#cedar wood finish

[gradienty]

Manhattan Cedar Wood Finish (#f5c889 to #791a00)

[inkstainedpalettes]

Inktuneber Day 9

Static - Jukebox the Ghost

Ohhh another good one! I love Jukebox the Ghost a lot, and some of their quirkier older stuff holds a special place in my heart. This is top of the list. An absolute treat when played live too! That concert T-shirt is my favorite shirt I own

[rotomartsblog]

A roleswap Cedar and Cerise sketch from last month

[thelilylav]

Clinging to my Heartwood scraps like a beggar given a single loaf of breadwood

[spencersmopbucket]

With the Devil | Remmick

Pairing: Remmick x Reader Summary: Mama and Daddy had always taught you not to let evil into your mind — but they'd never taught you how not to fall in love with the devil.

Themes & Warnings: corruption, smut, oral (fem receiving), mentions of religion, vampire:))))))

IDC REMMICK IS SO HOT

You were perfect. That's what Mama always told you — you'd had it ingrained into your mind since you were just a baby. You were beautiful, you were kind, you were faithful.

Your Mama was a medicine woman. Your daddy was the town preacher. And you, their little girl, were the most eligible bachelorette in the town of Clarksdale. Your wild, curly hair was always pinned back, nails always painted, lips always glossed. You dressed cleanly and modestly. Your dark, unmarred skin was luminous and moisturized, allowing you a glow that was incomparable to any other girl your age.

You were never late to school. You never spent too much time talking to the boys. You prayed every night, stocking-clad knees on the wood floor, whispering softly.

You always imagined, with the help of your parents, a husband. Firm and kind, with a straight white smile and clean hands. A businessman, maybe. A man that frequented church. Nothing like them dogs every other woman raved about.

The thought of them made you scoff.

When you thought of marriage, you thought of what your Mama and Daddy had coached you.

Until you met him.

Your undoing. Your downfall. Your sin.

You saw him first on a Thursday. The air was heavy with summer and sin — one of those Mississippi nights that made the cotton stick to your skin and the devil’s whisper easier to hear. The juke was loud, pulsing with laughter and music you weren’t allowed to dance to. But you stood just outside it, waiting for your older friend to finish flirting with the barkeep, your Bible clutched to your chest like armor.

That’s when you felt it. Not saw — felt. A presence. Ancient. Unholy. Beautiful. Dangerous, above all else.

He was leaning against the fence, dressed like a man who had nowhere to be and no one to answer to. A shirt too fine for the Delta heat. Eyes that glowed red beneath the brim of a black hat. And a grin — slow and sharp — like he knew exactly how you’d taste when you broke.

He didn’t belong in Clarksdale — not with the dust of this town on his boots, not with the way his eyes burned like coals under moonlight. And yet, he leaned there like he’d been born of the very land, like the shadows curled around his boots to rest.

His gaze slid to you. Slow. Deliberate.

“Evenin’, dove,” he said, his voice warm and rough, touched by that unmistakable lilt — like poetry slurred in whiskey. “Bit far from the chapel, aren’t ya?”

You clutched your Bible tighter, the leather cover slick against your palms. You were taught to fear the devil. No one told you he’d look at you like that. Like you were temptation.

“I’m waiting on someone,” you managed, your voice barely audible.

He smiled at that — not kindly. No. It was indulgent. Knowing.

“Oh, I can see that,” he said, pushing off the fence with the kind of lazy grace that made the air tighten. “Tell me, do all the good girls carry scripture like a shield?”

Your throat went dry. You opened your mouth — to quote something, maybe, to say something about God’s protection, or how you weren’t interested — but the words stuck. Because he was close now, and the scent of him was thick with smoke and cedar and something sweet beneath it all. Not perfume. Not cologne. Something unnatural. Something wrong.

“Relax,” he murmured, eyes trailing across your face like a caress. “Ain’t come to hurt you.”

You didn’t believe him. But you wanted to.

“Who are you?” you asked, breathless.

He touched the brim of his hat, the red in his eyes glowing faintly in the dark.

“Remmick.”

The name hit the air like a curse.

Your stomach sank. You’d heard it before. Old wives whispered it over boiling pots and under their breath in the graveyard. They said Remmick had danced with witches and kissed the mouths of holy women. Said he’d killed everyone in the Smokestack juke joint in 1932 and made an army of the dead. You'd always thought he was just a scary story, just a wives tale. He didn't exist. He couldn't.

Vampires weren't real.

Your mama once told you never to say his name aloud. That if you said it, he’d know. But you hadn’t said it. He had. And still — he looked at you like he’d known you your whole life.

Like he’d been waiting.

His smirk curled around his lips, like a snake up a vine.

"We'll see each other again, lovely dove. I swear it. Get home safe now." He said, his Irish brogue evident.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Your feet were rooted to the ground like the Magnolia trees your mama prayed under. The juke's laughter turned to static in your ears, the cicadas buzzed too loud, and the warm wind brushed past your dress like a warning.

Remmick tipped his hat a little lower, and just like that — he was gone.

Not walked away. Not turned and faded. Gone.

The air rushed back into your lungs, sharp and stinging, like it had been waiting too long to fill you. You looked around — no sign of him. Just the night, heavy and wet with the scent of honeysuckle and trouble.

Your older friend reappeared a few minutes later, giggling and smelling like bourbon, none the wiser. “You alright, sugar?” she asked, fanning herself. “You look like you seen a ghost.”

You shook your head. “N-no. I’m fine.” But you weren’t.

Because you walked home clutching that Bible like it could still save you — but your fingers trembled, and your mind reeled, and somewhere deep in your chest, your heart had started to ache.

And worse than that… A part of you hoped he really would come back.

You knew you were done for, just like you'd heard in all of the wives tales. Once Remmick chose you, it crept in like a secret, hushed words in the back of your mind. He slowly ate you alive until all that was left was sin.

The nights after that first meeting grew darker, heavier. You tried to hold onto what Mama and Daddy taught you — faith, purity, the promise of salvation — but every shadow seemed to whisper his name. Every breeze carried the ghost of his voice, low and honeyed, calling you closer.

You found yourself drawn to places you never would’ve dared before: the cracked sidewalks under flickering streetlamps, the edges of the cotton fields where the cicadas sang their mournful song. And always, there was that ache — a hunger that wasn’t just physical, but something deeper, darker.

Remmick’s presence slithered through your thoughts like a poison and a balm all at once. You were afraid, but you were enthralled. His sin was infectious, but it felt like home.

You didn’t want to admit it. But you were already his.

And with every secret moment stolen beneath the moon’s watchful gaze, the old you slipped away, unraveling like a thread in a worn quilt.

Mama’s prayers echoed in your mind, fragile and fading, as you whispered into the night:

“Lord, save me…” But even as the words left your lips, you knew.

You were lost. And loving every breath of it.

The next time you saw Remmick, you were lying in bed. This night was worse than the others — you couldn't sleep. It evaded you. You sweat into your sheets, twisted around your legs as you tossed and turned.

You could feel him. Inside of you. In your chest, in your head, calling out to you.

Your heart hammered like a drumbeat in the quiet dark, matching the rhythm of the whisper curling through your thoughts. You dared not speak his name aloud — Mama’s warning still burned in your memory— but the pull was undeniable, a silent siren song that rooted you to the bed, torn between fear and craving.

Then, as if summoned by your unspoken plea, a shadow slipped through the cracked window, sliding across your room like liquid smoke. Remmick.

His eyes, red embers glowing softly in the moonlight, fixed on you with a hunger that was both fierce and gentle, like he was seeing through to the very soul you fought to protect.

“Restless, dove?” He smirked in amusement. You straightened, your muscles tense under his gaze. You were scared, yes. But you couldn’t ignore the creeping satisfaction under your skin.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

He stepped closer to the bed, ancient hands running along your cotton sheets. You watched, biting your lip.

“Strugglin’ so hard to sleep. Because of me. Yet you won’t so much as whisper my name.” He said, his voice honey soaked. He was designed to be alluring. It’s how he caught his prey, how he claimed all those lives decades ago.

He leaned in closer, his frame casting a long shadow over your bed, his fingers ghosting over the sheets like he was memorizing the shape of your restlessness. The scent of him —earthy, metallic, something older than blood and fire — curled in your nose and made your breath hitch.

“You’re afraid that sayin’ it will make this real,” he murmured, voice low enough to pass for a dream. “But you know better, dove. This was real the moment I saw you. The moment you looked back.”

Your throat was dry, your heart pounding like a trapped bird inside your chest. You could still feel the weight of your Mama’s cross necklace at your collarbone, tucked beneath the lace of your nightdress. But even that holy pressure couldn’t stop the heat curling in your belly at his nearness.

Remmick’s lips quirked higher at your silence, his gaze dark with something ancient, possessive. “You keep prayin’,” he said, brushing the edge of your pillow, “but deep down, you don’t want to be saved.”

You flinched at the truth of it.

He laughed, soft and slow, like he’d just caught a fish on the line.

“There it is,” he whispered, kneeling beside your bed, his face inches from yours now. “That feeling in your guts… That’s not fear, is it?”

Your squeezed your eyes closed, laying back.

“Leave, devil.” You whispered back, holding onto the last few bits of restraint you had.

Remmick didn’t move.

He hovered there beside your bed, his breath brushing your cheek like the breeze before a storm, thick with static and promise.

“Now why would I do that,” he said softly, voice curling around the edges of your will, “when you called me here?”

Your eyes flew open.

“I didn’t—”

“Oh, but you did,” he interrupted, with a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “Every night you twist in those sheets, whispering into the dark. Every time you dream of fire and teeth and touch. That’s a prayer too. Just not the kind your mama taught you.”

You turned your face away, jaw clenched, but your body betrayed you — heat rising, breath catching.

He leaned in closer, his voice a sinful hymn against your ear.

“Say my name,” he coaxed. “Just once. Let it taste your tongue. You’ll feel better. I promise.”

The devil’s hand rested just beside your head, not quite touching you — but you swore you could feel the chill of it down to your bones.

And God help you…

You wanted to.

His voice was velvet-drenched sin, a low murmur that made the air around you hum.

“Come on, baby,” he whispered again, and this time, there was something darker in it — not just coaxing, but claiming. His fingers finally brushed your cheek, light as a ghost, burning like a brand. “Let me in. Say my name, hm?”

You should’ve screamed. You should’ve prayed.

Instead, you turned your head back toward him, lips parted, breath trembling. Your soul stood on the edge of something vast and terrible — but it didn’t want to step back.

“Remmick,” you breathed, soft as a confession.

The effect was immediate.

His smile deepened into something hungry, almost reverent. Like he’d waited a century just to hear your voice say it.

“There’s my girl,” he murmured, dragging the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip. “Took you long enough.”

And with that, the last of your restraint crumbled — and the devil stepped through the door you’d just opened.

Before you could second-guess yourself, his lips crashed against yours.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was desperate, searing, like a man starved of something he’d been craving for far too long. His hand slid into your hair, fingers curling tight as he pulled you closer, devouring every soft sound that left your throat. His mouth tasted like smoke and blood and something impossibly sweet. Something addictive.

Your body arched before you even realized it, your hands clinging to the front of his shirt, as if you could tether yourself to the storm he brought with him.

He groaned into the kiss, a low, guttural sound that rumbled from his chest, and the bed creaked beneath his weight as he pushed closer. His other hand found your waist, dragging you against him like he had every right to.

“Good, good girl,” he rasped, voice thick with satisfaction as his thumb brushed the corner of your kiss-swollen mouth. His eyes burned like embers in the dark. “Mine now.”

His grip on your waist tightened, possessive, unyielding — not cruel, but claiming. Worshipful in a way that felt far more dangerous than hate ever could.

“No god can take you back.”

The words slithered into your soul, final and eternal. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t pray. You didn’t run.

Because in that moment — half-wrapped in cotton sheets and sin, heart thudding in time with the devil’s touch — you knew he was right.

You belonged to him.

And you didn’t want to be saved.

His hand quickly found your nightgown, and before you knew it:

Riiiip.

You wore nothing underneath. Your body was exposed to him completely, glistening with the sweat of a sleepless night, the slight fear he induced, the anticipation. His eyes traced your body predatorily, his tongue swiping his lip.

He hovered above you, gaze searing as it drank in every inch of bare skin, your breath shallow beneath him. The heat between you was suffocating — not just from the summer air, but from the charged silence, the pull of something ancient and forbidden threading itself through every heartbeat.

“Look at you,” Remmick murmured, voice low and reverent, almost mocking in its tenderness. “Waitin’ for me. Not a prayer in that pretty little head. What would Mama and Daddy think? Hm?”

He grinned as he said it, knowing the answer didn’t matter. His fingers ghosted over your collarbone, then lower, savoring the way you trembled — not just from fear, but from surrender.

“You were their pride,” he went on, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Now look at you… Writhin’ in sin for the devil himself.”

Your breath hitched, shame and desire tangling somewhere deep in your chest. His name nearly slipped from your lips again, and he heard it — felt it — in the way your body arched, in the pulse pounding at your throat.

Remmick chuckled darkly. “Good girl.”

His voice was velvet, soaked in smoke.

“‘S alright. I’m gonna make it all better now,” Remmick purred, his accent curling around the words like smoke.

His hand slid behind your neck, tilting your head gently, like you were something delicate — precious, even. His touch was warm, reverent, wicked. Everything about him was temptation draped in silk and shadow.

His mouth was hot — too hot — like the kiss of summer lightning right before a storm breaks. Wet, slow, deliberate. He mouthed at the base of your throat, then dragged his lips to your pulse, leaving kisses that were more like claims than affection. Another. Then another. Each one messier, hungrier, until your skin buzzed beneath the heat of him, your breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a whimper.

“What a pretty noise, baby. Keep ’em comin’,” Remmick murmured, his voice curling around your ear like smoke, smug and sinful.

His mouth never left your skin and he chased every sound you made like it was his favorite hymn, each whimper and gasp a confession. His fingers gripped your hips with just enough pressure to remind you who was in control, and his teeth scraped lightly at your throat, not biting — not yet — just warning.

“Don’t hold back on me now,” he rasped, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I want all of it. Every sound you’ve been too good to make. Every little song you swallowed when it was just you and your fingers at night.”

Your breath hitched, caught between the need to resist and the desperate want to surrender. His words wrapped around you like a dark lullaby, drawing out every hidden desire you thought you’d buried deep.

“Remmick..” you moaned.

His smile deepened, sharp and possessive. “That’s it, baby. Say my name like you mean it.”

His fingers traveled towards where you burned the brightest, where his attention was most needed. You whimpered, your hips bucking involuntarily, exposing all the sinful thoughts that hid themselves so far back in your mind.

His thumb traced the wet folds. You gasped.

“There, there. I’ve gotcha.”

You could’ve cried as he sunk down on the bed, pulling your sticky thighs apart. He licked his lips, looking at the glistening scene between your legs.

“Gonna ruin you. And yer gonna thank me, sweet girl.”

You shivered under his touch, every nerve in your body accepting its fate. You no longer wanted to resist. There wasn’t an inkling of it. The devil had claimed you.

And you were already his willing captive.

His tongue met your pussy, licking a warm, wet stripe onto the center. You mewled, your legs involuntarily closing, but he forced them back open with a dark, warning look.

He leaned back in again, wrapping his lips around your needy bud, lapping it with his tongue and then sucking. You moaned, your hand on autopilot, coming down to wrap each finger into his thick, messy hair.

“Remmick!”

You felt him literally grin into your cunt, releasing a lewd sound as he slurped another firm suck, making you twitch.

His tongue worked wonders, exploring every fold, tracing every contour. Your eyes rolled back into your head as he worked, lewd, wet sounds filling your room.

He came back off, his mouth glistening.

“Where’s your God now? This pretty pussy has never belonged to anyone but Remmick. It always has.”

With that, he gathered spit into his mouth, dropping it onto your drenched cunt. Using his tongue, he spread the warm substance around, painting your pussy with saliva.

Then, he delivered the crushing blow.

One more suck on your clit, giving you just enough pressure.

Your back arched, stars filled your vision, and you let out a languid moan. He chuckled into your cunt, letting you ride his face all the way through your orgasm.

When he was done, he pulled away. A string of spit and cum pulled away with him. He wiped it with his hand, sucking it from his fingers in a sinful show.

You laid, exhausted, chest heaving. You’d never experienced something like that before. You’d cum, yes, the only thing about your life you’d hidden from your parents. But it was never like that. Never that electric. And for once, you didn’t even feel guilty.

Remmick was growing on you.

Sensing your exhaustion, he hummed. “I haven’t much time ‘til sunrise, dove. But I’ll let ya get a peaceful sleep for a moment.”

He laid down next to you. You froze at first, confusion written on your face. But as if he had calming powers, you eased almost immediately, his scent filling your nose and his presence melting your fear away. This wasn’t normal. This was adjustment to sin. Adjustment to the devil. But you couldn’t much care right now.

Remmick shifted closer, his hand sliding beneath the sheets to rest just above your hip, possessive and protective all at once. You shouldn’t have felt safe — not in the arms of something whispered about in church warnings and graveyard stories — but you did. Terrifyingly so.

His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm, and you let yourself match it. He wasn’t human. He wasn’t righteous. He wasn’t even good.

But he was yours now.

His words dripped like warm molasses in your ear, thick and saccharine, laced with something darker.

“Waited for ya for ages. Decades,” Remmick whispered, curling around you like smoke, his fingers tracing invisible promises along your spine. “A beautiful bride, you’ll make.”

You shivered, not from fear — not anymore — but from something ancient stirring in your bones. Something that recognized him. Something that belonged to him.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

But you didn’t pull away.

“Sleep. I won’t be here when ya wake, but.. when night falls, you can always call my name.”

[cattownshend]

San Francisco Fire Pit Landscape Design ideas for a mid-sized modern full sun backyard stone landscaping with a fire pit.

[graynvmbr]

When the Sun Stood Still | Harry Potter

pairing: harry james potter x female!reader (no use of y/n)

summary: first kiss with harry

word count: 766

The soft morning sunlight fills your bedroom, casting a warm glow on everything as you and Harry finish cleaning up after the sleepover. Hermione and Ron are already downstairs, probably chatting with your parents and waiting to floo home. You linger in the bedroom with Harry, folding blankets and tucking away the last remnants of his stuff.

“Thanks for, um, helping out,” he says, brushing a bit of hair out of his face and looking at you a little sheepishly as he shoves the extra mattress to the side. You offer him a smile, nodding as you adjust the sheets on your bed, the sun streaming in through the window casting light and shadows over his face.

“Of course. I think that’s… everything.” Your words trail off as you glance up and find him staring at you, closer than you expected. The air between you seems to still, your heart thudding louder with each second. He’s looking at you with an intensity that makes it feel as if time has slowed down, and your mouth goes dry under his gaze.

In a quick, unexpected motion, Harry closes the distance between you, his eyes softening and then flickering with a kind of bold determination. He leans in, and his lips meet yours, gentle yet charged with a quiet, confident passion. You feel a flash of disbelief, but then the shock melts away, replaced by the warmth of his kiss. Your hands reach up to his shoulders as he moves up to your face, cupping it with a surprising gentleness. His lips press against yours in a way that feels both hesitant and sure all at once, as though he’s been waiting forever for this moment but couldn’t wait a second longer.

His mouth is warm, his breath soft against your skin, and you’re instantly enveloped by the familiar scent of him—treacle tart, warm wood and a touch of pine and cedar. You can feel his glasses brushing your cheek, grounding you in this surreal, dreamlike moment. There’s a heady silence around you, broken only by the faint sound of your breaths mingling.

The kiss is heated, filled with all the unspoken words and stolen glances that have passed between you both these past months. He pulls back only when he has to breathe, leaving you in a daze as you look up at him, feeling like the world has tilted off its axis.

You’re still catching your breath, watching him as he straightens and gives you a soft smile—a look that sends your heart racing all over again. He turns and heads toward the stairs, leaving you flustered and rooted in place. You think he’s going to say something, maybe a goodbye, but he just walks a couple of steps down, then pauses and glances back at you with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Owl me,” he says, his voice soft but smug. Before you can react, he steps back up, reaches out, and pulls you in for one more kiss—a bit bolder, his lips soft yet insistent as he tilts his head, savoring the moment. It’s a little more lingering this time, his confidence steady and clear, making your head spin even more.

When he finally pulls away, he gives you one last grin, that subtle smirk still tugging at his lips. After the kiss he spins on his heel, leaving you breathless and dumbfounded as he disappears down the stairs as if nothing at all has happened.

You stand there, blinking, replaying the entire exchange in your mind as you try to catch your breath. You can still feel the warm pressure of his lips on yours, the thrilling heat of his touch, and the playful confidence in that parting glance. The smirk, the way he looked at you right before the kiss—all of it loops in your mind, leaving you dazed and unable to move.

A small, disbelieving smile breaks over your face as you run a hand over your lips, trying to shake yourself from the daze. The kiss, his words, his look—all of it still feels too surreal. You realize you should head downstairs; Hermione and Ron are probably waiting, and Harry is surely acting casual, like he didn’t just turn your entire world upside down with a single, impulsive kiss.

But before you head down, you let out a soft laugh, your face flushed as you relive the moment. Harry Potter just kissed me, you think, your heart fluttering wildly at the memory of his lips on yours and that knowing look in his eyes.

back to my harry potter masterlist

[levissslutt]

ℂ𝕙𝕒𝕟𝕘𝕖 𝕞𝕪 𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕕

Jey Uso x black fem

Warnings: 18+ smut

Word count : 3.4k

Enjoy : )

My heels echoed off the walls as I clicked down the hallway, pausing in front of his door. Before I could raise my hand up to knock on the door, it swung open revealing a shirtless, tired looking Jey. I tried my best to keep my eyes only on his, but good lord he was fine.

Jey and I had been working together for 5 years now and every single time I saw him, it took my breathe away. He was sweet and gentle despite the persona he has to push for the crowd. A teddy bear If you will. 

"There's my girl, I been looking for you", he grinned. My girl ? Did he really just call me that. My heart fluttered as I stepped around him into his changing room. "I been meaning to ask you about something." His previous smirk fading a bit, but not all the way gone. "How do you feel about coming to Cali with me, nothing crazy just my peoples getting together for a cookout." 

I took a seat on the couch that lined the back wall of his room, pretending to think, lifting my chin up and tapping with my index finger. That earned me a slight chuckle from Jey. "Stop playing, my peoples already love you, even though yo ass playing." He mumbled the last bit, but I still heard it. I knew what he was referring to, I wasn't slow and I knew he wasn't either. 

--

I think we fell for each other the second I rounded the corner and head butted him by accident the first day we met. Literally and physically. I was all, but running to a meeting I was late to so the impact of my big ass head sent us both tumbling to the floor, and yet all he was doing was laughing. All 32 teeth showing. He smelled like shea butter, cedar-wood and warm hugs, and the second he helped me off the floor I fell into daze when I looked into those beautiful chocolatey eyes. 

Never in my life would I describe a person they way I described Jey. Everything about him made every single one of my senses light on fire when I was near him. He was so gentle and kind with me and so incredibly patient. I was so sure of what I liked. My entire life Ive only been with women. I expected myself to end up with a women, until i met him, Jey. I was too stubborn to admit it to myself, and even though he knew it I wouldn't admit it to him either, just how badly I wanted him.

He knew me so incredibly well. Like he knew me before I did and it drove me insane. He checked up on me and gave me little gifts. Not a day has gone by when he has not said good-morning or goodnight to me. That man makes sure the oil in my car is always changed, and rotates my tires for me. Hell he puts gas in my car.

He sees me. He cares about me

In the five minutes i’ve been in the room he has yet to take his eye off me, caressing every inch of my body with his eyes. Undressing me. He came and sat next to me on the couch, eyes never leaving mine. “I’m fr Maya I’m tired of playing games, I need you.” His eyes locked on mine. My breathe caught in my throat, but I couldn’t look away. He brushed his finger tips on my upper thigh in a swift motion.

Anndd there went my resolve.

I suddenly stood, walking over to the table to the right of us leaning my back against it. I was trying to steady my breathing,but he was on my heels. “Look at me pretty girl.” He whispered, my eyes lazily raised meeting his penetrating gaze. His hands rested lightly on my waist.

In that moment looking up at him I knew. He was the only person Ive ever wanted so badly. My eyes flickered to his lips, and of course he noticed because he dipped his head to meet my gaze, grinning. Those brown eyes, always knowing.

Tears stung in my eyes. I didn’t know if I was more upset at the fact that I was about to cry or that he can see right through me. I can’t hide anything. Even though we’ve never once had a conversation about our feeling our future, the lingering glances, and soft touches, told us more than we needed to know about each other.

“Jey I-“

Before I could finish he kissed me. Slow, soft yet full of passion and possessiveness. His hands tightening against my waist, pulling me flush to his body. When I first realized, I froze into the kiss. He’s kissing me. For just a second that’s how we stayed, lip locked and unmoving. 

Everything I ever thought about myself was flushed down the drain when I met Jey. How do you explain that to people. “Oh yea Ive was a lesbian my whole life, and then one day I wasn’t….who knew.” On one hand I didn’t care what people thought about me, if you fall in love with someone you can’t help who it is. And then on the other hand I was embarrassed.

Embarrassed about the feelings, embarrassed about the way everyone around us knew, and most of all embarrassed at myself for falling for a man. What thee fuck. But none of that mattered right now. What mattered was him, and his lips on mine. He kissed me like I would disappear at any second. He kissed me like he’d waited a hundred lifetimes for me. 

Without another thought my hands trailed up his chest and hooked around his neck. He smiled into the kiss, pulling me closer if that was even possible. Our lips moved in synch, his hands roamed my backside, eventually he lifted me and sat me on the table, pulling me right to the edge, with me thighs on either side of him. He pulled back for a second, staring at me. Asking for my permission. I gave it to him without hesitation, wanting nothing more than him, fuck all the other thoughts I previously had. 

Fuck every thought ever, actually.

His lips found my neck leaving tiny kisses up and down the right side. He flicked his tongoue over the sensitive spots he just kissed, leaving a trail across my collar bone, to the other side. Repeating the same motions.

At this point I was completely breathless, squirming under his touch. His hands never left my ass just resting there as he kissed me. Devoured me. “Hold still mama, lemme taste you please.” His voice was low and laced in lust, his words caused my legs to squeeze against him. His big hands slid from my ass to my upper thigh, pushing up the tight dress I had on up even further. His lips found mine again as his hands hooked around my underwear. 

He gently pulled them off with one hand, slightly lifting me with the other. After he tossed them he faced me again pulling me by my thighs even closer to him. I leaned back for him, eagerly. His breathes came out short and shallow as he had a full view of me.

“You are so beautiful .” He whispered just low enough for me to hear, right against my thigh, replacing his words with wet open mouthed kisses. My hips bucked up slightly, wanting attention. He gave into what I wanted, attaching his mouth to me. I gasped, back arching. His hands held my thighs in place as his tongue found my folds. 

His tongue flicked over my sensitive bud, moving in slow circular motions. He watched me hungrily from where he was. My hands gripped his forearms, a moaning mess. 

Jey slid his hands from my thighs, up to my waist, continuing his slow circular motions. He was devouring my shit as if it was the last meal on earth. He came up for a second and leaned into my ear. "Baby, you gotta stay quiet, you gon have folks banging on my door." He finished the sentence with another wet sloppy kiss at the base of my ear. He shifted to hover right above my body, eyeing me like an animal.

"Look at me", he said, one of his hands rested on my inner thigh, the other he used to lift my chin to kiss him. Our lips connected in a wet kiss that tasted of my essence. He kissed me slowly, his lips parting slightly after each kiss, almost as if he was holding himself back.

His fingers found my soaked clit, working in the same motions his tongue was. "Jeyy", his name came out in breathless gasps. " Yes mama." His lips were so soft, not leaving an area untouched. "I need you, I need you so bad." I breathed out against him.

Something in him must've snapped when I said that. He picked me up and over his shoulder in a swift motion. He laid me on the couch spreading me open, like a treasure chest. He unbuckled the zipper on his jeans, only now did I realize the bulge that had accumulated over the past few minutes. " Fuccck girl, you driving me crazy."

His eyes were wild, lips wet. His hair now in a messy array of curls. 

He pulled his pants and boxers down revealing the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. He was thick and veiny, tip shining in his own essence, just for me. He stood at attention for me too, so pretty. I didn't even wait for him to tell me what to do. I sat up dropping onto the floor and crawling onto my hands and knees right in front of him. 

"You liked women all this time yet you ready to suck my dick, look at yo fine ass." He was leaned back onto the couch now, his lower half completely exposed. That comment damn near made me stand up, glaring at him from the same position, his head cocked back in a obnoxious laugh. "Yo ass can front all you want, my love, but it’s just me and you.” He grinned, eyeing you from where he sat.

I pushed myself onto him, hands at the base of his dick. My tongue swirled around him, his yes fluttered shut immediately reveling in the pleasure. Since he just laughed in my face like that I needed him to come undone for me. He was wrapped around my finger, but I was about to wrap these lips around him in a way he'd never forget. Both sets.

I continued swirling my tongue around his tip, keeping one had at the base, he was slightly trembling under me. All those smart ass comments now gone, replaced with breathless gasps. "Fuck girl, that shit feels so good." He twitched in my mouth as I continued swirling his tip. My hands slid onto his thighs, I attempted to take him all in, but as soon as his tip grazed the back of my throat I gagged so loud, he popped his eyes open to the sound. His lust filled eyes found my tear streaked face, cocking his head back he let out another loud laugh. " You aint ready for that yet baby, come here." 

My cheeks flushed, "shut up, I tried", he chuckled as he pulled me into his lap. "Yes you did, thank you my sweet girl." Butterflies. Those pet names he gave me sent chills down my spine. He was eyeing me now, amusement flickered behind those brown orbs. "You ready for me?" His voice was soft and breathy. He waited for me all this time, without pushing me or overstepping. And now he had me all to himself.

"Just go slow please, Josh." My voice was hushed. I wanted him, but it didn't take away from my heartbeat hammering in my chest. His eyes softened, grin fading at the use of his real name. " I gotchu mama, Im not got hurt you." He tapped his member on your backside as he slid his thumb across your bottom lip. He lifted me slightly to angle himself at my entrance, pressing lightly. My breathe caught in my throat as I felt the stretch, his thumb never moving from my face, caressing me. He slid in deeper, stretching me more, the pain was unbearable for a second "Stop, Josh" I breathed out pushing him back a little, he halted his movements immediately. "Your doing so baby, look at me." 

My eyes shifted to his, fresh tears threatening to fall. He held his hand in place on my face, but he didn't budge, he waited for my permission. He wasn't even halfway in and I was already asking him to stop, but he didn't care. He sat still and unmoving like he had all the time in the world. Waiting for my permission.

After a few moments I gave it to him again and he continued to slide into me with ease. He groaned as he got deeper and deeper. Filling me up. The pain was intense. It didn't feel good, but it also felt amazing in the weirdest way. One last soft thrust of his hips and he was all the way inside me. His tip was kissing my spot deliciously.

"Good god." Was all he could breathe out. His hands sliding from my face to my ass and mine around his neck, we pulled each other in impossibly close. He guided me up slowly and back down at the same pace. My nails were digging into his tribal ink, but he didn't seem to care. My face next to his as he continued the slow pace. He was filling me up in a way I’ve never felt before. I’ve never felt pleasure or pain like this. It was addicting.

My walls stretched and pulsed around him with each small thrust. "This all I wanted right here" his voice was low against my cheek. Who knew Id give into him on a random Monday night. Taking him completely raw. His hands gripped my backside guiding me painfully slow. He wasn't in no rush, he watched me with close intensity in between stolen kisses. Our hearts racing against each other. 

His pace quickened, he lifted me higher coming down further, making a soft smacking noise. I wrapped around him perfectly as if we were made for each other. His hands held me steady in place as his pace quickened. I was leaning into his chest, hands tangled in his soft curls. At this point I was all but screaming in his ear.

Any pain I felt was replaced, by pleasure. He fucked me slow intentional looking me in my eyes with each stroke. I couldn't look away It was like he had me in a trance. He was fucking me hard now, and fast, pace was relentless. He nipped at my ear whispering the dirtiest nothings. "Take that shit baby, let me hear that pretty voice of yours."

" Josh- I- fucckk."

He smiled into the crook of my neck, nipping the skin there too. " Say my name again." Before I could get any words out he slapped my ass so hard it made me jolt. " Say it."

"Joshu- oh my god." I couldn't finish he was fucking the shit outta me now. The room was filled with the loud slaps of your things and my screaming. He no longer cared if someone came knocking. They would just have to mind they damn business. My slick walls were tightning against him , causing him to grunt.

He lifted me up, placing me back down on the couch on my back. He continued his unforgiving pace, snapping his hips forward. He pinned my legs to the couch with one arm, the other resting on my chest. His eyes never once left mine. I couldn't tear mine away either, watching him destroy me like this was pure cinema. The way his caramel skin glistened with sweat as he fucked me on this couch. The way his grills shined when he bit his lip, was making me feral.

My hands clawed at his arms looking for some stability. Until he shifted, pressing his hands into my lower abdomen. I thrashed underneath him, a wicked smile forming on his face.

"Joshua fuck me right there oh my god." My eyes were now clenched shut, as my world was being rocked. " You just don't know how fucking good you look right now, fuck." His pace causing him to grunt after each word. I was unraveling underneath him and he felt it. My insides were burning with a sensation I can't describe, all I knew is I didn't want him to stop. "Right there baby right there fuck me right there." My words came out breathless as he continued to fuck me. "Im cumming baby- fuck- take me pretty girl- fuckkkk." Joshua was a mess, his hair clung to his forehead, his pace was sloppy. his hands wrapped around my things holding them up as he slammed into my pussy. 

His breath was jagged breathing hard and loud. He sounded so fucking good. "Ian never lettin yo ass go, this my pussy." His voice cracked as he released inside me. I wasn't far behind him, but he hadn't even faltered his pace. He fucked us through our orgasm, his tip hitting the perfect spot. My vision went blurry from tears. I was clawing at his back, screaming. "JOSHUA."

--

I laid there for a second, trying to pull myself together. "You ok pretty girl?" The man who had collapsed next to me whispered ever so softly in my ear.

"Mhmm." Was all I could get out, a stupid smiled plastered on my face. Josh grinned too, pulling me on top of him. "I love you Joshu-"

"YES GAWD I KNEW IT." He cut me off before I finished the 'ah' at the end of his name. I lazily smacked his chest "Shut up before I take it back." He smacked my ass sending another jolt of pleasure through my body, causing me to whimper against him. " I love yo ass too girl."

He finished with the sweetest kiss to my lips.

[cece693]

So, I got this silly idea where Pamela Voorhees manipulates the male reader into being Jason's caretaker, because (bless her soul) she knows she won't be here forever. So, while giving this male reader attention and 'motherly' love, she unknowingly gives Jason a bride. And because the male reader is so preconditioned to tend to another person they're like 'okay. This guy is definitely crazy but also kinda hot...' So yeah, this idea is out there, but I like it. Hope you do too!

NEW CAREGIVER.... (AND LOVER)

pairing: jason voorhees x male reader tags: reader is a runaway, shitty home, what else can I say, Pamela is a scheming lady, but you get Jason, so is that too bad???, nah didn't think so, fluff

The moon was an indifferent coin above the highway the night you ran—bare-footed, half-blind with tears, flinching at every blast of a passing horn. Home had never deserved the name; it was a house of slurred curses and shattered dishes, a place where love arrived in bruises. When you finally collapsed at the treeline of Crystal Lake, you expected the cold or coyotes to finish what your father started.

Instead, you woke beneath a patchwork quilt that smelled of cedar and lavender water. An elderly woman sat knitting beside a pot-bellied stove, her smile warm yet oddly knowing, as though she’d been waiting for you.

“I’m Pamela,” she said, voice soft as cattail down. “Pamela Voorhees. You’re safe here, dear boy.” It took you only a day to discover what here meant—Camp Crystal Lake. Pamela called the place a sanctuary and grave in the same breath, yet with an air of how a person spoke of cathedrals.

Mrs. Voorhees’s hospitality tasted like something you’d forgotten was real. She mended the splits in your soles with neat whip-stitches, pressed warm cornbread into your palms, and brushed the tangles from your hair while you dozed by the window. But comfort was only half her gift; the other half was preparation.

“The forest isn’t cruel,” she instructed. “but it is indifferent. If you wish to protect someone in these woods, you must become its equal.” You learned to tread silently through the forest, to smell rain before clouds formed.

“Some wounds,” she murmured, gaze faraway, “don’t bleed red. Treat them anyway.” You practiced on burlap dolls, then raccoon corpses you found tangled in old fishing net. Your stitches grew beautiful and grotesque all at once.

“He’s a growing boy,” Pamela said, ladling venison stew into a third bowl you placed reverently at the empty seat. You’d glance at the untouched spoon and feel a prickle behind the eyes, as if someone watched from the tree line, salivating at the thyme-tinged broth.

You never dared ask why she trained you with the severity of a drill sergeant, only for whom. However, she simply answered with a wistful pat to your cheek: “In time, you’ll meet my Jason.”

Late spring blurred into summer when things irrevocably changed. Lightning split the August sky when a group of camp counselors returned, laughing with guitars and bottles. Pamela’s knitting paused mid-row. The smile she gave you was sad yet resolute: “Stay inside, dear. Boil water. Fold bandages. Wait for me.” Then she slipped into the trees with a hunting knife and a resolve that glinted like frost on iron.

You did not see her alive again.

When dawn paled the lake, the forest stank of metal and rain-damp carnage. You stumbled upon her body by the generator shack—head missing, cardigan soaked black, her eyes forever spared the horror of what she’d done and what had been done to her. Grief tore every stitch she’d sewn into you. You buried what you could beneath a stand of birches, whispering a prayer you half-remembered from a childhood chapel, though God had never done either of you favors.

The sensible thing would be to leave.

But you stayed.

Grief motivated you to continue with your rituals. Keeping the cottage immaculate, preserving her collection of knitted sweaters, sharpening the kitchen knives every Sunday. Nights, you dreamed of water lapping at rotten docks; of a child’s gurgling sobs just beyond the tree line. Then the gifts began:

A butchered stag laid across the porch like an altar offering.

A jar of marigolds—roots, soil and all—placed beside your pillow.

Heavy boot-prints circling the cabin at night, too large for any man you knew.

The first snow had not yet melted when you finally met him. You heard something massive wading ashore, yet before you could grab the hatchet—you froze.

He wasn't a kid, defenseless and weak as Pamela had hinted at. Instead, he loomed in the doorway: a towering figure in mold-streaked coveralls, burlap sack knotted over his head. One eye—wide, milk-blue, yet oddly innocent—studied you. In his fist dripped a wood axe, but he made no move to raise it.

Instinct overrode terror. “You’re hurt,” you whispered, noticing the gash bisecting his shoulder. You reached for the first-aid kit Pamela insisted stay stocked. He flinched yet allowed it, gaze following your every motion the way a half-feral dog watches the only hand that feeds it.

When you finished bandaging, you pressed a palm to his chest. “Jason?”

The name left your tongue like an invocation. The giant’s breathing hitched; then slowly, he retrieved a tarnished locket from inside his shirt—Pamela’s, the same oval cameo she once pressed into your palm for “safekeeping.” Two photographs faced one another: baby Jason…and now, tucked beside it, you.

Pamela had written your name beneath the picture, shaky but intent.

Everything clicked: the chores, the sewing lessons, the knife work, the rules. She’d been fashioning you into more than a ward. You were the keeper of her legacy, the caretaker—the bride—for the son who lived beyond death.

Jason remained mute, but devotion needs no dialogue. You learned his language in nods and tilts of that burlap-covered head: hunger, pain, agitation when strangers trespassed. He shadowed you while you cooked, his hulking frame squeezed into the doorway like a child desperate not to be left out. When you laid a sweater—Pamela’s favorite blue one—across his shoulders, enormous fingers fumbled with the buttons until you guided them.

Nights grew strangely gentle. He’d sit cross-legged by the hearth while you read aloud from Pamela’s brittle prayer book, big head tilting at the cadence of your voice. One evening flames spat sparks; you startled, and Jason’s arm swept you behind him in reflex as if flesh were expendable, you were not. The gesture shocked warmth into your marrow.

And yes, there were killings. Outsiders who trespassed, teens seeking thrills—they vanished beneath the frozen lake or hung like ornaments from the pines. You cleaned the machetes afterward, murmuring that he’d done “well.” Morality blurred; love is an elegantly cruel tutor.

[gradienty]

Cedar Wood Finish Deep Fir (#651600 to #000901)

[jane-the-good]

CALEB: reunited

WORD COUNT: 3.8K

SUMMARY: What happened right after you finally reunited, when you truly believed Caleb was dead

NOTE: If I reunited with my lover after I thought he was dead!!!! I would be a wreck!!!!

WARNING: smut, they're both crybabies (understandably), unprotected sex, oral, fingering, emo/angst, Caleb loves youuuuuuuu

AO3 caleb masterlist

I also made a CALEB sweater if that’s your thing ♡

“So, this is my place.” He holds the door open for you to step in first, when you’re ready. “This is where I’ve been.”

It’s strange…surreal. Even his voice hits you like a memory that never aged. This is Caleb. His tone, his rhythm, the tiny movements he makes when he talks. It’s all exactly the same. Like no time passed. Like he never died.

Except you know he did.

You held the grief like a second spine. You felt it twist and ache under your dead weight. You barely made it out with your breath intact. He was gone. You mourned him in pieces. The old voicemails, through pictures you couldn’t delete, through dreams that ended with you waking up sobbing into your hands.

But now, standing here with him in this ordinary, cozy space. It’s like none of that happened. Someone reached into your chest and pressed the undo button on the worst thing that ever happened to you.

It’s messing with your sense of reality.

You remember that you were in pain, but are no longer able to access the sharpness of it. Just a dull echo. A bruise of a memory.

The room around you smells faintly of cedar and the remnant of a bread or something baked. He must have made breakfast for himself this morning. It’s warm in the way places are when someone actually lives there. The space itself is sleek and almost too clean, but he’s turned it into a his own, effortlessly. There’s a rhythm to the dust and the clutter. A worn blanket is tossed over the back of a couch that looks like it’s hosted a thousand naps. Books on his side table, open to different pages, mid-thought.

“This doesn’t really look like a place you would like,” you say, trying to ground yourself in something, anything, normal.

He shrugs, like he knows exactly what you mean. “That’s not true. You know money has always been what I care most about. Everything I do is for material gain.”

You laugh, just a little. Because of course. That biting humor. That’s him. That was him. Still is.

“Yes, yeah. How could I forget.”

But you did forget. Or maybe you tried to. Maybe that was the only way to survive losing him in the first place.

And now here he is, in front of you again. Real. Breathing. Joking.

You’re not sure what hurts more. His death or this impossible return?

Your eyes catch on something small, something that doesn’t fit with the rest of this altered version of him. Something that doesn’t belong to this sterile, sarcastic, maybe half-stranger standing in front of you.

A music box.

It’s tucked on a shelf, almost like an afterthought, but your gaze locks onto it instantly. Carved wood, edges smoothed by time and touch. The finish is chipped at one corner, just slightly. You remember when that happened. A summer storm, a mad dash indoors, and Caleb had dropped it in the wet grass. You’d both cried.

You step toward it, drawn to it’s magnetic force. It’s calling your name in a language only the two of you spoke.

Delicately, you reach out and twist the knob.

The soft click of the mechanism turning awakens it’s heartbeat.

A tiny airplane, its wings worn at the tips, begins to spin slowly. And then the melody starts, thin and clear. So familiar. It burns.

The tune coils around your ribs, winding tighter with every note. You can feel it. In your history.

That was your life. That was him.

And now it’s here. In this room. In this house where he supposedly rebuilt himself without you.

Your Caleb, the one you loved, the one you lost…he lived here. Not some ghost wearing his skin. Not some cruel imitation.

He sat here. He touched this box. He listened to this melody. He was here, breathing, while you were somewhere else, cracking apart under the weight of his absence.

The realization doesn’t ask permission.

It surges forward and steals another moment from you.

A silent sob punches through you, breaking your wave of ache against the sharpest rock. Your knees buckle, and before you can catch yourself, you're sinking, into the sound, into the past, into everything you never got to say.

He was here.

And you weren’t.

You cover your mouth, the emotion too much, too sudden. The ache of mourning, the sheer weight of what you lost, and didn’t really lose, floods you into a storm you can’t outrun.

Then he’s there. No hesitation, no questions. Just arms around you, pulling you in. He holds you and tries to find every shattered piece of you lost the moment he left.

He pulls you in, arms strong and sure, cradling your body like something sacred, if he lets go for even a second, you’ll vanish again. His grip trembles, not from weakness but from the unbearable relief of holding what he thought he lost forever.

You cling to him just as tightly, fists curled into the fabric of his shirt like anchors. Your tears soak into him, silent and shaking, and he doesn't flinch. Instead, he buries his face in your hair, breathing you in like it’s the first breath he’s taken in years.

“I’m here,” he whispers, the words breaking over your skin. “I’m here, I’m here, I’m so sorry, God, I’m so sorry.”

His apologies melt into the curve of your neck, whispered like prayers he doesn’t expect to be answered. You feel the heat of him, the trembling restraint in the way he holds you.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, his voice catching. “I’m so sorry.”

You shake your head, trying to speak, trying to form words that don’t exist yet. But he goes on, because he has to. Because if he stops now, maybe it’ll swallow him whole.

“I tried to find safe ways to get word to you,” he says. You feel the tremor in his chest, the regret dragging his words down.

You pull back slightly, enough to see his face. His eyes are glassy, like he’s been holding it in for years. Maybe he has.

“I thought you were dead,” you say, your voice cracking. “I grieved you. I buried you. I didn’t just miss you, I lost you.”

“I know,” Caleb says, like the words physically wound him. “And I should’ve died. I should’ve. But I didn’t. And every day I was alive and not with you… I was living someone else’s life.”

You blink fast, trying to stay grounded, but your hands are shaking. “Why didn’t you tell me once you were safe? You could’ve found a way. You had to know what it was doing to me.”

“I thought I was keeping you safe.” His voice is so hoarse. “I thought if I stayed away, you could heal, move on, build a life that wasn’t tangled up in everything I’d ruined.”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” you snap, voice sharp through the tears. “You were everything. You still are. You don’t get to decide for me what I can handle.”

Caleb swallows hard, looking away like it hurts to hold your gaze. “I know. I know now. Back then… I wasn’t strong enough to face you.” He kisses your forehead. “I didn’t even want the strength to leave you behind. I still don’t.”

You’re both quiet for a long beat, just breathing each other in.

Then softly, “You’re here now.”

His eyes meet yours. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m here. And if you’ll let me… I’ll never disappear again.”

His hand lifts to your cheek, thumb brushing under your eye with a tenderness that draws your gaze. The pain is still there in both of you, mangled with want.

You close your eyes, forehead pressed to his, the soft warmth of his breath brushing your lips. It’s too much, his return, the way his hands tremble just slightly on your knees This lingering heaviness

He draws back, just far enough to see your face. There’s a stunned silence that settles. in the air.

When his lips finally find yours, It’s not gentle. Not hesitant. It's a collision. The time of silence and sorrow and longing crash into you, pouring out in a kiss that’s too full of feeling to be quiet.

It’s everything you couldn’t say, everything he couldn’t send. The ache of loss. The fury. The desperate joy of finding each other again.

You press into him with that same hunger, matching the urgency in the way his hands fist in your shirt, pulling you closer, like he's still not convinced this is real. You taste the salt of your own tears on his lips, feel the way his breath stutters against your mouth.

There’s no logic here. No plan. Just heat, emotion, and the fragile sound of two hearts trying to find their rhythm again.

He breaks the kiss only to look at you. His forehead resting against yours, eyes searching like he needs confirmation that this is still happening.

“I thought I’d never get this back,” he murmurs, his voice frayed and low. “Not even a piece of you.”

You tilt into him, fingers threading through his hair, tugging him closer like you’re afraid he’ll vanish again if you let go. His breath stutters when you pull, a low, helpless sound slipping from his throat as he kisses you deeper, hungrier. There’s a kind of reverence in the way he holds you, like he’s rediscovering a language he once forgot how to speak. You’re the only word that matters.

His hands splay wide across your back, palms warm and firm as he presses you fully against him. It’s familiar but heavier this time, threaded with all the ache of everything unsaid, every second you thought he was gone. You feel it in the way your mouths move together, in the way your bodies don’t just touch, they cling. breath returning after years underwater.

When the kiss finally breaks, your foreheads stay pressed together, panting softly in the dark hush. His thumb strokes along your cheekbone, lingering as though your skin might vanish if he looks away.

“You’re still the same,” he says, wonder thick in his voice. “Still my person. Even after all this time.”

His hands slide lower, palms sifting under the hem of your shirt, his touch dragging like warm static over your spine. The room shifts around you, distant and quiet, the only things that matter are the points where your bodies meet.

The stars stretch wide through the high windows, Skyhaven glittering below like a city made of memories. And somewhere in those clouds and the weightless quiet of space, you’re suspended together, still, yet undone.

Caleb trails his fingers over the small of your back, drawing slow, searching shapes, then dips lower. His grip tightens on you, possessive and sure, and the soft growl that hums from his throat makes you shiver.

His mouth finds your neck, kissing and grazing until his teeth brush the delicate skin. You gasp, your head tipping back into his hands as he lingers there, just long enough to leave a memory on your skin.

“How did you miss me?” he murmurs, voice low and rough. His lips brush your pulse. “Did you miss me… or how I made you feel?”

Your breath shakes. “What kind of question is that?”

“A dangerous one,” he says, chuckling softly against your throat. “Because I already know the answer.”

You arch into him, fingers gripping his shirt, needing something to hold onto. He drags his mouth up to your ear, his breath a slow exhale that sends a tremble through your spine.

“Did thinking of me do this to you?” he whispers, hand sliding down to grip your thigh, your hip, pulling you even closer. “Tell me.”

He trails kisses down your chest and down your stomach, occasionally his gaze locks with yours, and in it, there’s devotion. You don’t intend for him to silence you like this. He’s in awe. Like he’s watching a dream move beneath his hands and is terrified it’ll dissolve. Even when he pulls your underwear down, his expression softens. And when pulling your knees over his shoulders, lthe tension sparks dangerously. 

He kisses your heat gentle at first, savoring the fact that you’re real and his and here. You breathe his name, voice wrecked and unraveling, and his smile at the sound is everything. Lazy, knowing, devastating.

He looks up at you with fire and wonder in his eyes.

“I’m going to make up for every second I was gone,” he promises, voice a quiet vow against your skin.

He chuckles softly, the sound low and warm, sending shivers up your spine, racing down a fuse. His shoulders, once always held too tightly, now loosened. Like he can finally breathe again. Like you are the breath he’s been holding for far too long.

Your hands slide up into his hair, fingers twisting at the roots, tugging until he groans. Deep and needy. The vibration of it floods straight into your core. You’re trembling, heat pooling in your belly, legs already unsteady from the way his mouth moves over you, each deliberate stroke of his tongue dragging you closer to the edge until he slows, just when you need more.

"Caleb," you whisper, your voice cracking open around his name, desperate and soft and wrecked.

He lifts his head just enough to let your name fall from his lips in return, voice thick and unsteady. “You have no idea how much I missed hearing you say my name like that.”

His breath, warm and teasing, ghosts across your skin. There’s that smirk again, cocky and confident, but tinged with something deeper. Something in love. His tounghe dips just enough to make your breath catch, teasing your entrance before pulling away again. You sob softly in frustration.

But Caleb only smiles against you, the curve of his lips making your skin burn. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He always did.

With maddening slowness, he slides his thumb to your bundle of nerves to tease you, pressing just the barest pressure. Your body jolts, muscles tightening around him. You whimper, thighs clenching around his head as your hips grind into him.

“and all this time you haven’t been with anyone else?” he murmurs, almost smug, almost reverent. “God, how lucky I am.”

And then he presses harder. His tongue flickers and lingers, alternating between kissing you softly and licking you with purpose, until your back arches off the floor, your whole body trembling in his hold. Every nerve is alight. Every sound you make fuels him.

His eyes, dark with want, are shining with something else too. Wonder. Like he’s still not convinced this isn’t a dream. Like he’s afraid if he blinks, you’ll vanish all over again.

“I almost lost this,” he says, voice rough, aching. “I almost lost you.”

“Come for me, love. I need you.”

You let go with a gasp that splits the silence, pleasure ripping through you in waves so strong they shake you through your core. You dissolve under his hands, under his mouth, under the weight of being seen, of being wanted with such intensity. Caleb holds you through every second, grounding you as your body shudders, your chest heaving with each breathless moan.

Before the aftershocks have even faded, he’s already kissing you, slow, tender, full of awe. He drinks in every sound you make, every tiny shiver, his mouth moving against yours like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your soul.

His fingers remain between your thighs, now soaked with your release, drawing lazy, featherlight circles that make your legs twitch from the oversensitivity. He’s savoring this. Every inch of you, every reaction.

You barely get the chance to breathe before he shifts, steady hands gripping your thighs as he slots his hips between them. He works at his pants with a smooth efficiency, kissing you when he can because he can’t bear to stop, and before you know it, he’s guiding you onto his lap.

Your knees slide to either side of him, bracketing his hips. The heat of him, thick and hard against your slick folds, makes you shiver. You gasp, startled, overwhelmed all over again.

Caleb groans, deep and broken. His hands grip your waist, fingers digging in as if anchoring himself to the moment. “God, I missed this. Missed you.”

He grinds your hips down, slow and deliberate, dragging your body against his, letting you feel just how badly he needs you. His forehead falls against yours, and he breathes you in.

“I’m never leaving you again,” he murmurs. “Not after this. Not after knowing what it’s like to go without you.”

And then, with a look of complete heat and worship, he sinks you onto him.

The roughness of the carpet brushes against your knees, a faint burn you barely register. All you can focus on is the way he draws you close, grounding you in the quiet rhythm of his body, the soft gasp that escapes your lips as he wraps you in his warmth. His breath catches too, his hands strong at your waist, steadying, anchoring.

He groans low, lips pressed against yours, swallowing the trembling sounds you make, and your forehead falls gently to his, breaths mingling. His fingers flex at your side, trying to memorize the shape of you, and when he brushes his mouth over yours again, slow, tender, it’s a delicious contrast to the weight of his grip, he’s afraid to let go.

You hear him laugh softly, the sound vibrating in your chest where your heart beats wildly against his. One hand finds the back of your neck, tilting your head back so your eyes meet his.

Your chest aches in the best way. You cradle his face in your hands, guiding his lips to yours. The kiss that follows is unhurried and deep, filled with all the words you don’t need to say.

"Goodness," you whisper against his mouth, teasing again.

He only grins, then gently lifts your leg higher around him, deepening the angle between you both. You gasp, your head tipping back, his name escaping your lips before you can stop it.

“Don’t close your eyes,” he murmurs, watching you with quiet intensity.

His rhythm is deliberate, drawing pleasure from you like a melody he knows by heart. The windows blur behind you, starlight scattered across the sky, but none of it compares to the warmth shared with you, the connection humming through every nerve.

Suddenly he moves, sitting up and sweeping you beneath him in one fluid motion. You gasp, startled, but he’s already leaning over you, his weight settling into you in his controlled gravity. His gaze is fire and softness all at once, his lips brushing yours as his rhythm shifts, slower but deeper, as though he’s searching for the very center of you.

You hold onto him, your arms around his shoulders, hands clutching at his back like you might fall apart without him. When you say his name again, it breaks something open in him, a sound torn from his throat as he presses his forehead to yours, his voice rough with emotion.

"God, please never stop," he breathes, reverent.

His lips find your skin, tasting each moment like a promise, while his hand finds yours again, grounding you both in that steady connection. His touch is sure, guiding you to the edge and catching you when you fall, because you do, unraveling beneath him, every part of you undone by the depth of what you feel.

He follows with a low groan, his body shuddering with release, and for a moment everything stills, your breath, your thoughts, the world itself.

You cling to him as the wave passes, hands clutching fabric, breaths catching. His arms stay around you, firm, desperate to hold on.

And you let him.

You both stay, hearts racing, bodies trembling, until the world returns, slower, softer, together. The world feels quieter.

Light spills through the windows in long, golden beams that stretch across the floor like warm ribbons, casting gentle shadows that sway with the breeze. There’s a stillness in the air, not empty, but full. The breath you take after crying.

The plane carousel creaks as it turns lazily. Its chipped red paint glints faintly in the light, worn and weathered, but still beautiful in its resilience. You watch it spin, a slow, stubborn circle, wobbly and imperfect, and your heart swells for it. For everything it is, and everything it still tries to be.

You reach out and give the plane a gentle push. It spins a little faster, and you smile to yourself.

Caleb eases down beside you with a low, familiar groan, his body’s trying to keep up with his heart. His knee bumps yours, and he lets it rest there, anchoring you, grounding you both in the present.

He exhales, quiet. Then, in that smooth, unhurried voice of his, he says, “You know… I used to think moments like this weren’t meant for me.”

You glance over.

He’s not looking at the carousel anymore. He’s looking at you.

“That real peace…” he continues, his tone honey-warm, low and steady, “real love… always felt like something for other people. Something I could look at, maybe touch, but never keep.”

There’s something in his gaze that hits you deep,  he’s looking through you, past everything you’ve built to protect yourself, and still chooses you anyway.

“But I get to have my this,” he says, the words like velvet, soft and sure. “I get to have you.”

You swallow hard, throat tight with emotion. Before you can reply, he leans in, brushing a kiss against your temple, slow, lingering, like he’s imprinting the shape of you into his memory. Like he’s telling you, wordlessly, that he never wants to forget this.

“I’m just…” he breathes, still close, his lips barely grazing your skin, “so thankful. For all of it. Even when we’re just sitting here… watching this old, wobbly carousel try its best to keep turnin.”

You smile, soft and amused. “It’s not broken,” you murmur. “It’s just… loved.”

A quiet laugh shakes through his chest, and he wraps his arms around you from the side, pulling you against him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His embrace is gentle, sure, with a kind of protective softness that says he never wants to let go.

He leans in again, voice brushing your ear like silk. “Yeah”

For a while, you don’t say anything. You don’t need to.

Because the way his fingers trace idle shapes along your arm, the way his breath syncs with yours, the way his presence wraps around you like a favorite blanket, this is everything.

[orikixx]

Wrong Number, Right Recipe (8/?)

Pt. 8

Part: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

Featuring: Satoru Gojo

Warnings: smutty, reader is afab, wc- 1.5k

Summary: strangers to friends to lovers! An accidental text from the wrong number leads to the meeting of you and satoru gojo, a baker from the pastry shop down the street of your office.

Author’s note: hi guys! I hope this is alright, I haven’t actually written anything down in so long so I kinda struggled with this😓 next part will be a smau, and hopefully part 11 will finish the series as another written down version. Hope you guys like it nonetheless! 💕

Saturday, 10:23

You’re currently seated atop of satoru’s kitchen counter, patiently waiting for him to finish cutting up some fresh fruits to go with the breakfast you’ve brought. He insisted that you stay with him all day, selling it off as a way to help you get back on your feet, and you aren’t complaining.

The memories of the previous night were flooding satoru’s mind. That must be the reason he’s got his torso pressed up again the kitchen counter, trying to calm down his raging boner as you sit there, looking at him all wide eyed and sweet. He can’t stop thinking about you, the way your supple ass brushed against him as you cuddled while watching some movie, making him almost combust right on the spot.

He’s gripping that poor kiwi way too tightly for his own liking, the fruit almost exploding under his hold.

“Is there something wrong satoru?” Your voice brings him out of his daze, and he looks at you like a deer caught in headlights. Satoru shakes his head, trying to play it off cool as he gives you a casual smile. He finishes plating up the fruits, and you two sit down and eat the warm pastries and his wobbly-looking cut up kiwis and strawberries.

“I had this thought, you know?” You say teasingly, taking a bite of your croissant as satoru looks at you patiently. “What if.. I got a matching sonic onesie? I mean, a matching one, like knuckles or shadow..” the words spill out of your mouth, nervously rambling on and on. There’s very visible blush creeping up your cheeks, surprisingly embarrassed over such a simple interaction with your friend.

Satoru bursts out laughing, almost spitting out everything that’s in his mouth. “You’re so ridiculous” is what you expected him to say, only he didn’t. He pulled out his phone, and told you to order it using his card. You stared at him, shock written all over your face.

“Wait, are you serious?” “Yeah, why not? It’ll be hilarious,” satoru said with a grin, pushing his phone toward you. “Just pick one. It’s no big deal.” You sigh, eventually giving in and taking his phone. You lean over the table to show satoru the various options, yet all he’s capable of noticing is how perfectly your tits are squeezed against the wooden surface, and how close your face is to his as your fingers excitedly tap his phone.

His stare must’ve been too obvious, since you put his phone down, yet your face remain close to his as you examine him. Satoru almost gasps when your finger comes up to his cheek, gently wiping off a lingering chocolate smear. He thinks he might pass out, his face must be so red as he’s eye to eye with you, and you give him a soft smile when you’re satisfied with the way you’ve cleaned him up.

Satoru currently stares at you like some idiot, open mouthed and not a single thought behind his eyes as you gently clean him. Your mind however, is buzzing with excitement. He smells so good up close, although just getting out of bed. He smells like cedar wood and vanilla, making you stall for a moment longer than necessary.

In that second, satoru feels his resolve melting away, and he can’t help himself but kiss you. It’s sudden and uncomfortable, leaning over the table, but it’s also so warm and comforting, his lips fitting perfectly against yours. You gasp, and he realizes what he’s done. Leaning back, satoru feels his ears burning in embarrassment, blush creeping up his neck. “I’m so sorry oh my gosh, I shouldn’t have done that, I don’t know what came ov-“ and your lips are smashing against his again.

This time, he’s the one to gasp into the kiss, but he quickly leans into it. Satoru brings his hand to cup your cheek, and he breaks the kiss when you lean into his touch. “fuck YEAH”, he yells out, his heart almost exploding out of his chest. You’re panting, cheeks dusted pink, and the only sound you can hear is the thrumming of your heart in your chest.

Satoru stands up and quickly circles the table, easily picking you up in his arms as you squeal. “I’ve been wanting to do this for so long, you have no idea y/n,” “let me down!” “Not until I get another kiss”. You pout, and oh so reluctantly wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him again. Once he’s satisfied, he gently lets you back down onto the floor.

“Now that we’ve established that, are you finally going to order your onesie? My wallet is aching for you,” satoru says teasingly as he starts washing the dishes the both of you have used. You sigh and pick his phone back up, ordering yourself a matching shadow onesie.

It’s noon now, and you’re back in your pjs sprawled out on satoru’s couch. He sits beside you, gently stroking your hair as your head rests at his lap. “Satoru,” you mumble, eyes closed as you feel tiredness washing over you. “Yes sweets?” He answers, and you feel your lips curling up in a small smile at the nickname. “Can I get a kiss?” You almost whisper, too embarrassed to even look up at him. “Can’t hear you, pretty girl.” “I said, can I get a kiss?” You ask louder now, desperate, almost whining.

“Toru!” you yelp out, your heart skipping a bit as he easily repositions you, so now you’re straddling his lap. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, your ears burning in embarrassment at how easily he can handle you. “Wanted a kiss, didn’t you?” He asks rather rhetorically, his hands resting at your hips, grounding you down onto his torso. “Don’t be so shy around me y/n, I know you must’ve been dreaming about this just as much as I did”, he says teasingly, one of his fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt to stroke the bare skin. You scoff, yet finally kiss him. Your hands are cupping his cheeks, trying to pull him impossibly closer as his tongue enters your mouth.

You gasp, hands immediately finding purchase in his hair, tugging on the soft locks. Satoru moans into the kiss, his hands moving to squeeze your ass while he desperately grinds his growing erection into you. You quickly break the kiss, gasping for air, yet satoru won’t stop slowly grinding his hips against yours. His forehead is resting against your shoulder, and you let out a soft mewl when his erection rubs against your clit, the thin fabric of your shorts doing absolutely nothing to stop the friction.

“You’re driving me crazy y/n, you- fuck, you look so heavenly like this, just begging for me to worship you” satoru whimpers into your shoulder, his lips kissing a trail up to your neck. “T-toru!” You moan softly, fingers tugging on the white strands as he sucks that sweet spot on your neck, simultaneously thrusting up against you. You can feel the wetness soaking through your flimsy shorts, probably leaving a stain on his gray sweats. Suddenly his lips aren’t at your neck anymore, his head leaning back, resting against the couch as he breathes heavily.

“Are you sure you want to do this right now? You haven’t even slept all night”, satoru says worriedly. You can spot the genuine care in his eyes, yet his tone is so whiny, he’s actually so desperate for you and he can’t even hide it. You simply sit there for a moment, dumbfounded, until finally the adrenaline wears off, and the earlier wave of tiredness washes over you again. You groan and wiggle in his grip, until his stubborn hands finally let go of your ass. You stand up and reach out to him, offering him your hand so he can join you in bed.

He groans as well, taking your hand in his as he gets up. Satoru quickly rushes you to bed, pulling the covers on top of both of you. His long limbs wrap around you, not leaving you any space, but you’re okay with that, smiling and humming happily as he buries his face in your hair and sighs. Finally, the both of you can rest comfortably, or at least until your onesie arrives.

Divider credit: @animatedglittergraphics-n-more

Taglist: @thulhu @heiejdhdh @needtoloveoutloud @jurrasicpork @sorenflyinn @twinkling-moonlillie @realalpacorn @lastbreathtaken @zayuriluvs @logoleptic-since-06 @whore4dilfs0 @whozeurdaddy @fhfnejd @maddietries @s4ikooo1 @des-todoroki

[hometoursandotherstuff]

This 1900 Victorian in Overbrook, KS hasn't sold and was reduced $5k in Feb. to $415k. It's been on the market 220 days. The 5bd, 4ba, 4,796 sq ft home has some very odd choices that could be the problem. Pay particular attention to the upgrades they did.

Instead of a main entrance hall, walk directly into the sitting room.

The center hall is off the living room. There's an original fireplace and lovely inlaid floors.

Then, the 2nd reception room off of the sitting room.

I don't know what's going on in here, but it's clear that they removed some walls. So, they put up some support columns and made a small dining area, and another very large, open sitting room.

I love the antique Hoosier cabinet in the kitchen- wonder if it conveys. The cabinets aren't too bad- they match the rest of the wood in the house, but this can't be the original footprint and it's a little strange.

The ovens were put into what looks like was a closet under the stairs.

This is kind of nice. I like the backsplash tile.

Linen closet under the stairs.

The odd room with the dining area isn't the formal dining room, b/c this is it.

They've got an odd room back here. Nice original door. Don't like their choice of flooring, and I don't know what they did to this floor plan, but it's so disjointed. The window on the left is now blocked off.

They've got a large primary bedroom upstairs.

But, look what they did to this bath. There's no way that they didn't open this wall up. Two skylights in the ceiling.

They also made a walk-in closet.

A secondary bedroom.

Look at the tile mural in this remodeled bath. Is that a space alien by the toilet?

They also put in a laundry chute.

They picked a pretty etched glass window for this door, but it's sort of sloppily inserted.

And, this is the finished attic.

There's another level. Most likely the servant's quarters.

I don't know what made them put those triangular holes in the wall.

Is that bookcase holding up the chimney?

These posts look like they're holding up the ceiling.

They also have a little bath up here.

Large rotting deck on the back of the house.

Big fenced-in yard. .32 acre lot.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/401-Cedar-St-Overbrook-KS-66524/113211585_zpid/

[sonofa-dreamer]

perfumes i think trc characters would wear or smell like

i happen to be very passionate about perfume; i'm always thinking about what characters smell like when i read and write. so i figured i would make a list of what the characters of the raven cycle smell like in my opinion :-) if you don't agree, that's a you problem ! ! blue sargent:

obviously, blue smells like essential oils. specifically: lavender and patchouli. there's no question about it. her entire room smells like them, she steams them, the scent follows her everywhere, it's also in her hair. lavender essential oil helps you sleep, it's a staple of every witchy household. i also believe she burns sage and incense in her room so often she chokes on the fumes in her sleep. perfume-wise, she would go for something marketed as gender neutral, with amber and smokey notes, with a hint of floral: passage d'enfer, by l'artisan parfumeur

it's one of a kind, it smells like old wood, church incense, and lilies.. :-) dick gansey (mint aside) : gansey has two wolves inside him: old-money, popular, rower in a private school; but also lonely, passionate old man trapped in the body of a teenager. he needs a perfume that embodies those two sides of him. let me introduce you to rocabar, by hermès.

timeless perfume, not ostentatious but respected name in the biz. potentially his dad's or his grandfather's perfume. quirky on a young man; it smells like a dandy fifty-year old. but it's also kind of unforgettable? cypress and cedar, resinous bezoin melting on skin? yeah yeah yeah. he only has this one. keeps it his whole life, people know him by it. adam parrish:

pre harvard, adam smells like soap. just straight up soap, the most basic scent of soap ever. potentially shampoo, but the kind of shampoo that just smells like shampoo (head and shoulders kinda smell?). during Harvard, adam invests in a perfume. at first he's looking for something gansey would wear, but doesn't go for rocabar, too expensive, too gansey. he goes for a day-time perfume, something you'd wear in an office. also, i'm convinced adam has Very Good Taste and is sensitive to Good Things. so he would do some research and find a brand no one knows about, but still offers pretty accessible, good quality perfumes, being broke and all. something like 701 by bon parfumeur

fresh, clean, still has an originality to it that makes people go: oh, what's that perfume you're wearing? and he thrives on it. post harvard, adam takes an interest in niche perfumes. he goes for amber smells. elegant, expensive ones that make ronan go loco in the coco, perfumes that denote taste. ambre russe, by parfums d'empire

it's luxurious yet tame, warm and skin-like, but also old books? so so sexy, classy, expensive, it's one of the most beautiful perfumes i've ever smelled; it belongs to my beloved adam parrish. ronan lynch: listen. you know that boy smelled aggressively masculine in high school. so you already know the one.

sauvage, by dior. the ultimate fuckboy perfume. my fucking nemesis. if you wear this, i hate you and you have ruined lavender for me. you can smell him from a mile away, it's like he showers with it. that ambroxan note will cling to your throat for ever. you know when he's in school because that ungodly, disgusting perfume follows him everywhere he goes. overtime, and hopefully, with the help of our beloved adam, ronan learns more about perfume, still keeps that interest in Aggressive Smells. he goes for oud. if he doesn't dream it, he buys it:

oud maracuja, by maison crivelli. let's even pretend adam bought it for him, just to make me happy. it's a sexy, sexy perfume. aggressive, but in the best way. leathery and fruity, just like ronan :-) noah czerny: rip noah, you would've loved to finish your collection of axe deodorants henry cheng: obviously, henry cheng smells like one million by paco rabanne.

it's loud. so so loud. and the funny thing about one million is that it gets a bad reputation, mainly because of that godawful bottle. also, it was very popular among teenage boys and young men, which, for some people, means that it's bad? but it's not bad, that's the thing. you want to hate it so bad, but it's warm, and sweet, and lingers very nicely on skin. you wanna shame whoever's wearing it, but in the end, you kind of miss the days when people wore it so much... i believe that henry follows perfume trends, meaning that as he gets older, he would buy santal 33 by le labo. a good perfume, just not the most original scent ever.

declan lynch: our favourite manwhore wears, undoubtedly, portrait of a lady, by frederic malle.

ooooh, and he gatekeeps it. takes it to the grave. everyone notices it, but he always lies about the name. it's his little secret. see, spices and roses make a famous combination in the perfume market, but portrait of a lady is the most beautiful one. once you smell this you can't go back. so poetic, one spray will linger for weeks on a jacket; but it's also a little unsual, it makes your head turn in the street, not something you'd expect on a man like declan lynch. he loves surprising people with it. it's iconic, it's the perfume of someone who knows their shit. also, it's ridiculously expensive, but the price is justified by the quality of the raw materials, declan argues. - special mention for my girl, hennessy: for a long time, hennessy wore her mother's perfume (something like guerlain's shalimar, or nina ricci's l'air du temps). overtime, she figures out her own thing. and hennessy smells sweet and sexy. she goes for something fruity, amber-y, but with body and strength, carried by a liquor-like note.

idk what to tell you, it's sex in a bottle. it's a bad bitch perfume, who has her shit together, who has money, who can fuck anyone. it's sweet but not too sweet, it's a little dark but also comforting with the milky note; you don't see it coming, the seduction sneaks up on you.

feel free to reply with your own takes and perfumes ;-)

[stargirlrchive]

INVISIBLE STRING — CASSIAN!

pairing: cassian x morrigan (half) sister reader

notes: :3 hi hi this is so scary. i haven’t posted a full thought out fic in probably a year (crazy) and i would like to say i have not finished the series so if timeline is inaccurate and just plots don’t make sense w canon it’s bc im still on acowar :p but cassian has taken over my brain and i can’t get him out of it !!!! c: part two is already being worked on bc im so proud of her. i hope u all enjoy it <3 ++ i know mor is described as being blonde and fairly pale in complexion which is why i made reader her half sibling, and there are no descriptions of reader’s physical attributes bc i wanted to kept it as neutral as possible :3

cw: angst, hurt no comfort (yet?), azriel’s shadows being the biggest cassreader shippers ever, unrequited love but really it’s just idiots in love. also mentions (brief) of abuse from keir (gross!)

Your fingers nervously fumbled with the straps of your leathers. Heart pounding in your ears as you forced yourself to drop the nervous jitters, fingers balling into tight fist to stop their trembling.

It had been a long time since you had last seen your family. A long time since your gaze met violet eyes, or your nose scented cedar wood and night chilled mist. The lingering scent of sea salted water and citrus, and fresh paint and vanilla, and sweet wine and roses had nearly erased from your memory. But what you missed the most was the red gleam of siphons that glowed ruby red under certain light.

Truly, in an immortals life time half a decade was just a blip in time, minuscule, but you had never been gone this long from them. Especially not from Rhys, Az, Mor, and Cassian, with the exception of Rhysand’s imprisonment under the mountain.

You blinked away the burning in your eyes as you pushed open the doors of the town house. Soft chatter growing cold at the unexpected intrusion. You had barely enough time to register everyone seated at the table when shadows were zooming past their master to greet you excitedly.

Nuzzling into your hair and neck and arms. Azriel’s shadows had always been so fond of you. Whispering and singing in your ear in a language you could not understand.

They tugged you forward, until you were stumbling clumsily as they dragged you towards Cassian. An ache settled deep in your chest as you fought against them gently, moving between Azriel and Rhys. You missed the flash of hurt in hazel eyes as you avoided him.

Five years later and he still didn’t know the truth of your departure. Before your thoughts could send you spiraling, Rhys’ voice called your name. An undeniable smile in his voice before his arms were enveloping you, “Cousin, you’re back.”

“I am.” Your throat felt thick, tongue heavy as you fought back tears. His scent had always comforted you, Rhys had given you and Mor a chance. A lifeline in the sea that you were drowning in, in Hewn City.

Two sisters, both forced into a world that was cruel and unkind. Morrigan as rightful Heir of Keir had experienced the brunt of it all. From being stuffed into tight dress, to being pranced around in front of grimy men, and nearly forced into a life with a male whose family’s cruelty knew no bounds.

Your torment had been in forms of neglect and isolation. Your father had never much cared for you, being a product of affairs, his bastard, he left you alone. Barely acknowledged your presence when at the mere age of nine you were thrown into his arms from your mother’s father, stating you were no longer his responsibility since your mother’s death. Your father’s neglect, you now realized, had been a blessing.

You were Mor’s shadow. Clinging to her as any younger sister would. Always causing trouble until you learned to obey. Mor never let you experience the abuse from your father fully. Always taking the blame, always hiding you. You owed her and Rhys, your family, everything.

There was a soft clearing of a throat that pulled you and your High Lord apart. Shadows greedily pulling you to face everyone else. Azriel’s hazel eyes assessing you, looking for any injuries before his fingers were squeezing your elbow gently. A soft hello.

Your eyes flickered around the room, and you realized just how much had changed. Your High Lady, and dear friend seated at the head of the table, Rhys by her side. Besides him sat Azriel and then Elain.

Your throat tightened as you allowed your eyes to flicker to the other side, Nesta beside Feyre, and Cassian beside her. Amren had most likely skipped out dinner to enjoy the privacy of her apartment, and Mor was no longer around. Preferring to spend her time on the continent.

The golden thread that tied you to the Lord of Bloodshed sung loudly and happily in your chest. Five years since you had last laid eyes on him and the feeling alone nearly brought you to your knees.

Your eyes flickered away from Cassian, ignoring the way your heart and soul begged you not to. “Is my room still available?”

Feyre sent you a soft smile, sad really, as she realized how desperately you wished to find some peace and quiet. She knew of your affections for the General, and how you had never told him only to watch him fall in love with her sister.

“Of course it is, but you should join us.”

You swallowed roughly at Rhys’ words, unable to stop the gnawing pain in your heart and the cruel words circling in your mind. Cassian was not yours, he had never been and it was unfair of you to expect him to love you the way you had always yearned for him too. But it didn’t mean it didn’t hurt, it always fucking hurt.

“I’m quite tired, maybe tomorrow.” Rhys didn’t push, just affectionately tucked your hair behind your pointed ear and let you go.

Your steps were quick, hurried and Cassian’s voice sounded like smooth velvet as he called your name. You didn’t stop, your knees nearly buckling under your weight as you forced yourself to keep walking.

Mumbling a quiet, “Goodnight,” before disappearing into the hallways in search of your bedroom.

During your five years away at Day the turmoil in your heart had eased, if only slightly. Cassian would unintentionally send his emotions down the bond, and it seemed it always happened when your heart had finally let you rest.

When you finally saw light at the end of a never ending tunnel of despair, the mating bond would reel you in, viciously and unforgiving. You were sure you were being punished.

How dare you ever try to question what the Mother wanted for you?

Being back in Velaris, being back home, felt so much worse. With the distance, even when his emotions poured into your very bones, it felt weakened. Less tethered to you.

But now? Now you felt his sorrow so deeply tears fell freely down your cheeks.

You had only been trying to sleep for a few hours, your rest had been fitful at best, anxiety prickling at your fingertips as you threw the warm blanket off of you. You needed air. You needed clarity.

Your feet moved on their own. From what you last knew there were no longer many residents here. You were careless in thinking so as your feet moved hurriedly through the house and out into the garden.

Filling your lungs with air as tears prickled at your eyes, the cold nipping at your skin as you sunk into one of the benches placed around the area.

You had only been in his presence for a mere five minutes and your heart was already waging a war against you.

Maybe you could convince Rhys to send you off once again. Your years away at Day had been filled with research and insight, maybe you could do the same at Dawn. Or any other Court that wasn’t here. Gods, you’d even take the forsaken libraries in the Hewn City if it meant not being here. You’d beg if you had too because this, this was too much.

You let out a shaky breath as your mind ruthfully plagued you with memories of the past. Of your utter devastation of hearing that Mor had slept with Cassian.

Of the guilt you felt after, when you avoided her in anger and utter jealousy and then told of the way she was savagely left to die.

You would never forgive yourself.

Remembering when you realized you were utterly and hopelessly devoted to your life long friend, and learning to live with just having a small part of him for you.

Hoping and praying to the Mother that he’d love you back. Hoping to see a spark of honeyed warmth, or a lick of jealousy when you found solace in the warmth of another. Anything, you prayed and prayed, but she never answered.

Not until you had pinned him down on the training matt, wings sprawled out beneath him as you stared at him smugly. A soft, primal, smirk on his face as he gripped your thighs. “You’re getting better.”

Your laughter filtered through the open area, “Only ‘better’? I just kicked your ass.”

He grunted, tugging you gently and in a quick succession of movements had flipped you over, pinning you to the ground. His thighs caged over yours, pinning your hands above your head as he sent you a toothy smile.

The wind that had been knocked out of you was not due to the fact your back had hit against the matt, but because something snapped inside of you. An invisible golden thread, darting from your chest to his, so visceral you could almost taste it, singing happily at finally being acknowledged.

But he gave no indication that he had felt the mating bond snap into place, “Yes, ‘better’. Because you should know not to let your guard down.”

Your speechlessness could’ve been a product of being bested in sparring, your mind racing with things to say but nothing came out.

The fog that had formed in your brain cleared at the bark of laughter that left Azriel, “If you two are done flirting, get back to sparring or leave the ring.”

You don’t remember what excuse you used to suddenly needing to leave but you did. Hope sparkling in your chest at what you thought was an answered prayer by the Mother. He was yours, just as much as you were his.

Only for the ember to burn to ash quickly, as two nights after Cassian had come to you looking for guidance on how to court Nesta.

You tried so hard, pushing down the mating bond that roared and screamed in utter agony as he spilled to you his affections for the eldest Archeron.

Your heart stuttering and begging for release of this pain as your mind caught up to you. He’d never see you. He hadn’t before, so what would be so different now? What would suddenly make you worthy in his eyes? The mating bond?

You realized quickly that you didn’t want that. Didn’t want him to love you just because fate decided to pair you together. You wanted him to love you, to yearn for you the way you had for him without something telling him to.

So with a forced smile you consoled him. Running your fingers through his hair and giving him advice on how to win her heart.

Some days you cursed yourself for that night. You wished you had been selfish and told him he was yours. But then the guilt would settle and you knew you’d never have the heart to force that onto your dearest friend.

In the end all you wanted was his happiness, if that was with someone else then you’d have to learn to live with it.

It had all led up to the night where you accidentally walked in on Nesta and Cassian in the kitchen at the House of Wind, lips and tongues tangled.

The mating bond felt like it was burning you alive from the inside out, angry and volatile as it blamed you for pushing him into her arms.

You’re not sure how you ended up in Rhys office, your face pressed into him as your fingers tried to claw at the hurt in your chest, “Make it stop, Rhys. Gods please, just make it stop.”

He had never seen you like this, never seen you in such despair as he tried to calm you down. He didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how to help you.

Only held you in his arms and sang a lullaby his mother had always sang to the three of you as children. Your desperation and pain eased and numbness eventually coated your insides.

“Send me away.”

He hesitated, wiping your tears as Feyre’s soothing touch caressed your back. His violet eyes shining with hurt and concern for you, “What are you running from?”

Your thoughts were interrupted by the deep timber of a voice you were so familiar with,“Is it just me, or are you avoiding me?”

Heat quickly ran from your skull down to your spine at the velvety voice that belonged to Cassian. Your back tensing uncomfortably as you turned to look at him.

You refrained from letting your eyes glaze down his form. Bare chested and wings lazily held up as his brows furrowed when he took you in.

“Cassian-what are you doing here?”

You stood up from your seated position as he moved closer. His eyes never leaving yours, “Here as in the gardens or here as in my home?”

Your brows furrowed, were he and Nesta now permanently in the town house? It would’ve made sense, seeing as they were all here, having dinner earlier.

“In-in the gardens.”

His lips twisted up into a small quirk of a smile, his eyes lingering on your face as if trying to reacquaint himself with your features.

Your heart lurched to your throat as his gaze lingered on your lips before he looked back into your eyes. “I heard you walking around. Wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“How did you know it was me?”

His lips tugged into a proper smile this time, “Who else could it be?”

He couldn’t bring himself to tell you that he’d long ago familiarized himself with the sound of your steps.

Your brows pinched together, full lips tugging into a small frown, “Where is everyone else?”

“Elain is most likely off in Lucien’s apartment, Azriel is at the House of Wind.”

And despite yourself, you asked, “And Nesta?”

Your throat bobbed softly, heart already preparing itself to hear that she was tangled in his sheets in his room. A soft shrug came from him, muscles flexing deliciously at the movement, “Probably with her mate.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest at his words. Her mate? You were sure the confusion was evident on your face as Cassian laughed. “It’s a bit unfair isn’t it? She was made a measly six years ago, and she’s found who her soul is tethered to, while we’ve been around for centuries and have no luck.”

“Lucky her.”

He hummed, eyes glazing over your face and the look in his eyes was unrecognizable. Warm and honeyed. It made your stomach twist and turn into uncomfortable knots.

“I should go to bed, Cassian. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You made to walk away from him, but his rough fingers wrapped around your forearm in a touch that could only be described as gentle. When you finally looked up at him his brows were pinched together in confusion, and hurt.

“What’s with the full name?”

“It’s yours, isn’t it?”

His eyes narrowed slightly at your words, “You’ve used it on me twice in the span of a few minutes. I’m never ‘Cassian’ to you.”

A stretch of silence passed between the two of you, you didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know how to act around him anymore.

Gods, you had come around to the idea of seeing him tangled with Nesta. But you were back and he was single. Or at least not with her and you don’t know what you feared most.

That your heart would take this as hope and yearn for him, and watch him fall for another, or to finally tell him how you felt. If it would even mean anything to him, if he’d even want you.

You couldn’t do it, you wouldn’t. You refused to let hope spark in your heart when he had already tangled himself into your very being like overgrown ivy. You don’t know if you’d survive any more rejection.

His voice was softer this time, thick fingers cupping your cheeks and jaw, forcing you to look at him, “You were gone five years and I can barely get five sentences out of you before you’re running away from me.”

Tears stung behind your eyes as your throat tightened at the hurt twinging his voice. It took everything in you to not soothe the crease between his brows, your body tensing softly as his thumb caressed your bottom lip gently, “If I have offended you, or hurt you some how tell me how to fix it. I have been waiting for five years for your return and I cannot stand to think that this whole time you were away you were angry with me.”

You wished you could speak, but your tongue felt heavy. The hurt in his eyes turned to something akin to despair at your silence, his hands dropped from caressing your face to hang loosely by his side, his wings slumped against the floor.

You let out a shuddering breath, forcing yourself to look away from him, “I should go to bed.”

And this time he didn’t stop you.

Weeks had trickled by so slowly since your return to Velaris as you tried to find your place back in your home court.

You had never been particularly good at fighting, your strength came from your knowledge. Books and literature had been something you had clung to as a child and it never left you.

You digested text in a way the inner circle did not, memorized details and names and faces others struggled with. But that did not mean Azriel was any easier on you when it came to training.

The muscles in your abdomen ached painfully, your arms felt heavy and filled with sand as he squared up once more. “I need a break.”

“You need to focus.”

A whine ripped from your throat in protest, Az’s shadows peppering cooling kisses and caresses on your skin to try and comfort you. “Just a few minutes. Please?”

“You think if someone were to try and attack you, they’d spare you if you whined like a petulant child?”

At your silence and glare he continued, “Didn’t think so.”

Your fingers balled into fist as you readied yourself, your muscles heavy with exhaustion as you threw punch after punch his way. “Remain focused, let yourself do what feels instinctual.”

You were sure you would’ve passed whatever Azriel’s standards were had his shadows not wrapped around your legs. Tugging insistently and trying to drag you away.

You heard Azriel’s noise of protest as he tried to rein his shadows back but they refused. Your head turned towards the direction in which they were tugging you in only to be met with Cassian’s warm hazel eyes already on you.

With an accidental misstep you were tumbling forward, falling far too quickly to catch yourself. Your head ringing harshly as the side of your face smacked against the mat.

Someone called out your name in a panic, and you missed the way Cassian had roughly pushed Azriel away from you as he turned you around.

His eyes frayed with worry as your eyes remained unfocused, “Can you look at me, dove?”

You blinked a few times before a groan of discomfort left your mouth, “What the fuck happened?”

Azriel’s shadows sheepishly began to caress your skull, pressing kisses of apologies on your skin. You didn’t hear anything besides tiny wisps of whispers coming from them but you’re were sure they hissed at Cassian as he shooed them away.

It took you a few minutes but you were eventually able to sit. Your ears ringing and still a little dizzy but you were feeling better despite the throb on your temple.

Azriel’s shadows peered at you from behind him sheepishly, and it was only when you extended your hand to them that they swarmed you in a flurry. Rubbing against your neck and hair affectionately, being careful with the side of your face but caressing you softly.

“They say they’re sorry.”

Your lips quirked up at Azriel’s words, “They’re forgiven.”

They buzzed in excitement, before stilling softly as Cassian extended a hand out for the shadows. They treaded carefully, lightly caressing his arm as in apology as if they had also offended him.

A few swirled around your hand and fingers, tugging it much more gently into Cassian’s extended hand. Your cheeks warmed up in embarrassment but before you could pull away, he tangled his fingers with yours.

The shadows swirled around your intertwined hands as if proud of themselves before finally returning to their master. Azriel sent you a soft smirk, and with a shake of his head diseapeared into a mass of dark misty shadows.

“Are you alright?”

You nodded slowly, retorting in exasperation, “Just feels like I hit my head.”

Cassian’s lips tugged into a soft smile, helping you up and not dropping your tangled fingers, “Let’s get you to Madja.”

He pulled you along closely, walking you both towards the edge of the training area. Before you could overthink about being so tangled in his arms he wrapped himself around you. One hand cradling the back of your head to his chest, while the other gripped the back of your thighs.

Your heart pummeled to your stomach as he took off flying, it had been so long since you felt the breeze against your face like this. Your legs wrapping around him as a startled laugh left your mouth.

You felt his laugh more than you heard it, his chest rumbling against yours and for the first time in years, your heart felt at ease around Cassian.

No turmoil or anguish, just overflowing affection and happiness as he flew you carefully around Velaris. Your face tucked away from being so pressed to his chest to look up at him and your breath hitched.

He was truly so beautiful, rough and sharp features that looked like he was made out of stone carving. His lips the perfect shade of dusty rose and plump, his nose fit him beautifully too, slightly crooked at the slope from being broken over the years. White-raised scars on his beautiful tan skin. You were so close you could see the faintest of freckles that doted his skin.

“You didn’t pass out on me, did you?”

Heat bloomed on your cheeks at getting so lost admiring him before you tucked your face back into his chest, “No, I’m fine.”

His fingers squeezed around your thighs as he pulled you closer before he descended down to the Town House.

You were grateful for the hand he kept placed on your back as he walked you into the house. Your dizziness hitting you once again as you landed on solid ground. The warmth running down your spine at his heated touch had you suppressing a shiver.

Your bones ached in protest when he pulled away and sat you down in front of an amused Rhys and exasperated Madja. The elder lady frowning at the bruise on your temple.

“Cassian, I’ve told you not to be so rough when training,” Madja’s soothing voice chastised the General. Your lips tugging into an amused smiled at the noise of protest that left his mouth.

“It was Azriel’s shadows that caused this.”

Madja’s eyes narrowed softly at his words but said nothing more. A hiss leaving your lips as she pushed against the bump forming near your eye.

Cassian’s fingers twitched nervously at the sound of your discomfort. His eyes glued to you as you were looked over by the healer.

Something warm and comfortable hummed in his chest seeing you. The weeks you had been back were nothing short of torture for him.

In the five years you had been gone Cassian came to the devastating realization that he was utterly and unabashedly enamored with you. Cursing himself for the time wasted on pointless lovers, on Nesta, when you had been by his side for the better half of four centuries.

His heart cracking open and knocking him over one restless night as his mind tormented him with everything he had been lacking since you had departed to Day.

He figured that he had always loved you, had always cared for you. But the twisting of his gut in your absences alerted him that it was in a way that was different from Mor and Amren, and then Feyre. His obsession with needing you near, needing you safe stemmed from some thing else entirely.

It took four months of being away from you to realize that. Cursing himself at all the time wasted.

And it wasn’t as if he didn’t try to get ahold of you while you were studying and researching to your hearts content at Day. He had sent letter after letter, received few responses but he had figured you were busy.

His skin had only started to crawl with dread and anxiety when there had been reasons for the Inner Circle to attend a meeting, or some grand ball thrown by Helion, and you were never there.

Either whisked away to some other Court for extended research or taking time away to visit your sister.

The very last time he had stepped foot in Day while you had been there was about three months before your return. Rhys had granted him permission to seek you out.

And when he stepped foot into Day Court’s palace in search of you his hope dwindled as Helion informed him that you had just left a few days prior for a fourteen day tour at Autumn Court. But he swore he scented the soft jasmine and lavender cream that he recognized as your scent roaming the halls.

Resigned, he returned home.

Then you returned, so careful and tense in his presence he wished to turn back back to when things were easier between the two of you. When his face would nuzzle into your soft belly as you ran your fingers through his hair and consoled him after a nightmare.

Or how he’d find his favorite pastries wrapped up on the counter that he knew you’d gone out of your way to get him.

He missed when his feelings hadn’t tangled themselves so deeply into you and he could just be. Gods, did he miss you. He yearned and ached and burned for you while you seemed content at keeping him an arms length away.

The mother could be so cruel.

He barely registered Rhys pressing an affectionate kiss to your bruised temple and mumbling that he was taking Madja back before something so earth shattering was unraveling in his chest.

His eyes wide and chest heaving the second the two of you were alone and your eyes met. A deeply rich golden invisible thread darting from his chest to yours.

He had unconsciously poured all his emotions of recognizing the bond down your connection. A primal need to be closer to you bursting from his chest as he tugged on the bond.

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t seem surprised he noted. Your side of the bond closed off tightly he could feel nothing from your end. He hated that.

Your eyes were wide in apprehension as you stared at him, tears lining your eyes as his emotions of love and devotion were so strong they brought him to his knees before you. Pleading and desperate as he called out your name.

“Don’t do this, Cassian.”

His brows pinched together as he reached for you, the bond screaming in agony as you avoided his touch and stood up to create some space between the two of you.

“Dove, listen to me. Please.” He was not above begging, still kneeled in the center of the room as his wings slumped to the ground. His eyes following your every move as you nervously ran your fingers through your hair.

“I feel it, I feel you.” His fingers and hands were steady as he pointed to his chest despite the feeling of anxiety creeping into him.

“You’re mine, my mate, dove.”

There was a beat of silence, Cassian staring at you as if you had delicately placed every beautiful star in the sky. But you had never seen him look at you like that before.

Never had he inclined he wanted you besides the bond. Gods, did it hurt. Your stomach churned sadly as your fingers balled into fist as you shook your head in denial.

“No. No, you don’t get to just suddenly want me because of the bond. I don’t want it this way.”

His frown deepened at your words, your emotions so heavily felt they started to crack the walls you kept up and pouring into the bond.

You had known for years. Five years, you had known and said nothing. “Gods, Cassian! I have loved you for so long. Prayed and begged to the Mother, to the Cauldron, to the Moon and Stars to have you return my affection and you didn’t.”

Cassian wanted to speak, to protest your words but the frustrated tears pouring down your beautiful face and the agony building in his chest, that was no longer just his, kept him quiet. “I’ve watched you pine and love others, and you have never looked at me that way. You had never thought me worthy of you in that way, and now that you know. It shouldn’t change a thing.”

“But it does,” His fingers itched to devote themselves to you. To memorize every curve and dip on your body. “It changes everything-”

You cut him off before he could continue, before he could tell you that he now felt worthy of loving you. That he now knew he could love you in a way you deserved if the Mother had blessed him with you as his wonderful mate. “Well it shouldn’t.”

You sniffled softly as you stared at him directly in his eyes, “I don’t want it to.”

[noorvell]

Holdfast

pairing: Jackson!Joel x F!Reader

summary: Joel works quietly beside you, his hands shaping something steady while your fingers trace uncertain curves. In the space between touch and silence, love lingers.

The studio smells of kiln heat and sawdust—sharp, mineral, earthy. It’s a scent that’s settled into you now, soaked into your skin and clothes, a fragrance that no longer belongs only to you, but to this shared space. The air hangs heavy with it, mingling with faint traces of cedar and damp clay, like the room itself breathes and remembers every shape you’ve coaxed from its raw materials.

This place hasn’t been built all at once, like some tidy studio with polished surfaces and labels. No—it has grown around you both, slowly, like a wild thing claiming territory. Walls layered in tools you don’t remember sorting, shelves bowing under the weight of unfired clay and cedar offcuts, stacks of sketches curling at the edges, a scatter of brushes left to dry. Each object tells a story, or at least a habit, a memory you both share even when unspoken.

You breathe it in deeply, letting it root you here, in this cluttered room that has folded itself around you both like a slow, deliberate embrace. It’s not pristine or designed; it’s lived-in, layered with quiet history. The walls sag slightly with weight—tools hung on nails you don’t remember hammering in, shelves bowing under the quiet pressure of ungainly piles of unfired clay, crooked stacks of cedar boards, and the scattered detritus of unfinished things.

Morning light spills through the windows in long, lazy ribbons, tracing a golden path across the workbench, where a curl of wood and a half-thrown bowl rest frozen mid-creation. Joel’s hand lingers on the spine of a carving knife, still, like it’s waiting for something—waiting for you.

You sit cross-legged near the corner, your elbow dusted with slip, the faint grit of drying clay rough against your skin. A shallow bowl lies beside you, drying unevenly on purpose, its imperfect shape a quiet act of rebellion against order and expectation. Your thumb moves slowly over the curve you coax from the wet clay, focused, measured. You don’t look up, but you sense his gaze—watching, waiting.

You wonder, for a moment, what he sees when he looks at you like that. Is it the same mix of irritation and something softer that you feel when you look at him?

There’s a particular kind of closeness in being annoyed by someone who knows how you take your tea without asking. A warmth disguised as eye-rolls. You tell yourself it’s just the way he always leans in with one elbow when he’s carving—like the world can wait for his hands to finish. That it’s just the way his voice drops half a register when he asks you if you’re tired, and you know he means more than sleep.

There’s something intimate about this—the space between you where no words are needed. Not the charged kind of intimacy people talk about, but something older, quieter. A kind of knowing built from repetition, from choosing to stay. The soft sound of your fingers shaping wet clay, the rasp of his knife over woodgrain. The faint, steady churn of the pedal-powered wheel as you press your foot down in rhythm. You refuse the electric one he offered you months ago—not out of stubbornness, not really. It’s about control. It’s about the resistance. The way your body meets the wheel, engages with it. The way the motion answers you. You like that it requires effort, that it pushes back.

And he likes that you like it. You’ve never said that out loud, and neither has he, but you both know. It’s there in the way he keeps it oiled. In the way he watches your foot on the pedal when he thinks you’re not looking.

He wipes his hands on a rag and leans back in his chair, his spine groaning slightly against the old wood. You don’t look up, but you feel the shift in the air as his attention moves—like the gravity in the room subtly realigns. You hear the pause before his next breath, the slow turn of his head as his eyes catch on the shelf above you both. The mugs.

Your mugs.

Thrown quick, deliberately imperfect. Thin in places where they shouldn’t be, warped lips and slanting handles that don’t sit quite right. But there’s a truth in them. Something honest about the way they fail to conform. They lean and wobble and refuse symmetry, and you like them that way. You trust things more when they’re a little off. You trust yourself more when you allow it.

His own pieces are nowhere to be seen—at least not by his design. He keeps them tucked away in drawers, crates beneath the bench, behind cabinet doors he never quite closes. As if he’s unsure whether they’re finished. As if hiding them makes them safer.

But you know where they are.

You’ve seen them all. Lifted each one into the light with the kind of reverence he pretends to hate. They are, in their own way, astonishing—perfect in the way only things made with absolute focus can be. His hands carve what his mouth won’t say: an owl mid-turn, feathers detailed to the vane; a wild horse, frozen in the strain of its rear legs; the muscular coil of a cowboy astride a bull, hat caught in the moment before flight. He never gives them names. Never calls them art. Just shrugs and says, “Keeps me busy.”

There are hands, too. Half-carved, emerging from blocks like something unfinished trying to speak. You always pause at those the longest.

And then the other things—quieter things. A bowl, small and square-edged, shaped to sit beside your mugs on the shelf. A slender ring of bent wood, sanded soft, to hang the ceramic flower charm you’d made from leftover glaze. No flourish. No signature. Just utility dressed in care.

You know he keeps them hidden not out of modesty, but out of something older, tighter in the chest. Like they are too much. Like if he looks too long, they’ll say something he isn’t ready to hear.

But you take them out.

Every time.

You dust them off and set them on the shelves that line the studio walls, nestle them into the bookcase where your notebooks and glaze samples live. A quiet act of defiance. Or faith. Maybe both. You never ask permission. You just do it. And he never stops you.

There’s something sacred in that rhythm, the way you undo each other's secrecy without fanfare. He stores. You display. He retreats. You witness.

And still—your own pieces remain crooked. Intentionally so. Glazes that run, handles that tilt like crooked teeth, lips that lean toward the light instead of staying level. Your mugs don't match. They were never meant to. You call them a family—strange, stubborn, misshapen—and love them harder for it.

Where his are flawless in silence, yours are flawed in defiance. And still, somehow, they find one another. Your cup, his bowl. His carved spoon left on your wheel. The way your flower charm hangs from the ring he whittled for it.

That contrast—it means something. A balance you don’t talk about but feel in your bones.

Because the truth is: you make imperfect things to prove you’re still healing. And he makes perfect ones to hold himself together.

And in the space between your mug and his matching bowl, your cracked glaze and his precise carving, is the quiet understanding that you’ve both survived something. That survival is an art form too.

Your foot lifts from the pedal. The wheel slows. The shape beneath your hands has taken form without you quite realizing it—slumped slightly to one side, heavy-bottomed, the curve imperfect. You run a thumb along the edge, smoothing it, not fixing it. Just… accepting. Beside you, the scrape of his blade pauses, and you hear him shift again, folding the rag between his palms.

He clears his throat like he might say something, then doesn’t. You don't push. You both know how to live inside the unsaid.

But what he evokes in you is not silence. Not really.

It’s pressure. It’s pause. It's that strange alertness you only get when you’re near something that could hurt you, if you let it—but also might not. That might hold. That might last. It’s the way you catch yourself listening for his breath when he’s quiet. The way you feel steadier when he’s nearby, and how that steadiness unsettles you.

Because you’re not used to being witnessed this gently.

You can still feel the weight of his eyes on the shelf above your head, as if by looking at the mugs, he’s looking at you. Not the version you offer the world, but the one who works in uneven lines, who forgets symmetry, who builds crooked things and calls them beautiful because she had to learn to love her own faults that way. He never asks you to explain. Never offers to “help.” Just keeps carving, keeps showing up, keeps filling the silence without crowding it.

Joel leans forward in his chair, scraping the edge of a wooden spindle with the blade, lazy and precise, the rasp a low hum beneath the stillness. “That thing gonna stand straight?” he asks, voice rough but casual, not looking up.

You don’t smile, not exactly. Your mouth twitches in that way it does when you’re pretending not to be amused—an almost-smile, half-hidden. “It’s supposed to.”

He hums low in his throat, a sound of disbelief and amusement tangled together. “Supposed to and gonna are two different animals.”

“And yet it always bothers you more than it bothers me.”

He pauses in his carving, just long enough to let the silence stretch between you like a thread pulling taut. “You make things crooked on purpose just to piss me off, don’t you?”

You reach for the wire cutter and don’t answer, letting the quiet hold its weight.

There’s a kind of intimacy in this space between you—not touch, not words, but a rhythm you move to together. The soft sound of your fingers shaping wet clay. The gentle rasp of his knife over woodgrain. The faint, steady churn of the pedal-powered wheel you refuse to give up, even when Joel offers to fix you an electric one.

He wipes his hands on a rag and leans back, gaze drifting to the cluster of mugs on the high shelf—yours, thrown thin and off-balance, each one a little different, a little wrong in a way that makes them right.

“Ellie passed by” He nods, flicking a thin shaving of wood from the carving knife with his thumb. “Dropped off some dried herbs from the greenhouse. Called you ‘Queen of the Mugs.’”

You snort softly, the sound sharp in the quiet. Your fingers trail over the uneven rim of the shallow bowl beside you, feeling the gritty slip still drying there. “That’s not even a title. That’s a threat.”

Joel chuckles under his breath, the sound rough but warm, like worn leather softened over years. He leans forward, tapping the handle of his knife rhythmically against the spindle, sending faint echoes across the room. “She’s right, though. You’ve got too many. There’s like… a whole army of them. We could arm the whole town with ceramic weapons if we needed to.”

You lift your gaze to the mugs clustered on the high shelf, fingers lingering on the curve of a particularly thin-walled cup, its glaze crazed and cracked in a way that makes it feel alive. “I’ve seen your drawer, Joel.”

He shrugs, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he adjusts his grip on the knife. “That’s different.”

You tilt your head, tracing the grain of the wood on the workbench with a fingertip, watching the fine curls of shavings pile up at his feet. “It’s not. You’ve whittled seventeen spoons.”

He glances at you, eyes twinkling with a mix of mock offense and pride. “They’re useful.”

You laugh quietly, watching as he carefully lifts one of the spoons, holding it up to the light like a delicate bird’s wing. “You made one shaped like a bird.”

“That one’s decorative,” he replies with a smirk, spinning the spoon between his fingers like a small treasure.

You finally look at him—really look—the way you always do when teasing stops just short of tenderness. Your gaze lingers on his hands, rough from years of carving and work, steady and sure despite the knots beneath the skin. “You like having your things next to mine.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just shifts in the chair, then looks down at the wood in his hands like it might offer him a way out of the moment. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I do.”

Joel shifts in the chair, the blade pausing against the spindle mid-stroke. You don’t look up, but you feel it—the way his attention slides off the thing in his hands and lands somewhere over your shoulder. He squints slightly. You can hear it in the silence: the tilt of his head, the subtle weight of a breath pulled through his nose.

“You moved ’em again,” he says finally.

You press your thumb into the clay just a little too hard, feel it give under the pressure, a small collapse on one side of the bowl. You don’t fix it.

“I like them where I can see them.”

He hums—not disapproving, not quite. Just that low gravel sound he makes when he’s chewing on a thought he won’t spit out yet.

You know which ones he’s staring at. The horse, probably. Maybe the owl. You placed them high on the middle shelf this time, between a small coil pot and a row of your older mugs, the ones with the warped bases and glazes that pooled like dried blood near the rim. You liked the contrast. Thought it said something truer than symmetry ever could.

Joel leans forward, elbows on knees, hands loose between them.

“They’re not finished,” he says, not to argue, just to explain.

You glance at him. “Then why do they look like they are?”

He doesn’t answer, not right away. Just watches the way your hands move, slow and certain again, smoothing over the bowl’s ruined edge like it was always meant to be there. He’s seen that before—in the way you treat broken things. Not just clay, but people too. The stubborn reverence. The refusal to toss what could still be held.

“Because you keep putting ’em out,” he mutters, half to himself.

You smile, but not with your mouth. Just a soft exhale through your nose, a pause in the rhythm of your thumb along the curve. The wheel’s slowed now to a near-stop. The clay still glistens, heavy and wet. The kind of imperfection you can’t take back.

He reaches for the rag again, wiping his hands clean even though there’s nothing left to wipe. You can feel the question behind his silence, the way it flutters just beneath his ribs like a bird that never settles.

You decide to let him sit with it.

“I know you don’t like people seeing what you make,” you say, soft now. “But I do.”

Joel shifts again, not quite restless—just uncertain. He scratches behind his ear like he’s trying to work the discomfort out through muscle.

“They’re not supposed to mean anything,” he says.

And maybe they don’t. Maybe the cowboy, the bull, the hands—maybe none of them carry the weight he thinks you’re assigning. Maybe they’re just the shape his mind makes when it’s quiet. But you don’t believe that. Not really.

You reach for the wire cutter and draw it through the base of the bowl, lifting it clean from the wheel. The bottom’s a mess—slumped too far on one side. You don’t care. You place it beside his spoon on the bench like it belongs there.

“Doesn’t have to mean anything to you,” you say. “Still does to me.”

He doesn’t respond. But he doesn’t argue either.

He just leans back, gaze drifting again toward the shelf, toward the horse mid-lunge, the owl mid-turn. You can almost feel it—the quiet war happening in him, the tug between wanting to be unseen and wanting to be known.

“You even dusted ’em,” he mutters.

You reach for another lump of clay. “You’re welcome.”

And something in his face softens—barely—but enough.

He doesn’t say thank you. He never does. But when he gets up a minute later, it’s to take one of the drawers from beneath the bench, set it on the table near you, and begin sorting through the things inside. Quiet, deliberate, as if maybe—just maybe—he’s going to leave one out this time. Maybe he won’t put it back.

And maybe that’s the closest thing to trust he knows how to offer.

You don’t notice it at first. Not really. You’re too caught in the rhythm of your hands, the way the clay gives under your palm like muscle, like breath. The studio is still warm—kiln heat still clinging to the walls, dust rising lazy in the sunlight that slips through the slats. Outside, the wind shifts through high branches. Inside, the silence has settled into something companionable.

It’s only after a few minutes that you realize he hasn’t spoken. Hasn’t moved from his chair, either. Not really. Just sat there, leaning slightly forward, one foot braced, the other loose. His hands are working—but not the way they were before.

You glance sidelong. His carving knife has changed angles. Smaller now, precise. He’s not shaping a spindle anymore. The block in his hand is new—soft-grain pine, not the hardwood he usually favors. His wrist moves in a tight arc, the blade drawing slow lines along the edge.

He’s not rushing. In fact, he’s being almost absurdly deliberate.

You don’t say anything. Not yet. Just let your gaze drift back to the spinning clay as your fingers press the lip of the bowl inward, folding it gently toward itself. The shape is a little off. The curve too sharp on one side. You leave it that way. A little off is closer to true.

The sound of the knife against wood is different when he carves like this. Less scraping, more whispering. The soft rhythmic hush of effort he’s trying not to show. Every so often, he pauses—brushes his thumb over what he’s made so far. Then picks up again.

You let it draw on. You know this rhythm. It’s the same one he falls into when something is for you. He never says so outright. But there’s a kind of tell, in the stillness. In the way he breathes through his nose like he’s trying not to feel too much.

Eventually, curiosity tugs your eyes back to the shape forming in his hand. It’s small. Thin. No moving parts. Just a wedge of wood, carved to a gentle point, notched through the middle with a deep groove. You know what it is before he’s finished—but only because you’ve used one before. Years ago. Back when you still thought of reading as rest instead of retreat.

A page holder. The kind that fits over your thumb so a book stays open in your lap.

You feel your chest go still.

He’s never seen you use one. But he’s seen the need. The way you curl yourself around books like you’re trying to disappear into them. The way your elbow sometimes slips when sleep finds you too fast. The way your fingers ache after holding something open for too long in the cold.

It’s not the sort of thing someone notices, unless they’re looking close. Unless they’re always looking.

He finishes the first pass and sets the knife down, rubbing his thumb along the inside of the notch. His callused hands make it seem effortless, but you know better. That curve didn’t just happen. He coaxed it out, a fraction at a time, with the same steady patience he uses on jammed hinges, on dented toolboxes, on people.

Then he reaches for sandpaper—his coarsest first, then finer—and begins the slow work of smoothing each edge. His fingers darken slightly with resin. He blows the dust off every few minutes, but it keeps settling back, as if the thing is resisting its final form.

You don’t stop working—but you slow.

Your eyes stay on your clay, but your attention lingers sideways, circling him like a tide that won’t leave.

He wipes the piece clean. Rotates it once, twice. Frowns a little at one corner, takes it back to the blade for one more pass. Then finally—finally—he nods to himself, not with pride, just quiet satisfaction. Like it’ll do.

He places it on the table beside your bowl, in that quiet, unceremonious way he always sets down things that mean too much. His hand hovers a moment before pulling back.

You glance at it, and then at him.

“For your thumb,” he mutters. “So you don’t have to fight the damn thing every night while it’s trying to close on you.”

You stare at the holder. Pale wood. Edges beveled so finely you almost can’t feel them. The groove is deep but narrow, made to cradle a page without creasing it. It’s elegant, but not fussy. Not a gift, exactly. More like an understanding, carved into form.

You reach for it slowly, like touching it too fast might make it disappear.

Your thumb slips through the curve. Perfect fit.

Your voice catches in your throat, but you speak anyway. “How’d you know?”

Joel shrugs, reaching for the rag again, always fidgeting when words want to settle.

“Saw you once,” he says.

A pause. Then, quieter—like the memory makes him feel something he’s not ready to look at too directly:

“Actually—most nights. When you’re trying to read in bed. Think you forget I’m still awake.”

Your breath stills, just slightly.

“You’ve got the book jammed open with your knee,” he goes on. “Elbow under your head, spine bent sideways like some kind of pretzel. One hand trying to keep the page from closing, the other poking at the blanket like it’s in your way. You keep trying to shift without waking me. Always look like you’re in a fight you’re pretending not to be in.”

He huffs a dry sound, almost a laugh. “Your fingers start cramping and you don’t even stop. Just frown harder like that’s gonna convince the book to behave.”

You feel the heat rise at the back of your neck. Not embarrassment. Not quite. Just that strange ache that comes from being seen in a moment you thought belonged only to yourself.

You blink, but your gaze stays on the page holder. “You were watching me?”

His reply is immediate. Quiet. Sure.

“Yeah. Of course I was.”

There’s no irony in it. No smirk. Just fact.

You glance at him then, really glance, and find him not trying to look away. He’s sitting with his hands open now, rag in his lap, expression unreadable but steady. And it strikes you that maybe this isn’t the first thing he’s made for you with this much attention—maybe it’s just the first time you’ve realized how long he’s been paying it.

You thumb the smooth notch again. The way it fits, the comfort of it, the fact that he thought of it at all—it all lands at once. Gentle. Weighted. Real.

A book page holder. A small piece of peace.

You let out a breath that sinks deep.

“Well,” you murmur, throat catching a little. “Guess I can stop wrestling the paperback every night now.”

Joel’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t quite smile. “That was getting hard to watch.”

And then, softly—quieter than the tools, the kiln, the wind outside:

“Didn’t want to fix the way you read. Just figured it might hurt less this way.”

Your heart catches somewhere under your ribs. The way he says it—it’s not just a kindness. It’s a philosophy. Letting you be crooked and coiled and stubborn, but making space for you anyway. Easing the strain, without ever asking you to change.

You nod once. Small. Grateful. Your fingers close around the holder like it’s a promise.

And in the space between you, something warm blooms—not loud, not sudden. Just steady. The kind of warmth that builds night by night, unnoticed, until it’s everywhere.

You reach for him before you quite realize you’re doing it.

Not dramatic. Not planned. Just a slow drift sideways, your body remembering the shape of him like it’s done it a hundred times in dreams you never told anyone about. You sit beside him on the old bench, the wood groaning faintly under your weight, your thigh brushing his. He doesn't move—not away, not toward you. Just stays.

The silence stretches, long and low, like the breath before rain.

Then—your hand finds his. Not tentative, not bold. Just steady. Like truth spoken under your breath.

His palm is rough, warm, callused where the carving blade lives. You let your fingers slip into his slowly, as if the moment might shift if you move too fast. He meets you there, without flinch or flourish. His fingers curl around yours with the same unthinking care he carves with—the kind that says I know this shape. I made space for it.

You turn your hand under his, lacing your fingers where they want to go, your thumb grazing lazy circles at the base of his. You don’t look at him. You don’t have to. The gesture is quiet, but full. Like setting down armor. Like saying, Yes. This is where I meant to be.

Joel shifts, barely. Then exhales—low, long, like he’s let go of something he didn’t realize he’d been holding. His head tilts toward you, and then his forehead rests against yours, solid and warm. Grounding. You close your eyes. The world draws smaller. The air smells like cedar dust and clay, like heat and effort and the hush of something sacred.

This isn’t fire. It isn’t hunger.

It’s anchor. It’s recognition.

When he kisses you, it’s not new—it’s just arrived. Soft. Certain. A slow press of lips that asks nothing but to stay. Your hand comes up, clay-dried and cooled, and cups the back of his neck, thumb at the ridge of bone behind his ear. His skin is warm. Familiar.

You lean in without hesitation, the kiss coming softly—not the sudden flare of desire, but something slower, a steady warmth pressing gently against your lips. His mouth is sure, patient, a quiet offering that doesn’t demand or rush. The weight of his hand, rough and steady, cups the back of your neck, thumb tracing the ridge of bone just behind your ear with a tenderness that surprises you. Your fingers, dusted with drying clay, rise almost instinctively to his nape, your touch cool and grounding against the heat of his skin.

The world narrows to the simple contact—lips meeting, skin pressing skin, the slight roughness of his beard tickling your palm. There’s a rhythm here, slow and deliberate, like the carving strokes he lays down with the knife: purposeful, thoughtful, intimate. You return the kiss, not out of passion but as a quiet thank you—thank you for seeing, for the care folded into the page holder he’s been making, for the patience he’s given without fanfare. It tastes faintly of sawdust and old wood, mingled with the faint scent of sun-warmed cotton and the lingering trace of his collar.

You breathe him in—familiar, steady, the scent of a life crafted from scraps and resilience. Your heart softens in the presence of this simple, unassuming connection, a fragile but unbreakable tether built from shared moments and quiet understanding.

When you pull back slightly, the space between you is warm, charged but calm. It’s not fire, not hunger—just belonging. The kind of closeness that doesn’t need words or urgency, just the gentle assurance of being exactly where you are meant to be.

You stay like that, temple pressed gently against temple, sharing the quiet rhythm of their breath—slow, deep, matching. His hand lingers at the nape of your neck, fingers curved just enough to hold you steady without pressure, a silent anchor that grounds you in the moment. You rest your palm flat against his chest, fingertips feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath rough fabric, warm and alive.

With your hand there, you sense the pulse beneath your skin, a steady beat that eases like a slow wave washing over you. Your fingers flex just so, almost unconsciously, guiding that rhythm—softening it, slowing it down, syncing it with your own breath. The subtle rise and fall of his chest beneath your palm is a quiet assurance: here, now, you both exist in this fragile, shared stillness.

Outside, the light shifts as the sun moves, casting long, honeyed shadows across the worn bench and the scattered tools around the room. The scent of sawdust and drying clay hangs thick and warm, blending with the faint musk of his skin and the ever-present quiet hum of the pedal wheel turning somewhere just beyond the door.

Your breathing deepens, matching his, a gentle dance of in and out, a soft tether unspoken but deeply felt. Time slows, folding in on itself until nothing exists but the press of skin, the steady beat beneath your hand, and the small universe held between two people quietly learning how to be close without words.

The silence that follows isn’t empty; it’s full—thick with the unspoken, held lightly between you like a soft fabric draping the room. Your fingers remain entwined, the slow pulse of his hand a steady drum beneath your skin.

Minutes stretch and fold into themselves, time losing sharp edges. The faint scent of clay mingles with cedar and sawdust, the distant creak of the pedal wheel turning somewhere beyond the doorway. The light filters through the dusty windows in warm, lazy ribbons, catching on floating specks that drift like tiny stars caught in a quiet galaxy.

Then, breaking the silence, Joel’s voice comes—soft, low, a thread pulled tenderly through the stillness.

“Thank you.”

The words hang there, simple and honest, settling like dust motes in the sunlight. No need for more, for grand declarations. Just gratitude breathed into the space between you.

You squeeze his hand gently, your eyes meeting his in a quiet affirmation. The silence returns—deeper now, more complete, a calm that cradles you both like a shared secret.

Here, in this fragile stillness, you find home.

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a/n: not really much to say about this, i missed Joel so here he is, all small gestures and big softness. likes, comments and reblogs are deeply appreciated. hope you enjoy the reading, and see you next time.