#i might be quiet for a while i really don’t know

[webbluvrsugar]

earlyseasons!spencer making you squirt.

cw: doesn’t mean sub!spencer, it’s more like eager Spencer experimenting on reader, written mostly for funsies.

Every since you and Spencer have been messing — fucking — around, you’ve noticed that he’s been a little shy, at least at first, his touch has been gentle but also… experimental, the way he looks at you when you’re under him and pushes you just a little harder almost makes you feel like like he’s studying you, testing something on you. But he’s a profiler, he’s learned that you don’t mind, so when he comes with the proposition of trying to make you squirt, you’re doubtful, specially as he pushes you down on your bed — already naked.

“Spencer, you don’t really need to do this, I —“ you try to speak but he’s quick to interrupt you, his hands running down your thighs.

“I know, I just.. I just want to try something new, just for a bit,” he hushes, eyes looking up to you for approval as he puts away his glasses and when Spencer says ‘just for a bit’ he is indeed just… lying, lying to your face.

His tongue licks a fat strip up your folds, it’s bold, something that he’d at first would hesitate to do, gently circling your clit before he attaches his lips onto it, gently sucks and his fingers go up to spread you further.

Spencer’s tongue feels good, but by now, you know that he would’ve already tried to stick a finger or two in you, but he doesn’t, it almost seems like he’s trying to reach this personal goal of his all with his mouth, and he’s doing a good job at it, because his tongue prods at your entrance and you arch your back, softly moaning, head throwing back and meeting your pillow.

“How does that feel?” He questions as if you need to answer for him to know it.

But still, you nod again, “Good,” you whisper, hand going down to grab at the sheets.

“Yeah, I can tell.” He grins, cocky, before his mouth latches onto your cunt again.

He devours you, nose bumping into your clit as his tongue precisely chooses where to run through, your breath being taken from your lungs when it caresses your insides one more time, the warm tip of the muscle moving within you.

“Spence,” you whimper, your knees struggling to keep themselves in place as he pulls back and pays attention to your swollen pearl one more time.

“Close?” He asks, tongue licking up a few more times through your folds, trying to get all up in there.

“Mh — Mhm,” you moan, a pleased sigh following suit.

“Did you know that —“ he pauses, “statistically, only thirty-five to fifty percent of women have experienced squirting mid sex—“ he presses an open mouthed kiss to your cunt. “But it depends on the method, I’ve read about it, we can try and see if this will be the one for you.”

And for someone who’s so used to talking, Spencer finally goes to quiet after a while and focus on your pussy, paying extra attention to what you like, guiding himself with your moans and gentle curses.

“Spence—“ with that, he thinks this really might be his chance of getting you to do it the first try, so his lips wrap around your clit one last time, only letting go when he hears a hushed cry of his name escape your lips— “Spencer!” A stream of fluid expels from you, and he watches in awe, slightly tilting his head as your body shivers and writhes right before him.

His hands gently caress your thighs, fingers letting go of your folds, his eyes finally meeting yours when you take a breath and before you can speak, he notes;

“Let’s do it again, maybe you’ll do it quicker if I actually use my fingers…”

[ravens-bird]

Yours to Keep - Sylus.

Pairing: Sylus x F!Reader.

Tags: Boyfriend Sylus, fluff, smut, kissing, fingering. this was supposed to be like soft sex (and it is) but I almost got carried away. Blame the man not me. Not Beta'd we die like Caleb. MDNI‼️

Nicknames used: Sweetie, Kitten, Sweetheart.

Note: Based on the prompt "Making love, except it’s on the bedroom floor" (link)

wc: 3.6k.

Sylus had long since stopped being surprised by your tendency to do random things on a whim. By now, he knew better than anyone to not question the little things that you did just because they felt right.

Like when you decide that having a whole block of cheese as a midnight snack was completely normal, or when you apply random products and make questionable concoctions in the name of skincare and then drag him into it while calling it a ‘spa day’.  

Sure, watching you Do Your Thing was quite amusing to him, but sometimes he wished he could take a look inside your head and Understand.

Case in point, he wasn’t sure why you were sprawled out on the plush carpet beside the bed, akin to a cat that curled up and napped anywhere it deemed a worthy spot. His red eyes flicker with quiet amusement as he stood in the doorway of the bedroom, watching you.

“You do know we have a bed and a desk in this room right, Sweetie?”

You don’t bother looking up, shrugging in response as you spread out your haul from the gift shop — a thick leather-bound scrapbook, three different types of decorative tape, a set of colourful markers — and Sylus stopped counting.

His eyes furrow. “What are you doing?”

You finally glance up at him, blinking at him as if he was being silly. “Scrapbooking? Duh.”

His lips twitch at the corners, though the sigh he lets out is equal parts amused and exasperated.

“I can see that,” his tone is dry. He straightens up, pushing off the doorframe as he saunters towards you, a little curious. When you pat the space next to you, urging him to join you, he doesn’t hesitate.

He lowers himself onto the floor beside you, stretching his long legs out in front of him as he leans his back against the bedframe, taking in the mess— ahem, the arrangement of art supplies. The carpet is warm, and the faint evening light streaming in through the window paints the room a warm gold.

You scoot closer to him, nudging the scrapbook towards him. “Wanna help?”

He hums in thought, reaching for one of the photos from the pile you'd set aside — probably to include in the scrapbook, he assumed.

It was from one of your first public dates together, taken at Café Destiny — with you striking a peace sign, half out of the frame, while the camera had caught him mid-sip, eyes on you instead of his drink.

He smiles, picking up another one.

This one was from the new year celebration, taken by the twins — you were beaming, while Mephisto perched on your hand, with a tiny white ruff around his neck — an imitation of the Grumpy Crow plushie, looking thoroughly affronted and a touch betrayed, with his head turned towards Sylus who was standing out of frame.

Sylus hummed in amusement, flipping through a few more photos. His sharp eyes softened as he took in the little snapshots of your time together — laughing over coffee, wandering through night markets, you dozing off on his shoulder in the back of a car after an auction. Most were candids.

He briefly ponders how much you might have bribed Luke and Keiran for these.

“You’re really into this, huh?” His voice is softer now, more curious than teasing.

You smile, turning back to the task at hand. “Of course. It’s our memories.”

There’s a warmth spreading through him that he doesn’t quite know how to react to. So instead of trying, he just picks up the Polaroid camera beside him, aims it at you, and snaps a picture.

The flash makes you startle. “Hey!”

His crimson eyes gleam with mirth as he shakes the developing photo in front of you like one would dangle a feather-toy in front of a curious cat.

Once it clears, he holds it up for the both of you to see. For a quick picture, it had come out rather well, but it looked a little silly - because he had snapped it right as you closed your eyes.

Your pout lasts all of three seconds before you’re giggling, reaching for the camera yourself. Sylus doesn’t resist when you take it from him, instead hooking an arm around your middle and pulling you to him.

You squeak at the sudden movement, instinctively grabbing onto his arms as he settles you into his lap with ease, resting his chin on your shoulder as he keeps a lazy hold on your waist. Trying to ignore the way your heart flutters, you lift the camera, angling it so both of you fit in the frame. “Alright, smile.”

Sylus huffs but obliges, a half-smile tugging at his lips.

You press the button, the camera clicks, and as the photo develops, you glance down at it with satisfaction.

“See?” you say, turning the picture toward him. “We look cute.”

You glance up at him, still in his arms, expecting him to study the image but instead he leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. You let out a small, surprised noise before melting into it, reaching up to touch his cheek softly.

When he pulls back, your smile is dazzling.

Sylus has always wondered how it would feel like for his heart to race — either out of fear or excitement. Lately, he’s been experiencing it often, thanks to you — though, oddly enough, it seemed to be due to a secret third thing.

Which was not much of a secret, anyway.

Everyone around him — at least, those he considered relevant — knew he was smitten with you. But still. His chest feels full.

So full that, when you giggle again, he doesn’t think — just shifts the scrapbook and the photos aside, guiding you gently down onto the carpet with him as the camera slides out of your grip, falling into the carpet with a muffled thud.

You let out a small gasp, eyes wide, as he flops you down, one arm bracing the back of your head as he mindlessly shoves the camera aside.

His name barely leaves your mouth before he’s pressing his lips to yours, fingers grazing your waist with his free hand. He kisses you slowly, deeply, and you lose yourself in his kiss, his touch, the scent and feel of him, that you forget entirely about what you were doing.

He pulls back a little and your breath is shaky as he nips at your bottom lip, before he swipes his tongue over it, soothing the sting. His hand slides up, cradling your jaw with a tenderness that makes your heart stutter. His thumb traces just below your eye, slow and deliberate, as if memorizing the shape of you.

His face is so unguarded, so open, that words fail you.

Sylus despised vulnerability.

The mere thought of giving someone that kind of power over him had always been unbearable. Not that it was a common occurrence or anything — but with you, it was different. You made it feel less like a weakness and more like something he could surrender to — something safe.

He may not always find the right words to tell you how he feels, but in moments like this, his touch speaks for him.

Desire sings in his veins as you tug lightly on his collar, kissing him again. When his tongue teases the seam of your lips again, you open your mouth, and the noise of satisfaction that escapes your lips has his ego soaring.

He was determined to drag out more such sounds from you.

He goes easily when you flip him over, relaxing under you as you straddle his waist, feeling the press of his hardening erection against your heat. He watches you with a quiet intensity as you settle yourself over him, taking the lead, and his sharp intake of breath when you roll your hips gives you immense satisfaction.

His hands trail up your thighs to rest on your hips. “I’d rather take the initiative,” he speaks, red eyes sparking. “But I must admit. It is quite nice seeing you on top like this sometimes, kitten.”

You roll your eyes playfully, tipping forward to kiss again. He sighs against your lips, squeezing your side in response, before his fingers begin fidgeting with the material of your shirt.

You splay your palm against his chest, right above his heart, while resting the other on his shoulder, letting him hold you up and his hand sneaks beneath your clothes, caressing the skin underneath. 

Before long, he starts moving his hips too, jerking upward to grind against you and you gasp into his mouth, and his responding groan sends a spark of desire straight down to your cunt, and suddenly, there’s just too many layers of clothing separating the two of you.

Sylus seems to be thinking the same, because when he tugs at the hem of your shirt, you pull back, pulling it off immediately so that the only thing covering your upper half is your bra. When you reach for the buttons of his shirt immediately, he chuckles lightly.

“You’re rather impatient today, Sweetie.” 

You ignore his comment, unbuttoning his shirt and pushing them off his shoulders, and the amusement vanishes from his eyes when you run your hands down his front, all the way down to the waistband of his pants. 

He sits up then, pulling you into him as he presses hot, wet kisses against your lips, your cheek, your jaw, and your neck, trailing down to the swell of your chest before he unclasps your bra in one quick movement, baring your breasts.

You feel a wave of heat wash over you, tinging your cheeks red — not in embarrassment, but because of the way he looks at you. His eyes rake over you slowly, and the quirk of his mouth tells you that he's enjoying it immensely.

That, and the way his cock hardens further underneath you.

His voice is a quiet rumble as he cups one breast and gives it a little squeeze, “You’re so beautiful, sweetheart.”

“Sylus—” His name is barely out of your mouth before he rolls a pert nipple between his fingers, and you whine. “Stop teasing.”

He chuckles again, “Your wish is my command, kitten.”

And when he takes your other breast in his mouth, his wet, hot tongue pressing against your nipple, your nails dig into the smooth, pale skin of his shoulder. His shirt was shoved off one shoulder, resting at the crook of his elbow and the sight of him like this, with his mouth on your chest, a faint blush on his face, is truly one to behold.

Your fingers get lost in the strands of his hair, tugging at them as he worries the sensitive flesh with his teeth, when his right hand trails down to the waistband of your shorts. You lift your hips readily when he tugs, and he pulls back to slide your shorts off you with ease.

“So eager,” he murmurs teasingly, as if he wasn't the one who started all of this. You don’t get to retort, because his hand is on you again, rubbing you against the fabric of your damp panties.

Sylus's fingers ghost over the material, teasing the sensitive skin beneath, before applying just the right amount of pressure that sends a surge of warmth pooling low in your belly, and your breath catches in a soft whimper as he finally pushes your underwear aside, dragging his fingers up to circle over your clit.

When you buck your hips against his hand instinctively, craving more friction, impatient and a little desperate for him to just touch you properly, god damn it all, he gathers some slickness in his fingers, slowly pressing into you.

A delicious mix of relief and tension flooding over you.

He thrusts his fingers in and out slowly at first, and you moan at the sensation, clenching around him. when he curls his fingers ever so slightly, and finds that one spot that has you crying out and grinding into his hand, he picks up his pace. Soon, you start to feel the waves of pleasure heighten, and you wrap both arms around him, holding on.

When Sylus gently presses the pad of his thumb against your clit, keeping his pace steady as he breathes against your mouth, you could do little except cling to him, and you come hard, drenching his hand, lap and your panties as well as your thighs.

He flips you over gently, letting you rest on the carpet on your back and you immediately try to stop him. 

“We’re going to ruin the carpet—!”

“I don’t care about the carpet, Sweetie.” He presses a kiss to the tip of your nose, pushing you back down gently. “Not when I'm on top of you.” 

He pulls your panties off easily, and you help him take his shirt off, running your hands down the swell of his muscles appreciatively, and gasp in pleasure when he presses his clothed erection against your core.

You reach down, palming him through the material of his pants, as he kisses you again, and with great patience, he kneads the softness of your body, running his hands up and down teasingly yet carefully, as if he was trying to etch the memory into his mind.

“Sylus, please.” You whimper, empty and needy, already starting to feel aroused again, and he caves, letting you unzip his pants and take them off along with his underwear. 

He reaches for the nightstand and takes a condom out. You bite down on your lip in anticipation as you watch him roll it onto his fully erect cock. Despite the number of times you’ve done it before, the Moment Before was always a little intimidating. 

He lines himself up at your entrance, breath quickening as he looks down at you, gaze soft yet burning with anticipation.

"Are you ready, Sweetie?" His voice is low, laced with desire and affection.

You nod, heart racing as he presses a gentle kiss to your brow as he begins to slide inside. Your breath hitches as he sinks deeper, burying himself to the hilt.

"Tell me if it's too much," he murmurs as he stills for a moment, letting you adjust.

You nod quickly, urging him to move. "Mmm, you feel so good."

"You're so tight," he breathes against your lips as he kisses you sloppily.

When he starts to move, your toes curl with the sensation and you wrap your legs around his waist. His breath shudders as he picks up the pace, and the wet squelching sounds of his dick sliding in and out of your cunt, paired with the sounds escaping you both, adds a layer of lewdness to the whole ordeal.

“Shit, you feel so good, Kitten,” Sylus’s praise unleashes a swarm of butterflies in your tummy, and you grip his shoulders harder, your head falling back. 

Just as you feel your climax start to build, Sylus slows down, making you whine but he merely hushes, uncurling your legs from around him and shifts.

“Patience, sweetheart.” Despite the commanding tone of his voice, his eyes and touch are gentle. But what you wanted was not gentle. Not right now. 

However, your protests are once again thwarted as he lifts your right leg up, pulling you closer by the hips, still inside you. 

You’re about to ask him what the hell was he trying to do — though you have an inkling as to what it is, when he slinging your leg over his shoulder and moves again, thrusting inside you. Deep. 

Your garbled moan gets a devious smirk in response, as he tilts his hips just enough, angling himself to hit your G-spot, his cheeks splotched red to match his eyes. Strands of light hair stick to his forehead, while beads of sweat dot his brow and temple. 

There are four red half-moons on each shoulder, from when your nails dug into him, and the half faded hickeys on his collarbone begs for attention.

He looks so sexy like this.

Your breath stutters as you catch his eyes, and the way he’s looking at you — the intensity of it, makes you wonder what you must look like to him. Naked and flushed, panting as your breasts bounced with the momentum of his thrusts, the sight of him moving in and out of your wet cunt… 

“Lost in your head again, Kitten?” The huskiness of his voice carries a hint of warning in it — something dangerous. “When I’m still inside you?” 

You quickly shake your head, but he’s unconvinced as his pace slows down yet again. 

“Sylus—” You gasp as he presses his thumb against your pussy again, rubbing your clit with just enough pressure for you to whimper. You try again. “Please.”

Sylus chuckles, low and dark, the sound vibrating against your skin. He watches you with sharp eyes, drinking in every little reaction as he drags his thumb in slow, torturous circles.

“Please, what?” His voice is a whisper of sin, teasing, coaxing. His hips barely move now, keeping you right on the edge, just out of reach.

You squirm beneath him, fingers digging into his arms, nails biting into his skin in frustration. He loves that—loves how desperate you get for him. But he’s not done playing.

“You get lost in that pretty head of yours so often,” he murmurs against the side of your calf, pressing a lingering kiss to the bend of your knee. “Maybe I should fuck you hard enough to remind you exactly where you are.”

His crass words send a shiver down your spine, anticipation crackling through your veins. Your breath catches when he pulls out nearly all the way—only to slam back in with a force that steals what little air you had left.

“Is this what you wanted?” he growls as he turns his head to bite your leg slung over his shoulder, leaving an imprint on the skin, setting a brutal rhythm that has your body arching off the carpet, your moans spilling freely now. His fingers don’t stop either, overstimulating you and pushing you closer and closer to the ledge.

And this time, there’s no room for wandering thoughts—only him, only this.

Not that your thoughts ever strayed far from him to begin with.

But now, your mind is blissfully blank, lost in the waves of pleasure as your body tenses and trembles beneath him.

Your release crashes over you just as he continues his pace, dragging out every sensation, every spark, until he follows soon after — burying himself deep inside you with a low, shuddering groan as he too chases his high.

You sigh a little as he pulls out, feeling the sudden emptiness in you as he rolls off of you, laying next to you, breathing a little heavily. You both lay there for a moment, with you being drowsy after coming twice. 

You’re only half aware when he gets up to dispose of the used condom, and don’t protest much as he scoops you into his arms, holding you to his sweaty torso. 

He breathes you in, his lips ghosting over your ear as he whispers softly, "I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you."

And in the silence that follows, you feel your heart swell. The words come out before you can rethink them, breathless and full of warmth. "I’m all yours to keep."

Which is true. You don't think anyone else could quite make you feel the way he does, and anything else couldn't compare.

So when you smile, holding onto him like he’s your whole world, he finally understands why people compare love to the sun, the moon, and stars.

Because here, right now, having you in his arms—he has them all.

“Have you caught your breath yet, Sweetie?” His fingers rub lazy circles on your back as you nuzzle into his side. You hum sleepily in response. 

Then he chuckles, voice dark with intent. “Good. Because I’m not done with you yet.”

Your eyes snap open. “Sylus, are you serious?”

He tilts his head, amused. “What? You look so pretty all wrecked like that. How could I resist?”

“No way! First, you interrupt my scrapbooking, and now you want to continue?” You scoff. 

“That’s not a no,” he drawls in response, before sneaking his hand down and giving your ass a quick, teasing squeeze. You yelp, swatting at him as he grins against your temple. 

“It is,” you wag a finger in front of his face playfully. “Let’s just clean up and get dinner already!”

Sylus sighs, clearly reluctant to let the... session end, but after a moment, he gives in. “Fine, fine.” He pushes himself up, then effortlessly scoops you into his arms, making you squeak, before he carries you to the attached bathroom. 

But as the warm water starts to stream down your bodies, his hands find your hips, his lips find your neck, and well…

Who’s to say that you both will only shower, though?

The night is still young.

Note: found the Praying Mantis position quite hot, despite its name being very... yeah. I think it's Sylus for me (get it??? 🤣)

Masterlist.

[dollyfiles]

rafe cameron knows that it isn’t just LUST he feels for you

cw: mutual attraction, forbidden love, emotional betrayal, angst, inspired by the song “lust” by chase atlantic.. & for my sweet girl @vampteeths <33

the humid night air clung to like rafe a second skin as he leaned against the porch railing of tannyhill, eyes fixed on the distant shoreline. the party inside was roaring—a mix of drunken laughter, loud music, and the occasional sound of bottles clinking. his friends were there, drowning in excess, but rafe had slipped outside a while ago, needing to breathe.

the drugs numbed him most nights, but tonight, he felt restless. there was something clawing at his chest, something he couldn’t ignore. and then, as if the universe wanted to punish him, the person who haunted his thoughts, stepped outside.

you. he didn’t even have to turn to know who it was. he could always feel you before he saw you.

he had no idea when it started—this pull you had on him. maybe it was the night topper introduced you to the group, laughing and draping his arm over your shoulders like you were just another accessory. at first, rafe thought you were like every other girl that hung around—beautiful, fun, disposable.

but then you smiled at him, said his name like it mattered, like he mattered. and something inside him cracked. it wasn’t like the rush he got from a pill dissolving on his tongue or the high of a line burning through his veins. it was different. he didn’t crave you in a way he did with other girls. you were different. he just liked you.

and that terrified him.

“rafe,” you said softly, your voice cutting through the thick night air.

he didn’t dare to look at you right away. he couldn’t. he was afraid of what might show on his face if he did. instead, he focused on the waves crashing in the distance. “shouldn’t you be inside with top?” he asked, his tone carefully detached, though the words felt like poison in his mouth.

you shrugged, wrapping your arms around yourself against the cool breeze. “just don’t feel like it.”

finally, he looked at you. your eyes met his, and for a moment, the rest of the world faded away. it always did when you looked at him like that, like you could see all the dark corners of his soul and weren’t afraid of them.

you were wearing one of those simple dresses you always seemed to favor, the kind that made you look effortlessly put together. your hair was loose, framing your face, and in the dim light of the porch, you looked almost ethereal.

“you’ve been quiet lately,” you said. your voice was gentle, but there was a weight to your words, like you knew he’d been spiraling. you stepped closer, and rafe’s entire body tensed. he wanted to tell you to stop, to go back inside, to leave him alone. but he didn’t. he never could with you.

rafe laughed, a bitter sound echoing across the porch. “quite’s not really my thing, is it?”

“not really.” you tilted your head, studying him in that way you always did, like you could see right through him. it daunted him, but it also made him feel seen in a way he never had before. “you don’t have to pretend with me, you know.”

he hated how much your words got to him. hated how much he wanted to believe them. “why are you here, y/n?” he asked, his voice low.

you hesitated, both of you knew it was risky. you knew it every time you caught each others gaze from across the room, every time your conversations stretched too long, your moments together lingering on the edge of something dangerous.

but then you stepped closer, so close that he could smell the faint hint of your sweet perfume. “i don’t know,” you admitted. “but i couldn’t stay in there. not with him. not tonight.”

your words hung in the air between the two of you, heavy with implication. rafe’s heart was pounding now, a hectic rhythm that matched the chaos in his head.

“this is wrong,” he said, but even as he said it, he didn’t move away. “i know,” you whispered, gaze dropping to the ground, and for a moment, you looked so vulnerable that it made his chest ache.

rafe ran a hand through his hair, frustration bubbling just underneath the surface. “i’m not… i’m not good at this. at feeling things. at caring.”

you tilted your head, gaze soft but steady. “you care more than you let on, rafe. you just don’t want to admit it.”

your words settled over him like a weight, and for once, he didn’t push them away. because you were right. he did care. he cared too much, and it scared the hell out of him.

“do you know how messed up this is?” he said, his voice raw. “you’re with topper. he’s my friend. and you’re… you’re you.”

“and what’s that supposed to mean?” you asked.

“it means i shouldn’t feel this way,” he sighed, his voice breaking. “i shouldn’t look at you and feel like you’re the only thing keeping me from falling apart.”

you bit your lip, just standing there in silence while rafe watched you. he wanted you to say it, to acknowledge what you were both pretending wasn't happening. rafe wanted to reach for you, to pull you close and tell you that none of it mattered, that he’d walk away from everything if it meant he could keep this—keep you. but he couldn’t. because no matter how badly he wanted you, he knew he wasn’t allowed to have you.

“i don’t get it,” he admitted, his voice barely audible. “why are you even here? why me?”

you inched forward, so much he could see the faint freckles on your skin, the curve of your lips. “because i see you, rafe,” you said simply. “and i think you’re worth seeing.”

something inside him shattered then. he’d spent so long chasing highs, trying to fill the void with pills and powders and girls who didn’t mean anything. but you didn’t have to do anything. just being near you was enough.

“I don’t even need… I mean, I don’t—” he stumbled over his words, unsure how to explain what he felt. your eyes softened, and for a moment, you looked like you might cry. but you didn’t. instead, you reached out, your hand brushing against his cheek. it was the smallest touch, but it sent a shockwave through him.

rafe closed his eyes, simmering in your touch for a little while before softly grabbing your fragile wrist and putting it back, right next to your body. “you should go back inside,” he said finally, forcing the words out even though they felt like poison on his tongue.

you looked up at him, eyes shimmering with something he couldn’t quite name. for a moment, he thought you might argue, might tell him that you didn’t care about topper or the rules or how wrong it all was. but instead, you nodded.

“goodnight, rafe,” you said softly, your voice laced with a sadness that mirrored his own.

he watched you go, your figure disappearing into the glow of the party. and for the first time in a long time, rafe felt something other than numbness. it wasn’t comfort, exactly—it was too complicated, too messy for that—but it was something.

and as he stood there alone, staring out at the waves, he realized that you had become his new addiction. a dangerous one, maybe even more dangerous than the drugs. but unlike the pills and the powders, you made him feel alive.

tags: @vampteeths @rafesheaven @rafeysbangs @rafesbowbunny @rafesweetie @whinyangel @plaidcowboy @filthyrafe @figthoughts @littlelamy @fawnhart @rafesdollette @starzify @rafesangelita @cherrygirlfriend @ch6rm @inspiredangel @girlyrafe @rafespreciosa @gibson-g1rl @kissyrafe

[leaderwon]

𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐅𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 : 𝐒𝐉𝐘 | 𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭 (𝐝𝐚𝐲 — 𝟑)

synopsis : A spontaneous midnight hangout at Jake’s favorite lookout spot turns into an unexpected heart-to-heart, where unspoken feelings finally come to light.

warnings : teasing, skinship, light kissing

wc : 1.3k+

MASTERLIST

It was Jake’s idea to meet at the hilltop.

“It’s got the best view,” he’d said earlier in the day, excitement dancing in his eyes. “You’ll love it, trust me.” You’d rolled your eyes at his insistence, but here you were now, bundled up against the chilly night air as you followed him up a narrow trail. He carried a small backpack over one shoulder, the faint sound of clinking glass bottles coming from inside.

“You never told me why this place is so special,” you said, your breath visible in the cold. Jake turned to look at you, walking backward with an easy grin. “It’s not just the view,” he explained. “It’s the quiet. No distractions, no noise. Just us.”

His words lingered in the air, and you felt your cheeks heat up despite the cold.

When you reached the top, you were met with a breathtaking view of the city below. The twinkling lights stretched as far as the eye could see, the skyline glowing softly against the dark sky. Jake set his bag down and pulled out a blanket, spreading it on the grass before gesturing for you to sit.

“See? Worth the hike, right?” he asked, dropping down beside you.

“Okay, I’ll admit it’s pretty amazing,” you replied, leaning back on your hands as you took in the view. Jake grinned, clearly pleased with your reaction. “Told you.”

From his bag, he pulled out two bottles of soda and handed you one. The gesture was so Jake so simple, thoughtful, and effortlessly charming.

The two of you sat in comfortable silence for a while, sipping your drinks and letting the quiet of the night settle around you. It was easy to lose yourself in moments like this with him, where words didn’t feel necessary, and the company was enough.

Jake broke the silence first. “You know, I don’t bring just anyone up here.” You glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, really? Should I feel special?” He chuckled, leaning back on his elbows. “Maybe you should.” There was a teasing edge to his voice, but when you looked at him, his expression was softer, more sincere. His eyes, always so warm and inviting, seemed to hold something unspoken.

“Jake,” you began, shifting to face him fully, “why do I get the feeling you have something on your mind?” He hesitated, his gaze flickering back to the city lights below. For a moment, you thought he might brush it off with one of his usual jokes, but instead, he let out a quiet sigh.

“You’re not wrong,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “There’s been something I’ve been wanting to say, but I didn’t know how.” Your heart started to race, the weight of his words settling between you. “You can tell me anything, you know that,” you said gently. Jake smiled, a small, almost nervous curve of his lips. “I know. It’s just hard to find the right words.”

He sat up straighter, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his jacket. “You mean a lot to me. More than I think you realize. And I’ve been scared to say it because... what if you don’t feel the same?”

Your breath caught, his confession hanging in the air. Jake wasn’t usually one to doubt himself. He was confident, playful, and sure of his place in the world. Seeing him like this, vulnerable and unsure, only made your heart ache for him.

“Jake,” you said softly, reaching out to place a hand on his arm. “You don’t have to be scared.” He looked at you then, his eyes searching yours for any hint of rejection. But all he found was warmth, understanding, and something else, something that mirrored the feelings he’d just laid bare.

“I’ve felt the same for a while now,” you admitted, your voice steady despite the rapid beating of your heart. His expression shifted instantly, a mixture of relief and joy lighting up his face. “You have?” You nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I thought you’d figured it out by now. You’re not exactly subtle, Jake.”

He laughed at that, the sound bright and genuine. “Guess I’m not as smooth as I thought, huh?” “Not even close,” you teased, leaning into him slightly.

Jake’s laughter softened, and he reached up to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. His touch was light, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary. “I’m really glad I brought you here tonight,” he said, his voice low and sincere. “Me too,” you replied, your gaze dropping to his lips for the briefest of moments.

Jake noticed, of course he did, and the corner of his mouth quirked up in a small smile. “Can I kiss you?” he asked, his tone filled with a mix of confidence and hesitation. Your heart skipped a beat at his question, but you didn’t hesitate. “Yeah,” you said softly.

The kiss was gentle at first, his lips brushing against yours as if testing the waters. But when you leaned into him, your hand resting lightly on his chest, he deepened the kiss, his hand coming up to cradle your face.

The world around you seemed to fade away, the city lights below becoming nothing more than a distant glow. All that mattered in that moment was him, his warmth, his touch, and the way he made you feel like you were the only person in the world.

When you finally pulled away, Jake rested his forehead against yours, his eyes still closed as he let out a quiet laugh. “That was even better than I imagined,” he admitted, his voice filled with awe. You smiled, your fingers lightly tracing the fabric of his jacket. “You’ve imagined this?” “More times than I can count,” he confessed, his cheeks tinged with a faint blush.

The two of you stayed like that for a while, the night air cool around you but the warmth between you keeping the chill at bay. As the stars began to peek out from behind the clouds, you realized that this moment, this night, was one you’d never forget.

And from the way Jake held your hand on the walk back, neither would he.

© @leaderwon 2025. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

[envy-of-the-apple]

I've been reading all your jjk works and notice most of them having older mc. You wrote gojo with an older woman a lot, how about doing geto with middle age jujutsu teacher

Mc is not strong and barely considered a jujutsu sorcerer with her ct that basically numbs her or others senses like a potent anesthetic, its not really useful in a fight but the best thing for geto. With her ct she can numb his taste buds completely and he never has to taste the disgusting curse ball ever again. And plus mc is actually a really nice and caring teacher. The kind of teacher that uses different study methods to suit different students. The kind of teacher that immediately pick up when students are feeling down. But when geto expresses how much he is fond of her not just as her student she takes it as puppy love that he will soon get over it when he gets older and she only saw him as her student. She said something like "maybe when you graduate we can have this talk again" and geto took it to heart only for his beloved teacher getting purpose from other people(non-sorcer that you happened to help one time). Oh... How sad he is... He thought you would wait for him. And you would finally become part of his family with nanako and mimiko after all you help him raise both of them why are you leaving for some Monkey

I like this idea! But what about making the Mc a nurse instead???

(TW: Blood, implied murder, yandere)

You aren’t even a trained jujutsu sorcerer. You were scouted pretty late, far past high school. Because of that, you don’t have much potential, not that you were upset or anything. You’re still a high school nurse, but instead of treating students with the occasional flu, you treat teenagers who fight demons.

It’s pretty haunting to see, especially as an outsider of jujutsu. But you can’t do anything. You might be semi-important to the school, but you’re still just another rung on the ladder. So you keep your head down, as you always do.

It’s only natural you develop favorites. It’s a second year. Shoko Ieiri. She’s set to be your predecessor, having a much more powerful CT than you do. You don’t mind being in her shadow. The short time you spent in the jujutsu world was hard enough. At least now you know you wont be leaving behind a hole.

Geto is close behind. He’s a quiet boy, well-mannered, well-spoken. Far better than his white haired brat of a companion. It isn’t often he comes for injuries, but when accidents do happen, you’re sure to lecture him while tending to his injuries.

Maybe one day you get curious enough to ask what curses taste like. Maybe that day, he finally decides to be honest.

On tinier areas, like the tongue, your CT can last for hours. You try it out just once when he’s called to dispatch a first grade. He comes back that day with eyes brighter than anything you’ve ever seen.

It continues like that. When he’s called for an exorcism, he finds you. It’s like a goodbye ritual. You and him sit on the exam table, his mouth open wide as you diligently apply your curse technique, careful not to miss a single corner. He often tells you that you saved his life. You didn’t know he meant that so sincerely.

He confesses to you a year after Riko’s death.

Hes like a kid. He is a kid, staring down at you with hopeful eyes, not even a day over 18. You know what you should do. Rip the band-aide off, nice and clean. He deserves that.

But...you just cant break his heart like that, so you lie.

You tell him when he's older. You tell him after graduation. You tell him to wait. He readily does. You hope in a couple years hed be too embarrassed to ask you again. His adult brain would kick in and nag at him. His friends might too. Maybe when he comes back as a fully-fledged sorcerer, you two could laugh about this.

Your last straw is Haibara.

You quit the school. you walk away from jujutsu sorcery. It's hard, because its been your life for years, but leaving hurts less than staying.

You don't tell geto. You just leave. Abandon him.

You go back to your old job. A normal high school, treating normal high school students. Years pass like that. You move on with your normal life.

And then you meet a normal man. Quiet, well-mannered, the ever slightest gray in his hair. He's perfect. When he gives you the ring, it was the happiest you'd ever been.

Geto finds you two years after your marriage.

It's almost surreal meeting him again, seeing him in your quiet apartment. There's so much blood. His fingers are dripping in it.

He smiles. "So, had time to think it over?"

You were half right. One day, Geto did come back as a full-fledged sorcerer.

But neither of you laughed about it.

[tovibeornottovibe]

Deny! Deny! Deny! - Part II

Azriel x Priestess!Fem!OC

Thea receives a visitor in her office in the library. Azriel has something for her, and catches a break. They keep each other company for a little while. [3.9k words]

warnings: dirty thoughts, sexual fantasy, Thea being a horny mf, very, very implied sexual assault (one insinuation of it and absolutely no descriptors)

Part I

Prefer to read on Ao3?

Training that morning has made Thea sore. Her arms ache and she’s having trouble keeping her legs crossed while she sits on the floor and spreads out every letter Eris has ever sent her in front of her in a semi-circle. She’d use her desk but it’s covered in other books and papers and she doesn’t have the patience to move them. Besides, she works better on the floor. Something about physical grounding. The hard, dark wood of her little office sequestered on the top floor of the library digs into her thighs.

There’s nothing in these letters that Thea hasn’t already logged and told Rhys about. Still, familiarising herself with the way that he writes and what he responds well to is integral for when he replies to the request she sent him yesterday. If he accepts, and he will, he has to, then she’ll suddenly be playing with the Heir to the Autumn Court in real life. On paper, he’s a game. Like a fictional character she can imagine scenarios about and not deal with the consequences if she says something he doesn’t like. Now, the fate of her Court might rest on her getting it right and not pissing him off. Daunting doesn’t really cover it.

Azriel said nothing to her about it at training. Thea’s not sure if they’ve told Cassian and Nesta that Eris will be living in their house for a few days. She’d think that they might be in less of a good mood if they had; Cassian especially. Though he seems a gentle soul, if a little brutal with his exercises, she gets the feeling from Azriel that he’ll be in for a beating when they’re informed of the plan. If the thought of Azriel going at it in the ring with someone who can actually match him stroke for stroke weren’t so appealing, she might have felt bad about being the cause of it. Fortunately, she can save herself the guilt, and indulge.

Later. 

The quiet, strumming music from her symphonia keeps her mind ticking on something other than how Azriel’s throat bobs when he drinks.

Or how he grins and flexes when he takes off his shirt to spar with her.

Or how good it’ll feel when he tenses his fuckable thigh beneath her.

Hm.

She’s had sex since coming to Velaris. Not a lot, but enough so that the thought of it doesn’t make her freeze up like it used to. It wasn’t always good, but she always picked partners who could make her finish, so it stacks up well against the usual experience of casual sex that she’s heard people talk about when she’s people-watching in the cafés along the Sidra. They probably don’t expect anyone will hear them; they give extremely intimate details of their lives and Thea files their experiences away on her list of dos and don’ts. 

Stranger who sells sea urchins to the dockworkers in the mornings can’t get off unless she’s thinking about her ex. Other stranger with the twiggy hair will come every time someone licks the underside of his prick. Barista with red eyes thinks it’s hot when customers exchange sordid anecdotes of what they get up to in bed and think that he can’t hear them. Co-worker keeps looking at Thea’s tongue when she drinks her coffee and licks the rim of the mug to catch the droplets that fall down the side. 

Thea does it slowly on purpose.

Sex with Azriel is pure fantasy and she knows it. She doesn’t know his preferences and will never ask him. What she thinks about when she lets her hand slip under her waistband is based on her own imagination and what she can attribute to him after analysing the little things he says and does around her. The fact that he does the same is a bonus, and makes it so when she comes on her fingers and Az—! is what passes through her lips she doesn’t feel like she’ll be making him uncomfortable. It’s also somewhat satisfying to be the subject of his pleasure. She’s never seen Azriel hard, but she thinks it would probably be the second most memorable moment of her life so far. 

Her attraction to him, and vice-versa, has no conclusion but disappearance. Someday, she’ll be able to look at her friend and not wonder whether or not he’ll let her get on top of him or how he’ll shudder when she gets him to climax just by touching his wings. Their meetings in the training ring in the middle of the night will go from strangely charged to actual exercise. She’ll be able to read filth and not consider if Azriel will do that with her. Repeatedly. While he keeps her groaning muffled with his hand because his family are in the other room.

And someday, he’ll look at her when they finish sparring and not seem like he wants to bite her.

A flush creeps up her neck at the thought.

Catching the words Eris Vanserra signed at the bottom of the letters in front of her cools the heat coiling at the bottom of her stomach almost instantly. Thinking about the way Mor stormed out of the meeting yesterday kills it completely. 

She’s not sure Mor will ever forgive her. It’s funny because she and Mor aren’t friends. They don’t talk aside from when there’s an issue to take note of or a change going on in the library. And yet, Thea owes Mor everything for the life she leads now, even if Mor insists that she doesn’t need any sort of thanks, and this is betrayal. But if she’s right and this plant does what she thinks it will, then it’s a necessary betrayal. Thea can live with that. Especially as both Rhys and Az understand the reasons for it and don’t think she’s weak for setting a boundary. 

Leaving the library, training so hard in the mornings that her muscles get stiff, having sex with strangers now she’s strong enough to provide her own retribution if something goes wrong, these are things she can do. Meeting Eris Vanserra outside of Velaris, in somewhere like the Hewn City or in another Court, fills her with so much dread that she starts to feel queasy. She makes herself tea and sips it carefully, back on the floor, to calm her nerves.

There’s a possibility that Eris comes to the House of Wind, doesn’t appreciate the things she needs to do to understand this plant, and simply kills her. For some reason, the prospect of imminent death doesn’t scare her. Maybe it’s the tea. Or maybe it’s because Azriel would avenge her. He’d probably stop it before anything happened, actually. His shadows would detect Eris’ intentions and inform him that he needs to slit his throat to protect her. Thea doesn’t know if that’s how they work and intends to ask Az about it next time they can’t sleep.

She studies how Eris leaves his Os open and what that says about his personality for a good five minutes before there’s rapping at her door. 

Two short, sharp, decisive knocks. It’s not a style common with the priestesses, but it could just be one of the junior acolytes here to ask her a question or attempt to gain her favour with biscuits. What they think her favour will gain them, Thea doesn’t understand. Hierarchy isn’t something she concerns herself with, and it’s probably why she’s going to stay under the radar of the likes of Merril forever. Not a complaint. And the biscuits are always appreciated.

“Come in!” she calls, frowning at the way Eris crosses his double Ts in a single line. Determination, she thinks. Or stubbornness.  

Whoever it is at her door shuts it behind them and stands utterly still while she continues to stare down how Eris writes her name because it changes slightly every time. She pushes her reading glasses back up when they slip down the bridge of her nose.

“You do know you look insane, don’t you?”

She looks up to see Azriel peering down at her, tilting his head slightly with a kind of boyish half-smile on his lips, and blinks. That’s… not who she was expecting.

Since this morning, he’s changed out of his training leathers and into an expensive-looking black shirt and pair of trousers. The whirls of his tattoos that sometimes she thinks about licking the sweat off of are just barely visible, peeking over where the neckline of his shirt sits now that he’s undone the top two buttons. He’s rolled up his sleeves so the full extent of the burn scars on his arms are on full display, and Thea thinks that the Summer sun must really feel stifling to him or he’d be trying to hide them like he usually does. She shamelessly, but quickly, memorises the corded muscle of his forearms in this context. His shadows smoke lazily at his shoulders, a few dropping through the curls of his hair.

Clutching one of Eris’ letters, she gestures in front of her with it and asks, “What’s insane about this?”

He pauses for a moment, looking between her and the floor and the piles of paper on her desk and waits, tucking his wings in a bit more now she’s taken notice of him. In turn, she raises her eyebrows at him. 

“A grown female, sat cross-legged on the floor, squinting at paper with a perfect semi-circle of other papers out in front of her, drinking tea on the hottest day of the year so far?” he says matter-of-factly. 

Thea goes back to squinting at her paper. “Not seeing anything strange about that.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and then—

“...No,” he agrees, “that’s perfectly normal. I do it all the time, actually.”

She hums, seeing that often Eris dots his Is with a downward slash instead of a point or a horizontal one. She isn’t sure what that could mean. “Floor’s comfier than a desk, Az,” she says. “You should try it sometime.”

“I’ll consider it,” he says.

Something clinks when it lands right in front of her, barely skimming the letter in her hand and bumping her shins where they’re crossed. 

“Don’t spend it all at once.”

Letter discarded at her side, Thea picks up the coin purse and fondles the bottom of it. “There are more than twenty marks in here,” she says, reminded of how Azriel gulped and smiled when she caught him under the chin with the tip of her blade this morning. Double or nothing pays off, it seems. She should make bets with him more.

“Your disarm was flawless too,” he says with a shrug, moving to assess the books on her desk corner. He picks up the one on the top: a paperback with a dark cover, frayed edges and tabs marking passages she likes to return to. It’s much thicker than a brick, but Azriel has no problem wrapping his hand around the spine. He flips it over and reads the blurb. “I think you might rival Nesta for the amount of nasty smut you read.”

“My tastes are better curated than Nesta’s.” 

Though she would never judge Nesta, Emerie and Gwyn for what they read, with Azriel, she has no compunction about complaining about it. Frankly, she thinks they deserve better fiction than what they waste their time with. The plot holes alone irk her, but sometimes she can work past them if the quality of the writing is good enough. Sellyn Drake, in her (correct) opinion, is awful on both accounts. She can’t say that to them. She knows them, but they aren’t so well-acquainted that she can recommend things to them, and Nesta scares her.

Azriel starts flicking to the pages with tabs on them and Thea has to force the screaming tendons in her thighs to move so she can get up and snatch the book out of his hands, ducking past his wing and jabbing him in the side so he doesn’t hold it above her head and out of reach. He barely flinches, just looks at her, a little bemused, and his shadows skitter behind him rather than get in her personal space. 

Despite her height, he’s still taller, and even though she’s built the muscles in her shoulders, he’ll always be much, much broader. Not as broad as Cassian, though. Azriel has a slimmer physique. Thea knows it’s probably not common for her to think about his tapered waist so often.

They’re very close and he doesn’t step back to accommodate her. He’s practically trapping her between the desk and his body.

She supposes she trapped herself, really. 

The heat coming off him is heady in the coolness of her office. Illyrians are clearly built for the cold. She wonders if the snow even thaws in the Steppes in Summer.

“Are you here for any other reason than to expose my reading habits?” she asks, folding her arms and leaning against the desk, putting the idea of distance between them. 

“I gave you what I owed you, didn’t I?” 

She rolls her eyes at him and he huffs a laugh. Thea’s never heard him laugh any harder than a chuckle, but she’s determined to make him crack one day. That, she thinks, would be the most memorable moment of her life so far. “Don’t be a pedant,” she says. There’s humour in her tone.

He looks at her like he might consider continuing to be petty, but then the lightness in his features dulls and he grows serious. “I have a present for you,” he says. 

From the low of his back, underneath the wing that he shifts so he can reach, he produces a bundle of something wrapped in black cloth. He manoeuvers it carefully and offers it to her. It’s heavier than she thought it would be, and, following his example, she cautiously grips what feels like a handle while she takes the fabric off it slowly, fold by fold.

“Oh.”

Gleaming, razor-sharp, silver steel glints in the low faelight. The ornate, carved hilt fits perfectly in her hand—like it was made for her. Along the blade, runes of a language she doesn’t quite recognise have been meticulously etched. She flips it in her grip like Azriel taught her to, and the heft of it seems exquisitely balanced, as though the dagger responds to how she moves it through the air by itself.

Eyes wide, she looks up at him to see him swallow thickly, watching her reaction. “For when Eris gets too close,” he says neutrally.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathes. “Thank you.”

What seems like relief washes over his face as he settles his wings against his back and looks away, but the tension in his shoulders doesn’t fade. “I figured it was time you had a weapon of your own,” he says, adding with a wry smile, “instead of pining after mine.”

She scoffs, though it’s a little shaky for her liking, and wraps the dagger back up before setting it down on the last free space left on her desk. “I do not pine for Truth-Teller,” she says, but it’s too forceful and definitely sounds like a lie. Of course, it is a lie. She’s incredibly envious of the fact that Azriel gets to carry around such a marvel of smithing work on his hip like it’s nothing. Now, she thinks, she might be able to do the same with her own dagger.

“Okay,” he concedes, “you long for Truth-Teller.”

Thea smacks him in the arm and shakes her head, not bothering to argue the point. It’s an unwinnable debate, and Azriel is relentless at the best of times. She slips past him and returns to where she was sitting on the floor. One look at her tea and she knows it’s gone cold. The letters in front of her suddenly seem much less important than the Illyrian shuffling on his feet.

“I’m serious, Azriel,” she says, increasingly aware of the fact she has nowhere for him to sit that will fit his wings and she’s starting to feel bad about it. Truthfully, she’s never considered it before because Azriel never stays in her office for longer than a few minutes, and he doesn’t come on a regular basis. Just if there’s something she needs to know, or if Rhys asks him to pass on a message. She didn’t even recognise his knock. “My floor is comfortable. See?” She stretches her legs out in front of her to prove her point. Her calves burn just from that.

For a moment, he doesn’t move, and Thea casts her gaze down so he can decide with some modicum of privacy. Then, she hears him lower himself almost silently against the wall nearest the door, and the fabric of his trousers rustles as he stretches his legs out so his feet are flat against the side of her desk. He relaxes his wings and she’s glad she brushed up the bits earlier so they don’t irritate them while the membranes curl against the ground. 

“Do you sit on the floor often?” he asks, resting his head on the wall behind him and closing his eyes like he’s got a headache. She knows tonics don’t work for him, but she almost wants to offer anyway. 

No point, she thinks, he’ll deny it regardless.

“Sometimes a change of position is necessary,” she says, turning her attention to the most recent letter Eris sent her. It’ll let Azriel sit without feeling like she’s assessing him. “Helps keep the mind fresh, you know?”

He hums in agreement and they fall silent. A couple of minutes pass with them comfortably keeping each other company while she reads and rereads and he enjoys the quiet. Thea thinks he might even be asleep, and that pleases her more than she could possibly have guessed.

When he next speaks, his voice is soft and low. He doesn’t look at her, just keeps his head pressed back against the wood. “It’s cooler down here,” he says. 

May the Mother bless him, he really is struggling in the heat. It occurs to her that she could tell him to wear something other than black, but Azriel is over five-hundred and is capable of dressing himself appropriately. If he was going to wear another colour, he would be doing it already, and he looks like he could do without her ribbing him for it right now. “The room,” she says, “is water cooled.”

“Summer Court?” he asks.

She nods, though he won’t be able to see it. “It’s a good way of releasing a bit of power without exerting myself.”

He takes that information in by eyeing her across the room.

“Explain how it works to me.”

“...Really?”

“You explain things so well,” he says.

So she does. Walks him through how she manipulates the air circulation to keep the water cool and flowing through the little pipes she installed in the walls one Summer decades ago. Tells him about the time one of the pipes burst and water leaked into the tea room below. It rotted one of the counters and she still hasn’t admitted to Clotho that it was her fault, which makes him chuckle under his breath. She says that, actually, being on the floor is the best in Summer because hot air rises and that’s why all the houses in her home Court have their bedrooms on the ground floor. 

“You know,” she tells him, “you might stay cooler if you stretched out your wings.” He gives her an odd look, so she continues, “You’d create more surface area and there would be better heat dissipation.”

That boyish smile is back, but his eyes are more sincere than teasing like they were earlier. “You just want to see my wings,” he says. Goes back to his presumably headache soothing position.

She shrugs. “They’re pretty wings. And I am right. It would keep you cooler.”

Thea catches the faint blush on his cheeks that she’s certain isn’t just from the heat. A second later, his fully flared wings are taking up three-quarters of the length of her office wall, and she hears a faint pop of air as they reach their full breadth. Her lips part as she watches the spectacle. They are a thing woven from the spool of divine silk, she’s convinced of it. What she wouldn’t give to know if they feel like leather or velvet…

“You’re staring,” he says, but his eyes are closed.

Thea shuts her mouth before she starts to drool. “You can’t even see me,” she grumbles, grabbing a pencil off her desk and writing some nonsense on the letter in her hand so it feels like she’s being productive.

“My wings are very sensitive. They can feel when someone looks at them.”

“You’re insufferable, you know that?” 

He’s not, and he knows that she doesn’t think he is, so he smiles and asks her if all the homes in the Summer Court have internal cooling or if she’s just clever. Idly, pretending that it’s just so she can refamiliarise herself with the concepts and not because she wants to impress him, she blabs on about the different ways they do it in Summer. He doesn’t seem to mind, and listens to her with a relaxed look on his face.

A good thing can only last for so long.

Eventually, he peels himself off her floor and they bid each other goodbye. She promises him that she’ll disarm him again next time they have training. He smirks and says, “I’ll have to stop going easy on you.” Though she gasps like she’s scandalised, she knows he isn’t going at full pelt when they spar. He would, simply, wipe the floor with her. One of these days, she’ll ask him to show her what that’s like. 

When he leaves, Thea’s happy to see that the slight hunch in his shoulders has loosened almost completely. He shuts the door gently. She absolutely watches him go.

Out of curiosity, she opens up the coin purse and spills the contents of it to see how much more he’d given her. Thirty gold marks. She laughs to herself and decides she’ll spend the twenty she actually won on a half-decent meal for herself, and the other ten on something stupid for him from The Rainbow. It’s his money anyway.

She gathers all of Eris’ letters—she really hasn’t been reading them since Az appeared—ties them back in a bundle and sticks them in one of the drawers in her desk that isn’t full of crap. She does the same with the dagger, even if it feels like sacrilege to squirrel it away, so that Clotho won’t confiscate it if she comes to see her. How Azriel managed to get it past her, Thea doesn’t know. It’s a secret between him and his shadows presumably.

Today, she decides, she will continue to shirk tidying in favour of finding a quiet corner of the library and cracking open the new crime novel she’s reading. Maybe then Azriel will believe that she doesn’t just read erotica.

Eris responds to her request to meet him in Velaris that afternoon.

taglist for you lovelies:

@dhcghbdscj @quantumquillz @batboyslutt @honk4emoboyz @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @anainkandpaper @casiiopea2

a/n: i really hope that worked, i have never tagged anyone before, also my b for tagging someone who didn't ask to be earlier, forgive me please?

[kirkwallguy]

magic (and the lack of it)

Justice needs a healer. Anders is always happy to help. [written for day one of @andersweek2025 ! minor tw for mentions of wounds / needles, and one brief reference to suicide] read on ao3

“Mage, I seek your counsel.”

Anders looked up from his book - he’d been enjoying a rare moment of quiet beside the fire while the Warden Commander was attending to business in the city. Usually he went with her, revelling in the chance to walk through the markets without having to watch his back constantly; but he was still licking his wounds after a drunken argument with Oghren the night before and didn’t fancy trading jabs for the rest of the day. That dwarf was ruthless when he was hungover.

Justice had stayed behind as well. Walking corpses weren’t often welcome in cities. Anders could sympathise.

Looking at him now as he hesitated in the doorway, it was hard to see him for what he was. He shuffled awkwardly, shifting his weight from foot to foot – he had once confided in Anders that this was a mannerism he’d learned by observing low ranking soldiers stationed at the keep. It was oddly sweet to think of him standing in front of the mirror, practicing his movements, wondering which made him look the most human.

“I have a name you know,” Anders said, snapping his book shut and propping himself up on one elbow, “I’m not defined by my mage-iness.”

Justice stilled, an unreadable expression on his face, “my apologies, Anders.”

Teasing Justice was almost criminally easy - if the heart in Kristoff’s chest had pumped blood, he might have even blushed. Anders softened and put his book down, patting the space beside him on the rug.

“Come here and tell Anders your woes,” he cooed, stretching lazily. He wasn’t trying to flirt – not really, anyway – but he couldn’t help feeling a little curious. Who wouldn’t be? Kristoff had had a wife, did those same urges still exist in there somewhere? 

Seemingly not. Justice crossed the room to stand beside the fire for a second before plopping down on the rug, arranging himself so he sat cross-legged and stiff-backed. Up close, it was even easier to tell that he didn’t need to breathe or blink. Eerie.

Justice ducked his head, “I require your assistance with a personal matter.”

“Oh?”

“You are trained in the art of healing, are you not? I need-” Justice paused for a moment, struggling to find the words, “my body is damaged.”

Anders looked at him, “we do have an infirmary, you know. You might prefer it there – I have a terrible bedside manner.”

“I would rather you look.”

He seemed nervous, staring directly into Anders’ eyes as the Warden Commander had taught him to. 

“Alright,” Anders sighed, sitting up straight and gesturing vaguely, “whip it out and let me see.”

Carefully, Justice unfolded himself and rolled up the sleeve of his left arm; he’d taken to wearing a simple shirt and breeches around the keep when not in armour, having found them beneath his pillow in the dormitory. They accentuated his sunken features, making him look even more skeletal than usual.

In the wavering firelight, Justice’s skin looked almost alive. Anders leaned forward to study it. At first it was hard to see what he was supposed to be looking at - the flesh of his arm was gnarled and warped, stomach-turning reminiscent of the many blight victims Anders had come across in the past few months. 

After a moment, Anders’ eyes fell on a large gash just below his inner elbow. Had he been alive, it would have been gushing blood – spurting, even, if it was as deep as it appeared – but without a working circulatory system, it could only weep sadly.

“Makers’ breath!” Anders couldn’t help recoiling slightly, “when did you do that?”

Justice looked down at the wound, “I don’t know.”

Anders wasn’t squeamish. You couldn’t live the life he’d led and come out the other end easily disgusted by blood or pus or any other bodily fluids. But the idea of tending to Justice’s rotting wounds, holding his arm in his hands and putting his face close enough to smell the decay? That gave him pause.

It must have shown on his face. He’d never been good at hiding his feelings. Justice smiled sadly, pulling his arm away and rolling his sleeve back down.

“I apologise,” he said, yet again, “clearly you are uncomfortable.. Perhaps it would be best for me to visit the infirmary after all.”

There was an air of resignation to the way he spoke, as though he’d been expecting the rejection all along. He knew what he was, how he made people feel. Most paled when they saw him up close, cringing away from the smell of rot that lingered about him – why should Anders be any different?

Then again, why shouldn’t he be?

“Wait!” He said, reaching out to grab Justice’s wrist and suppressing that instinctual shudder when his fingers circled around the cold skin, “don’t be silly – it’s only a little cut, I can patch you up easily.”

Justice’s eyes widened. He let Anders grip him tightly, unmoving.

It was intense. A little too intense for Anders’ liking; he broke eye contact, smiling gingerly as he pulled away. If Justice reacted to the loss of contact – relief or disappointment or resignation – Anders made sure not to look for it. Instead, he turned his gaze to the fire, fixing his mind solidly on the task ahead of him. 

Justice breathed heavily and Anders smiled, knowing it was all for his benefit.

“I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Nonsense,” Anders smiled, “I’ll run and get my tools. Who knows, maybe I’ll be able to teach you a thing or two.”

—

It took all but a few moments to return with the supplies he needed and lay them out on the carpet for Justice to see: needle, thread, forceps, scissors, gauze, bandages, a half-used poultice, and a shallow basin of warm water. Half of them were just for show, Justice wasn’t bleeding, nor was he in pain - Anders wasn’t even sure what good a needle and thread would do, given how his thin skin seemed to be practically rotting off the bone. He almost gagged imagining how it would feel to pierce it, the soft crackling of it beneath his fingers.

He’d sewn dead skin together before, of course, like any other Circle mage who had taken an interest in healing. But that had been carefully preserved, manipulated to mimic living flesh as much as possible so as to prepare apprentice healers for the real thing. And those had been bits and pieces, cuts of farm animals that weren’t fit to be eaten. It was different when the corpse had been dead for several weeks and was staring at you with unseeing, anxious eyes.

“So,” Anders said, breaking a silence that had stretched on for far too long, “I’m going to try and sew your wound together – you saw me tending to Sigrun’s knee last week, didn’t you? This will be similar except… a little bigger, I suppose.”

Justice frowned, “I still don’t understand why your magic is not sufficient for this task.”

“Hey, my magic is plenty sufficient!”

This was a frequent annoyance and a conversation Anders felt he must have had a thousand times with a thousand people – even in the Circle it wasn’t common knowledge that healing magic was best used alongside more traditional methods rather than instead of them. Any powerful enough mage could knit skin back together with magic – Anders himself could do it fairly easily – but it was a useless and risky indulgence that only the most desperate of healers would resort to.

Still, how was Justice supposed to know this? Anders sighed and picked up the needle, testing its sharp point against his finger.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, our world is filthy. An open wound is a problem, yes, but so is a closed one that hasn’t been cleaned properly. Now, if I sew you together, any infection will be obvious and easily treatable; it may even sort itself out if you’re healthy enough otherwise.

“But if the skin heals over an infection? Sometimes, you won’t even notice the signs before it’s too late. There’s nowhere for the dirt to escape from, so it bides its time until it’s strong enough to expel itself by force. Sometimes that means vomiting on someone’s shoes, but sometimes it means you lose an arm, or your lungs fill with fluid, or your bowels explode. And let me tell you, even if you can’t feel pain, none of those things will be a pleasant experience for you.”

Justice stared at him, “you’ve studied this at length.”

“Not much else to do in the Circle, is there?” Anders shrugged, “better this than becoming one of those poor sods that obsesses over entropy or necromancy. No offence.”

Still staring, Justice frowned.

“I dislike hearing about these Circles.”

He meant it. Something inside of Anders twisted and he turned his head away, gripping the needle tightly in his fist.

Justice went silent. When it was clear he wasn’t going to keep prodding, Anders stood up and crossed the room to stare into the fire. Even with his back turned, he felt those corpse-like eyes watching him. Self conscious, he bent down and held the needle to the flames, not caring as it began to heat up and burn his fingertips. 

“What are you doing now?”

Anders pulled the needle from the fire and shrugged, “fire kills infection. You’ve seen the funeral pyres whenever there’s a darkspawn attack, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we don’t do that for fun.” He said, “here – let me show you.”

It was strangely difficult to sit back down. There was a tight knot of nerves in Anders’ stomach, like he was about to kiss someone for the first time, that strange mixture of anticipation and excitement and worry. He tried not to let it show, not wanting Justice to mistake it for incompetence.

He held out the needle, still glowing slightly from the fire, “if you ever need to sew someone else up, you’ll have to hold it against a flame until it glows like this. Otherwise, you may as well just rub dirt all over the wound.”

Justice looked at the needle closely, “red...like metal being worked by a blacksmith.”

It was a connection Anders had never made before. He stared at the needle, now cool and dull between his fingers.

“I never did do much smithing,” he said, “not exactly a career for a mage.”

Justice winced but said nothing.

It only took a moment for Anders to prepare everything, threading the needle and making sure the water he’d fetched was still warm. He dipped a cloth into the basin and glanced up at Justice.

“Are you ready to start?”

He always liked to ask before shoving a needle into someone. It didn’t help with the discomfort, not usually, but it felt polite to do so – the Warden Commander hated it, always telling him to stop with the niceties and just get on with what he needed to do. 

Justice seemed to appreciate it, though. He nodded, rolling his sleeve up and offering Anders his arm. Somehow, it looked even worse than before, his pale skin rotting slightly around the edges of the wound – it occurred to Anders suddenly that the injury could be weeks old.

Nervously, he reached out and dabbed at Justice’s arm. He was half afraid the skin would fall apart as soon as he touched it, but it held surprisingly firm. There was a thin layer of gunk covering the area surrounding the wound that he tried not to think too hard about, cleaning it methodically and calmly.

Once the skin was clean – or, once Anders had reached his limit – he dried Justice off and picked up the needle and forceps. Justice watched with interest, eyes following Anders’ movements so intensely that he suppressed the urge to blush.

“This might pinch.” He warned.

“I do not mind.”

Of course he didn’t. Anders sighed and leaned forward, picking up the edge of the wound with the forceps. It made a sickening sound, a crackling groan that made him feel queasy.

Circle healers had to have strong stomachs. Anders had once spent weeks trying to explain this years ago while travelling with a group of lifelong apostates during one of his many brief attempts at freedom. They’d made fun of him, asked how many papercuts he’d healed, whether he knew any useful potions for indigestion. They hadn’t understood.

But when one of them had fallen from a tree and snapped his neck, he’d been the only one able to handle preparing the body for the funeral pyre. When he’d explained how common broken necks were at Kinloch, how many times he’d seen this same death play out over and over, a mage falling from their tower, that was when they’d finally understood. He’d stopped travelling with them soon after that.

“Does this hurt?” He asked.

“No.”

“Good,” Anders was genuinely glad, “tell me if you feel any pain. I’m going to start sewing now.”

He was going slower than he usually would and he didn’t know why. He looked into Justice’s blank eyes, waiting for some kind of acknowledgement.

Justice inclined his head slightly. It seemed that that would be all Anders got.

Carefully, more tentative than he’d been since he was an apprentice, Anders pressed the needle into Justice’s arm.

Justice didn’t flinch. He watched in fascination as Anders wove the needle in and out of his skin, using the forceps to manipulate the wound and keep the stitches small and neat. Once he was in the familiar rhythm of suturing, Anders found it easier to stomach being so close to Justice’s rotting flesh – it was nice, even, to be tending to someone so still and patient.

The wound was larger than Anders was used to stitching under such controlled circumstances. Usually, this was something he’d be fixing with bloody, shaking hands, just wanting to stem the bleeding before the patient lost consciousness. Without pressure, it seemed to take forever. The world narrowed down to just his hands as they moved methodically, his slow breaths, his singular heartbeat. It was oddly lonely. He wished Justice would say something.

Around halfway through, he ran into difficulty, finding the skin tougher and harder to work with. It was probably old scar tissue from one of Kristoff’s long-forgotten wounds. 

Anders frowned and pushed the needle hard, forcing it through.

“Oh!” Justice said.

It was the first sound he’d made since Anders began sewing,“that hurt?”

“No. Apologies, I didn’t mean-”

“Justice.”

“Please, keep going.”

Anders knew a lost cause when he saw one. He shrugged and ducked his head, carrying on with his work as gently as he could. There was a little more scar tissue, but he took his time with it, gently pushing the needle through. There were no more complaints from Justice.

When he was done he tied off and cut the thread, breathing a sigh of relief and relaxing. As usual, he’d done a good job – the stitches were neat, the skin pulled tightly closed.

He tilted his head to smile up at Justice, “better, right?”

Justice looked down at him and nodded hesitantly. He attempted to flex his arm, testing the tightness of the stitches. Anders yelped and reached out to grasp his wrist.

“Careful!” His skin was a little warm from where Anders had been cradling it a few moments ago, “be careful. You don’t want to tear anything.”

They stared at each other for a moment. Though Justice’s eyes were dead and blank, Anders swore he saw a stirring of emotion behind them, a mix of gratitude and grief so intense that he found himself drawing back, slowly removing his hand from his wrist.

“I appreciate your care.” Justice said, each word carefully enunciated.

Anders swallowed, “think nothing of it, couldn’t have you walking around with an open wound, could we? Speaking of…”

He scrambled around for his bandages. Justice looked at them blankly.

“I am not bleeding.”

Anders shook his head, “remember what I said about infection earlier? Come on, it’ll only take a moment.”

Once again, Justice held out an obedient arm. Anders wound the bandage around the stitches, careful not to bruise the delicate skin beneath.

It took less time than the stitching, “done,” he said, after a few moments.

Justice drew back, carefully touching the bandage. He said nothing.

“How does it feel?” Anders probed, “not too tight?”

“No.”

Sometimes it felt like Justice didn’t know that words were free with how carefully he used them. Anders stared at him for a moment, trying and failing to think of something to say.

“Did you need help with anything else?” He managed eventually, “no other gaping wounds that need stitching up?”

Justice said nothing, but Anders saw his face change. He was working up the courage to ask for a favour, Anders just knew it. But what kind of favours could a spirit even need? Unless he wanted… No. Anders didn’t even want to entertain the thought.

“Justice?” He said, “come on – spit it out, already.”

Justice sighed, “it is nothing.” He said nervously, “only… I hoped to witness your magical abilities up close. I find the process mildly fascinating.”

“You… what?”

This was a first. Aside from his fellow mages, most people Anders had met found healing magic terrifying – something about the gentle transferring of energy seemed to scare them even more than fireballs or bolts of lightning. He stared at Justice suspiciously, unsure whether he was being genuine.

Justice grimaced, “have I offended you?”

“No! I just – well, most people look away when I heal them.”

“Others have taught you to be ashamed of your gift?”

“What? No. Don’t say it like that.” This conversation was growing more uncomfortable by the second, “I suppose I’m just used to patients being afraid. It’s easier to heal people when you know how to put them at ease.”

“I am at ease with your magic.”

“I know, Justice.”

There was little else left to say. Anders wished he was braver – he could have shown Justice his magic if he wanted to, he could have sliced himself open and healed his own wound to demonstrate him what it looked like, let him look closely as the skin neatly grew back together.

He couldn't face it, couldn’t risk the possibility that Justice was lying to make him feel better. Wasn’t that what spirits did? Lie to mages to flatter them?

Or maybe he was the one lying to himself. Maybe he really was ashamed. Funny, that.

“Next time.” He said weakly.

Justice nodded, seeming to understand. “Indeed.”

[maximsdeadwife]

Come Close I’ll Show You Heaven

Logan x afab!reader

1.8k words

Summary: getting with Wolverine isn’t exactly what you expect

Authors notes: this is for my beloved @heresthestorymorningglory who has been my best friend, my sister, my beta reader, my favourite writer, my supporter and everything in between since we met through fandom a year and a half ago and have been writing and having fun with our favourite characters together since. Logan’s an old love for both of us, but for her birthday he’s entirely hers. Title comes from one of her Logan songs, I Can Fix Him (No Really I Can) by Taylor Swift.

Content/warnings: nsfw, dry humping, fingering, kinda premature ejaculation but not really, alcohol mentions, fluff, crying

Logan couldn’t remember the last time he allowed himself to feel. He wasn’t sure he still possessed the ability, even if he stopped numbing every thought with the soothing sting of alcohol. It provided him the only moments of quiet he’d experienced in years, or at least, something close to it.

His kiss had been bruising; a rough, heated mess that you were almost sure would end in his hips slamming hard against yours until he found the brief release he needed and left you used and disappointed.

Because you knew that whilst you wanted him, he probably just wanted to get his dick wet. Hell, he even kept his mask on while he kissed you to keep his distance.

You knew it would be a one time thing, and now, with his lips ghosting over your throat accompanied by that delicious scratch of stubble, you had two choices – go with it and finally have him even just this once, or never know. And you had to know.

His fingertips drove into your waist as you made your mind up, grounding you back with him.

It felt so good, those heavy, muscular arms controlling your movements. Heat rushed to your core at the thought of him taking what he needed just like this, and the thought that it might not be so disappointing after all to have the Wolverine use you, feral and strong and ravaging. It was already kind of thrilling just to kiss him.

His grip loosened then and your heart sank – just a little at first, and then, all at once as he stilled above you.

‘Listen-’

‘No, it’s ok,’ you interrupted, beating him to it, ‘you don’t need to say it.’

You didn’t need to see him without his mask to know a thick line had appeared between Logan’s brows.

‘Say what?’ he asked.

‘That you don’t want me- or, I’m not doing it for you… whatever. You’ve changed your mind.’ You pushed yourself up beneath him, creating a physical distance so he didn’t have to. ‘It’s ok, we can just pretend this never happened and-’

He pushed himself forward and his lips pressed to yours again, only this time, he was ever so gentle. You gasped against them. You’d never seen him gentle. Never thought you’d feel it, either.

‘Not what I was getting at,’ he breathed, gruff, against your lips. His voice was the lowest you’d ever heard and you could feel it shiver through you. ‘Believe me, you’re doing… everything for me. It’s just- it’s been a while, alright? That’s all.’

‘Oh...’ You froze. Did you hear that correctly?

‘So, if I disappoint you-’ he broke off with a frustrated huff.

‘No, you won’t. You can’t,’ you reassured, kissing him back tenderly. You could practically feel his heart swelling at your response.

You wanted him, and he didn’t deserve anyone wanting him, but you did, and it was sincere and… kind of overwhelming.

His hand, once grabbing careless and rough at your hips, rubbed slow, tender circles into your back as the other pushed up into your hair, thick fingers tangling loosely in the strands. His chest heaved with a relief so intense it was almost tangible.

‘What do you need?’ you breathed, and he paused for a moment.

No one had ever asked what he needed. He wasn’t even sure.

‘Just you,’ he said.

You hooked a careful leg around his waist to pull him down closer to you, his hips falling easily between your thighs, and your tongue teased, warm and wet against his lower lip until he parted them and invited you back in.

You took the lead this time, slow and languid, and he hummed into it, hips rocking against the gentle movement of yours while he basked in your attention.

You rolled onto your sides to face one another, and little grunts were swallowed by your mouth as his arousal, very evident in the yellow spandex slid over yours.

Daring, you thought, since it had been how many months? Years? Since he’d been with someone else. 

You weren’t sure exactly how long Logan considered a long time, and although you were sure the alcohol consumption might help slow things a little, you really didn’t want him to peak too soon if this would be the one and only time.

You were on track to be fucked by the Wolverine for Christ’s sake — but more than that, you wanted to show him a good time, let him feel the comfort of another’s touch, let go. If he came now, you weren’t sure you’d ever get another chance to show him that.

He pulled back though, and you smiled at him, small but genuine. Reassuring again.

You fought the urge to reach up and push his mask back so you could look into his eyes, watch his reaction as you stroked his stubbled cheek with real affection.

Logan beat you to it. He slid the hand from around your back to push the mask away himself. Tired eyes turned watery as they met yours, and you sighed.

‘What?’ he grumbled, ‘Prefer me with it on?’

You couldn’t stifle your laugh. ‘No. Well, I mean… I certainly wouldn’t be opposed to it, but right now I wanna see you.’

‘Freak,’ he grinned, hand moving back to your waist.

You let your fingertips wander over his suit, bright yellow dulled by dirt and stained with blood, memorising the contours of his body beneath while he memorised the warmth of your palm.

You let out a pleased little moan when your fingers found his erection and dragged up the impressive length, and his eyes squeezed shut. 

‘Fuck,’ came a growl from under his breath. 

He’s sensitive, you delighted, and took your hand away, back to resting on those broad shoulders.

‘Fuckin’ tease,’ he smirked, eyes lighting up with a fire you hadn’t yet seen but knew lurked somewhere in the depths. Impatient, he slid his hand between your thighs. ‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah,’ you confirmed, and he pressed his cupped palm against you, fingers teasing through fabric. ‘We gotta get rid of some of these layers, though.’

There was a simultaneous scramble then, during which you managed to help him shed the top half of his suit, and he tore off everything you were wearing far too easily.

You grazed his cheek with the backs of your fingers, and he leaned into it, starved, and in his eyes, undeserving.

His stomach flipped as your fingertips toyed with his hair. He was topless beside you, and you reached for his face first? Not his bare chest or abs? His eyes stung as he bit back the threat of tears.

‘That’s better,’ he hummed, distracting himself by resuming his previous position, thick fingers sliding between your folds.

‘Please,’ you gasped, trying to rock against his palm.

He liked that. A pang of guilt bubbled low in his gut again, but arousal washed it away when your fingers circled his wrist and clenched around it.

‘Jesus, you’re wet,’ he said. It was husky, and just surprised enough for you to notice.

Did he really expect you not to be?

‘All for you, bub,’ you replied playfully.

The smile dropped from your lips as he shifted from casually circling his slicked up finger over your clit to sliding a finger inside.

Logan watched closely, the way your eyes fluttered closed and your cheeks powdered red, the way your breath fell from between your parted lips in hungry little pants.

You felt warm and familiar, and his dick throbbed as he curled his finger inside you, deliberate and precise. His head dropped to the crook of your neck and he clenched his jaw to keep from nuzzling there.

‘Gonna cum for me?’ he panted, hot against your throat.

‘Gonna- ah!- f-fuck me?’ you managed between heaving breaths.

Logan didn’t answer, just chuckled against you as he fucked his finger into you faster, and lifted his head in time to watch you unravel, his eyes alight with wonder and arousal.

He didn’t rush you as you came down from your back-arching high, he simply slowed the movements of his hand. The aftershocks of your climax clenched deliciously around his finger as he massaged you down, relishing in every squeeze.

He still had it.

‘Still want me after… what do they call it these days? Post-nut clarity?’ he asked, trying hard to sound unbothered, but you heard the way his voice cracked with doubt.

‘More than ever.’

He dropped his forehead to yours as he carefully eased his finger out, relishing in the small whine that told him you felt empty without it.

‘Mmh, you feel so good,’ he dared admit as he lined himself up and gradually pushed inside to give you time to adjust, ‘so warm, so wet- oh fuck-’

You were glad he’d removed his mask. As much as the sweet burn of his cock stretching you had you clawing at his back, the blissed out look on his face was making your toes curl the most.

He rolled his hips so slowly you thought he must be holding back, being too cautious, either with you or for his own performance. Either way it didn’t matter, it was so different from what you’d expected your core throbbed.

‘You won’t break me,’ you whispered, ‘I’m yours, however you want.’

‘Feels good just like this,’ he all but whimpered, hiding his face at your shoulder again groaning, low and drawn out while his fingertips dragged over the parts of you he could reach.

He gazed down at you through those tired eyes, no longer bothering to fight the tears that slipped from the corners. 

‘Come for me,’ you breathed, and somehow it was the most romantic thing he’d ever heard.

With a low groan rumbling from his chest, he snapped his hips, once, twice. Three uneven, hurried thrusts and he roared, fists strategically moving the mattress either side of you as his claws extended with a muffled snikt! as he emptied inside you.

He pumped you so full that his release dripped back out, hot and thick around his softening cock and onto the sheets beneath.

‘Fuck-’ he growled, collapsing beside you.

 . ۫ ꣑ৎ   .  

You woke a few hours later, resting on his chest, and glanced up at him. 

Logan was still awake, deep in thought. He huffed.

‘What is it?’ you yawned, pushing yourself up to get a proper look at him. You assumed you’d wake to him long gone with his seed drying on your thigh, but he was very much still here. 

‘Just… don’t tell anyone, alright?’ he said, as if imparting a secret.

‘Tell them what?’ 

‘Yknow. That I-’

‘That you’re secretly a big softie and you fuck good? Yeah, ok,’ you mocked, ‘my lips are sealed. So long as you keep the mask on next time.’

Logan shot you a withering look and with a subtle smirk pulling at one corner of his mouth, closed his eyes as you settled back against his chest.

[sophsbookstore]

Floral Encounters

Charles Leclerc x Florist!reader ｡･:*˚:✧｡

Masterlist can be found in navigation!

Word count: 1340

A/N: lmaoooo i've been gone for a really..really long time…but guys we are so back! New year, new fanfics that need to be written. Requests are still very much open if you have anything you wanna see, sorry for the absence and happy reading!! <33

The little flower shop nestled on a quiet street in Monaco was a peaceful haven among the hustle and bustle of the city. Inside, the soft scent of roses and lilies mixed with the gentle hum of classical music playing from an old speaker in the corner. The owner, Y/N, was behind the counter, arranging the last few bouquets of the day. She loved her shop, the routine of it, the way it allowed her to be surrounded by beauty every day. But most of all, she loved the chance encounters—those small moments where someone new would come in, buying flowers for loved ones, or sometimes for no reason at all.

It was a Tuesday afternoon when he first walked in.

Charles Leclerc.

He had been a familiar face on the streets of Monaco for years, though Y/N had never had the chance to meet him. She had seen him in passing at a café or two, but nothing that could spark a conversation. She couldn’t say she was a huge fan of Formula 1, but she knew enough to recognize the man who had become a hero to so many in the city.

He stepped into the shop, the doorbell chiming as it swung open, and for a moment, Y/N was taken aback. She quickly composed herself and flashed him a friendly smile.

“Hello, can I help you with anything?” Y/N asked the man in front of her

Charles paused for a second, as if processing her presence. His green eyes flicked over the shelves filled with flowers, before landing on her. His lips curved upward in a small, charming smile.

“I need a bouquet,” he said, his accent thick but easy to understand. “Something... for my mother.”

Y/N nodded, stepping forward to guide him. “We have a variety of roses, peonies, maybe some tulips... what’s the occasion?”

He scratched the back of his neck, clearly trying to find the right words. “No real occasion. I just wanted to do something nice for her.”

The simplicity of it made Y/N’s heart flutter a little. He wasn’t here for a birthday or an anniversary. Just because. That kind of thoughtfulness was rare. She tilted her head slightly, studying him for a second before offering a suggestion.

“Well, if you’re looking for something elegant, I’d recommend a mix of white roses and lilies. They’re classic, timeless.”

Charles raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching as if he was amused by the suggestion. “Timeless, huh? I like the sound of that.”

Y/N gave a small laugh and picked out a few stems, expertly arranging them in a hand-tied bouquet. “The lilies symbolize purity, and the roses... well, they symbolize admiration and love. Perfect for a mother, don’t you think?”

He leaned against the counter, watching her work with an intensity that made her feel a little warmer than usual. “Sounds like you know your flowers,” he said with a grin.

“I’ve been doing this for a while,” Y/N replied, her fingers moving with practiced precision as she wrapped the bouquet in parchment paper. “You get to learn a lot when you’re surrounded by them every day.”

When she was finished, she handed him the bouquet. “Here you go. I hope she loves it.”

Charles took the bouquet, his fingers brushing against hers for a moment, sending a small jolt through her. He didn’t pull away right away. Instead, he looked down at the flowers, his expression softening.

“I’m sure she will,” he said quietly. Then, as if thinking of something, he added with a teasing smirk, “You’ve made this a bit hard to top. Do you take requests?”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “What do you have in mind?”

“I might need you to help me with another bouquet next week,” he said, his gaze lingering on hers just a little longer than necessary. “But... this time, it might be for someone special.”

Y/N grinned, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks. “I’d be happy to help,” she said, her voice lighter now, more playful. “Maybe I’ll even throw in a little extra flair for someone special.”

Charles gave her a wink and turned toward the door. “I’ll hold you to that,” he said with a laugh before leaving the shop, the bell above the door ringing again.

The days turned into weeks, and Charles kept his word. Every time he raced in Monaco or elsewhere, he would come into the shop, often with a similar request. Sometimes it was for his mother, sometimes for a friend, and sometimes, he hinted that it was for someone else entirely.

After a particularly thrilling race where he finished second, Charles returned to the shop, his eyes practically glowing with excitement. He was still wearing his racing gear, and Y/N couldn’t help but notice how different he looked outside the car—his intense, competitive energy replaced with something a little more... relaxed.

“Back for more flowers?” Y/N asked as he entered, a knowing smile playing on her lips.

He nodded, though there was a certain hesitation in his usual confident stance. “Yes, but this time, I’m celebrating something special.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, walking over to him. “Oh? What are you celebrating?”

Charles paused, glancing around the shop as if to gather his thoughts. Then, his gaze landed on hers, and a flicker of something unspoken passed between them.

“I’m celebrating getting to see you again,” he said, his voice low and sincere.

Her heart skipped a beat. It wasn’t the first time he’d said something like that, but hearing it now, in such a direct way, made it feel like something new.

Y/N smiled, feeling a flutter of excitement in her chest. “Well, that’s a good reason to celebrate.”

He grinned, stepping closer to the counter. “I think so.” He leaned in just a little, lowering his voice. “What do you think? Another bouquet, just to make it official?”

Y/N considered him for a moment, her fingers brushing against a vase of lilies nearby. “I think you’re getting pretty good at this... but how about we make it even more official?”

Charles raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “What do you mean?”

Her smile widened, and she set down the flowers she was holding. “How about you let me buy you dinner?”

He blinked in surprise, clearly taken aback for a second. Then, the corner of his mouth lifted into a grin. “You’re asking me out?”

“Is that so hard to believe?” Y/N teased, her eyes dancing with mischief.

Charles chuckled softly, his eyes not leaving hers. “Not at all.” He leaned forward just a bit more, his voice quieter. “I’d love to have dinner with you.”

Y/N’s heart raced, but she didn’t let the excitement show too much. “It’s a date, then,” she said with a wink.

The dinner was set for a few days later, at a small, intimate restaurant by the harbor. Charles showed up in a simple button-up shirt and jeans, looking effortlessly handsome. They shared stories over a bottle of wine, laughing at each other's jokes and enjoying the easy, warm atmosphere between them. The night ended with a stroll along the water, hand in hand, both of them silently agreeing that it was the beginning of something new.

Charles looked at Y/N, his expression soft. “You know, I’ve been to Monaco many times, but I think this is the first time I’ve really felt like I’m home.”

Y/N smiled, squeezing his hand gently. “Well, I’m glad I could be a part of that.”

“I think you’re going to be part of a lot of things in my life,” he said, his voice sincere.

She couldn’t help but smile at the thought, her heart full. “I’m looking forward to it, Charles. I really am.”

And as the stars twinkled overhead, they both knew that this was just the beginning.

[remeberm3]

sap | k.m

⎯⎯“You’re rather difficult to look away from.”

warnings: flufffff

Klaus Mikaelson had always known love to be a double-edged sword.

Love had been the reason he was broken. It had been the reason for the centuries of war he had waged, for the walls he had built around himself, for the blood he had spilled just to feel something in the absence of it.

But then—you.

You had walked into his life like you belonged there. Like you had always been meant to find him, to settle into the cracks of his soul like gold poured into shattered porcelain.

And god help him, because he let you.

༊*·˚

“You have a staring problem, Mikaelson.”

Your voice was teasing, laced with amusement, and Klaus barely blinked, lips curling as he leaned against the doorframe. The candlelight in the room flickered across your skin, dancing shadows across the slope of your cheek, the bare stretch of your collarbone. You were sprawled across his bed, utterly at ease, flipping through one of his old books like it was yours.

And maybe it was.

“Can you blame me, love?” Klaus drawled, stepping closer, slow and deliberate. “You’re rather difficult to look away from.”

You glanced up at him, unimpressed. “That line might work on other people, but I know you, Niklaus. You don’t look at things just because they’re beautiful. You look at things you think you might lose.”

The smile on his lips faltered for just a fraction of a second—so quick, you almost didn’t catch it.

Almost.

Klaus was already shaking his head, a huff of laughter escaping him as he sat at the edge of the bed, fingers ghosting over the pages of the book you held. “And here I was thinking you’d appreciate my compliments. No wonder I never shower you with them.”

You scoffed, nudging his knee with your foot. “Liar. You just like to pretend you’re withholding, when really, you’re a sap.”

“A sap?” Klaus repeated, eyes narrowing. “I have started wars. I have burned cities. I have made kings bow before me. And you—” he jabbed a finger toward you, accusatory, “you have the audacity to call me a sap?”

“Yes,” you said simply, utterly unaffected. “Because you have started wars. Because you have burned cities. Because you have made kings bow before you. And yet, here you are, practically writing me love sonnets with your eyes.”

Klaus scoffed. “Delusional.”

“You painted me,” you continued, ignoring him. “Several times, in fact. You once threatened a man at a café for looking at me too long. You keep a dagger in your coat, just in case someone so much as breathes wrong in my direction.” You leaned forward, fingers tugging gently at the hem of his shirt. “You’re a sap, Mikaelson. Own it.”

Klaus opened his mouth—likely to refute this slander—but you arched a brow, daring him to deny a single word. He stared at you for a long moment, something unreadable passing over his features, something soft—and then, to your utter delight, he huffed a quiet, “Bloody hell.”

You grinned. “There it is.”

༊*·˚

Klaus had always been good at hiding his emotions.

He had spent centuries perfecting the art of it—shrouding every glimmer of tenderness behind arrogance, behind wit and sharp edges and cruelty when necessary.

But with you, it was impossible.

You saw through him too easily. You always had.

It was infuriating.

It was terrifying.

It was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

༊*·˚

You had been out all day.

It had been something trivial—running errands, meeting friends, just existing in the city while he had been left behind to entertain himself. Klaus would never admit it outright, but he hated when you were gone. It was an itch beneath his skin, an unbearable restlessness, like something in the universe was just off until you returned.

So when the door finally opened that night, when he heard your familiar footsteps and the quiet sigh of exhaustion you let out, he was already moving before he even thought to.

“Long day?” he murmured, appearing in front of you in an instant, hands reaching to peel your coat from your shoulders before you could even register him.

You hummed, stretching your arms up as he pulled the fabric away, a content sound leaving you as you tilted your head up to meet his gaze. “Miss me?”

Klaus rolled his eyes. “You wish.”

You grinned, but before you could respond, Klaus was already gathering you into his arms, hands curling around your waist as he tugged you against him.

“Hey,” you breathed, laughing softly.

Klaus didn’t say anything. Just held you.

Just breathed you in.

༊*·˚

This was love, wasn’t it?

Not just the wildness, the passion, the earth-shattering devotion. Not just the hunger and the fire and the desperate, grasping need to consume one another.

It was this, too.

It was coming home after a long day and knowing that the person waiting for you was just as eager for your return as you were to see them.

It was teasing each other in dimly lit rooms, knowing the banter would stretch on for years to come.

It was knowing—without a shadow of a doubt—that you were safe in someone’s hands. That you were loved.

That you belonged.

༊*·˚

Klaus had lived for a thousand years.

And in all that time, he had never believed in the idea of forever.

But if you asked him, now—if you asked him in this moment, with his arms around you and your heartbeat steady against his chest, with the weight of your laughter still lingering in the air—

He would tell you that he had changed his mind.

Because forever was standing in front of him, smiling up at him like he had strung the stars in the sky.

And he would fight for it.

He would always fight for it.

message me if you have any requests or comment! <3

[willowcried]

being quinnie’s little lapdog.

the auditorium.

the only place she allowed you to talk to her at school. anywhere else was completely prohibited. she told you that on day one.

if you tried to talk to her in the hallways, she wouldn’t even acknowledge you. you learned that the hard way, when she left you there like an wet puppy while she walked past, barely sparing you a glance. you didn’t think she was actually serious.

she would apologize later, sure—murmuring quiet sorry, baby’s while kissing your stupid face, as she usually called it, curling her fingers around the collar of your sweater before making you lose it. that’s when she’d let herself be soft, let her nails drag gently along your jaw, let her voice drop into something warm, something just for you. she’d kiss you slow, teasing, until your head spun, until your hands trembled where they held onto her waist.

and then, just when you thought she might actually mean it—just when you thought maybe she felt something real—she’d pull away with that knowing smirk, dragging her thumb across your kiss-dazed lips harshly before fixing her cardigan like nothing happened.

you understood, though.

she was hurt after puckerman, obviously. she needed control back in her life. she needed this—you—on her terms. not because she liked having you as a pet.

that’s what you told yourself, anyway.

today, she’s late. your fingers nervously drum on the random seat you chose in the big auditorium. glancing at your cellphone for the third time, your leg bounces up and down but you hate skipping class. even though she was the reason why you did it, your mind was stressed, thinking about the missing lessons just for quinn.

of course it had its perks, though. depending on your luck, sometimes she was nice, running her fingers through your hair the way you liked, teasing you about your sweater choices, calling you cute in that whispery voice that made your brain short-circuit.

other times, she was mean. distant. late on purpose, like she wanted to see how long you’d wait before you gave up.

this seems to be the case today as she flings the door open, storming towards you with that look on her face that pretty much terrifies you. she stops in front of you, and you barely have time to open your mouth before— “what the hell is wrong with you?”

you blink. “i—what?”

she exhales sharply, rolling her eyes, like you’re exhausting her. like she doesn’t have you completely lost, going through your folder of memories to figure out what you did wrong.

“you know what, nerd.”

except you don’t.

quinn sighs, tilting her head back like she’s trying to rein herself in, and when she looks at you again, her eyes are sharp, expectant. “why were you looking at me in class?”

your lips part in realization. that’s what this was about? the stupid rules? “i wasn’t trying to—”

her eyes narrow. “so you admit it.”

shit.

“i’m sorry. i won’t do that again.” you swallow, voice quieter now. “i just liked the way you did your hair today.” you point with your index finger, suddenly hyperaware of how warm your face feels. “with the yellow— the little flower.”

“stupid. they could’ve found out.”

she always said that. you still didn’t understand how could a person connect so many dots by just one look. the no-talking- in-the-halls rule was understandable, but not being able to look at her?

you don’t say a thing about your thoughts, though. you know better.

“i’m really sorry, q.” you tug on her hand, pulling her closer to you until she’s standing between your legs.

you stare up at her, squeezing her hand when she doesn’t say anything after a beat—two beats, trying to get her to talk to you. it’s nonsense. you know it. she knows it, but that doesn’t stop her from remaining silent for another moment, just so she can look down at you some more, to make you impatient.

and you do. but then, just as you’re about to apologize again, quinn huffs, shaking her head. “idiot.”

before you can react, she’s on you. it’s sudden, the way she slants her mouth over yours, her hands gripping the back of your neck to pull you into her. you barely have time to adjust to the heat of her lips before she’s straddling you, sliding into your lap with ease, her body pressing against yours, drawing out of your throat the tiniest, most embarrassing sound against her lips while your fingers curl around her hips instinctively.

your glasses fog up from the rush of your breaths, but she’s quick enough to pull them on top of your head effortlessly the second they start getting in the way without breaking the kiss. her hands cradle your face, fingers threading into your hair as she deepens it.

[cheshireliam]

"Growing Feelings Poured Into Chocolate" Collection Event

Liam Evans

This is a fan-made translation solely for entertainment purposes with no guaranteed perfection; expect mistakes, grammatical errors, and some creative liberties. All original content and media used belongs to Cybird. Please support the game by buying their stories and playing their games. Reblogs appreciated.

Read this before interacting

Kate: Nn… haah… Liam…?

The moment I let Liam in when he visited my room, he started kissing me without warning.

Liam: — Be quiet. 

He pinned both of my hands above my head, holding them tightly in place so I couldn’t move, and continued his attack on my lips.

(What’s gotten into him…?)

I was struggling to breathe, and yet I couldn't stop him.

Liam looked like he was in more pain than I was, so I accepted his kisses without resistance.

And that went on for who knew how long.

After kissing me for so long that I thought my lips might’ve been swollen, Liam finally released my hands and pulled away. 

Kate: Liam… did something happen? 

Liam: …

Liam: Kate… do you like pain? 

Kate: Huh…? 

Liam: If you like pain, I can give you as much pain as you want.

Liam: If you like being bitten, I’ll bite you however much you want… we can even do more dangerous things together.

Liam: … I'll act as kind of man you want me to be, Kate. So please— 

Liam: Please… don’t abandon me… 

This time, Liam started crying into my chest. 

Kate: … Liam. I don’t like pain. 

Liam: Really…?

Kate: Yes. Because the person I love doesn’t want to hurt me… I always want to take good care of my body and make sure I don't get hurt.

Kate: Also, you don’t need to act. I love you just the way you are, Liam. 

Even though I had told him that countless times before, I firmly reassured him once more. 

Liam: Is that really how you feel…? I thought… 

Liam: … I- I’m sorry, Kate. Thanks for telling me you love me.

Liam: I love you too. So… let me love you as you are too from now on.

Liam: … Sorry for being violent with my kisses. 

Liam gave me a gentle kiss, and the two of us tumbled into bed together. 

…

Kate: … Ah!! I almost forgot all about it!! 

After a moment of Liam and I affirming our love for each other, something came to my mind and I immediately bolted up while still in his arms.

Liam: Is something the matter?

Kate: Yes. I’ll be right back, Liam. 

I got up and brought something from the kitchen back to my room. 

Kate: Happy Valentine’s Day, Liam! 

Liam: Is this… for me?

I presented Liam with a moderately sweet chocolate cake.

Kate: Yup. I wanted to make something you’d enjoy eating… so I used a special chocolate that’s especially aromatic. 

Liam: It really does smell good… 

Kate: Fufu. It was hard to obtain, but worth the effort to beg Jude for help. 

Liam: Jude? By any chance… did you pick up the chocolates this morning? 

Kate: Yes, that’s right… did you happen to see me? 

Kate: I tried to make it a surprise by receiving it in secret…

Liam: What… so that’s what it was…

Liam: I saw you smiling so happy when receiving some package from Jude.

Liam: Since it’s Valentine’s Day, I assumed you and Jude might have feelings for each other…

Kate: Eeh!? That’s impossible. I’m fully devoted to you, Liam!

Kate: So that’s why you asked if I liked pain…

Liam: Yeah… I’m sorry for doubting you. 

Liam: … It made me insecure knowing you’re such a wonderful person that anyone would admire. 

Kate: Then please always voice out whenever you feel that way, I can clear those feelings for you. 

Kate: Because my love for you will absolutely never fade. 

Liam: Thanks, Kate. 

Although it was late at night, the two of us shared the chocolate cake. 

Even if our love melts and loses its shape in the heat caused by jealousy, like chocolate, we can always reshape it beautifully.

Because I want to be together with Liam until the end of time.

[cal-daisies-and-briars]

🐕‍🦺1k 💜💜💜💜💙💙💙💙 ooo excited to see Eddie's POV in a cranberry story!

WOO! Let's go.

1k for the girlie (dog):

---

But the thing is, Cranberry is potentially one of the most perfect creatures in all of existence. He can’t say that out loud. Buck already says he babies her too much. As if she isn’t an eternal baby? She’s just easy to exist around. Happy, quiet, sweet. He doesn’t have to be anything around her, because she’s sort of obsessed with him for no reason, as is. So, yeah. As much as he’s grateful for Pepa and Carla, he’s sort of eager to see his dog. Buck’s dog. Whatever. 

“In the crate,” Chris grumbles, looking sour about it. “I knew you’d want to see her.”

“Christopher,” Pepa scolds. 

“We didn’t want her to jump or knock into you,” Carla explains. “We know she gets a little over excited about you.”

“Training goes out the window every time Eddie gets home from work,” Buck admits. 

“I want to see her,” Eddie says, feeling snappish. “Let her out.”

Pepa and Carla look surprised. 

He’s not usually… Well he knows he’s being short. He knows they did what they thought was right. But still. He wants the damn dog. Why is no one getting her? Does Eddie have to go get her? He will.

“Okay, uh… I’ll go get Cran,” Buck says, upon reading that Eddie is dead serious. “Eddie, why don’t you go sit down, okay? Or, if you need to go to bed…”

“I don’t,” Eddie says. “I’m just… Yeah, I’ll sit down.”

‘

Pepa looks at him nervously. “Can I get you anything, Edmundo? Water?”

Eddie shakes his head. He just wants the damn dog.

“I’m good.”

🦮🦮🦮

Cranberry comes tearing through the house towards him, squealing with excitement that he’s home. But right before she crashes into where he sits on the couch, she stops. She looks at him blankly for a moment. Eddie tenses. Chris is sitting beside him, watching both of them. Eddie doesn’t want to react to the dog acting differently, so he keeps very still. But why? Why did she stop? Can she sense that something is missing about him?

Cranberry takes a tentative step forward and starts to sniff his legs. 

“It’s okay, Cran,” Chris says. “Dad is okay. He missed you.”

Eddie keeps still. His throat feels very tight. He feels like he might cry. 

But then Cranberry wags her tail, licks Eddie’s knee, and hops up onto the couch.

“Careful!” Carla calls across the room. “Oh, be careful.”

Eddie ignores it. He uses his good arm to stroke Cranberry’s head as she lies across his lap. She stays very still, presses her head into his stomach. 

“Good girl,” Eddie whispers. “Thank you, good girl.”

Buck walks into the living room, pausing in the entryway. He watches them. Eddie pretends he doesn’t see. 

iii.

Buck takes even more time off work. 

He’s already been gone for a week to be beside Eddie in the hospital. He takes another week.

Eddie feels guilty about it. Guilty, guilty, guilty. Shameful. How many days did he take off when Buck lost his leg? None. How many days did he take when Shannon died? Three shifts. Three. What kind of fucking person is he?

Buck is such a good caretaker, too. Astounding really. Eddie has everything he needs, all the time. Never misses wound care or medication doses. He does it all while caring for Chris, the dog, and minding Eddie’s shitty mood. He’s a miracle. A force of nature. Eddie loves him. He appreciates him. He wishes he’d remember to say that more now. For some reason, the words are stuck on his tongue. Thank you. I love you. What would I do without you? Why can’t he just say it?

He just has to hope Buck knows while he tries to shake his brain free of cobwebs. 

Eventually, though, Buck does have to return to work. He does have to leave Eddie. Eddie dreads it. Quietly. He doesn’t say he’s terrified about being alone with his thoughts today. He doesn’t say he’s sore and miserable. He doesn’t say knowing Buck is in the other room, doing dishes, while Eddie sleeps, makes Eddie feel safer. 

On the morning Buck is due back at Emergency Ops, Eddie wakes up to Cranberry laying her head on his chest. He’s been having trouble getting up in the morning. The meds make him sluggish. Eddie insisted Buck wake him up before he goes, but when he opens his eyes, Buck is dressed and ready, trying to sneak out of the bedroom. Which doesn’t make sense. Because Cranberry is in bed. 

“Buck,” Eddie rasps, pinned in place by the dog. 

Buck pauses, then turns to Eddie.

“Hey, hon,” Buck smiles. “I’m just about to go. You need anything?”

“Uh, no… But, why aren’t you taking Cran?”

Buck frowns. “Um… Well… I put pull tabs on the fridge and some drawers. I put your meds in a velcro bag she knows to target. She can do other basic retrievals.”

“Buck…”

“She won’t be any work!” Buck interjects. “She’s been fed, done her business, and has enough water to get through the day. She’ll be fine if you can’t let her out until I’m home. She doesn’t need anything, but she can help you.”

Eddie sighs. “I know she’s not any work, but Buck… She’s yours. You need her.”

“Yeah, and today she can help both of us,” Buck says. “Because… Because I think you need her more than me. And knowing she’s here with you will put my mind at ease, okay? If you need me, drop your phone but can’t… She could get it for you, you know?”

And how the hell is Eddie supposed to say no to that? Because, honestly? He’d feel better with her here, too. 

“Okay,” he says. “Thank you, Buck.”

He manages to say it that time.

[aceofthyme]

shit man i did not think november could get worse

[aroaessidhe]

2023 reads // twitter thread

Zombabe

paranormal YA set in a small town in 2003 where weird things happen that mostly get ignored

a boy is resurrected by his best friend after dying just before graduation. but he’s maybe a zombie now and if he ignores his hunger for flesh an ancient evil might start causing bigger problems

thankfully one of his friends’ aunt is a cop who has no problem helping get rid of some of the local nazis

queer teen friend group, m/m

[why-animals-do-the-thing]

hi! can i ask what's ur opinion on giving pets away? not necessarily because u can't afford to care for em anymore but maybe incompatibility of personalities or maybe lifestyles. is it wrong to give ur pet for adoption if u know someone who's better suited for keeping a pet, like emotionally?

This is going to be controversial, but I support making that choice.

There’s a lot of rhetoric lately around how it’s evil and unethical to rehome your pet if you don’t “need to.” And what that does is prioritize human ideology over the actual animal’s well-being.

Pets that aren’t a good match for your home or pets that aren’t really wanted anymore frequently have lower welfare! When caring for an animal becomes a burden or is forced, people end up resenting them, and that means the animal often doesn’t get all of its needs fulfilled. Even if you’re still feeding it and providing appropriate vet care, how likely are you to provide affection or enrichment to an animal you’re tired of being stuck with?

Lifestyle and personality really matter to making sure a pet is a good fit for a home. A dog that alert-barks at every leaf that moves is probably a bad fit for someone who has a chronic migraine syndrome, and they might not know that until the dog has been in the home for weeks and started to open up. A really feisty kitten that requires a ton of play might not do best in the home of someone older who wanted a quiet lap cat. And while you can you do your best to plan to find a compatible animal, you won’t always know ahead of time what issues might arise.

“Forever home” rhetoric is really, really popular and I think it’s very unfair to the animals it is supposed to support. It started with the backlash of seeing animals abandoned inappropriately, and has been heavily reinforced in the public mind because it’s so frequently used to drive fundraising and support for legislation. The whole “forever home” concept communicates to people that getting an animal is an immutable commitment and that if you can’t keep an animal, it is a personal moral failing. It frames human priorities (we think people who get rid of animals are Evil and Bad and should be shunned) as more important than actual welfare needs for individual animals (are they getting the care they need where they are).

Obviously, I don’t support people dumping animals or just getting fad pets they’ll discard immediately, but there’s so many alternate situations that can arise. Even if it’s just “they got a pet and didn’t know what caring for it would take and didn’t want to care for it so they brought it back, how awful” like… okay, I’d like the person to have done more research before they got a pet, but isn’t it better that the animal now has a second chance to go to better home? Knowing what a commitment requires theoretically can be very different than having to actually follow through regularly, and I’d rather see someone maturely acknowledge that having an animal isn’t a good fit than keep it anyway!!

If animals being happy and with all their biological, veterinary, and social needs fulfilled is actually the goal, we need to prioritize their welfare over human opinion. I’d much rather see an animal rehomed responsibly to somewhere it will thrive and be welcomed than see people keep animals they can’t/don’t want to care for out of guilt or shame.