Victorious

The compromise is good, cause he knows she aught to go home and get some rest. He couldn't imagine working as a nurse or doctor, he simply didn't have the stamina for such long hours. But then again, what did that say about a man used to hunting humans on missions days or even weeks long out in the harsh wilderness? He smirks imperceptibly to himself with a shake of his head at where his thoughts had wandered and soon enough, or too soon, she lets go of his hand with a soft squeeze once they emerge from the stairwell.

@vallorouslly bared their pretty throat : [ LAVENDER ] sender lays their head in receiver's lap and closes their eyes.

‘Come here, sunshine.’

Aftercare was important, even if Lucien refused to make a speech about it. The room was warm, curtains drawn, restraints already tossed aside with very little ceremony and a glass of water placed within reach because Logan had a habit of forgetting he possessed a body after a session. ( Sweet thing. Completely gone when he wanted to be, and somehow surprised when Lucien noticed. ) Typical, really. Give him a bit of intensity and suddenly common sense wandered off to find someone less dramatic. The scent of lavender oil lingered on his hands, soothing enough, though he’d never say that aloud unless tortured and even then he’d lie for sport.

‘There you go.’

Logan’s head settled in his lap and Lucien looked down at him with quiet amusement, fingers sliding into his hair almost automatically. It wasn’t often he allowed someone to fold into him so easily, but Logan had worked his way into that rare little category of exceptions through sheer persistence and a truly ridiculous amount of affection.( Huh. Look at him. Peaceful for once. Wonders never bloody ceased. ) Eyes closed, breathing slowing, all that sunny nonsense finally dimming into something softer. His thumb brushed near Logan’s temple, slow and careful, checking him over without making the whole thing obvious enough to be accused of fussing.

‘Water in a minute, love. Don’t argue with me, you’ll lose.’

The words were light, though there was little room for debate in them. Aftercare wasn’t optional, especially after Logan had trusted him with that much of himself. Lucien had never been careless with trust once it was placed properly in his hands, however much his mouth tried to convince the world otherwise. ( Purlease. He had standards. If he was going to be tender, he could at least be stylish about it. ) A blanket was drawn over Logan’s shoulders, tucked enough to keep him warm without making the whole thing feel like some dreary little hospital routine. Fingers returned to Logan’s hair as if they had merely paused, smoothing through it with the same steady rhythm.

‘You did well.’

Praise was given without fuss, because Logan needed to hear it and Lucien was not so stubborn that he would withhold something that mattered. Well. Not always. He had his moments.( There was something satisfying about it, though Lucien would rather choke than make it sound precious. ) Blue eyes remained lowered, watching the shift of Logan’s breathing, the faint colour in his face, the way he seemed content to stay exactly where he was. He liked knowing Logan could come back to him like this, trusting him enough to be the hands afterwards alongside the voice during.

‘Very well, actually. Annoyingly so. Keep behaving and I’ll become impossible to live with.’

A faint grin followed as his fingers moved lazily through Logan’s hair again, warmth settling into the space between them. The session had taken plenty out of him, that much was obvious, and Logan being quiet was always a sign worth paying attention to.( Good. About time the little menace let someone else do the work. ) Usually he filled space with light, jokes, touch, anything to keep the world from noticing where he hurt. Now he was simply there, head in Lucien’s lap, eyes closed, letting himself be looked after without turning it into a performance. Lucien leaned back, one hand still in his hair while the other reached for the water.

‘Sip.’

A pause.

‘That was an order, before you try making it cute.’

She moves away for a moment, opening cupboards and drawers to gather supplies with the rapid efficiency of one entirely familiar and at ease with her surroundings: although she was new to this practice, each doctor's office was very similar to each others. "You're lucky, I don't think you're going to need stitches. I'm going to clean the wound and bandage it again, you'll need to keep it clean and dry for a couple of days," she explains, as she pours a generous amount of antiseptic liquid onto a cotton pad.

She'll be easy to watch over time, she'll be easy to keep track of in all honesty for this contract. Eyes wander lazily over her motions through the room, how at ease she is and how familiar. It must feel good, having that comfort with what you do with your life. Not like his, where he has to adapt to each contract depending on what he's hunting. Witches, though, well, they weren't as common as other beings were. Vampires were easy, relatively speaking, werewolves not too bad either. But he hasn't hunted a witch in a long time.

Not saying he can't do it, but he can definitely hone in a craft for it. She'll give him ample practice. As long as he can stay objective.

"It's nice to meet you too. Always good to meet the new doctor in town." Which he meant, really, the cycle was always intimidating to adapt to a new caregiver, but he's so used to hospitals it's really second nature for him, in an odd manner of speaking. He shrugs at her comment of wishing it were under different circumstances and waves her away with his uninjured hand. "Nah, it's fine. At least I'm not the dumbass losing fingers to fireworks, right?"

We are like butterflies who flutter for a day and think it's forever —Carl Sagan

The workings are almost in tandem with their kisses now, and there is a flare of utterly smug satisfaction, at having that desperation voiced to him, breathed against his lips. Mouth curls faintly, the ghost of an approving smile, before the need to taste and savor more disrupts the curve of it.

' You will have me, all of me.'

As if to both punctuate and reassure the workings of his fingers move with deliberate, deep thrusts, the slickness of them spread over sensitive skin, turning the trap of ringed muscles gleaming and pliant. There is not deliberate chasing of the sensitive spot he knows is there, only a pleasuring glide and spreading, circling the walls clamping down around the digits.

The bite at the plump flesh of his lip has the grin return, faintly and briefly, and the revenge is a deep, savoring kiss, tongue curling around the other, thoroughly tasting him. There are waves of awe mingling through the flares of want; at the beauty, and the sounds, and the surrender that is received, and the god savors every fragment of it, mouthing at skin, throat and collarbone.

And the plea receives a salacious, fierce retort, another kiss taken. Experience guides the god's hands, knowing there would be no saving if he caused pain or discomfort, and a third finger joins the others, thumb stroking firmly over the rimmed flesh to soothe more.

Such assurance is murmured on that throaty voice that has since embedded itself within the confines of his mind for months. Logan manages to hear it perfectly replicated in the confines of his dreams even, and to hear it now, sets him aflame. Combined with the adjustment of Thor's ministrations, how he dives deeper and stretches subtly ever more, Logan allows a whimper to escape, clutching to the god in his arms for support through the waves of desire crashing through him. It's been such a long time since anyone has given him such attentions as this that he is unaccustomed to the length it takes to stretch, to ensure no pain or discomfort.

Somewhere there is a pleasing feeling about Thor's diligence, hidden, however, in a wash of impatience. Ever still, Logan focuses on relaxing his body against the mattress, to relinquish himself to Thor's hold and his influence, the exuberance of their scent beginning to fill the bubble surrounding them, embed itself in the sheets and the pillows. At least it will be a nice lullaby to dreams afterward.

He moans unabashedly into the god's mouth, allowing him to swallow the sound as their tongues dance so eloquently together it felt normal, felt easy. Feeling those lips trail over his skin is a treat that eyes roll back in his head for, the excellence of delicacy and savoring this beginning. All he's ever wanted is in his arms, is holding him, is inside, all around him. And it's a heady mixture of such want he leaks for it, barely holding himself back with the added digit.

Once the call is disconnected, she sets her phone on the counter and stares at it for several long seconds. “Jesus Christ, I’ve got it so bad.” Liza whispers to nothing in particular, sharing secrets with the cookie dough because she knows it won’t snitch on her. Not that she wouldn’t object to Logan knowing about her feelings, but then anxiety crawls through her, making her worry she’d ruin their friendship, that he just likes things the way they are. But the way he called her babe, the sweetness she’d heard in his voice has her wondering if she even has anything to be anxious about when it comes to Logan.

She’s just taking the dough from the fridge to start laying out another batch while one bakes when she hears tires in the gravel drive, but it wasn’t the usual sound of his truck… wait. Liza hurries to the foyer, heart in her throat as she peeks through one of the skinny windows by the front door, catching sight of Logan strolling up the walkway to the porch -- he drives a motorcycle too?! Liza huffs quietly, attraction stirring as she turns quickly away from the window so she doesn’t get caught snooping. His knock sends her heart racing, and she takes a deep breath before pulling the door open and smiling up at him. “Hey… that was quick. Come in.” She says, reaching for his hand without hesitation and gently tugging him inside, closing the door behind. Liza opens her mouth to say something, comment on the helmet hair and the bike, but she’s interrupted by her timer going off in the kitchen.

Logan can't help the smile soon overtaking his face as she guides him into the house by his hand in hers. The sensation sends a warmth spreading through him, going directly to his cheeks in a pink bloom as butterflies gently flutter in his belly. When she lets go, it's almost like he feels a part of him leave with her, but he says nothing after it. Setting his helmet on the nearby table in the entryway, he toes off his boots and sheds his jacket, hanging it on the stand by the door before padding into the kitchen. "There wasn't that much traffic out tonight." Shocking, given the week ahead, the patterns typically hold. But maybe this one was proving to be a bit of a slower one for those in the little town. Not that he was complaining by any means, because it meant he got here faster.

But he watches her briefly as she wanders to the oven to pull out the latest batch of cookies, and his eyes linger probably too long on her form, catching every movement and staring. Only when she turns does he snap out of it, putting the milk in the fridge and then grabbing the little insulated bag he'd come with to the counter where she's recruited him for scooping.

One thing I’ve noticed that I want to address, is the way people feel so guilty and feel the need to apologize for being slow at getting to replies or not getting to them at all. And, trust me, I’ve been there (and still catch myself there tbh, i just had this realization a few moments ago and had to share lmao); people feel obligated to others, rather than prioritizing their own well-being. As though we’re somehow responsible for the well-being of everyone else. I see it so much! ♥ And I totally sympathize and understand. But I just want you to know, from what I’ve observed, the vast majority of us feel so obligated to others, and yet most of us (at least the people who respect others free time oh dang yep i’m throwin’ shade) couldn’t care less about others dropping threads, or having a billion drafts, or getting distracted with other things!

We put so much pressure on ourselves for not being machines that can keep up with everything 24/7—which, I mean, would be pretty amazing lmaaaao—but the point is it’s okay to get distracted, and be disorganized, and jump from one idea and plot and thread to the next! It’s okay! ♥ We don’t have to put so much pressure on ourselves! To the point that we torture ourselves with obligation and guilt and forget to check in on our own energy levels. Because I can almost guarantee that most people are too worried about their own feelings of obligation, than the thing we’re stressing ourselves over!

I see people apologizing for caring for themselves, and taking breaks when they need it, and not being ‘fast enough’, and so many other things that the people who truly respect our health and happiness and free time probably aren’t even thinking about. So, if that fits your description, and you still struggle with putting way too much pressure on your own shoulders, and you feel as though you have to care for everyone else before you care for yourself, then this post is for you ♥ And ngl for myself as well, bc I often find myself feeling obligated and responsible for others, even when I’m drained of energy too lolol.

But here it is—not that you even need it—but in case you feel that you do:

A gorgeous green dragon is standing there, head tilted to one side, as they examine her with bright, golden eyes. Oh. A deep sense of contentment settles within her, and not a sliver of fear; it is the calmest, most confident she has felt ever since she was forced to walk the parapet. Now, everything makes sense.

Hello, child. Come fly with me.

And Kiara didn't need to be told twice. Excitement pumps through her veins as she scrambles up the dragon's scales, her hands and feet finding purpose as though she has done this all her life. Flying is intoxicating, and laughter bubbles free easily as the dragon introduces herself as Verdisia, and she clings on tightly as she puts her through her paces with sharp turns and sudden dives. But her joy vanishes quickly, when another unfamiliar, deep voice urgently cuts through into her mind.

Logan would be lying if he wasn't looking over his shoulder just a couple times during Threshing. There were a few other cadets who had it out for him, his superiority intimidated them. Even as he watches one of them slink away deep into the valley, Logan refrains from following, from snuffing out the threat. He is not so easily bent.

You're restraint shows competence.

Looking to the voice, where it could have originated had it not vibrated within his skull, he's met with the sight of a copper swordtail slowly emerging from the shadows of dense woods, where his gleam otherwise was concealed. Logan could've easily been it's dinner had he not looked any closer.

Your golden shimmer rivals mine. A loud exhale of breath through powerful nostrils ruffles the foliage around Logan with a dangerous warmth. Such presentations may be tactful. Come. The dragon bends and allows Logan an ease to climb up his front leg, soon finding the seat thereafter, taking flight not a moment later. Diaval, he'd said in introduction once they'd gained the eye of a fair few dragons in the denser areas, a good distraction they could be down the line for the war efforts. Bait, more like Logan thought, and was equally chided by Diaval's mind for strategy.

Such thoughts clouded his mind, the elation of flight adding to a momentary lapse in alertness. How he was catapulted off Diaval's back is a mystery, the world gone black from the impact and the pain his body suddenly succumbed to. He couldn't even scream, it rendered him mute. Coming to on the ground, lush green covered in blood, he can't move. Watching that cadet come over to him, blade raised, only to be impaled from behind by Diaval's tail and forcibly thrown clear across the valley. The piercing roars of two dragons now fighting over him make the world ring in his ears as he lay there, feeling his energy seep and spill out into the wet soil beneath him.

Only briefly as he slowly blinks back the blackness, he spots a shadow descending, and he has not the faintest idea to defend himself. Diaval has been screaming at him to stay awake, to keep blinking, to move something, if he could. So Logan had started tapping his fingers on the ground, even though that was getting harder and harder to do. Little did he know the offending dragon now lay in a heap on the grass, a green dragon moving towards Diaval and they nuzzled softly.