me, sinking deep into my bones.

And for a split second, I let myself believe it.

Believe him.

I let myself belong to him again.

Just for a moment.

I shifted slightly, opening my mouth to protest, to say what the hell do you mean?, but Dex was faster.

"Shhh," he murmured, cutting me off before I could even form the first word. He pushed my head gently back down onto his chest, holding it there, his hand cradling my skull like something precious.

“Sleep,” he whispered against my hair.

I swallowed hard, my throat burning.

I lay there in the heavy dark, in the sound of the rain pounding against the window, in the feeling of his heartbeat pounding slow and steady beneath my cheek. Dex's fingers threaded through my hair, slow and hypnotic, stroking again and again. His other arm curled protectively around my back, holding me so close, so tight, like he thought if he loosened his grip even a little, I might disappear.

I didn’t fight it.

I didn’t speak.

I just closed my eyes, letting myself drown in the way he held me, the way he breathed me in, the way he kissed the top of my head like a prayer he didn’t know he was saying. And even with all the guilt and the chaos and the confusion spinning through my chest, the last thing I felt before sleep finally dragged me under was safe.

─────── ⌖ ───────

Y’all asked and y’all shall receive. You wanted smut, so here you go. It only took them thirteen chapters to finally fuck.

And if the smut isn’t good enough... sorry! It’s my first time writing it, I’m not a smut pro yet. 

ANYWAYSSSS, I’m dying to hear everyone’s thoughts. Seriously. I need to know everything.

Thank you so much for reading this chapter. There’s still so much more to come.

I love you all. Enjoyyyyy!!!

Yours truly,

Raey ♡

─────── ⌖ ───────

[chaconnehoon]

⟢ Convient store

— Nishimura Riki x Reader ( fem )

Strangers to friends

Genre: fluff, angst (?)

( 📝 ) note. from chaconnehoon

Enjoy!

© All rights reserved chaconnehoon do not copy.

GAPS! **

You woke up with a sudden bolt. Your heartbeat going a thousand miles per hour, you put your hands where your heart was, after the sudden bolt. A thin layer of sweat could be seen on your forehead, soon a migraine followed, and you began to get back all your five senses.

To your right, you took a look, at the clock. It showed " 3:00 AM ", this was your afternoon time. Now normal people would be confused about how that could be your afternoon. No, you’re not a vampire, you’re just a hypersomnia person.

If you don’t know what that means, in short, it’s someone who sleeps a lot. Way more than the average human being and the norm. The opposite of insomnia yk? Back to the story. After your heartbeat calmed down you ran a hand through your hair. Which wasn’t easy since it’s was tangled from the tossing and turning.

But this is normal for you, since you were little, from a very young age, you have been diagnosed with hypersomnia. You slept and slept and slept. That’s what your whole life has been like. Sometimes people are born that way.

With some others it runs in the family, just like for me. Anyway, you got up groggy and went to your bathroom to do your daily routine, got dressed and went out. You didn’t have the ingredients for the breakfast you wanted. So you’re going to get it at the 24h stores.

About 10 min later, I was at the seven up store sipping on some coffee and some snacks sitting in front of me on my table. Untouched. I thought to myself: " I should stop sleeping so much, fight against the sleep! " but that never really worked. Because ten minutes later I would be dozing off.

While munching on my sandwich, the door opened and someone walked in. It was a boy, he was tall and lean and was dressed in clothes I could only dream to afford. The chrome hearts really suited him. Along with silver accessories sitting prettily on his neck,ears and fingers.

" Yo Riki, nice to see you again. It’s been awhile! " the cashier said. So Riki is his name? Pretty name for a pretty boy, or should I say handsome man?? Idk. Riki responded. " Yeah I had to go to Japan to see my fam you know. " he was cut off.

" Damn so how did Soomin react to it? I know she’s a lot to handle. " the cashier said. Soomin? A girlfriend? Omd and here I am crushing on a dude who already has a gf. Stupid Y/N, Stupid Y/N!! " No I didn’t tell her. You know how she acts, always so protective of me. "

" But that’s because she loves you Riki, you’re technically her little brother. She doesn’t want you to tire yourself out. " he patted his shoulders and went back to do his work when clients came in. Riki had already paid and left. When he passed you, something fell out of his pockets.

It was a little figurine, you saw it but was unsure if you should go get it or leave it. By the time you made up your mind, he was already long gone. A missed chance that’s what you call it. You put the little figurine in your bag and continued with your day. Or should I say night?

few weeks later*

It was another day, another day where you would wake up at early hours. Instead of going outside, today or tonight (?), you decided to finish up some work. Your boss is kind enough to let you work at home since she knows about your condition so you always make sure that work is done and done on time.

After all, that’s what pays the bills, when you were about to finish the last paper. Your eyes grew tired. " no not again " you plead, maybe to yourself, maybe to no one at all. You grabbed your keys, throw on a jacket and dashed outside. You wanted to get an energy drink, one of the few drinks that helps with staying up longer.

Keyword, longer, not as much as needed. But regardless, your eyes were starting to sting because you were getting sleepy again. Even tho you shouldn’t. You quickly grabbed 4 or 5 or more drinks. Just to keep you awake and dashed back to your apartment. You opened one filled your throat with everything. Not wasting a single drop.

You didn’t want to sleep in the streets like previous times. " Almost there! " you thought. You only had to make 2 turns and go forward and you would be at your apartment. But suddenly darkness, complete darkness.

____ H__o?

______hi

The sound got louder

And then-

GASPS**

" Wow Wow, calm down okay? " a male voice said. You turned in shock towards the blonde male in front of you. You suddenly got up and grabbed the nearest object next you ( which was a lamp ) and started attacking him.

" Wait! OW STOP! Put it down! Put it down. " he said while grabbing your hand and putting the lamp away. " Who are you? What are you doing in my room?! " you yelled and he chuckled. " Your room? Hahaha " he laughed. That’s when you started noticing your surroundings.

It was a a dark blue themed room, with posters of rappers and dancers and skateboards. And a LOT of figurines. He even got the limited edition hirono’s. I cleared my throat and spoke.

" How did I get here, please. " staying respectful. " well I came back from a friends house and saw you knocked out on the ground. I didn’t know where you lived and felt like leaving you alone there wasn’t a good idea neither sooo "

" So that’s how I ended up here. Right? " he nodded and I sighed. This is not okay, I am really going to run in danger one day. I looked at the boy and I recognized him. It was Riki, from the store. This made me feel less scared.

" Sorry, I have hypersomnia. So I-

" It’s okay, I understand trust me. I have the complete opposite. I had insomnia since I was a little and it was draining. At first but I learned to live with it. " he said. I could feel him, feel his emotions. I was always told I was emotionally intelligent.

" Are you hungry? Or do want a drink? " he asked and I immediately remember the energy drinks I goggled down my throat earlier. " No thank you, I had enough drinks for today. And my tummy isn’t feeling good right now. "

I said while gently patting my tummy. He laughed and I did too. I then looked back at the figurines, I recognized the ones I wanted. Riki caught me and he went to go get two of them. " I got these gifted, by a friend. His name is Jungwon. He said they looked like both of us. "

He then took his phone out of his pockets and showed me a pic of them. It was him and his friends and next to his phone sat the figurines. His friend was right they do look like them. " I see the resemblance. It’s cute! "

I said and got shy. " Thank you, Jungwon would LOVE to hear about this. Now that I remember, I don’t think I got your name. " " It’s Y/N! And you? ( even tho you already knew ). " " Riki for you ms Y/N! " he said and I smiled.

" Let’s exchange contacts if that’s okay with you. You seem nice Y/N. " he said while grabbing your hand. You could see some red going to his ears and cheeks, you thought it was cute. Taking out his phone again, you nodded and gave him your phone number.

That’s how a wholesome friendship ( or more ) started.

These are the pics and the figurines btw



[genoskissors]

The Hundred Line: Last Defense Academy - First Ending Thoughts

I won’t be saying my thoughts on each ending, but since the first ending is the same, I might as well. I also want to talk a lot, specifically about the characters, because they are what make the story for me.

Major Spoilers for the first 100 days!!!

I've already seen some criticism for characters, but I am filled with love and joy, so the majority of my commentary will be positive. I will say that overall, this game was insanely fun. Each battle had a different aspect to it and there were so many twists and turns. Didn’t proof read, so sorry for any mistakes.

Darumi Amemiya (飴宮 怠美)

I really liked her at the beginning and was sad when she became so depressed later in the story. She seems a bit too attached to the killing game idea but I was kinda hoping she’d develop a different idea. I also wish she had more serious moments, like Genocide Jack did, but that’s okay. Even if the fighting was for fun in her case, it still made her feel like a reliable person in my eyes.

Great for battle and has both fun animations and combat voice lines. I’ve said this before, but she also looks a million times better in her battle armor rather than her regular outfit. It just looks so much better with her hair colors.

Eito Aotsuki (蒼月 衛人)

I’m pretty observant, I could tell he was going to have some sort of twist, yet still found myself surprised at his weapon hitting the capsule. I did really enjoy his innocent facade and am kinda sad his true nature is so twisted. I thought it was interesting how they’ve never heard of the moon, but “tsuki” means moon. I’ve seen people compare him to Nagito but I honestly see them as complete opposites. Also, he looked good with his hair back.

He’s decently fun to play and does good damage. Even though he loses energy after one turn like everyone else, save Tsubasa, I often used him repeatedly for nearby enemies. He gets the job done quick and easy.

Gaku Maruko (丸子 楽)

I really ended up liking him. I had my doubts due to his personality, but as he was more fleshed out, he grew on me. Especially with the backstory, the idea of loving people even when you feel like they don’t care about you is so sad. Having to work every day and never reap any benefit sounds miserable, I can’t even hate him. I still wouldn’t exactly call him a “mood maker” though. He has his moments.

Very good for when there are a ton of enemies, because then he can deal with the 1 HP ones easily. I didn’t use him as much as I think I could have, looking back, he’s a great character.

Hiruko Shizuhara (雫原 比留子)

Ugh, I am so sad our time with her was so short. I really thought she’d be leading us to the end. When the group discovered her corpse, I genuinely had to put my switch down and just sigh. They didn’t even need to say anything, just seeing the glasses made me realize. She was cold and ruthless, but I could see a side of her warming up to the others, I do think she would’ve been a good leader after some more time.

In the little time we got with her, she was my favorite. Her damage is great, and I know that’s the whole point, but still. The only downside was she could only attack one at a time, but I understand everyone needs some limits on their abilities.

Ima Tsukumo (九十九 今馬)

Absolutely love his character development. I never disliked him from the start, but he grew to be one of my favorites. The implications at his past are also heart breaking. Kako is all he has and he’ll do anything to protect her. I was so happy when they joined battle together. He went through a lot, straight up getting a new body Nekomaru style. When he still ended up dying I knew Kako was going to go crazy. Also how did he drive the bus as Sirei?

He was fun to play but unfortunately did not get much time with him as he joined late and when he came back he couldn’t even fight. Still was good in that little bit of time he had.

Kako Tsukumo (九十九 過子)

If you asked me who would be my favorite before I played the game, never in a million years would I guess Kako. But, here we are. Her development is amazing and I really felt her pain. When she said her and Ima had promised to die together, but then they promised to keep living without each other, my heart broke. Kodaka said they’d be even more controversial after release, so I thought it might get very incestuous, but that was not the case. At least in the first route, the twins relationship progression was very wholesome yet sad. I love how Ima means present, Kako means past, and she can see the future.

She was good it battle, especially the hellfire move. Some enemies reflect damage if you are nearby, so long distance characters are very useful. I would not say she’s a need in battle, but fun to have nevertheless.

Kurara Oosuzuki (大鈴木 くらら)

She came on very strong at the beginning and I was worried that I would find her annoying, but I did not! I really enjoyed her character and her soft spot for Nozomi. Her real face is cute too, but I honestly like the tomato mask. Perhaps I’ve just grown use to it. I did enjoy her dynamic with Kyoshika, it reminds me of Hiyoko and Mikan but if Mikan was more assertive. I also love how the tomato changes with her expressions.

I’ll be completely honest, I did not care for her combat. She is useful in building barriers, but it kinda loses meaning when everyone can build when and Shouma can straight up be one. I did like how she repairs the barrier if attacking an enemy nearby.

Kyoshika Magadori (凶鳥 狂死香)

I love her! She’s stupid and funny and great. I really enjoyed her voice actor as well. I love how she just. Cannot read the room. I really would like to learn more about why her name is so violent, but perhaps I must wait a while longer. Also her voice lines during combat are stuck in my head and have been all day. “This is my true power!” “Nin nin!” “You’ve left yourself open!” “I’m burnt out!” Great stuff.

Without a doubt, my favorite in terms of combat. She is such a fun character to use and does great damage. I often took her out on explorations because of that. I already knew I was going to like her but her attack really sealed the deal.

Moko Mojiro (喪白 もこ)

Okay so… I don’t really have anything to say here. We barely saw the real her and couldn’t even fight with her. I do like her based on Nozomi’s word, but when it comes to forming my own opinion, there’s not much to work with. I didn’t really find her wrestling stories in the cafeteria engaging. Idk, sorry Moko fans.

Nozomi Kirifuji (霧藤 希)

THE BABYYYY. It’s common for characters that are liked by everyone to be hated, but I genuinely just could not imagine hating her. Even Kurara loves her. It’s well deserved, she’s wonderful. The twist made me so sad, I didn’t want to make her cry!!! Her death was awful and knowing it could’ve been stopped made it so much worse. I will save you in my next route, I promise!

Next to Kyoshika in favorite for combat. I pretty much never used her for direct combat, but her healing is a lifesaver. When she died I thought I was screwed for upcoming battles. I really like hearing everyone’s thanks after being healed, it’s sweet.

Shouma Ginzaki (銀崎 晶馬)

Shouma, I am sorry for doubting you. He was annoying at first, constantly being a pessimist in ways that didn’t even lighten the mood. When he finally agreed to battle, he grew on me so much more. He maintained his low self esteem but still became a part of the team and used his weakness of being bad with fighting as a strength, being a shield. His stupid hat has also grown on me as well.

Not much to say in terms of combat, he kinda just stands there, but was definitely useful when a lot of enemies are nearby and you need to keep someone with low health alive. His voice lines are also great during battle, even if they are sometimes sad.

Takemaru Yakushiji (厄師寺 猛丸)

Another character I must apologize to for doubting. He had that whole dynamic with Hiruko going but later in the story he shows he misses her and that was a really strong moment for him. Again, when Takumi brought up going back in time, I thought I would dislike Takemaru for being so aggressive, but he ended up accepting it. His “punishments” for Ima and Kako were also a good moment. I do like him.

This is the kind of character I’m looking for. Attacking all around is great, despite the low amount of damage, it’s still good when the enemies have low health. I do wish he kept the shades on when he was on his motorcycle.

Takumi Sumino (澄野 拓海)

Incredible strong protagonist in terms of character. Like he might actually be one of my favorite Kodaka protagonists. I love how he didn’t follow the usual “I’m just a normal guy” trope and actually saw his own strengths and used them. His loyalty to Karua is also very strong. He isn’t outright about his feelings until later, but even if they never were romantic, they were still incredibly powerful. He’s a great character.

He looks cool in every combat scene. I really loved when his sword turned blue because it still matched his color palette, at least his eyes. Very helpful in defeating groups since he can just go row by row. Even though it’s nothing crazy, he’s still fun.

Tsubasa Kawana (川奈 つばさ)

I love her very much. A total cutie patootie. I really enjoy the moments when she gets really excited. I was very happy at how Takumi accommodated her issue with throwing up. She helped the team a lot with everything mechanical, a lot of things would have been impossible with out her. She didn’t end up being my favorite like I thought, but is still very high on my list.

Even though she doesn’t do much damage, the fact she can do continuous attacks without loosing any distance is great, even if i do end up spending a lot of AP on it. Either way, I really enjoyed having her in battle, her voice lines were cute as well.

Yugamu Omokage (面影 歪)

One of my favorites but I fear I projected Genocide Jack onto him a lot. I just really like her, sorry not sorry. Either way I still ended up liking him, despite his oddities. He also came in clutch multiple times, so I think he needs more love for that. Love his voice actor, especially during combat, he sounded great. I thought it was funny how Takemaru called him pretty boy, because this boy is ugly, sorry. Still like him.

Despite my love for him, I didn’t really get much out of using him in battle. Yes, he makes the enemies bleed, but I’m a bit busy to keep track of that, sorry Yugamu.

Sirei and Nigou (ＳＩＲＥＩ) & (ＮＩＧＯＵ)

Can’t say much for these two as neither got much screen time, like surprisingly low. Due to the announcements it felt like Sirei was there every step of the way. Still, I can’t say much on them, but I definitely did not hate them.

This will likely be my last THL post for a while, I want to get back to Danganronpa and also get through more endings. I might do a similar style post with Danganronpa characters, but I’m not sure yet.

[apple-onigiri]

I love post canon Loop has explosive telekinesis but the headcanon never sat right with me because if they could do that why did it never occur to them to use it in canon? I mean I like their boss fight but what if I wanted a tohou style fight? I know there's not much that can be done about it but saying Loop just forgot or didn't realise still feels lazy so I decided to come up with a headcanon that explains this.

My headcanon is that since they are supposed to help Loop can only access all these secret/forgotten forms of craft if it helps others, that way it prevents Loop from abusing this power.

Bonnie: If only there was a way to heat food fast any time any place.

Loop: *Makes microwave noises*

Odile: If only there was a way to clean everything more quickly and efficiently.

Loop: *Makes vacuum cleaner noises*

Mirabelle: If only there was some way to experience horror stories more directly without actually being in the story.

Loop: *Makes gaming console noises*

Isabeau: If only there was a way to put on some romantic music on my date with Siffrin without hiring a band because that would make him anxious.

Loop: *Begrudgingly makes loudspeaker noises*

Siffrin: If only I knew a long range attack that ignores types of craft and defeats your enemies instantly.

Loop: Stardust, let me teach you this craft sign I like to call gun.

interesting take!! ahhh fun collection of situations, i always love loop interacting with the rest of the party!!! but lmao not the noises 😫

hmmm when it comes to the fight tho, it's not like they can't had to have forgotten; that fight was the first one after they got taken away from their own loops and doing what they've known how to do is not out of the question, why would they suddenly know how to do it when there was no reason for them to try out anything new? and it's not like siffrin entered the house knowing he could learn rock/paper craft moves. i think it's just really fun to let loop learn and grow past the loops, shows there's life after that for them, life of their own, one that's separate

to be honest, i myself abstain from loop being constrained by wish craft after the time loops are broken as well because it feels entirely too cruel and they already did their job - their wish was for someone to help them, i.e. siffrin, after all (i did also read them being forced to do stuff because it at the time worked towards helping siffrin escape from the loops, not because they have to do everything someone says). but this is an interesting idea nonetheless :) thank you for the ask

[moeblob]

What if I straight up didn't explain myself? What if I just said trust me on this? Would you?

[front-facing-pokemon]

[ace-and-ranty]

Worth nothing is that this specific job was also giving me anxiety because:

It required me to take phone calls

It required me to ask a coworker to do every little thing, so I spent a great deal of my time having to bug another human being, and it was HELL.

So I just recently quit a job.

It was relatively chill, with pretty good pay for the amount of work involved. But see, before that job, I've scheduled my own work hours for every job I've ever had. Since I worked mainly translation, well, clients don't care when you're sat down in front of the computer working, as long as they get things by deadline.

The fact that this job had specific working hours, during which I was expected to have my butt sat at the computer, was driving me insane.

It gave me the kind of low-level but constant anxiety that is the bane of my existence. It's the kind of anxiety where I cannot disconnect, I cannot relax, because I know in X hours I need to be at the job, and I hated it so much I, an extremely non-confrontational people pleaser, scrapped together the gumption to quit.

Why am I telling you all of this. You wonder. Well. Because for years now I have wondered, on and off, if maybe, perhaps, I'm like, a little bit autistic? I feel insane, in that I don't relate to a lot of the struggles autistic people often mention, but I feel just weird enough, just a-bit-to-the-left enough that I don't feel neurotypical, and I don't know what's going on there.

And well, one of the struggles I never connected to is "need for routine" because hum, no, actually, I've never really felt the need for a lot of routine. But oh? What's this? Now there's an expectation for how I gotta use my time, so my schedule is out of my control? And it's making me itch out of my fucking skin? How curious??

All to say, yeah, I don't know what's going on under the hood. But thank God for flexible working hours.

[simcardiac-arrested]

never volunteer for anything university related man. also go listen to this

[hephaestuscrew]

“This has both our names on it”: Viewing Fleet and Clara’s relationship in Victoriocity through a queerplatonic lens

TL;DR: By Season 3 of Victoriocity, Fleet and Clara have developed a committed emotional partnership that certainly moves beyond the purely professional. Whilst very much operating as a duo, they can be interpreted as often rejecting or subverting romance-coded elements in their relationship, instead embracing a unique dynamic that can be read as resonating with the concept of a queerplatonic relationship (QPR).

Buckle up because this is over 2,500 words long! If you'd rather read it as a document, you can access it here: Fleet & Clara QPR Google Doc

Disclaimer: I'm not making any claims about creator intent, nor about how anyone else ought to interpret Fleet and Clara's dynamic. It's also worth acknowledging that queerplatonic relationships are inherently defined by the people in them and any attempt to apply such terminology to a story set in 1887 is obviously anachronistic (although whether that should matter when said story also contains a cyborg Queen Victoria is up for debate). 

With that said, if we define a QPR as a committed personal partnership which is not entirely captured by the typical expectations of either friendship or romance but may contain some elements typically associated with either (other definitions of QPRs are available), I enjoy viewing Fleet and Clara's relationship through a QPR lens, and I want to talk about some of the reasons why I think this reading works.

***Spoilers for all three seasons of Victoriocity and the novel High Vaultage***

Detective duos

Even before we actually get into Fleet and Clara's particular bond, detective / crime-solving duos as a general concept have QPR energy to me (which probably predisposed me to this interpretation). It's the Holmes-and-Watson legacy. It's the use of the word 'partner' in a non-romantic context (‘associate’ or ‘companion’ can also serve a similar purpose). It's the intense trust and reliance on each other. It's the sense of being a recognisable pair, always appearing together, known as a duo, with skills and attributes that complement each other. 

Romantic assumptions

Moving on to Fleet and Clara specifically, one aspect of their relationship that can be read through a QPR lens is how they are often in situations where other people believe or imply that there is a romantic relationship between them. Sometimes this is a deliberate strategy of theirs, and sometimes it’s imposed upon them by others. But I’d argue that there’s never a point where they both simultaneously seem entirely comfortable with that romantic narrative for their relationship. Usually one of them will actively deny the assumption or react negatively to the implication:

When Mrs Hampshire interprets Clara and Fleet as a couple experiencing “young love”, Clara might be happy to adopt this as an effective cover story, but Fleet seems unsettled and keen for them not to be perceived this way: “No. No. You’ve misunderstood, we are not, that is to say I am…” (S1E2)

When Warden Hughes assumes Fleet is the new Warden and Clara is the new Warden’s wife, Clara says “I am certainly not”, with emphasis on the ‘certainly’. (S2E2)

Fleet definitely doesn’t sound enthused when he realises Clara has gone for a married couple as their cover story at the Grand Salcombe: “I am sure I’ll regret asking, but by any chance am I [Mr. Theasby?]” (S2E2)

When Titus Byrne tells the pair “I take it you're happy sharing [a room]”, Clara responds with a horrified “What?” (S3E4) (Obviously sleeping in the same room isn’t inherently romantic, but it is often perceived that way.)

Of course, fake dating and external assumptions of romance are very common tropes in romantic will-they-won't-they dynamics, and these moments could definitely be interpreted that way for Fleet and Clara. But I prefer to read these instances as reflecting a different kind of closeness between these two characters. They have a sense of emotional partnership that allows a marriage cover story to seem plausible to others and that other people sometimes automatically assume to be romantic (obviously with some period-typical heteronormativity at play). But to me, it doesn't seem like either of them are fully comfortable with their relationship being perceived in a directly romantic way. Perhaps they are a couple in a different sense…

Proposal via door plate 

The way that Fleet asks Clara to be his business partner has always seemed to me like a platonic version of when people find personal ways to surprise their romantic partner with a proposal:

CLARA: You bought me a door plate for your office? [...] This has both our names on it. FLEET: What do you think? CLARA: I like it. (S2E7)

Fleet could have just asked Clara outright, without going to the trouble of buying a sign that would have been useless if she’d said no. If it was purely a professional business proposition with no emotional meaning behind it, I think he would have just asked verbally. But instead, he gifts her a sign with their two names paired together: Fleet-Entwhistle Investigations. There's something so intimate about that to me: about Fleet asking Clara whether she would like to be a duo with him in a more formally-defined but still non-romantic way; about him choosing to present this offer in the form of a gift; about the way he presents her with their two names joined together etched into metal and asks what she thinks; about the significance that this gesture attaches to their partnership; about him having enough trust that she'll say yes that the effort and vulnerability of presenting her with that sign seem worth it for him. And the gesture means an awful lot to Clara:

She thought about the door plaque he’d had engraved with both their names on it as his way of inviting her to be his business partner – typical Fleet, refusing to tell her so much as his favourite breakfast food and then to go and do something like that. It was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for her. (High Vaultage, p187). 

Anniversaries

In the special episode ‘Murder in the Pharaoh's Tomb', Clara says “And you know what else is a big occasion Fleet? It's our one-month anniversary.” She wants to celebrate the anniversary of Fleet-Entwhistle Investigations. Their partnership holds a significance for her that means key dates associated with it are worth remembering and remarking upon. 

When Clara first mentions their anniversary, Fleet nearly chokes on his drink, which seems like an instinctive reaction to the usually romantic connotations of an anniversary (see my point above about Fleet not being comfortable with their dynamic being perceived as romantic). But when Clara clarifies what she means, Fleet seems much more cheerful about the notion of their anniversary: “Ah, so it has.”

“Miss Clara Entwhistle, my partner”

I get extremely strong QPR vibes from this moment, when Fleet introduces Clara to the sailors at Grave End:

FLEET: This is Miss Clara Entwhistle, my partner - in business, my business partner. CLARA: I'm also his friend, but he doesn't like to say it. (S3 E3)

Fleet and Clara are partners, but not in the way the average person might assume from that word, which Fleet realises mid-sentence here. This is another instance of Fleet reacting negatively to the idea that their relationship might be interpreted romantically (see above). And yet, 'partner' (rather than, say, ‘colleague’) is the word that comes naturally to him in this moment to describe who Clara is to him. He then frantically emphasises the professional element of their relationship so as to avoid the romantic implication, but Clara is keen to proudly assert that there is a personal, emotional aspect to their dynamic too. They are first-and-foremost partners, and they are friends, and they do not want to be seen in a romantic light - this post basically writes itself... 

“Her ridiculous detective.”

When Clara fears for her life at the display of the Lanterns, the narration tells us:

“she thought of her brother, her sister, her parents... Her ridiculous detective.” (High Vaultage, p172) 

The fact that Clara thinks of Fleet in this moment of fear clearly indicates his importance to her, but I think the phrasing of this quote is particularly interesting. The narration lists Clara's immediate family: two of whom are dead (her sister and father), one of whom is publically mourning Clara's life choices (her mother), and only one of whom we have any real evidence of her having a positive relationship with (her brother). And then, separated from these complicated familial relationships by an ellipsis, the narration tells Clara also thinks of Fleet, “her ridiculous detective”. 

Parents and siblings are familial relationships that tend to come with established expectations, in which the use of a possessive pronoun (i.e. her brother) to indicate the relationship is a norm. ‘Detective’ does not fall into this category; unlike ‘brother’, ‘sister’, ‘parent’, ‘friend’, ‘partner’ etc., ‘detective’ is not a word that inherently implies a relationship or that we'd usually expect to see preceded by a possessive pronoun. The idea of ‘her detective’ therefore stands out, giving the sense that there is a unique relationship being indicated here. The way in which Fleet is ‘hers’ is something that Clara has chosen for herself, something that they have shaped together. Who they are to each other can't necessarily be fully expressed using standard phrases that traditionally describe relationships between people. But Fleet is Clara's detective, of which she only has one, and who she'll think of in the midst of “the screaming of the heavens at the end of the world”.

Fleet is also the only one in this list of Clara's loved ones who gets an adjective - her love for him has detail. And while “ridiculous” might often be perceived as negative (it's certainly not a classic romantic endearment), it seems to me like there's such fondness in it in this context: the recognition of and affection for eccentricities, the idea that his importance to her is not (purely) based on his professional strengths but on Fleet as a whole - perhaps at times ridiculous - person.

“Settled”

When Clara and Fleet talk about Clara's mother’s expectations for her, they have this exchange:

"She's still living in hope that one day I'll settle down."  "You're not settled?" asked Fleet. "I am." (High Vaultage, p259) 

By ‘settle down’, Clara's mother of course means ‘marry’, ideally into “at least a minor baronetcy”. But Clara already considers herself "settled", just not in a way her mother would understand or appreciate. She's not looking to "settle down" into a lifestyle other than her current one. She is settled in a situation where Fleet is certainly her closest personal connection in London (and perhaps anywhere), and where the two of them work closely together, operate as a duo, and then go back to their separate homes. And this partnership with Fleet is a comfortable set-up that feels right for Clara exactly as it is, rather than being a precursor to, or a distraction from, the marriage ambitions that her mother wants for her.

I think this exchange also contains an implicit sense of the commitment between the two of them. Fleet wants to check that Clara is ‘settled’ in her current situation, of which working closely - and platonically - with Fleet is obviously a major element; Clara confirms she is. There's a subtle indication of their shared intention to be in this for the long haul.

As a sidenote, Fleet and Clara’s implicit assumption that their partnership is a long-term one can manifest itself in joking contexts as well as serious ones. Look at this exchange from S3E5: 

FLEET: We're not bandits, we're just going to flag it down. CLARA: We'd be terrific bandits! FLEET: Let's just see how our current line of work goes.

I think it’s notable that, in this joking speculation, both Fleet and Clara use ‘we’ and ‘our’. The joke could have been phrased just as effectively if they were imagining only Clara becoming a bandit. But the suggestion is that, if either of them was a bandit, they’d be bandits together. Even if they changed their lives entirely, they'd still approach life together.

Inseparable 

Fleet and Clara have become a nearly inseparable duo in a way which is noticed by others. For example, after Clara and Fleet fall out in High Vaultage, Fleet meets with Keller, who says: 

"You're here with me instead of barrelling across town with her, so I'm just assuming there is some thickheaded puffinry for which you need to apologise to Miss Entwhistle" (p335)

Keller, hardly the most emotionally perceptive man in Even Greater London, automatically infers from the fact that Fleet is on his own that he has had a falling out with Clara, rather than that they just happen to be in different places. When all is well, Keller expects to see the two of them together, whether or not they are in a position to be actively working a case.

Going back earlier in their partnership, Keller makes a similar assumption about Fleet and Clara being inseparable in S2E6. When Clara shouts her name amidst Keller's anti-Vidoc booby traps, Keller asks "Entwhistle? Which means… Fleet?" Again, there's this idea that if one of them is there, the other is likely to be there too - they come as a pair. (It's worth noting that this scene takes place less than two weeks after they first met.)

“Like a friend might?”

At the end of S3E7, Fleet suggests that he and Clara go to the theatre together. It would have been easy for this invitation to have been explicitly framed as a romantic proposition, or even for the nature of the offer to have been left more ambiguous. But Clara says "Archibald Fleet, are you inviting me to a social activity? Like a friend might?" The use of the word 'friend' directly labels this as a platonic interaction. And it's with that platonic lens on it that Clara is extremely excited to spend non-work-related social time with Fleet.

“Maybe it'll just be my good luck charm.”

CLARA: My grandmother's ring, I don't suppose you managed to hold on to it? [...] FLEET: Oh, it's been crushed.. I'm sorry Clara [...] CLARA: No, you keep it. FLEET: What? No... CLARA: Keep it. Maybe it'll remind you not to run towards trains. FLEET: Maybe. Maybe it'll just be my good luck charm.

In S3E7, Clara gives Fleet a ring, which - as a gift from one person to another - is traditionally a symbol of a particular, legally recognised, kind of personal commitment. But when Clara tells Fleet to keep the damaged ring, down in the Underground tunnels after the destruction of the beast and Fleet's latest brush with death, it is quite a different situation to a wedding or a proposal. A married man would traditionally wear his wedding ring on his finger for all to see, but Fleet won't ever wear this ring like that. The ring itself has been bent into a different shape between the wheels of their misadventures, subverting the usual associations of a ring given from one person to another. (In a heteronormative world, those associations are particularly strong when the two people in question are a woman and a man.) 

That ring is not an engagement ring, but it is Clara’s grandmother's ring, an inheritance from the blood family she never really felt she belonged in, now given to the man who might be a very different kind of family for her in London. That ring - with which Clara saved Fleet's life - is a symbol of their bond. And it therefore serves as a reminder for Fleet “not to run towards trains" and as a “good luck charm”. I like to think he'll carry that ring with him, perhaps in his jacket pocket - a little piece of his partner, kept close to his ticking heart…

Thank you for reading all of this!

If you’ve read all of this, I'm assuming you also enjoy the concept of Fleet and Clara as a QPR (unless you're really a glutton for punishment) and that makes me very happy! This was long because there's so much to say about them… And I wrote all of the above without even getting into: the potential to headcanon Fleet and/or Clara as aspec (which I don't think is necessary for QPR headcanons, but which is also fun); Clara's baggage around and discomfort with marriage in general; the speed with which Fleet and Clara become a ride-or-die duo; and the many other demonstrations of care, understanding, trust, respect, and affection between them that didn't feel as directly QPR-coded to me but are nonetheless wonderful. Please do feel free to share your own thoughts!