#multiple religious belonging

[burymagdalene]

Drip by Drip - S. Reid x Reader

In which the nine long days spent apart ends in a harmonious reunion of a needy shower spent together.

pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader genre: plain smut. (18+ pls pls) I didn't even write 70k words of plot before like I usually do. tags: softdom!Spencer, shower sex, age gap (or could also not be...) pinv, a possessive vibe, fingering, handjob, making out, multiple things being very wet...playing with your tits, creampie, finger sucking, praise, & desperation! wc: 3.3k a/n: More of this. I had a lot of fun writing this even though I kind of felt really dirty to the point of religious guilt as a non-religious person so I hope you guys like it! <3

Your body finally relaxes after what feels like the longest day you’ve had all week once Spencer's shower stream washes over you.

Nine days. Nine brutally slow days of watching over Spencer’s apartment- or torturing yourself by being reminded of his belongings for over a week.

When he first left, you’d been naive. Spencer hasn’t been away for over a week since you’ve started dating. The first time he was gone for three days you felt like you were going to faint. You wish you still had those champagne problems as you’re washing yourself for the trillionth time alone in Spencer’s shower.

The past 24 hours have been especially hard. You were woken up at 5:00 am with Spencer calling you before he had to get ready in the hotel and go out to do whatever had taken up so  much of his time in Boise, Idaho. 

First, good news: He thinks there is a break in the case, and should be getting home later.

Second, great news: Spencer has conveniently woken up with a hard on that's throbbing helplessly against his stomach.

Which sounds like a heavenly wake-up call. But in the FBI he has to be adaptable to the quickest changes in plans.

Five minutes into purring into your side of the phone while touching yourself to Spencer’s groans, another charming individual begins to call Spencer as well. His boss.

So, tucking himself into the band of his underwear, Spencer leaves again. You could’ve finished yourself off, but self pity got the best of you as you drift off to sleep.

A painfully slow and hard day at work followed, rude people and small mishaps on your part that were blown out of proportion to make you feel worse. A crappy self made dinner that took longer to cook than to eat.

But in Spencer’s shower, you’re able to unwind, happy in knowing you can spend the end of a bad day in your lover's space. Regardless of if he’s here or not. Which is another problem, you haven’t heard from him since he was panting on the phone earlier– so it’s safe to say he probably will not be coming back today because of the rush in which he had to hang up earlier.

Over the water pattering against tiles, you do not hear the key jingle and door shut that signifies Spencer’s long-awaited return. Head down and eyes closed, most of your senses are just focused on trying to unwind.

Spencer, placing his bag down in the kitchen, can hear the shower going and immediately saunters over. Not having a plan, but just to show that he’s finally back. He can’t fathom being home right now without alerting you.

Slowly, as if not to scare you too badly, he probably will though, he slips in through the bathroom door, places his toiletry bag down on the sink.

You’re a bit unfocused, but not completely to the point of missing this. Out of your peripheral vision you see the slightest movement and your head whips to the side. Spencer. You could fucking melt.

Through the steam that has built up, you can make out his slouched figure and contrasting pleased smile. You can’t help yourself, with soft dripping skin you swing his shower door open to greet him.

“Spencer,” you whisper out in shock, trailing water onto his bathroom floor. “Oh my God.”

“Hi my baby-” He reaches out to swipe away some droplets on your face, but doesn’t finish. You’re pulling him into a tight, wet hug.

Arms slung fiercely around his neck, he barely buffers in returning your hug with his jacket-clad arms around your waist.

In the back of your mind you’re aware that the water on your breasts and stomach are soaking through his undershirt. That your clean hair is dropping water onto the shoulder of his jacket. You’re also aware how expensive a suit is. 

The harsh disparity from the cool air sticking to your wet skin from the hot (frankly, too hot) shower you were in previously is pebbling your nipples against his now soaked-through button up, your skin is covered in goosebumps that he’s swiping away with his thumb. 

A low hum into your ear as he’s trailing his thumb nail against the sensitive part of your inner waist, “Angel girl,” a deep sigh, “I missed you so much.”

Your arms tighten around him, forehead landing on his wet shoulder, you could cry. You could laugh maniacally. Either way, you feel cemented against his frame, the only warmth being produced near you since stepping out of the shower.

A small indent in your lower stomach is being formed from his belt digging into your pliable skin. You feel like a fresh heap of soft clay ready to be moved and constructed into anything Spencer’s hands can make of you. You feel utterly his.

You pull away slightly, uncomfortable from where his buckle was pressing against your belly. Pulling one hand away you trace it with a fingernail, Spencer and you both looking down at it between your bodies. Both noticing the drastically different attire. 

A chuckle slips from your lips without thinking, “you branded me, look.”

Spencer’s thumb stops rubbing circles into your side, a shiver rolls down your spine. Daring to look up at him, you’re met with his dark eyes resembling magic 8 balls. An underlying fortune there too: Outlook Good.

Warm hands are soon softly gripping your cheeks as you’re being pulled into a burning kiss. His lips against yours after all this time, you moan immediately. Dry and soft and pillowy he’s swallowing you and pulling you flush against him, buckle be damned.

Water from your hairline is rolling over your cheeks and soaking the cuffs of Spencer’s sleeves. You haven’t pulled away far enough, but you can bet that the white button up he’s wearing is see through.

You’re freezing, the air from the bathroom is torturous, your skin on high alert. It’s making you push yourself onto Spencer so hard he stumbles back. He grabs your ass to steady you both for a moment and you bite harshly onto his bottom lip.

“God, my girl,” Spencer shivers against you when he feels your cold hands seek warmth under his shirt, “My perfect girl, I can’t believe how much I missed you.” He places a kiss onto the top of your head.

Speaking into his shoulder, “I missed you too, I feel crazy. Such a bad day.”

Both of his hands slowly trail up your waist till they meet the side of your boobs, you pull your lips in to conceal a whiny moan.

“I’m sorry I left you hanging earlier, did you finish?”

“N-no, went back to bed.”

He groans against your head. Placing his hands firmly on your hips to push you away slightly, taking a long good look at your naked frame. You feel exposed, embarrassed, and hot. Looking back at him, his perfect suit, deliciously tainted by your wet body print, chest visible through the wetness.

One of his thumbs wanders from your hip, back to the small indent of his buckle, rubbing it back and forth. This time you can’t help but whine.

The tension is tangible and painful. Your hands feel stuck to your sides before you snap out of it, pulling him close by the tie before you try to remove it with slippery hands.

Tight and hard to undo because of the wet nature of his garments frustrates you as you try to untangle Spencer from his tie. Him being clothed feels utterly unbearable. Through half-lidded eyes and a lazy smile, he watches you struggle with the tie.

“Here- honey, let me.” Spencer's removal of the tie, his fingers taking it off rather steadily compared to your shaking ones. Though the excitement zipping through him equals yours.

You latch onto him again, completely devoted to his presence, there’s no way in hell you’re letting that much distance and that much time separate you again. Tugging one side of the collar of his jacket you slip it off of him, he grabs your wrist.

“I’m here, I’m here,” A wet kiss to your begging mouth, “Get warm in that shower, you’re trembling. I’ll be there in 30 seconds. Can you wait that long for me?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Knew it. Good girl.”

With that, your stomach plummets and you spin on your heels back to the shower. It’s almost orgasmic in itself to find yourself under the hot water pressure again. 

The door is almost completely steamed up now, you can hardly make Spencer out through it. You can only see movement and more of his tanned skin being exposed through a murky lens.

You can’t help it, greedy fingers come down to rub a few circles onto your clit as he finishes undressing and approaches you. The weight and stress of the nine days going straight to your clit to be absolved.

The door swings open, mercy.

You don’t feel polite enough to stop the rubbing, Spencer doesn’t seem to mind, mumbling “Jesus.” under his breath before meeting you with a kiss under the shower head.

His tongue rolls slowly against yours, making your toes curl in on themselves where you stand. Fingers picking up against yourself you moan into his open mouth, he pulls his face back to watch you. 

A kiss against your throat makes you whimper and pull your head to the side for another one to be placed. 

With Spencer’s rock hard dick against his stomach in your line of vision you wince while removing your hand from yourself, your hips instinctively kicking up to chase where your hand is now grabbing the base of Spencer.

He hums low, a bead of precum leaking out to be washed away by the stream. You glide your hand quickly, a desperate attempt to hear more of his moans vibrate against your skin. 

“Slowly, baby-” He gasps as you circle his head.

You can’t let up, you barely feel in control of your body. Your head is spinning, you just can’t believe he’s with you.

Finally, a louder moan is cut from Spencer’s lungs as his hips slowly fuck against the fast pace of your fist. The tip of his dick barely ever encases in your hand as he does so, only able to feel the sensation of bottoming out when he’s inside you.

While you’re distracted, moaning brokenly into the suffocating air and pumping your hand against Spencer’s throbbing length, Spencer trails down to pet your clit again for you.

“Fuck, I missed you. I miss touching you like this, the way I can feel your heartbeat in it, baby-” He draws out the last word in disbelief. You felt the thrumming against your own fingertips earlier, so by now you’re sure it’s fluttering against his hand in an obscene way. 

His middle finger circles your entrance. Your heart is in your throat. 

“Please-” You sob out, being teased right now would end you forever.

“Mhm. I am.”

Taking his time feeling against your spongy walls where his thumb continues its circles against your bundle of nerves, your hand against his cock grows sloppy.

You squeeze your eyes shut, the muggy air making you deliciously light headed against his ministrations. 

The second finger brings a delightful stretch, your head falls back against the wall as you whine. It’s been a while. You harness some sort of defiance that refuses to fuck yourself when he’s gone. The week of nothing stretching you out causing for a tight suction around his two fingers as he fucks into you.

“Tight, baby. It’s been too long. I left you too long, my poor thing.”

Though your hand slowed against his cock, you’re still trying to keep up simulation for him, not wanting to be a cruel tease when he’s working against you so perfectly. Spencer pulls that hand away eventually though. Without explanation, you know he was about to cum. His stomach always flexes and twitches when he’s using all his willpower to hold back.

“Need it. Need you-” You gasp against his lips. Totally overzealous. Spencer knows the way you’re tight around him, you’re going to need a third finger to take him without your common whiny complaints.

Teeth knocking together, he continues to tongue kiss you. He wants to expedite this process of feeling you around his cock just as much as you do, he just has more willpower than you. You can mumble and beg and plead till tears well up in your eyes. His stomach swirls with a burning passion because of it, but he has no capability to hurt you. 

So you get another long finger inside you.

You let out a high pitched whimper- proving yourself wrong immediately. You needed to be stretched out this way. Damn his perceptiveness.

Your eyes roll back and your hips roll against the fingers rubbing against that sweet spot in you that shakes your thighs.

“You gotta keep yourself open for me when I’m gone, love.” He whispers brokenly into the thick air around you.

“Can’t. Only you.” You grumble back.

Spencer can’t get into the health benefits of taking care of yourself this way, especially in the long periods when he’s away. He can tell you’re bordering speechlessness and he’s dizzy enough to follow your technique of just letting out pretty moans.

A tiny trail of white essence pools around his fingers and he nearly keels over. You’re definitely ready to take him now. Seeing the ways he makes you feel good in the mess you make always drives him to the brink of insanity.

“Taking them out now. Gonna give you what you want. Feel ok?” He whispers into your ear before nibbling the lobe softly before parting to analyze your face.

“Feel reallyy good, Spence.” You smile a dazed grin at him, eyelids fluttering shut. Bringing the fingers that were just inside you to his lips he sucks them off and bites down on his fingers a bit too hard at the divine taste.

“Do you want to turn around for me, angel?”

Spencer’s trying to think of the best way to do this. His shower is nice, but isn’t the biggest shower in the world, he lives in an apartment in D.C. after all. He’s gonna have to fuck you from behind.

“Yeah, course.” You shift slowly, forearms out to brace yourself against the cold wall. Sticking your butt out playfully, he grips it softly, lines his cock against you.

“You feel okay? Ready?” He plants a kiss on your shoulder, you turn your head to make eye contact, you and Spencer usually can’t go too long without looking into each other's faces.

“Feel okay, really want you baby.”

Your head stays tilted to the side and your temple rests against the wall as he nudges his head against you.

Opening you up just enough, the stretch of all of him after a considerable amount of time has you keening.

The hand not gripping your waist moves up to cup one of your tits, rolling the sensitive nipple between his fingers.

“Fuck-” you whimper out meekly.

Letting him all the way in, he squeezes your breast for purchase. Looking at how he’s fully settled inside you, Spencer begins peppering soft kisses over your shoulder and spine, calming you and himself down.

Using the wall as leverage you slowly move yourself back against him, notifying Spencer you’re ready to be taken.

Gasping, he pulls almost all the way out to slowly fuck himself in again before settling on a good, unyielding pace. The feeling of your warm skin under his hands, warm cunt around his dick and warm water falling against his back is making him feel like he’s on a cloud. Completely blissed out having you in his arms again.

You groan (rather unladylike while getting fucked this way) and circle your hips against his thrusts. Spencer peers up at you, making sure your face isn’t holding any tension that could be read as something hurting. Instead you just open your mouth, ready for a finger.

Begrudgingly, he takes his hand off your breast to place his thumb down on your tongue, you moan happily and smile around him as your teeth scrape him lightly when he finds a delicious spot in you to pound at. 

Overwhelmed, he has to look up at the ceiling. He’s been so pent up that letting his hips move in autopilot against you, the quiet sopping sound of you two together over the water falling, the base of his spine tingles.

“Still okay?”

He asks at your closed eyes, you gurgle out an uh-huh against his thumb, drool rolling down your chin to be forgotten in the shower.

“Kay- good.” He kisses your cheek.

Feeling his orgasm beginning to build, Spencer takes his hand from your waist to move to the front of your hips where your clit is exposed.

A trembling bite is met against his thumb as he uses three fingers against you in relentless circles. Keeps his hips going the same pace.

“Spence- you’re gonna make me cum.”

“Ha- trying to, doll.” His eyebrows furrow- trying to hold back long enough so he can fuck you through your orgasm, though the tone of your voice is making that increasingly hard.

Your head lolls back against his shoulders and with a few “ah, ah, ah’s” you’re coming hard all over him.

“Good, yeah. You’re okay, feel so good f’me.” He whimpers as you begin to pull his orgasm from him. His hips still against you at your deepest point as you let out a tiny mewl at the stimulation. Tongue pushing out his thumb to moan freely.

He rocks himself inside you while holding your hips up, making sure no slips occur in his bathroom today. Spencer keeps grinding and rubbing your clit until you’re both shaky with overstimulation, and till you mutter out a “can’t-”. He doesn't argue with that.

The shower water is beginning to chill as he watches his cum slide down your thighs into the basin. Spencer is rubbing your arms soothingly up and down till he pulls you against him. 

“You wanna get out, pretty?”

“Cold.” You shudder.

Your legs feel like jelly when he’s wrapping a towel around your shoulders and ushering you into his bedroom. Another towel tied lowly on his waist he pulls an FBI hoodie over your raised arms and boxers up your legs. His own robe pulled off the door to drape over himself.

The tender attention you receive no matter what type of sex you and Spencer have always heats your cheeks with delight. A tender pressure is being massaged into your thighs with the lotion you brought over from your own apartment, and your eyes flutter shut as he mumbles something along the lines of “princess.. blah blah blah…” to you.

“Please never be away from me that long again. I really missed you, Spencer.”

All warmed up and soft from his pampering, you lie against his rising and falling chest.

“I know. I did too. It’s strange, I feel like when I’m with you, you act as my circadian rhythm. You ground me and keep me in check, I know when to wake up when you do. I sleep better, eat better. When we’re apart I struggle with that. You’re a resounding part of my day.”

You nuzzle against his chest, preening at his words. 

“I love you so much.”

“My baby, I love you too.”

Squished together tightly in a way that’s breeding an almost uncomfortable warmth, you and Spencer fall asleep. Hearts mirroring each other in matching soft and measured beats, the 216 painful hours apart start healing with every drum in your chests.

[loveemagicpeace]

Venus signs & Houses

Cancer venus & venus in 4th house

Cancer venus- you care about the people you love. They like to spend their time with the family and children. They don't have many people in their life and they don't even like a big circle of people. They care deeply about the people around them and are always willing to help. They do a lot for the people they love and are always protective of their people. They are private and don't like to talk about their home, and they don't like to invite people over unless they really trust them. U may be sensitive and need reassurance of love and commitment.

Venus in 4th house- You care more about your home and your environment. It is important to you to be somewhere where you can feel safe and accepted. You do a lot for the people you love and make them feel safe with you. Love is shown more actively (like cooking someone lunch, making tea, taking time to talk). They value a comfortable, aesthetically pleasing home and may seek partners who help them create this sense of inner and outer harmony. They are drawn to relationships that provide a sense of security and belonging. They may possess a natural sense of style and radiate an inner glow that captivates others.

Sagittarius venus & venus in 9th house

Sagittarius venus -In love, you are looking for passion, playfulness, fun, someone who will be your life partner. You are optimistic and never stop believing in love. You are always looking for meaning and want to find meaning in every relationship. You grow a lot through relationships and learn a lot from them. You become wiser. You give a lot and want to give a lot to your partner. You try to find the right path and optimism in relationships. You want to look back and say "it wasn't so bad" and find a good way out of bad situations.

Venus in 9th house- You love to travel and you can find love right there. You can be more free when it comes to love. You can have multiple relationships in your life. U can be more attracted toward intellectual, philosophical, religious, and spiritual education. You can educate yourself a lot. The ninth house is the house of luck and good fortune. The presence of Venus in this house fills your life with joy and happiness. This also suggests someone who finds love and beauty in expanding their worldview.

Scorpio venus & venus in 8th house

Scorpio venus people usually attract a lot of people who are intense, magnetic. They often transform themselves through relationships. Also they attract a lot of partners who brings them wealth and financial support. When they end one relationship they often go to a new one. Because they constantly attracting new intense connections. U are very deep in love and u can also be controling or intense. You want emotional depth, and that's why you you're attracted to people who can match your level of passion.

Venus in 8th house- You are usually more mysterious. You are looking for a love that is deeper and more private. You can also be very cautious in love and need more time to trust someone. You can gain a lot of money from others (possessions, inheritances, investments can be very profitable). These individuals experience relationships and wealth as portals to self-discovery, continually learning about themselves through the intensity and vulnerability of their partnerships.

Leo venus & venus in 5th house

Leo venus- In love, you are playful, open, kind-hearted and give a lot. You like to give your partner attention. People with Venus in Leo express love with flair, passion, and creativity. You enjoy being adored and admired, often seeking a partner who appreciates your unique qualities. You are generous and loyal in relationships but may demand attention and admiration in return. You love grand gestures and thrive on romance that feels vibrant and special. But you can also be very dramatic. You also crave admiration and expresses love with confidence, loyalty, and passion.

Venus in 5th house - you can be more focused on yourself and your needs. You can also be a little selfish in love. They are drawn to fun, exciting relationships and often express themselves creatively, whether through art, drama, or other forms of self-expression. This placement highlights a love of entertainment, beauty, and romantic pleasure. You also seek relationships that are playful, joyful, and filled with romantic or artistic energy, without necessarily demanding admiration.

Capricorn venus & venus in 10th house

Capricorn venus- you are more focused on giving and building with someone. You can do a lot for the person you love. You are stable in love and looking for someone who is serious. You express love in a practical, responsible, and often reserved way. They value stability, commitment, and long-term relationships. They may be cautious in love, preferring to build trust slowly, but they are loyal and dependable once committed. They’re also drawn to partners who are ambitious, mature, and capable. Their love language often includes acts of service and tangible support rather than overt displays of emotion. You often seek partners who are mature, responsible, and share their desire for stability and growth. They can also be very hard to love.

Venus in 10th house - you find beauty and love through your career or public endeavors. They may attract relationships through work or be drawn to partners who enhance their reputation or align with their ambitions. They value a harmonious public image and often excel in professions that involve beauty, art, diplomacy, or social connections. This placement often gives charm and charisma in the public sphere. You are more focused in the career and actually business partners. You may be want someone who is more business oriented and someone you can actually build business with. You are not that much romantic and you can be very good alone.

Pisces venus & venus in 12th house

Pisces venus- Your way of giving love can be very emotional. You may not necessary be into a spiritual type of things. I saw that a lot of people with that placements are not that into this type of things and they do not believe in it. You show your love very openly. Also you love things that are more like fantasies , dreamy. U are deeply romantic, empathetic, and idealistic in love. They crave soul-deep connections and may lose themselves in relationships, often seeing the best in others—even to their own detriment. They are artistic, spiritual, and drawn to beauty that transcends the physical, often expressing love in selfless and unconditional ways. They are willing to give everything to their loved ones, sometimes to the point of losing themselves. Their love is unconditional and forgiving, making them incredibly empathetic partners. They may fall in love with the idea of someone, rather than who they truly are, leading to disillusionment.

Venus in 12th house- you experience love in a private, secretive, or deeply spiritual way. You may keep your relationships hidden or feel drawn to unavailable partners. This placement often indicates a love for solitude, introspection, or spiritual practices, and it can manifest as a deep connection to the unseen or mysterious aspects of life. Relationships often feel fated or tied to past lives. They may attract partners with whom they share spiritual lessons or unresolved karma. There is often a need for solitude to recharge emotionally. They find beauty and peace in quiet, introspective moments. They are drawn to helping those who are struggling or vulnerable, making them incredibly caring partners. They may hide their true feelings due to fear of rejection or  misunderstandings.

Rebekah🧚🏻‍♀️💗🌊

[yandereunsolved]

Self-aware John Constantine would be like genuinely getting haunted.

— Silly

"You're scaring the hoes!"

The hoes is his supernatural (this world) darling.

He's constantly waving away the exorcists, psychics, and religious fanatics that flock to him. They must tell him that he is being haunted by an otherworldly presence". Yes, that's the celestial entity, you, he has chained to him. So what if he promised his soul to the beast and then simply put a few extra clauses in? He's a grown man. He can do as he pleases.

He genuinely refers to his darling as a beast. He's self-aware but he still feels the need to dehumanize them just so he can stay sane.

He has this entire made-up thing where clearly he must have sold his soul to you and just not have remembered. Why can he see you and no one else if he is in multiple media spaces?

Maybe you have magic. Maybe he is being cursed by some long forgotten god because he put a cigarette out on something belonging to them. He doesn't know.

All he knows is that he has you around, whether he wants you or not. It becomes a fascination, and eventually, an obsession.

He talks to you. People think he's talking to the air. Technically, yes and no. He offers you things through their veil, managing to reach through and drop the gifts in your world. Maybe one day he'll be able to full break through. You'll see a blonde brit smoking a cigarette while complaining about how your neighbors tried to stop by and questioned him.

It's always "how did you get into my house?" "how are you real?" "go away."

and not "I'm so thankful for everything you have done for me." "I'm madly in love with you." "You're the man of my dreams."

[captainjonnitkessler]

While unsurprising, the rhetoric being spewed by Louisiana's lawmakers is fucking terrifying to me.

I feel so lucky that I was raised by a bunch of atheist because honestly I managed to go the majority of my childhood happy, without being shamed or acquiring a persecution complex...but now looking out at the current climate we live in...damn, they really hate us, don't they? I mean "godless" is one of the main insults getting thrown around on most campaign trails, which isn't new it just hurts.

I feel like I am a bad person because I only just found out about what's going on in Louisiana.

Sorry, just screaming into the void a bit. I hope you have a good day

For anyone who's not aware, Louisiana just passed a law requiring every single public classroom in the state, from kindergarten to college, to display the Ten Commandments.

Unfortunately, this is just the latest in the rapidly-escalating war between Christofascists and secularism. Multiple states have proposed this law, Louisiana is just the first to actually pass it. Oklahoma's Department of Education is claiming that they're going to force teachers to start teaching from the Bible. Seven states have passed laws requiring schools to display "In God We Trust" signs.

Here's the thing I think a lot of people on this site are too young to remember or weren't involved enough in religious politics to notice, and the reason the "edgy atheist who just hates religion" stereotype has gained so much traction on here: The New Atheist movement was very much a response to constant barrages of shit like this. Getting America to be even as secular as it is has been a constant struggle. Conservatives have been openly blaming atheists for school shootings, mass murders, and serial killers for decades. People who stand up and try to get religion taken out of schools and government immediately become targets for massive hate and harassment campaigns. People - conservatives and liberals alike - react with hatred and anger whenever someone stands up to get religion out of places where it doesn't belong. I think the past fifteen years or so have gotten a lot of people believing that separation of church and state is an obviously "safe" position that almost everyone is in favor of, but it very much is not and never has been.

I believe that conservatives are going to try to use the current Supreme Court to essentially abolish the separation of church and state, largely because many of them are openly stating their intent to do so. Louisiana is already being sued about this - if it makes its way to the Supreme Court, I think there's a decent chance of the current court ruling in favor of Louisiana, which is going to unleash the floodgates of Christian propaganda in public schools. It is frankly a dire situation, so I'm sorry if you were here looking for reassurance lol.

As always, the best action I can recommend is to get involved. You're definitely not a bad person for not knowing about this! But if you want to stay on top of religious news, I recommend the Friendly Atheist blog. The Freedom From Religion Foundation fights to get laws like this taken down. You can check your local city for secular humanist meetups. You don't want to burn out or enter a doom spiral by only ever dwelling on bad news, but I find that having people to talk to or action you can take is a good way to ward off despair.

And please, please, vote. Vote in federal and state elections, vote in your local city council elections, vote in your school board elections. A LOT of this is happening at local levels, and being involved in your local politics is possibly the most effective thing you can do!

[silkscream]

pure smile snake venom

ੈ✩ suguru geto x reader

ੈ✩ cw: smut (minors dni, ageless + blank blogs will be blocked), unprotected sex, dom!suguru, emotional manipulation, fingering, dubcon, blood, yandere behavior, edging, multiple orgasms, choking, loss of virginity, religious imagery

ੈ✩ wc: 5.1k

ੈ✩ a/n: oooo i am soo normal about cult leader suguru. art by @/wonowono__3 on twitter

He finds you unconscious. 

He feels you before he sees you – your cursed energy permeates the air with dread. He can feel it in his throat, as if the hand of his past self materialized to strangle him, reminding him of desperation. It wasn’t a feeling he was used to, not anymore.

It also felt like death. 

When he finds you, your body would have easily been looked over, small as you were compared to the vastness of the forest around you. Insignificant, left to rot. 

When he’d looked at your face, there was recognition in his chest despite not seeing you before. He hadn’t been drawn to anyone in a while. He barely had anyone that wasn’t at arm's length to him, even his closest devouts, yet something about the delicateness of your face enticed him. A predator finding lost prey.

He finds it mildly sacrilegious to touch you when you’re in this state, but your shirt was saturated with so much blood that it took him a bit to realize that the color of the fabric was supposed to be white and not merlot-red. He lifts your shirt, grimacing at its dampness, and finds a wound that looks fatal. 

He looks at it and feels the residuals of a nasty curse. By the time he tracks it down, he tortures it with all of the energy inside of him. 

__

You wake up on a futon you don’t recognize. You don’t remember a thing. 

You wince as you attempt to rise, clutching your side. You’re topless, clothed only by gauze covering your chest and ribs. 

You exhale, closing your eyes. In the darkness behind your eyelids, you see a face with a vacant smile. You are met with that very smile when you open your eyes again.

“Welcome back.”

You blink. He must be the stranger that saved you from — well, what did he save you from? You were used to spirits, took years to adjust to that fact, and have even killed a few yourself. But when you feel the pain in your side, nothing comes to mind.

“You… saved me?”

“I suppose so. It was pure luck that I happened to stumble upon you.”

“Where — where am I?”

He tells you it’s his temple, then he tells you his name. When he asks for yours, you’re reluctant. Eventually, you tell him. If he was luring you into his trap, you suppose you had fallen into it against your will by pure chance. It was probably better than bleeding out in the middle of nowhere.

“Do you have anyone who will miss you?” 

You don’t say anything. You think of the dingy studio apartment you’ve been subletting for a few months. You try to conjure up a narrative of belonging in your head that would give you any reason for you to leave. Nothing comes.

You shake your head.

__

Geto Suguru is the first person to tell you that you’re magic.

You knew that, in some way, ever since you were a child. Your intuition made you a strange child, always slightly cryptic with a sense of maturity that made you seem like a vessel for a sad ghost. Your visions would only get stronger – small bursts of light whiplashing through your mind into images, rapid like a supercut. The things you saw would come true. 

This is what makes you a good weapon. Ironically, you had always thought of yourself as weak. 

He was captivating the way a cult leader should be, and you had fallen under his spell. It was his robes and the regal way he carried himself, maybe. You don’t think he’s bad — he’s made you important, and you’ve never felt wanted before. You were a recluse before Suguru found you. Barely the shape of anything, so he found it appropriate to mold you into something to call his.

Suguru doesn’t tell you much. You know that he probably lies to you.

He holds too much power for you to question it. His cursed technique is daunting and his grace is enviable, but he’s mostly kind. You help him when he finds curses, usually the more powerful ones that could threaten him. Able to see into the near future, you can sense their next move each time. It makes it easy to subdue them to Suguru’s advantage.

You also find that he is regarded as something of a saint to non-sorcerers. Something twists in your gut when you watch his exorcisms, seeing the immediate relief in the faces of his followers. They look at him with so much adoration that it makes you self-conscious that you share the same disposition.

He tells you you’re his favorite and the feeling dissipates.

You like how ritualistic living in the temple is. Breakfast at the same time each day. Tea in the garden. Rolling in the gross with bruised knuckles.

You take a liking to his girls. They remind you of yourself, but they lack the meekness you had as a teenager. The twins adore you almost as much as they adore Suguru. They are endlessly fickle, as most teenage girls are, but their devotion is worn candidly in the way they carry themselves. You wonder how they can be so obedient, but you realize that they have known nothing else. 

It’s a quiet luxury. You like to pretend that you’re some sort of priestess, sometimes. You had never been as reverent as your mother, but you think that there is peace in serving a God.  If not Suguru, then some higher power must’ve granted you another chance at life, even if your new life meant mundane piety. 

You liked routine – it fit you. You did your part in the temple and Suguru would reward you with gentle praises. You were only one of few sorcerers in his current entourage, so you felt special. 

Despite this, something felt messing. You often wish Suguru could cast out the malaise inside of you, but you’ve carried it in the pit of yourself for as long as you could remember. Even in your pious bliss, you start wondering if the curse that nearly killed you left a part of itself within you. Each day is the same until you wear thin.

When the string finally breaks, you find him with blood on his hands in the temple’s omoya.

It’s not the blood of a curse, either. It’s dark crimson, such as the same blood that is inside of you, and on the tatami mat lies the lifeless body of a servant. 

Shin, his name was. He wasn’t much younger than you, but he had the spirit of a boy, always able to make you laugh before he served you breakfast. He had arrived only a few months after you had, citing suicidal ideation as a catalyst to seeking Suguru’s services. Once treated, he had felt larger than life. 

And now, his face is frozen in time – the look of sheer fear. 

“Useless monkey,” Suguru tuts, wiping the blood off his face. You’ve seen that look on his face before — when he’s cruel and callous in battle. When he snaps the neck of a special grade curse before he eats it. 

You run to the bathroom to vomit.

When you emerge, one of the twins looks at you curiously. Mimiko. She smiles at you serenely, her eyes flickering with taunt. 

“Is everything alright, Y/N-san?”

“Y-yes,” you nod. “Just a bit under the weather.”

“Are you feeling sick?” Her eyes light up for a second. “Oh, could you be pregnant? Nanako and I really wish there was another kid around—“

“No, no, I’m not pregnant,” you cut her off, shocked. Did she think you and Suguru were… together? Did she think you were his concubine?

“Ah. I can get the servants to prepare some ginger tea for you.”

“No need, Mimiko,” you shake your head, smiling sheepishly. “I just… need to get some air.”

She leaves you alone as you walk towards the pagoda. You feel another wave of nausea when you remember Shin’s lifeless eyes. The blood on his throat. 

You stare at the sunset. It’s been a long time since you’ve left the temple of your own volition. Suguru keeps a tight leash on you nowadays, blaming the unpredictability of your power. Bitterly, you realize that you’re only ever in town alongside him. 

Sometimes, you miss being a stray.

His presence is immediate. When you turn, his long hair sways in the breeze as he flashes you a cat-like smile. 

“Thought you were trying to run away from me,” he murmurs, walking towards you. “But you’d never do that, would you?”

“Just… enjoying the view.”

He looks at you, amused. It feels belittling. 

“I apologize. I thought Nanako had locked the door.”

Your blood stills. He saw you.  

“I thought you only killed curses,” you stammer. For the first time, his presence makes you feel unsafe. 

“I never said that, sweet girl,” he chuckles. He plays with a loose strand of your hair. “Humans are beneath us, you know that. Humans are the reason curses are created. Curses just like the one that nearly killed you.”

You don’t have it in you to protest. He’s gotten closer to you now. A hand on your waist. His lips kissing your hairline in a way that makes you feel like a child again.

“I— I liked him,” you stutter. 

“Mm,” he hums. “He liked you, too. A bit too much if you ask me.”

You stay silent. Only the sound of cicadas fill the air. 

“It’s not your fault,” he grins. “You charm anyone you meet by default, you know. But sometimes, these followers… they want to threaten our mission. Sometimes, they’re paid off by sorcerers who are targeting me to gather intel. And darling, when there’s a target on my back, there’s a target on yours.”

You pull away from him with wide eyes. His face is neutral. So naive, you are. He was only doing you a favor, but a sheltered girl like you trusts too easily. 

“Just remember. I will be the only one to protect you.”

__

He finds you in the garden.

You’re surrounded by wildflowers, your yukata loose enough on you that it falls off your shoulder when you sit up to greet him. The sight of your bare skin tokes the fire in his stomach. He’s dressed more casually tonight, in a plain kimono as opposed to his usual gojo-gesa.

“Enjoying the fireflies?” he asks.

“Yes.”

He notices the dark circles under your eyes. Your smile is tired now. You stare blankly as if you’re in a trance. 

“You’ve been a bit off lately,” he muses. “Something on your mind?”

You blink at him in surprise, almost regretting it once you make eye contact. The hint of a lazy smile is there while his eyes scrutinize you. It always feels like he can see right through you, observing you just before he eats you whole. 

“No, Geto-sama,” you shake your head.

He laughs, rubbing your shoulder. “So formal with me.”

“Shouldn’t I be?” you knit your brows. You had been at the temple for less than a year. You weren’t intimate with him enough to warrant that. You weren’t intimate with him in the way your heart longed for.

“Not with me. Never with me.”

“Suguru.” You mull over the taste of his name on your tongue. The shape of it in your mouth. “I’m okay, Suguru.”

You feel pathetic under his gaze. You can tell he’s waiting for you to say something, sensing the apprehension in your voice. The slight quiver of your bottom lip as you avoid his face.

“I’m just… recovering. From my technique, that’s all,” you say hoarsely.

It’s not a complete lie — the intensive training with Suguru led you to discover that you could bend time and space to your will in small aspects. Teleporting short distances became a new tool for your arsenal. It was still difficult to manage and exhausting to exert. The other day, your nose had bled so much that you almost thought your membranes would burst completely.

“You’re exhausting yourself,” he says gently, rubbing a hand to the small of your back. “But you’re improving rapidly. I’m proud of you.”

Warmth floods your body at his praise. It was too easy for him to wrap you around his finger, and you were starting to hate it.

“Thank you,” you mumble. 

“Do you feel powerful?”

You take a moment of reprieve when he asks this. Powerful? Despite being a sorcerer and wielding the ability to exorcise the monstrous manifestations of human suffering, you did not feel powerful at all. You never have. If anything, you only felt useful.

“Not really.”

“You should,” he smiles. “You’re getting stronger. We’re untouchable together, you and me.”

You and me echoes loud in your brain. Stitches itself into every crevice unwittingly. 

“Ge– Suguru,” you swallow thickly. “Is that why you saved me? Because you wanted me to get strong?”

“Yes,” he nods without hesitation. “I saw potential in you.”

“Is that all I am? Potential? I’m just– just a vehicle for you?”

He leans over to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. His own hair is down, for once, and you can smell his white tea shampoo as his shoulder touches yours. It almost soothes you.

“You aren’t just a tool to me, you know that,” he sighs, looking at you with intent. “I like taking care of you.”

You nod slowly as you look towards the sky. His words aren’t enough to fill the emptiness inside you. His proximity to you makes your chest constrict in the slightest bit, creaking the floorboards of your ribs inside a haunted house body. 

You shiver when he pulls down your yukata and presses a chaste kiss to your collarbone. It must feel the same as when humans get their curses exorcised by him. Lightness in their being instead of dead weight. Blessed by a god.

“Come inside,” he purrs. “You’re getting cold, yeah? I can see your goosebumps.”

No. His hands were just colder than you expected.

He gathers his hair into a half-up bun before he brings you to his room for the first time. It’s rather bare, save for the kotatsu across from his futon and the talismans that are hanging above it. The calligraphy is messy, unintelligible, as if the text was written manically. 

He sits you down at the kotatsu and pours you bergamot tea. You cough nervously in anticipation.

“Suguru.”

“Yes?”

“Um.. how long do you intend on keeping me here?”

He raises a brow. Looks at you like you’ve asked something stupid.

“You have somewhere else to go?” he asks sarcastically.

You triple-blink at his bluntness. He isn’t taking you seriously. 

“Well, I have a friend or two in my hometown. I was thinking about—”

Your breath hitches when he grabs your chin. His gaze bores into your face, his lips in a hard line.

“You’re unhappy,” he says plainly.

“No, I’m just not sure if I can completely fulfill the purpose that you—”

“Do you think anyone else will take you in?” he spits. “You told me yourself. You have no family. You were barely scraping by when you lived alone. With the amount of cursed energy you possess, you think you’ll be able to protect your friends from all the curses you’ll attract?”

You sink into yourself. As if a switch is flipped, his expression changes completely. There’s that familiar softness in his eyes again. God, the tea was making you feel so warm, too. One look from him and you find yourself melting. Even the Devil would swoon.

“Don’t you think fate brought us together?” he whispers. “Don’t you know how valuable you are to me?”

He almost sounds like he means it. Your rabbit heart speeds up when he strokes your collarbone with his thumb. A heady feeling consumes you and you force yourself to tear your gaze away.

“Look at me,” he demands, grabbing your chin again. He crowds your space, not leaving you any room to breathe. Your gut aches from sudden heat.

“God made you for me. Don’t you know that?”

Your mind goes blank as you nod slowly. He looks at you like he’s starved. No one’s ever looked at you like that before. No one has ever really looked at you before him.

“I’m— I’m sorry, Suguru,” you whisper.

He caresses your cheek, his breath tickling your jaw as he leans in.

“It’s alright, sweetheart. I understand what it’s like to feel a little stir-crazy. I’ll take you out more often, yeah?”

“O-okay.”

He grins and it comes off as sardonic.

“Such a spoiled girl. Only the very best for my girl, hm? I clothe her, feed her, make her stronger. And what do I get in return?” he scolds, thumb swiping over your quivering bottom lip. “She tries to run away from me.”

“I’m not,” you pout.

“You’re not?” he scoffs.

You don’t know what to do other than apologize. You were weak like that.

“You’re so good,” he sighs. “And you want to keep being good, is that right?”

“Yes,” you mumble. 

You shiver again when he runs his fingers through your hair, his other hand undoing the ties of your yukata. You sharply inhale at the cool air hitting in your nipples, the rest of you trembling at the prospect of being so bare in front of him. God or prophet, you didn’t know. All that you know now is that there was no coming back from this. 

“My good girl,” he whispers, nipping at your earlobe. “My best girl.”

You whimper when you feel his tongue on your jaw. His kisses are tantalizingly slow. Teasing. He marvels at the flutter of your lashes in response to his touch. 

He had tried to deny those feelings in the beginning, but he couldn’t help it anymore. He feels as though he’s created you. He liked you delicate, lace winged. A butterfly caught in a jar.

Suguru thinks this is fair. He has always believed in fairness, and although one might argue that his philosophy is a direct contradiction to that, he could beg to differ. Different people had different values, that was all. You just happened to have an advantage in the hierarchy he holds in his head. A precious thing, his treasure. 

When he turned his back on Jujutsu society by becoming a curse user, he would avenge the suffering of the sorcerers around him. Years of adapting to the taste of shit and vomit would eventually earn him something that made it all worth it. He’s convinced that something was you.

He was your savior, therefore you were his blessing. It was only fair that he could take you the way he wanted. You were meant to be found by him. You were meant to be kept. 

You barely put up a fight.

You whimper when he parts your legs with his hands and finds you embarrassingly wet. Every stroke of his hands on your inner thigh has you twitching involuntarily. 

“Oh,” he coos. “Look at that.”

You look away in shame, trying to close your legs, but he forces them open with a bruising grip. Your heart drops to your stomach. 

“What’s wrong, baby? You want to be good for me, right?”

You nod without a word, trying to control your breathing. Your brain is telling you that you want this — you’d wanted to be his from the moment you saw him. Your body tells you the same, but dread creeps up your spine.

You gasp when he grazes your clit with his fingers. He plays with it, stares at your cunt through your underwear like it’s a prize.

“Let me see you,” he murmurs. “Don’t be afraid. I’m the only person in this world you can trust.”

He slips your panties off easily and you wince at the sound of your wetness sticking to the fabric. He applies more pressure to your bud, distracting you with his mouth on yours. You mewl into his mouth without realizing and he grins against your lips, slipping his tongue inside. 

When you feel a finger push into your walls, you convulse in surprise, though you don’t pull away like he expects. You merely clutch him harder, your hands wrinkling the sleeve of his haori. 

“Shit, you’re tight,” he rasps. “No one’s been here before, is that right? Just me?”

He groans when you look at him with innocent eyes and nod meekly. Of course he would be your first. You were nothing but a wounded dog when he found you, barely had a life of your own before he took you. You were pure and the world was keeping you for him. It was meant to be.

“S-Suguru…” you breathe. He’s pulled you into his lap now, your cunt getting his kimono wet. The slick of your cunt around his finger is enough to make blood rush to his cock. 

“So pretty,” he mumbles. In one fell swoop, he takes you in his arms and carries you to the futon. You squeak in surprise at being lifted off the floor so quickly and so easily. 

He takes the pause in his actions to undress himself, slipping off his robes, and when you see the thickness of his length prodding against his toned stomach, your mouth goes dry. 

“C’mere,” he beckons. You obey.

He kisses you sweetly on your mouth and then down your jaw, squeezing your breasts. Your breath hitches as he takes the time to rub his thumb over your nipples. Suddenly, his teeth graze your chest. Biting, tasting. Forbidden fruit.

You let out a quiet moan and he chuckles. “So sensitive.”

Without a warning, he plunges two fingers into your cunt and you nearly cry out. There’s a choked noise, something in between pleasure and resignation. It’s all too much. When he adds a third finger and feels much less resistance, he laughs. 

“Taking me so well. You’re doing so good,” he encourages before lapping at your chest again. When his fingers curl at just the right angle, your vision starts to get fuzzy. His thumb on your clit only intensifies the feeling.

“I c-can’t—”

“Hm? Use your words.”

“I’m… I’m gonna…”

His movements still and you nearly scream. He pulls back to see tears brimming your eyes and he kisses them away gently despite his cruel smirk. 

“Nonono, please—”

“Please what?” He feigns innocence. 

You bite your lip, your face too hot to feel comfortable expressing what you want. You feel the ghost of your curse wrap around your throat again. Once again, you find that the ticket to salvation has silky black hair and snake eyes. The artillery of a fallen angel disguised as something pure.

He can tell you’re frustrated but too afraid to voice it. You’re as pliable as he knew you would be. Endlessly easy to coax a reaction from. 

“Do you expect everything to be handed to you? Just because you’re mine?” he taunts. 

His. His. His.

You shake your head, whimpering. 

“Then ask nicely, baby.”

Your cunt is on fire even though he isn’t touching you. When he strokes your lip and pushes his thumb into your mouth, you let him. Your tongue tickles his fingertip.

“Ah, so you still have a tongue. You can still speak.”

He laughs when you pout.

“Please touch me,” you say, your voice as quiet as a breeze.

“What was that?” He grins even wider. 

“Pleasetouchme,” you whimper, your voice light as air.“Please… please make me cum.”

“Good girl,” he chuckles, licking into your mouth. His fingers fuck you in earnest now. You feel so full that your eyes roll back. It’s cute.

Poor thing. Suguru is a patient man, but he’s not sure if he has it in him to wait. He could make you cum three more times so that you’re truly ready for him, but he doesn’t want to. He supposes that if he breaks you, you’ll thank him anyway. No one else wants you more than him, you had to understand that. 

His cock throbs at the sight of you coming undone. It’s nearly animalistic, like provoking violence from weak prey. Cataclysmic like a falling star. He’s consumed with it, with the fact that he can do this to you and no one else can. 

He fingers you through the aftershocks, too, until you sob loud enough that his other hand has to cover your mouth. You squirm underneath him, shaking your head in desperation. 

He admires the slick of sweat on your chest, your glowing figure. When he releases you, he thinks briefly that you’re on the verge of passing out. But you tremble, rapidly breathing, eyes unfocused as your lashes flutter. 

Suguru licks you off of his fingers and you stare in horror, returning to yourself.  It makes him giddy, how even your spirit is infinitesimal.

“You taste so sweet,” he purrs. He kisses you roughly, tongue prying your mouth open and making you moan. “See? Sweet. You’re perfect.”

He likes seeing you all flushed. Glaze on your cheekbones. He thinks he should make you his wife, memorialize your fucked out form with a commissioned painting and hang it above his bed. A good luck charm among the talismans. You look too good to ruin with his cock, but he knows he’d already taken all of you anyway.

He’ll put you back together after. Pamper you with yuzu slices in a hot bath. Play the part of a boyfriend instead of a master.

He pins you down even though he doesn’t need to. You let him settle in between your thighs, his aching cock slapping against your stomach. 

“So cute when you’re scared,” he chuckles at the look on your face.

“It’s… big,” you say meekly. 

“It’ll fit. It won’t be so bad, yeah? I changed my mind about punishing you for trying to run away.”

Panic paints your features.

“I wasn’t trying to run away! I promise.” Your lip quivers again. Maybe he should make you beg.

“Is that right?” He leans in, precum spreading on the skin above your cunt, tip grazing your clit just slightly. You bite your tongue so you don’t moan from the sensitivity.

“Yes. I want to stay.”

“And why’s that?” he jeers. 

“Because— because you’ve given me everything.”

He waits for you to elaborate.

“Because I’m yours. I’m…  your good girl,” you slur through tears, voice above a whisper.

“Poor baby,” he hums. “Of course you are. Always will be.” Whether you like it or not.

You moan at the same time he prods his tip inside. When he sinks in even further, right to the hilt, he becomes delirious with need. It takes everything in him to not pound into you recklessly.

“Pretty fucking cunt,” he groans. “So warm.”

More hot tears, but your dread is replaced with rapture. He fills you up, already poking at the most sensitive spot inside of you. Your body ripples with pleasure as he moves and digs into your guts, an ocean of tender heat.

It’s a branding. You don’t exist if it isn’t for him.

“Suguru,” you moan. 

He kisses your neck, teeth hard on your flesh. Pulling it taut while his tongue rolls in it and leaves mouth-shaped blessings.

His hips drive into you with more force, cock reaching places that your fingers could never reach. You shut your eyes and phosphenes float through the static of blackness. They linger when you open them again, Suguru’s face illuminating in grainy color.

It takes you a bit to realize his mutters, the way he’s babbling through moans.

Good fucking girl. All mine forever. I’ll die with you.

You let out a pitched moan as Suguru wraps his fingers around your throat. Every part of your body feels like it’s bursting. You cum like that, your walls outstretched by his thickness carving you out in the shape of him. 

“Take it,” he grunts. “Take my cock. Fuck, I think I’ve been waiting for you my whole life.”

He’ll probably obsess over your cunt for ages. The face you make when you’re being used. Your ragdoll body.

His bun had come undone. Even if his cock wasn’t in you, your stomach would ache from how beautiful he looked. Eyes focused on you, nearly deranged at the way he was blistering you raw. The cascade of tears down your cheeks. It made him impossibly hard. 

He pulls out quickly to flip you onto your stomach so he can rut into you from behind. The angle makes it so that his cock is even deeper. 

“Oh, Suguru—”

“Yeah, baby? Gonna cum again?”

You whine, all high-pitched and girlish. 

“Tell me you’re mine. That you’ll never leave me,” he grunts.

“I’m yours,” you hiccup. “I’ll n-never leave you.”

Your cunt was starting to burn, even with how wet you were. Suguru cums with a rough thrust at your words, nose buried in between the lovebirds littering your shoulder. You’re full of him. He doesn’t stop, his dick still hard inside you. 

“Shit,” he hisses, looking down to see his cum oozing out of your pussy, all mixed up in your arousal. “How are you still so fucking tight?”

He grits his teeth when he feels you squeeze around him. You can barely form words now, crying as you can feel yourself about to cum again. 

“That’s it,” he pants. “Cum for me, princess. Cum on that cock for me.”

You’re twitchier this time. Your moan tapers off into squeals as you bury your tear-stained face into the pillow. He follows after you with a gasp, his large body covering you like a cocoon. 

He kisses the nape of your neck. Between your shoulder blades. His cock stills inside you, but he doesn’t pull out until he softens completely. When you stop shaking, he turns you over. 

“There’s my angel,” he says fondly. “Thought you passed out on me.”

You shake your head. He smiles lazily, leaning to kiss you all over your face. 

Your bones feel like jelly, but you still switch your positions with intent, and to your surprise, he lets you. Naked and breathing heavily above him, you examine him with his hair spread out on the pillow, cheeks flushed and cherubic. He almost looks innocent. 

He groans at the way your leaking cunt grinds on his crotch, prompting him to get half-hard already. He grabs your hips at the same time you grab the base of his throat. He laughs. 

“Do you feel powerful?”

You blink twice and your eyes glaze over. 

In your vision, you see Suguru’s face flashing you his usual grin, this time showing all his teeth as blood drips from his chin. When you look down at your hands, they’re saturated in the same red. He kisses you despite it all and you understand. 

“Yes,” you breathe. “I do.”

[pendwelling]

TWSB SIDE STORIES COVER IS OUT!!!!!

The TWSB side stories, "외전: 후월담", are officially coming out on January 1st at 9PM (South Korean time)!!! It'll be released on all its official platforms (such as MUNPIA and RIDIBOOKS)

Currently, there are multiple events for TWSB happening on Ridibooks (which is my personal preference on where to read it, since it's easier to use), including the first 200 chapters being free to read, as well as the return of the daily ticket unlock! More details can be found on the event page!

Anyhow, look at my kids...... OUSGHSHHHHHH HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE 🥹🥹🥹🫶🫂💕🔥🌷🌊

One thing I particularly love is that Yeseo is wearing the deep and vivid purple which only the Pope can use, while simultaneously wearing very distinctly Riesterian clothing. Both Yeseo and friends were very firm in him not belonging to the Vatican/Neutral Zone, and despite the tradition of the Pope candidates requiring to renounce their nationality and reside in the Neutral Zone, Riester—but Cédric and Aurélie ESPECIALLY—makes it very clear that Yeseo is, above all else, a citizen of the Riester Empire.

Cloaked in the colours of the Pope he might be, but the Riesterian clothing he wears is very indicative of where his allegiances and heart lay. Riester is his second home and where he belongs!!!!! He might be Pope, but nothing will take precedent over the bonds he made that tie him to Riester 🥹 Not to mention the fact that Cédric is already proposing to make Yeseo a new palace/villa near the portal to his home in South Korea, 1) so that Yese wouldn't have to reside in the traditional Pope's residence which is the Temple of Borders where Yeseo and friends have many unpleasant and tragic memories, and 2) so that........ Cédric..... this guy...... can pull a Romero Riester and have a portal installed in the basement of Romero Palace that leads directly to Yeseo's home near the border. (He's really just like his great-grandfather....... Riester Imperial men are such simps LMAO)

Yeseo can directly and immediately travel between the Riester Palace, his new Neutral Zone residence (sponsored by Cédric himself) and the portal that leads to the Jung Family home. All without having to waste any time, and all that would allow for Yeseo and friends to meet each other very very easily, and even for them to pick Yeseo up from his world when done with weekday work at the office 🥹 IT'S SO TOUCHING IDK OUGGJVDGHHH

Cédric and Ga-in are both wearing clothing borrowed from the Jung siblings, too, haha—most definitely Hyunseo(previously, Cédric has had trouble wearing Yeseo's shirt)(TO SMALL) and Eunseo respectively! I kinda love that ChriCed are wearing modern clothes while Yeseo is wearing Riesterian clothing, because in a way it truly symbolizes how both Korean and Riester have now both become Yeseo's homes, and where Yeseo's homes are, ChriCed will also be there, or welcomed there......

I genuinely have no clue what to expect from the side stories, but I have some potential ideas:

More elaboration on the link between QPB and Choi Seonah (Jung siblings' mom)

CYC adventures in modern-day South Korea!!!

Cédric finally proposing to Yeseo and Yeseo not immediately dying or rejecting Cédric......... (LMAO third time's the charm Cédric I believe in you 😭😭) and by extension, CYC officially becoming Religious and Political partners!!!

Cerise and Lynn?? 👀 perhaps as adults, or we get to see them growing up. But I think it would be massively interesting if we get their future selves interacting with present-time CYC (I imagine this would happen in some way with the help of the sword of Durandal which had the ability to cut through time and space!!!!!) I wanna see the grown-up kids interact with the younger versions of their parents "older siblings".... 🥹

SPEAKING OF TIME TRAVEL........ PERHAPS MORE CONTEXT ON WHY FUTURE!CÉDRIC AND GA-IN WERE THE WAY THEY WERE WHEN CYC VISITED THEM 20 YEARS IN THE FUTURE (CH640)!!!!

SO MANY POSSIBILITIES...........

Anyhow that's enough yapping. HAPPY NEW YEAR AGAIN AND LET'S ANTICIPATE THE SIDE STORIES TOGETHER!!!! 🥹🥹🙌

[bluecrusadearcade]

Having religious sites in a region does not give your state or your religion ownership over it. By that logic, the Vatican would own half of Europe. The claim that Kashmir “belongs to Hindus” because of Amarnath or Shankaracharya temple is rooted in theocratic ethno-nationalist agenda, not history. Yes, Hindu sites exist in Kashmir because Hindus have historically lived there, just like Muslims, Buddhists, and others. Kashmiris of all faiths have coexisted and contributed to the region’s culture, language, and history for centuries.

Kashmir doesn’t “belong” to Hindus, Muslims, or any religion — it belongs to its people. The indigenous, regardless of what religion they follow today. Conversion doesn’t erase indigeneity. Cultural belonging is rooted in land, language, and memory — not who you pray to. But that is a concept difficult to grasp for you.

Kashmiri Pandits’ lack of return is not the fault of Kashmiri Muslims. It is the fault of the Indian government, which has used their displacement as a political pawn for decades. The state did nothing for their safe resettlement, didn’t provide real rehabilitation, and still continues to use their pain to fuel communal hate instead of solutions. And fools like you fall for it.

Anyway, free kashmir <3

Wow, it's impressive how much misinformation can fit into a single ask—your understanding of Kashmir's history seems to be as shallow as a puddle in the sun.

lets start, shall we?

“Having religious sites in a region does not give your state or your religion ownership over it.”

In many cases, the very establishment and maintenance of a religious site have been acts of statecraft. For example, the 2008 transfer of 99 acres of forest land to the Amarnath Shrine Board wasn’t just a religious accommodation—it was a political decision by both the Indian Union and the J&K government to assert authority over that part of the Valley. Religious institutions often hold de facto governing power over adjacent land and resources (roads, policing, revenue), effectively exercising territorial control even if they aren’t “sovereign” in name. Religious sites can and do establish historical and even legal ties to a community. The existence of a temple isn’t merely “cultural fluff.” In many pre-modern polities, state authority was deeply bound up with patronage of shrines. The Shankaracharya Temple atop Takht-e-Suleiman, for example, dates back to at least the 9th century and was rebuilt by Hindu and Buddhist rulers—evidence that Kashmir’s sovereign identity was inseparable from its Hindu heritage long before Islam arrived. When princely Jammu & Kashmir acceded to India in 1947, the Instrument of Accession specifically guaranteed protection of all existing religious institutions. That document invokes the region’s plural but historically Hindu-rooted polity, not a blank slate. Kashmir’s dynastic history wasn’t exclusively “multi-faith coexistence.”

From the Karkota dynasty (c. 625–855 CE) through the Lohara kingdom (1003–1320 CE), Kashmir was ruled by Hindu monarchs whose geneses and governance were tied to Shaivism and other Hindu sects. The Rajatarangini (12th century chronicle) records dozens of Hindu kings and their endowments to temples—this isn’t a footnote but the core of Kashmir’s classical statehood. While Buddhists and later Muslims certainly contributed to the rich tapestry, that doesn’t negate the fact that Kashmir’s political structures, coinage, land grants (the Shasana inscriptions), and legal codes were shaped by and for a Hindu-majority ruling class for centuries.

2. “By that logic, the Vatican would own half of Europe.”

This comparison fails on two counts. Firstly, the Vatican is a sovereign city-state under the 1929 Lateran Treaty, with internationally recognized borders and extraterritorial rights over multiple basilicas in Italy. Its legal status is unique and does entail actual political jurisdiction—unlike any Hindu temple in Kashmir, which remains under Indian civil law. Second, equating a tiny city-state’s special treaty guarantees with a religious shrine’s cultural importance ignores centuries of regional power struggles over Kashmir.

3. “The claim that Kashmir ‘belongs to Hindus’ because of Amarnath or Shankaracharya temple is rooted in theocratic ethno-nationalist agenda, not history.”

Historical sources show Shaivism was the dominant faith of the early Kashmiri polity. The 8th-century Rajatarangini chronicles rulers patronizing Shiva worship; Queen Suryamati’s 11th-century gifts to Amarnath are recorded in multiple texts. These aren’t modern “ethno-nationalist” fabrications but genuine markers of an ancient Hindu state in the Valley

4. Conversion does alter a community’s indigenous stake when it’s imposed or incentivized politically. True indigeneity is rooted not only in birthplace but in the uninterrupted practice and institutions of a people. While individual conversions are personal, mass conversions under state patronage (e.g., Mughal land-revenue exemptions for converts) did reshape the demographic and institutional landscape, often at the expense of pre-existing Hindu institutions. Erasing the continuity of a faith community does weaken its claim on the public sphere—look at how many old Hindu shrines in the Valley were repurposed or fell to ruin after the medieval conversions. That loss of visible heritage undercuts your blasphemous idea that “conversion doesn’t erase indigeneity.” The demographic shift from ~6 percent Pandit population pre-1947 to under 1 percent today is no mere footnote—it reflects a transformation in who “belongs” in the Valley.

5. “Kashmiri Pandits’ lack of return is not the fault of Kashmiri Muslims. It is the fault of the Indian government…”

The 1990 exodus of roughly 300,000 Pandits was driven by targeted assassinations and mosque announcements from terrorist groups (JKLF, Hizbul Mujahideen) demanding their departure—actions directly by Kashmiri Muslims, not New Delhi While the Indian state’s resettlement package has been inadequate, you cannot erase the fact that Pandits fled under threat from local Islamist terrorists, nor that property-destruction and intimidation were carried out at the village level by Kashmiri insurgents. Kashmiri Pandits’ exile was driven by militant Islamist violence, not benign state indifference alone. In 1989–1990, Kashmiri Pandits were systematically targeted: homes marked with “P” for “Pandit,” public threats from JKLF and Hizbul Mujahideen, dozens of murders—this is well-documented. While the Indian government certainly botched the security response, the proximate cause of the mass flight was organized communal violence by militant groups, overwhelmingly deriving from the Muslim-majority side. Even today, many Pandits refuse to return precisely because the local power structure remains dominated by the same families and networks that either tacitly supported or actively condoned those 1990 purges. You cannot absolve those actors of responsibility simply by pointing at New Delhi.

6. Blaming only New Delhi for the Kashmiri Pandit displacement ignores the agency of local communities. Local Kashmiri Muslim leaders and civil society had opportunities to shelter and publicly protect Pandit neighbors but largely stayed silent or sided with the terrorists. That collective failure fueled the exodus. True reconciliation requires acknowledging both the state’s failures and the grassroots complicity. Your one-sided “it’s all Delhi’s fault” narrative only deepens the wound.

7. “Free Kashmir <3” “Freeing” any region implies a new sovereignty. But no Kashmir-wide plebiscite has ever been held; two-thirds of the Valley’s voters championed staying with India in the 1951 and 1975 assemblies. Pushing “independence” without democratic mandate simply replaces one form of rule with another-often more violent-and ignores the wishes of millions of Kashmiris who identify as Indian citizens. “Free Kashmir” slogans too often align with Pakistan-backed terrorism, not genuine self-determination. Genuine independence movements prize pluralism; Pakistan’s track record in its own territories (Balochistan, Sindh) and its support for jihadi groups in the Valley make it clear that “Azadi” framed by Islamabad would strip Kashmiri Hindus, Sikhs, even moderate Muslims of basic rights.

Real freedom would be one that guarantees security for every Kashmiri, not just the majority faith. Touting “free Kashmir” without that nuance only signals alignment with forces that intimidated Pandits in 1990—and still do.

The Bottom line is:

Historical sovereignty in Kashmir was deeply tied to Hindu kings and temples.

Demographic change via enforced or incentivized conversion did impact the Hindu community’s stake.

1990’s Pandit exodus was driven first by local Islamist militancy, secondarily compounded by Delhi’s inadequate security.

True Kashmiri freedom must protect minorities—any movement that doesn’t is no ally of pluralism but of the very extremism that drove Pandits out.

It's clear you’re more invested in fueling division than understanding history—maybe try reading up on Kashmir’s actual past before you spout off next time. And i mean some real history, not the version you’ve been fed to suit your narrow agenda.

जनहित में प्रकाशीत, नमो वः 🙏

[sniktbaby]

something you could sin for (part two)

summary: logan is your dad's best friend. you hooked up at your birthday party and he's been ignoring you ever since.

warnings: ANNNGST, dad's best friend, a lil misogyny (for the plot), age gap (reader is in her late 20s!), fluff but like dirty fluff, SMUT, slow burn, drinking, arguing, injury (reader takes painkillers for a broken bone), dirty talk, size kink (logan has a huge d), praise, nipple play, multiple orgasms, forced orgasms, pet names (baby, princess, darling, doll), car sex, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), clitplay, creampie, cockwarming, back at it with the religious terms (i mean the title is what it is)

word count: 14.3k

author's note: so i DEFINITELY got carried away with this but i just love writing cowboy dbf logan! it's a slow burn, a lot of angst leading up to some nasty filthy smut. i really hope you guys like this one and it flows and makes sense and yeah :) once again title is from a jade song called midnight cowboy so listen to it!!!

part one

It’s been one month since your birthday, and one month since that memorable night in the bathroom. Thirty days since you felt Logan’s hands on you, his lips on your skin. Since you tasted him and he tasted you and you did things to each other that felt like the universe had offered you a glimpse into heaven.

And one month since Logan has spoken to you.

It didn’t take long for your devastation to turn to anger, especially when he showed up to camp for the long weekend with her. The same redhead he had brought to your birthday was sitting across from you, her flaming hair making her look like she belonged in hell itself from the way the bonfire bounced off it.

You had expected more from Logan. Maybe that was the biggest mistake you had made that night - not the act of giving yourself over to him, trusting him with your heart and your body. But actually thinking it meant something to him, actually believing that you were more than just a hole for him to fuck.

You bring the red solo cup to your lips, more Crown Royal than ginger ale, humming softly as the liquor burns down your throat.

You scowl at Logan and the redhead, both engaged in conversation with your dad. Looking around the campfire, you watch your family members talk and laugh amongst each other, completely oblivious to the jealousy and rage flowing through you. No one seems to notice your fury, something you don’t know if you’re thankful for or annoyed by.

Logan’s senses are on high alert. He’s had quite a few drinks, but alcohol doesn’t affect him the same way it does his human counterparts. He looks away as your dad keeps talking, his hazel eyes focusing on the way the bonfire crackles, fingers threading through Addy’s hair as she sits at his feet. His ears fixate on the sound of crickets chirping, the wind rustling through the trees like it’s whispering things he isn’t ready to hear.

His stare lands on you. You have that look on your face - the one that says you’re about three seconds away from throwing a rock at his face. He wouldn’t blame you if you did.

Logan knows you’re pissed, and rightfully so. He knows that he did more than leave things unresolved with you, he abandoned you. Took what he wanted and then left you high and dry. He walked away like what you did in that bathroom meant nothing to him. Like he hasn’t spent every night since dreaming about your mouth, your hands. The way you took every damn thing he gave you and still asked for more.

The woman beside him laughs, causing him to look over at the redhead, curled up in a chair and talking to your dad. Acting like she belongs here. Truth is, he couldn’t even remember her name when he scrolled through his phone - she was just saved as ‘Redhead’. He hasn’t spoken to her since your birthday party, but he couldn’t come here alone. Couldn’t risk being near you without a buffer. He also couldn’t tell your dad he wouldn’t be able to make it. The long weekend camping trip is a beloved tradition in your family, and by extension, it’s Logan’s tradition too.

You catch his eye across the fire. Instead of looking away like you have been doing all weekend, you hold his gaze, unflinching. Maybe you’re tired of faking it. Or maybe the whiskey has taken control now. Your jaw sets, nostrils flaring. The corners of your mouth dip into a frown as you try to see through whatever wall he’s trying to build.

Before you can think better of it, you stand. You walk past everyone like they’re not even there until you stop right in front of Logan.

He can feel the fire through your eyes before you even speak - can see your jaw tighten, the way your whole body thrums with barely restrained fury. And though he knows he deserves it, it doesn’t make it burn any less.

You clear your throat to get his attention even though he’s already looking at you, the flames flickering behind your frame like some kind of hell-ish halo. “I need help getting more wood.” Your voice is flat. You aren’t really asking him for help. It’s a demand wrapped in polite paper, and your tone holds no room for argument.

You walk away without waiting for him, the tension in the air unmistakable. You pass by the cabin and head for a secluded part of the camp where the wood is kept. You try to take a couple of deep breaths to calm yourself down, but your bitter heart is pounding.

A slight smirk comes across Logan’s face as he watches you walk off. He stands up slowly, his boots shifting against the earth like he’s approaching something dangerous. He probably is.

No one else but Logan seems to notice the animosity in your voice, the impending storm invisible to the rest of the group. Your dad pokes at the dying fire with a stick, your mom passes out marshmallows to other family members. The redhead laughs at something someone says, but Logan doesn’t hear it.

You’re far enough away that you’re out of direct sight and earshot from the rest of the party. The woods are dim and hushed around you, the occasional snap of a twig telling you that Logan isn’t too far behind.

When he steps into view, you cross your arms over your chest. “You have a lot of fucking nerve.” Your voice is low, controlled, but sharp enough to cut through steel.

“I waited for you. For weeks. I thought…” You bite down on your lip to stop yourself from saying something you’ll regret. Something that reveals the broken pieces of you. He isn’t allowed to see those. “Nevermind. It doesn’t matter what I thought. The point is, you were gone. And then you show up here, with her?”

The forest seems to close in, thick with shadows and heavy with words left unsaid. Logan puffs out a breath of air. He doesn’t have a damn thing to say in his defense that won’t sound like a coward's excuse. He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, not because he’s cold. He needs to do something with the parts of him that want to reach out to you. Touch you. Apologize the only way he knows how.

Your eyes scorch through him as if you can read his thoughts, cutting through the night and every lie he’s told himself since that night in the bathroom. Since he tasted you, claimed you, fucked you like you were his and then walked away like you weren’t.

Your arms drop to your sides, fists clenching. His silence enrages you more than his words could. You want nothing more in this world than to hit him, wipe that perpetually smug look off of his face. You lift your chin defiantly, refusing to let the hurt show too plainly - but your voice betrays you, cracking anyway. “I trusted you.”

Those three words - ‘I trusted you’ - weigh on him, his shoulders suddenly heavy like every failure piled high on top of him.

Your words are quieter now, but no less powerful. “Do you know what it’s like to wake up every morning hoping for a text? Or a phone call? Or for you to show up and tell me you’re goddamn sorry? I have replayed every second of that night and wondered if I imagined it all. If I meant anything to you.”

You take a moment to catch your breath, blinking back tears you refuse to shed. “And then you bring that woman here? To the family trip? Like it’s normal. Like I should just accept it. Accept you, and the way you disappear whenever shit gets too real.”

Your words hit him square in the chest, each syllable like the twist of a knife. He exhales sharply, eyes dropping to the ground like the forest floor will offer him an answer to your harsh - but accurate - accusations.

Nothing.

Logan looks back up at you, throat tense with words he doesn’t know how to say. “Look, princess. I never meant to hurt y-”

A bitter laugh escapes you before he can finish. You shake your head. “Oh, don’t fucking start with that.” You take a step back. You need air to breathe, and you can’t do that when he’s too close. “You think I’m mad because I wanted more? Because I expected more? I mean, that’s a part of it, yeah. But mostly? I’m angry because I know you felt it too. That night - you weren’t holding back. You weren’t running. You were there with me. And then…poof.” You snap your fingers, sharp and pointed. “Gone. It’s what you do.”

Poof. Like magic. Like he was never really there to begin with.

But he was there with you. Fully. Completely. Nowhere else in the world mattered when he was inside you - when he was tasting you, touching you, hearing you scream for him like it was your salvation.

He wasn’t running then.

He just doesn’t know how to stop from running afterward.

Logan takes off his cowboy hat, holding it with one hand while he shoves the other through his hair, pacing a half-circle around you like a caged animal. “I did feel it.” He says it low, hoarse, like it costs him something. “Every damn second of it.”

Your breath catches as sadness interweaves with your anger. If he felt it too, how could he betray you?

You wrap your arms around yourself, protectively, as if trying to keep the cracked pieces of yourself together. “So why’d you leave me, Logan?” Your voice breaks on the question, everything you tried to swallow coming out into the open. “You walked out of that bathroom, and I thought I’d hear from you. But then you just vanished like…like I was some kind of cheap thrill. Some mistake.”

The words gut him, cutting him deep because he knows he made you feel that way. Made you doubt how he feels about you. Even worse, he made you doubt yourself.

He steps forward, the space between you shrinking, close enough for him to see the faintest tremble in your lip, the way unshed tears cling to your lashes. Close enough for him to kiss you and make it mean something again, if he dared.

But he doesn’t.

“I didn’t leave ‘cause you were a mistake,” he says quietly. “I left ‘cause you weren’t.”

Silence stretches between you, thick and electric. You search his face, eyes flickering over every furrowed line, every shadow under his eyes.

“And what?” Your voice is softer now, but still laced with contempt. “What, Logan? What does that even mean? That you couldn’t handle it? That I scared you off?” You shake your head like you’re trying to put together a puzzle with missing pieces.

Yes. You did scare the hell out of him. The thought slips through before he can cage it back up. He’s too old, too broken, too damn messed up to ever have anything real. Logan has never been more terrified in his life than he was the second he walked out of that bathroom and left you there, wet and naked and looking at him like he was the only man in the world. Knowing he had to return to the party, the real world, and face his best friend.

He runs a hand down his face, exhaling hard through his nose, like maybe that’ll clear the fog in his brain. It doesn’t. He puts the hat back on his head. “It wasn’t you,” he mutters. He glances at you, then away, unable to hold your gaze for too long. “It was everything. Me. Who I am. Who we are.”

Something in your chest twists. Not at the words he says, but at the way he says them. Like it physically pains him to admit he’s not invincible.

You watch him closely, arms still wrapped tightly around yourself. “‘Who we are’.” You repeat quietly, almost bitterly. “What does that mean, Logan? That you’re my dad’s best friend? That you’re older? You’re complicated?” Your lips quirk, though there’s no humour in it. “You weren’t thinking about that when your tongue was in my pussy.”

Logan flinches, the image slamming into him like a sucker punch to the gut. There it is. The truth thrown back at him like a weapon - sharp, unforgiving, and damn right. Of course he wasn’t thinking about who he was when his mouth was on you. Wasn’t thinking about the consequences or age gaps or the fact that your daddy would probably kill him if he knew half the things he’d done to his little girl. He was just…feeling. Alive.

And that terrified him.

He growls low in his throat. “Yeah…I know.”

You narrow your eyes, reading the tension coiled in his posture, the way his voice drops like he’s trying - and failing - to bury something deep. “You know?” You echo him, stepping even closer until there’s barely an inch between you. Your voice dips lower now, almost a whisper. “Does she taste like me, Logan?”

The question hits him like a bucket of ice water poured down his spine. Jarring. Cruel. He takes a deep breath. You smell like vanilla and sugar mixed with bonfire smoke and pine needles, along with something uniquely you. Sweet and musky and unforgettable. The kind of scent that haunts a man long after he’s sworn off sins.

“That’s enough.”

You don’t flinch at his warning. Don’t back down. You’re too far gone. Instead, you lean in - close enough that your breath ghosts over the sensitive skin of his neck, close enough that he can feel the heat radiating off of you. “She doesn’t, does she?”

Your voice is velvet and venom, soft but toxic. You tilt your head slightly, pressing in further, enjoying the way he tenses from your proximity. “You haven’t forgotten what I taste like. Have you?” One of your hands rises, resting against his chest - right over his heart. Your thumb brushes once, lightly, over the fabric of his sweater. “I bet you think about it. When you’re alone. When you’re with her.”

Christ. You have him by the throat with just that voice. Those eyes. The maddening, fearless way you stare down the Devil in front of you like you’re not afraid of getting burned.

And that touch - soft as a prayer, dangerous as a loaded gun. Your thumb brushes over his sweater like you’re trying to assess the damage you’re doing to him.

He inhales sharp, every muscle in his body locked tight. He tries to reign in some control. “We can’t do this, princess,” he growls, a warning and a plea.

You smirk - just a slight upward tilt of your lips. “Oh, we can’t?” Your voice drops lower, sultry and teasing. “Why not, Logan? You taught me how to play dirty. Or did you forget that too?”

Your fingers twitch slightly, like they want to move - want to explore more of him - but you keep them restrained.

“You kissed me first,” you murmur, leaning in just a fraction more, your lips ghosting the shell of his ear. “You started this.”

And then you push off of him, hard.

“Don’t speak to me. Don’t even fucking look at me.”

You shove past him, walking away from him as quickly as you can. The leaves rustle in your wake, twigs snapping like the forest itself is watching you go.

And all Logan can do is stand there, rooted to the spot, fists clenched so tight his knuckles pop. He wants to follow you. God help him, he wants to chase you down, spin you back around, and kiss that feisty mouth until you forget every reason you just gave him to stay away.

But he doesn’t. Because you’re right. He started this. He kissed you first. Touched you first. Broke every damn rule he swore he’d live by - and now you’re the one paying the price for it.

You finally let the tears fall as you rush through the forest, needing a moment to yourself before you go back to the rest of the group. In the haze of your emotions, you fail to notice a protruding root, tripping over it and falling to the ground. You cry out as pain shoots up from your ankle.

The second Logan hears you scream, he moves. Instinct. He’s already charging through the trees before his brain can catch up. When he finds you, you’re on the ground - cradling your ankle, gritting your teeth against the pain. Moonlight filters through the canopy above, catching on the tear tracks on your cheeks, the flush of humiliation crawling up your neck.

He drops to his knees in front of you without hesitation, hands hovering, searching. “Let me see.” His voice is rough, commanding. Worried as hell and not asking for permission.

You flinch at the authority in his tone, your pride stinging almost as much as your throbbing ankle. More tears burn behind your eyes and you swipe angrily at your cheeks. “I’m fine,” you snap, pulling your leg back sharply, away from his reach. “Just…leave me alone, Logan. Go back to your stupid little girlfriend.”

You try to push yourself up but fail, falling back on your ass. You curse under your breath, gripping your calf like it personally betrayed you. “You don’t get to care about me now.”

Stubborn. Fucking stubborn.

He ignores the stab of your words - ‘stupid little girlfriend’ - because he doesn’t deserve any better. Hell, he deserves worse. But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re hurt.

He moves before you can protest again, scooting closer, one hand firm on your shin, the other sliding beneath your calf. “Stop fightin’ me, darlin’.” His voice is low, a warning, but there’s a softness there, like he’s handling dynamite.

He gently coaxes your leg back out, ignoring the glare you shoot him, the stiff resistance in your muscles. Once your ankle is in his hands, he rotates it carefully, assessing the swelling, the discolouration already forming like ink spilled beneath your flesh. “Tore somethin’.”

You suck in a sharp breath, biting down hard on your bottom lip to keep from crying out as he manipulates your ankle. Your fingers dig into the dirt beside you, trembling with the effort of holding yourself together - not just your ankle, but everything else splintering apart all over again once the warmth of his touch is on your bare skin. “It’s none of your goddamn business.”

Logan scoffs, but it comes out more like a snarl. You’re shaking. Hurting. Pushing him away like he’s the enemy. He tightens his grip on your calf, not enough to hurt, but enough to make sure you listen. To make sure you know that he means what he says. “We’re not havin’ this conversation out ‘ere in the middle of the woods, princess. You’re hurt. Need x-rays. Need ice. Need…” He pauses, jaw ticking, eyes scanning the shadows of the treeline like they might give him the strength to finish his sentence without sounding like a selfish bastard. “...someone takin’ care of ya.”

You laugh - a bitter, broken sound that barely makes it past your lips before dissolving into a shaky breath. Your shoulders slump, the fight is momentarily bled out of you, replaced by something raw and exposed.

“My dad can bring me,” you murmur. Your fingers curl weakly against the damp earth. “Not you.” You lift your eyes to meet his, and for the first time tonight, there’s no fire behind them - just exhaustion.

Logan frowns. You look so damn tired. So worn down by everything - by him - and he hates it. Hates that he put that look in your eyes. Hates that he doesn’t know how to fix it. He shakes his head, moving in before you can argue. Before you can push him away again. “Your dad’s been drinkin’ since noon, princess. And your mom ain’t much better. Ain’t lettin’ either of ‘em behind the wheel.” He shifts closer, one arm slipping beneath your legs, the other reaching for your back before you can protest. “Save your fight for somethin’ you can win.”

Logan scoops you up slowly, carefully, trying his best not to jar your ankle. Your body goes rigid for a second before the pain in your ankle overrides everything else.

“I don’t need you to play the hero, Logan.” There’s a little bite in your tone, but it’s mostly resignation. You know arguing with him about this is pointless.

He doesn’t reply, his jaw set as he carries you back to the cabin, his big arms holding you securely against his chest.

The others jump to their feet the second they see you. Your dad starts cursing, your mom’s asking a million questions at once, that damn redhead just sits there awkwardly. Logan shoots your dad a look and everyone falls silent.

“Twisted her ankle on a root,” Logan explains. “The swellin’ is pretty bad, need to get her to a hospital. Think she mighta torn somethin’.”

Your mom fusses and your dad mutters about careless trails, about how that ‘damn Howlett’s always gettin’ you into trouble’. The redhead watches you like she’s trying to figure out why you’re clinging to Logan like a lifeline.

You shift in Logan’s hold, uncomfortable under the scrutiny of the group, especially the redhead, who has stood up and is leaning way too close to Logan. There’s a flicker of something sour in your expression when you see the way the other woman studies you - like she’s trying to decide if you’re a threat or just a nuisance.

Logan doesn’t miss the way you stiffen in his arms, your resentment simmering just beneath the surface. You’ve always hated being fussed over, treated like you’re fragile. But right now, he doesn’t give a damn what you hate. You’re hurt. You need help. And he’s the one who’s going to make sure you get it.

“I’ll take her.” Short. Final. No room for argument. He doesn’t wait for anyone to object. Doesn’t stick around to hear the redhead ask if he needs company. He sets you down gently in a nearby chair and you exhale quietly, rubbing your calf absent-mindedly just above your ankle.

You watch him head up to where his Jeep is parked, the tightness in your chest growing with every step he takes. It’s infuriating - how easily he assumes control, how effortlessly he steps into the role of saviour. When he’s the one who broke you in the first place.

Still…your eyes linger on the curve of his spine, the way his shoulders roll with each purposeful stride. When he disappears towards the parking area, your mom starts fussing again - talking about calling an ambulance - but you raise a hand, palm out, silencing her.

“I said I’m fine,” you mumble, your gaze never leaving the tree line where Logan vanished. “Logan will take care of me.”

Logan returns a minute later. He kills the engine and hops out, boots crunching against gravel. “Let’s go, darlin’.”

He scoops you up again and puts you in the back of the Jeep, the backseats still folded down from the amount of stuff he brought up. He runs to his camper, grabbing a blanket and a pillow. It’ll be a thirty minute drive to the hospital and he wants you to rest, the backseat being the only way you’re lying down comfortably for this ride. Hell, he’d strip the whole damn interior bare if it meant you’d quit trying to hold yourself together like you need to impress everybody with how tough you are.

He spreads the blanket smooth over you, settling the pillow carefully behind your head like you’re royalty instead of the woman that hates him right now. But you don’t fight him this time, just let him do it. Let him take care of you.

That means something. Even if you won’t admit it.

Your mom grabs a second pillow to put under your foot as Logan tells your dad it’ll be okay. The redhead’s tugs at his elbow, talking about coming along, all sunshine and misplaced optimism, but Logan doesn’t even spare her a glance.

“No.” Flat. Final.

From your spot curled in the back, wrapped in Logan’s scent and the musty warmth of the blanket, you watch the exchange. The redhead’s presence rubs you the wrong way - everything about her does - but you force yourself to stare at the ceiling instead, feigning indifference.

However, when Logan brushes her off so easily, something inside of you loosens. Just a little.

As Logan climbs into the driver’s seat and starts the engine, you shift carefully, wincing as pain pulses up your leg. You stare at the ceiling of the Jeep, willing yourself to stay awake, to not give in to the comfort of his gesture. But the steady hum of the road, the faint smell of leather and cigar smoke clinging to the seats, pulls at you.

You’re quiet too fast. Not asleep yet, but close. He can hear it in your breathing - slower, deeper. He glances in the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of your face in the dim glow from the moonlight. Eyes are closed, jaw relaxed. Hair is splayed across the pillow like ink spilled over parchment. You look softer like this. Peaceful. Like you haven’t spent the past month hating him.

The road hums beneath the tires, stretching long and empty ahead. Thirty minutes isn’t much, but it’s enough. Enough time to think. To remember.

To wish he was better for you.

The painkillers are taking effect by the time you get back to the Jeep. You’re glassy-eyed and a little unsteady on your good foot. Logan wraps an arm around your waist as you stumble, insistent you can do it on your own. But when he steadys you against his side, you let him.

The doctor called it a clean break. Wrap it tight, elevate it, keep weight off of it for at least six weeks. Easy enough instructions, but Logan knows it won’t be long until you’re fighting every damn one of them.

He opens the door and helps you inside, making sure you’re settled. You aren’t protesting anymore. Aren’t throwing barbed words at him or trying to act like you don’t need him. Maybe the pills are mellowing you. Maybe it’s exhaustion.

You lean back with a soft sigh, your eyelids heavy and your limbs sluggish. The pain meds are humming through your veins like a lullaby, pulling you under, but you fight it. Your fingers fumble slightly as you tug the blanket tighter around you.

There’s something about the way Logan looked at you in the emergency room, all quiet intensity and protectiveness, that makes your throat tighten.

“You didn’t have to bring me,” you murmur, your lashes fluttering low. “But I’m glad you did.”

You say it so quietly he almost misses it. Your voice is all soft edges and sleepy honesty, the kind of truth that only comes out when you’re too tired to lie to yourself.

He glances at you through the rearview mirror, watching the way your fingers curl into the blanket. He doesn’t respond right away. Just starts the Jeep, lets the engine idle while he gathers the words he never seems to get right around you.

“I know,” he mutters finally, taking off his hat and placing it in the passenger seat. He runs a hand through his hair, fighting back the urge to yawn. He’s exhausted too. “But I wanted to.”

The sound of his voice wraps around you like his blanket, warm and familiar. Your lips part on a breath that could’ve turned into a reply - if only your mind wasn’t swimming in the haze of painkillers and Logan-scented memories.

The moment passes and Logan starts the drive back. After some time, you stir. The meds have helped the pain, but now you’re wide awake, overwhelming questions and uncertainty burning through you. “Why’d you leave, Logan?”

The question hangs between you. Logan didn’t know you were awake. He grips the steering wheel tighter, knuckles whitening, staring out at the dark highway like it owes him something.

“I dunno, darlin’.” He drags a hand through his hair, exhaling hard through his nose. “Stupidity, maybe. Habit. Thought if I kept movin’, kept doin’ what I always do, I could pretend…”

He trails off and doesn’t continue. The silence stretches and you feel the ache in your ankle echo the one settling deep in your ribs. Pretend. That word clings to you like damp air before a storm. “Pretend what?” Your voice is almost childlike, stripped of its usual edge. You turn your head just enough to catch a sliver of his profile in your peripheral vision, shadowed and tense. “That I didn’t matter? That it didn’t mean anything when we…?” There’s no venom in the question - only sadness.

He keeps his eyes on the road. Pretending has been Logan’s speciality for a long damn time. Started long before you, and it sure as hell got worse after.

After that night.

“After you,” he mumbles, voice low. “After what we did, I figured…maybe if I acted like nothin’ changed, it wouldn’t have to.” He flexes his fingers on the wheel, letting out a harsh chuckle. “Shoulda known better.”

Something in his voice cracks the shell around your exhaustion, pulling you further from the drug-induced haze. For the first time this weekend, you look at him, really look at him. Not the version of him you had built up in his absence - the ghost you tried to hate - but the man in front of you. Flawed. Hurting.

“I thought about you,” you whisper, fingers tightening in the folds of the blanket, “everyday. Even when I told myself not to.” You say it so quietly, like you’re handing him something delicate and trusting him not to crush it.

The road fades to black ahead, headlights cutting through the dark. He doesn’t answer right away. Can’t. Not with your confession sitting heavy in his chest, warming something he thought had frozen for good.

“I thought about you too,” he eventually admits, voice barely louder than the hum of the engine. A whisper of truth in the dark. “Every damn day, darlin’.”

Your eyes burn, not just with tears, but with the weight of everything you tried to bury. You turn your face towards the window, watching the trees blur past in streaks of black and silver under the moonlight. “I missed you, Logan.”

Your voice breaks on the last syllable. You wipe at your cheeks as the tears fall, embarrassed by the slip, by the ache in your chest.

And then, quieter still, “I don’t want to go back yet.”

The second you say it, he feels it like a bullet to the chest. Not because he doesn’t agree. Hell, the idea of pulling back into that campsite, surrounded by noise and laughter and that damn redhead, it makes his stomach twist.

Without a word, Logan flicks on the blinker and steers the Jeep off the road, tires crunching over loose gravel as you slip under the cover of the trees. The headlights cut through the darkness until he kills the engine, plunging you into silence - except for your breathing, uneven and weighted, and the rhythmic tick of cooling metal beneath you.

He sits there for a second, hands still on the wheel, staring out at nothing. Thinking about all the reasons he should get back on the road.

You let the silence stretch between you like a thread being pulled taut. Then, slowly, carefully, you push yourself upright, wincing as you shift the weight off of your sore ankle. Your fingers dig into the fabric beneath you, grounding yourself, bracing. Even dazed and hurting, you can feel it - that invisible pull you’ve never been able to escape. Never wanted to, not really. “Logan?”

When he doesn’t answer right away, you reach out, brushing your fingertips along the back of his neck. Your voice is barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the heavy silence like a match striking stone - small, simple, but sparking something dangerous.

He feels your movement before he sees it - the careful shift, the wince, the way you brace yourself like you’re preparing for impact. Preparing for him.

And then your fingers graze the back of his neck. Light. Tentative. He doesn’t move. Every muscle locks up, every breath stalls in his lungs. You shouldn’t be touching him. Not after everything.

But he doesn’t stop you.

Logan’s stillness thrums beneath your fingertips, solid and coiled like a wire stretched too far. You feel the tension ripple through him at your touch, see the way his shoulders stiffen, how his hands remain gripping the steering wheel like it's the only thing keeping him grounded.

Slowly, you let your fingers drift lower, tracing the edge of his hood, slipping just beneath the fabric to feel the warmth of his bare skin. Your thumb brushes lightly over the metal band holding his dog tags, feather-soft, reverent.

“Tell me to stop,” you whisper, eyes fixed on the curve of his shoulder.

Your touch is like a brand, searing straight through him. He feels it everywhere, like flames licking up his spine, lighting every damn nerve ending on fire.

He exhales slowly, sharp through his nose, jaw grinding hard. “I can’t do that, darlin’.”

A shudder runs through you - not rejection, but surrender disguised as helplessness.

Your fingers press firmer now, mapping the strength in his shoulders, the rigid restraint in his posture. You lean in without thinking, drawn to the gravity of him, until your forehead rests gently against the side of his arm. Your breath ghosts across his sleeve, unsteady and warm. “Then hold me, Logan.”

A quiet invitation wrapped in something dangerously close to forgiveness. You say it so soft that for a second he thinks he imagined it. Until he feels your breath against his arm, your forehead pressed into him.

He exhales hard, like he can breathe away the war raging inside him, before finally releasing the death grip he’s got on the steering wheel. Slowly, he turns towards you.

When he moves to face you, your breath catches. Your heart pounds, wild and eager. He hasn’t touched you yet and you’re already undone.

Your gaze lifts, catching the faintest glint of his eyes in the dim light filtering through the windshield. Moonlight and shadows dance across his face, carving lines of hesitation and longing.

He leans in just a little closer, close enough that he can smell you, before clearing his throat. “Move over a bit, darlin’.” He nudges you gently with his hand, already unbuckling his seatbelt, ready to climb into the back. “Wanna hold you properly.”

At the sound of his voice - low and rough like gravel underfoot - your breath hitches. When he pushes you back, you obey without hesitation, shifting carefully with a small grimace as your ankle protests.

The interior of the Jeep suddenly feels far too small, the air thick and intimate as you watch him maneuver his large frame into the back, his movements fluid despite the awkward angle. Once settled, he opens his arms, wordlessly inviting you in.

You hesitate for a second, then slide into his embrace. You nestle against his chest, fitting perfectly into the crook of his arm. You fit against him like you were carved to fit - curves molded to his angles, breath syncing with his like it was always meant to be this way. He wraps his arm around you slowly, careful.

Your head settles on his shoulder and he breathes you in - deep, like he’s been starved for oxygen since the last time he held you. You smell like home and trouble and everything he shouldn’t want but can’t seem to stay away from. His hand comes up to stroke gentle circles on your back, fingers threading through your hair. “You good?”

The warmth of him wraps around you - strong and sure and real. His touch soothes more than your aching body, it quiets the restless parts of your soul that have been clawing at your ribs since the night he walked away. You melt into his hold, sighing softly, the tension in your limbs easing under the rhythm of his hand on your back. It’s too much. Too familiar. Too perfect. Too dangerous.

But you don’t care - not right now. Right now, you’re allowed to have this. To have him.

“Yeah…” Your voice is muffled against the fabric of his hoodie. “Feels good.”

He keeps stroking your back, fingers weaving slow paths through your hair, like he can erase every shitty moment between you with his touch alone. Like he can rewrite the last month just by holding you tight enough.

You deserve better than this. Better than him. Better than stolen moments in the back of his Jeep, hiding from the world and pretending like he’s not the type of man that burns bridges and leaves ashes in their wake.

He presses his lips to the top of your head. He can’t help himself. “You’re safe with me, baby.”

Safe. The word lingers in the air between you, fragile and loaded, and for a fleeting second, you wish you could believe it. Wish you could let his promise settle over you like a shield instead of a temporary reprieve from the ache of knowing he’ll leave again.

“I don’t believe you.” You expect the worst from him, you’ve earned the right to.

He tightens his hold. “I know you don’t,” he murmurs against your hair, voice rough with regret. “I don’t blame ya.” He shifts, angling his head down so he can see your face in the dim light. “But I’m here now, princess.”

He hooks a finger under your chin, his touch firm but coaxing, guiding your gaze upwards. When your eyes lock onto his, a flicker of defiance flares behind your tired stare. “You left,” you whisper, voice harsh with accusation.

Logan nods once. His thumb keeps moving, slow and steady against your jawline, grounding him as much as it’s soothing you. “I left,” he acknowledges. “I was scared.” He says the words like a confession, like they carry the weight of every sin he’s ever committed. “Didn’t know how to be what you deserved.”

His confession sinks deep, cutting through layers you didn’t realize were still bleeding. Your throat tightens, the sting of unshed tears pressing behind your eyes. Your voice cracks when you speak, brittle and barely above a whisper. “Scared?” You let out a shaky breath, almost a laugh. “Logan Howlett doesn’t get scared.”

Logan lets out a slow, bitter chuckle, thumb still stroking your jaw. “Hell, darlin’...” he mutters. “You think I don’t know what fear feels like?” He tilts his head, forcing you to keep looking at him, to see the truth etched into every line on his face.

Something in his tone stops you cold - an edge of vulnerability buried beneath the bitterness, raw and unfamiliar. You blink slowly, searching his face, the hardness of his jaw, the weariness in his eyes, and you realize…he’s not wearing his armour right now. He’s not hiding behind sarcasm or silence or the myth of being the indestructible Wolverine.

For the first time since your birthday, he’s just Logan.

Your chest aches at the sight of him like this - exposed. Human. You look at him like you’re seeing something you’re not used to. Something he doesn’t let just anybody see unless they’ve earned it - or stumbled into it by accident.

Like you did. Stumbled right into the wreckage of him, the parts he kept buried under cigars and whiskey and playing pretend.

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t hide this time. He lets you see the cracks.

“I’ve been scared most of my life. Of who I am. What I’ve done.” He swallows hard, thumb slowing on your jaw as he braces himself for the next part - the part that matters most. “But nothin’ has ever scared me like you.”

The admission knocks the air out of your lungs. For a moment, all you can do is stare - wide-eyed and silent - as his words settle deep in your bones, curling around the places you tried to numb.

It wasn’t just your heart that shattered when he walked away. It was something in him too.

“You-” Your voice breaks before you can finish, and you bite down on your bottom lip, hard, trying to ground yourself. Trying to stay whole. “You should’ve stayed then.” The accusation is softened by sorrow rather than anger. “Not run off with someone else like I didn’t matter.”

Logan exhales slowly, eyes squeezing shut for a second like that’ll block out the look on your face. The hurt. The betrayal. The goddamn devastation he caused.

“I know.” Just two words. Heavy as a tombstone.

Logan opens his eyes again, locking onto yours. “I shoulda stayed. Fought for you. For us. I ran like a coward instead and dragged someone else into my mess, like that’d somehow make the guilt easier to swallow.”

A tear slips free before you can stop it - hot and traitorous - trailing a burning path down your cheek. You don’t bother wiping it away.

His words are heavy with remorse, and for the first time, you do believe him. Not just because he says it, but because you can see it - in the set of his mouth, in the way his arms tighten around you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, in the way his voice cracks just slightly, betraying the mountain of things he won’t say out loud.

He regrets it. He remembers it. And he’s hurting too.

Another tear follows the first, and then another, and you let them fall, exhausted by pretending you’re fine without him. You sink further into his chest as your body shakes with sobs.

He doesn’t try to stop you. Doesn’t tell you to calm down or whisper empty reassurances. He just holds you tighter, wrapping both arms around you like he can absorb some of the hurt, like he can take back the damage he did.

Your body trembles against his, soft sobs mumbled against his chest, and fuck, this is his punishment. Knowing he put this grief in you. Knowing he made you doubt yourself, made you wait, made you wonder if you meant anything at all. “I’m sorry, baby.”

You cling to him, fists balled tightly into the fabric of his hoodie as though he might disappear if you let go. As though he might break his promise and slip away again. You’re crying for every night he wasn’t there. Every lie you told yourself just to make it through the day. Every goddamn second he let you suffer alone.

And he takes it. Bears it like a man who knows he deserves every drop of your grief, every shuddering sob that wracks your body against his. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t urge you to stop. Just lets you hold him like he’s the only thing keeping you from drowning. Maybe he is.

Hell, maybe he always has been.

He slides one hand up to cup the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, holding you steady while the storm rolls through you. “You’re not alone, darlin’,” he murmurs against your temple. “I’m here now.”

The warmth of his hand on your head, the rumble of his voice - it undoes you a little more, pulls at threads you didn’t know were still attached.

You shift against him, turning your face up towards his, your damp cheeks flushed, eyes swollen. “I felt so stupid,” your voice is barely audible, trembling as it spills out, “for thinking you’d choose me.”

Stupid. The word burns like acid, because that’s the last damn thing you should have ever felt. Especially not over him.

Logan tilts your face up gently, his thumbs smoothing over the tear-streaked skin of your cheeks.

“You ain’t stupid, baby. You were brave.”

He swallows hard, jaw tightening like he can choke back the rest of it - but he can’t. “And I was a fool.”

You let out a small, broken sound - half-sob, half-laugh - as your fingertips dig lightly into his chest. “I didn’t feel brave,” you mumble. “I felt…empty. Like a part of me went with you when you walked out of that bathroom.”

Hearing that word - ‘empty’ - is like a stake to the chest. He holds you tighter. “You didn’t lose a part of yourself, darlin’. You gave it to me.”

His words linger between you like the space before a kiss - one neither of you can afford to rush.

He’s right. You did give it to him. You gave him everything.

You gave him your heart.

“You kept it,” you whisper, “even when you left. Even if you didn’t want it.”

You say it like you’re just figuring it out. Like it’s some goddamn revelation wrapped in betrayal and longing and thirty days of silence. He did keep it. He carried your heart with him every damn step he took away from you. Buried it under lies and whiskey and a woman who never stood a chance in hell. “I never stopped wantin’ you, baby.”

The words echo in your mind, looping over themselves until they blur into something dangerous - something hopeful. And hope scares you more than anger. Hope means risking everything all over again.

Your pulse flutters wildly as you search his face, looking for proof that he means it. That he didn’t leave because you weren’t enough - that it was fear, not rejection. That he carried your heart through the darkness the same way you carried his ghost in every empty bed, every forced smile, every lonely breath.

You look at him like you’re waiting for him to break the silence. Waiting for him to prove he means it - that he never stopped needing you, never stopped needing what you gave him - even when it seemed like he had thrown it away like he didn’t know how to hold it.

But Logan can’t find the right words. He never could. So he does the only thing he knows will make you understand.

He tilts his head down and kisses you.

Soft. Slow. Reverent as hell. His hand cradles the back of your head like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held. His lips on yours feels like coming home after a lifetime of wandering in the cold. You melt into the kiss instantly, your entire body relaxing even as your heart pounds like a drum beneath your ribs.

Your hands slide up his chest, trembling as they thread around his neck, pulling yourself closer - needing the contact like oxygen. Needing him, the taste of him, the heavy weight of him, the undeniable truth that he’s here and kissing you like you’re sacred.

When he pulls back even slightly, you chase his mouth, unwilling to let go of the lineline he just handed you. “Don’t.” You kiss him harder like you’ve been starving for this. For him. Like every breath you’ve taken since he left was just a pale imitation of living.

He deepens the kiss slowly, not wanting to rush this holyshit moment where you’re in his arms again and soft and his. His tongue skimming yours, tasting the salt of tears and the sweetness you haven’t lost, no matter how much pain he caused you.

His kiss is slow, deliberate, worshipful - and it makes you ache in places you thought were numb forever. When his tongue brushes yours, it’s like lightning striking dry earth, igniting something buried deep within your chest.

You moan softly, the sound swallowed by his mouth as your body presses flush against his, desperate for contact, for closeness, for anything that proves this is real. That he’s real. Your nails graze the back of his neck, tugging gently at his dog tags, forgetting about the dull throb in your ankle, the bruises on your pride - forgetting about everything except for the way he tastes. You arch into him like you can’t get close enough, like you’re trying to crawl inside his skin and live there.

Logan breaks the kiss reluctantly, dragging his mouth from yours with sheer force of will, even as you chase him like he’s the last breath you’ll ever take. “Stop poutin’, princess.” He murmurs it against your lips before shifting, easing you back against the folded seats, adjusting you carefully so you don’t bang your busted ankle. His body follows, settling over yours in a way that says more than words ever could - you’re mine, I’m yours, this is where we belong. “You won’t be doin’ any of the work tonight.”

He presses his lips to your neck before holding his weight on his forearms, hovering above you with a boyish grin on his face. “Said I was takin’ care of ya, remember?”

You smile as your fingers curl around his shoulders. “Yes…” It slips out on a whisper. Your pulse jumps beneath the light scrape of his beard as he presses more kisses to your neck.

“You feel that, darlin’?” he murmurs against your skin before dragging his mouth up the curve of your jaw. “You’re mine.”

His words ripple through you like thunder rolling across a summer sky. ‘Mine.’ That single syllable wraps around your spine and settles deep in your belly, lighting something feral and forgotten inside you. “Y-Yours…” You say it back like it’s the only word you know anymore.

He kisses you again - deeper this time. Harder. Licking inside your mouth to taste you fully, to stake a claim that’s already been made but still needs proving. “You always were.” He trails kisses down your jaw, your throat, the hollow of your collarbone. “Always will be.”

Your fingers dig into his arms, nails threatening to draw blood as emotion floods your chest. “Logan..” Your voice cracks on his name. “Are you going to leave me again?”

He freezes, lips hovering just above the racing pulse of your throat, the weight of your words crashing over him. Leave you again. Walk away. Disappear like he did before.

Not fucking happening.

He lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes - searching, uncertain, still bruised by everything he put you through.

“Baby…” He trails his fingers up your sides, cupping your face. “I ain’t leavin’.”

His hands on your face steady the tremor running through your bones, but his voice - that raw, certain vow - is what breaks the dam. Tears spill over without warning, warm and silent as they slip down the sides of your temples and disappear into your hairline. Relief. Fear. Love. All of it rushes out in a broken exhale. “You promise?” It comes out barely louder than a breath, delicate, like you’re handing him your heart and praying he won’t break it this time.

Your fingers twist weakly into the front of his hoodie, clutching at the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered. Seeing you like this - open, broken, beautiful - does something to him. Something permanent. Like the last wall he’s been hiding behind finally caves in, and all that’s left is the truth he’s been running from for too damn long.

“Ain’t just words, darlin’.” He rests his forehead against yours, breath mingling in the tight space between you. “I promise.” He tilts his head down, just enough to seal it with a kiss - slow, deep, binding.

His kiss wipes the rest of the world clean. Everything else fades - the ache in your ankle, the sting of old betrayals. It all disappears beneath the weight of his promise, sealed against your lips like a brand.

You cling to him, helpless in the best way, letting the kiss pull you under until you can’t tell where he ends and you begin. It’s not frantic or greedy - it’s full. Whole.

When Logan pulls back, you’re quiet, dazed, your lashes fluttering open slowly to meet his gaze. Your thumb traces the corner of his lip. “I love you.”

You say it like it’s the sun breaking through a storm - warm, undeniable, terrifying in its brightness.

Love.

He should tell you not to. Tell you he’s poison, bad news, a man with too many ghosts and not nearly enough redemption. He should push you away before he drags you down with him.

But he can’t.

Logan tightens his grip on your face, thumbs brushing the slope of your cheekbones like he can memorize the shape of your devotion, the weight of it pressing against every dead thing inside him and bringing it roaring back to life. “I love you too, baby.”

The words wrap around your heart like a lifeline, pulling you towards something solid, something you convinced yourself you’d never hear. Your breath hitches, caught somewhere between disbelief and a joy so sharp it hurts.

He drags a hand up your back as he presses his lips to your forehead, breathing you in deep. He holds you like he never plans on letting go again, and the thought sends a shiver racing down your spine. Because you know what it feels like to lose him. To wake up alone, wondering if you only imagined the heat of his touch, the growl of his voice murmuring promises in the dark.

Your arms slide higher, wrapping around his neck as you lean into his embrace, burying your face in the crook where his shoulder meets his neck. “I know we have to keep pretending the rest of the weekend. But, after?”

You pull back and look at him like you’re handing him a grenade with the pin pulled, like one wrong move will blow everything apart.

“After this weekend, we’re done pretendin’.” He holds your gaze. “No more runnin’.”

There it is. The promise you’ve been waiting for - the one you almost convinced yourself you didn’t need. But you do. God, you do.

“No more running,” you echo softly. “Say it again.”

Logan smirks. “No more runnin’, darlin’.” He says it slowly, like he’s sealing it into the air between you, binding it with every breath he takes. “I’m stayin’. With you.”

Your heart stutters, pounding loud and wild behind your ribs like it’s trying to break free. His words settle over you like a warm blanket fresh from the dryer, wrapping around every bruise, every crack in your soul.

This time is different. You can feel it in the set of his jaw, in the way his hands hold you like you’re precious. Like you’re his. For keeps.

You manage a small smile. “With me,” you repeat, voice hushed like it’s a sacred vow spoken only in temples and dreams.

Then, quieter still, “Kiss me.”

Not a command. A plea.

Logan tilts his head down and takes your mouth like he’s been starving for it. Lips pressed hard against yours, full of everything he still doesn’t know how to say out loud. One hand curls in your hair, anchoring you to him, while the other slides down your back, slow and steady, like he’s mapping every inch of you all over again. Memorizing you.

His kiss is fire wrapped in velvet. Every wall you rebuilt crumbles under the weight of his mouth on yours, under the slow and deliberate glide of his hands. You part your lips with a soft whimper, welcoming him in, tasting the familiar spice of him.

You tighten your arms around his neck, fingers tangling in the strands at the base of his skull as you press yourself against him, needing more. You grind against him like you’re trying to remind him who owns this fire. Hell, if it weren’t for the cast on your ankle, you’d probably climb on top of him and ride him all over again.

Logan groans against your mouth, using every ounce of willpower he has to reign in his desire. “Easy, darlin’.” He murmurs the words against your lips, thumbs brushing slow circles over the small over your back.

Even as disappointment coils low in your belly, you can’t help the warmth blooming in your chest at the tenderness threaded through his restraint. You exhale slowly. “Okay…” Your voice is soft, breathy. “Just…touch me.”

He doesn’t waste another second.

Hooking his fingers under the hem of your shirt, Logan lifts it slowly, peeling it up over your stomach, your ribs, your tits - revealing every smooth, trembling inch of you like it’s the first time. The moonlight catches the curve of your breasts, the dusty peaks already hard like your body remembers exactly who it belongs to.

He bends his head and takes one stiff nipple between his lips, sucking slow, his beard scraping the sensitive skin around it before swirling his tongue over the tip.

Your hands fly to his head, fingers sinking into his thick hair, holding him there - not that he shows any signs of moving. He hums against your skin, the vibrations sending sparks straight between your legs. Wetness pools instantly, shameless and heavy, as you rut against him.

“Ohhh…” Your hips shift, rocking lightly, seeking friction you know he’ll deny you. He still wants you to learn patience.

Logan drags his mouth from one nipple to the other, suckling, tongue circling slow and torturous as his fingers skate lower, slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts. Fabric scratches against his calloused fingers, the thick pads pressing firm against the slick warmth hidden beneath the material of your panties.

He groans against your breast, thumb finding your clit through the soaked lace, rubbing slow circles. “So wet for me already, doll...”

Heat blooms low and tight in your belly, spreading outwards until it consumes you completely - until there’s nothing left but the deep, primal knowledge that he’s the one doing this to you.

“Logan…” The sound of his name on your lips is ragged. Your hips buck against his hand, chasing more, needing it deeper, harder.

He eases up on your nipple, dragging his lips down your sternum, licking a slow, maddening path towards your bellybutton as his fingers rub firm circles against your clit, building you up slow and steady. His cock strains against his jeans, aching to be where his hand is. “Feels so fuckin’ good, baby,” he murmurs against your stomach. “Soaked through these pretty little panties just f’me…”

Your breath hitches - a shaky, stuttered thing - as his thumb slips just beneath the edge of the lace, skimming the swollen lips of your pussy. Your inner muscles clench, hungry and impatient, but you force yourself to still. To let him play. To let him ruin you. Because you know he will.

He peels your shorts down slowly, careful not to tug too hard around your ankle. He tosses the denim aside, eyes locked on the soaked patch of lace covering your pussy. Pretty thing. Blue. Delicate. Just like you. “Cute panties, darlin’.”

Heat floods your cheeks at his words - at the way his gaze rakes over you like you’re something precious and filthy all at once. Like you’re both an angel and a sinner in the same breath.

You bite your lip, arching your hips, drawing attention to the damp spot he’s already memorized. A whisper of movement - just the barest wiggle - as if your body is urging him onwards, pleading without words. You arch for him like you’re offering yourself up on a silver fucking platter, all soft curves and wicked intentions wrapped in lace and heat. And damn if he doesn’t want to worship every inch of you like the saint and sinner you are.

He presses his tongue flat against the soaked fabric, dragging it slowly from hole to clit, humming against you as he tastes what he’s been starving for since that night in the bathroom.

His mouth, warm and wet through the lace, makes you lose the ability to think at all.

“So damn wet,” he murmurs, voice vibrating through the lace as his hands grip your hips tight, holding you still before he starts to lick at you more intensely - long, firm strokes - his saliva soaking through the fabric. “You like that, baby?”

Your fingers fist in his hair, knuckles whitening as pleasure crashes over you - hot, heavy, consuming. God, yes. God, fuck yes. But you can’t speak. Can’t form words when he’s reducing you to nothing but desperate whimpers.

Your hips jerk, grinding against his mouth, chasing the friction you’re starving for - but his grip holds you down. Restricts you. Forces you to take it exactly how he wants to give it.

Which is torture. Divine, beautiful torture.

All you can do is nod frantically, your breath coming faster, shallower. As if your entire body exists solely for this moment, for his mouth on you, for the way he eats you like he missed your taste more than air.

He keeps you pinned down with one hand on your hip, the other splayed over your stomach. “Want you to come just like this, darlin’.” He suckles on your bundle of nerves through the soaked lace, tongue pressing firm as he swirls slow, maddening circles. “Wanna feel it through these pretty panties.”

Your pulse screams in your ears, drowning out everything but the wet, decadent noise of his mouth working you through the lace - the slick drag of his tongue, the rasp of his beard, the greedy sounds he makes like he can’t get enough of you.

You’re burning. Melting. Drowning beneath the weight of it all - the pressure coiling low in your belly, tight and unbearable, threatening to snap you in two. Your voice cracks as you choke out a sob, somewhere between frustration and ecstasy. “Please…” You beg like it’s been building in your chest. Like every second he made you wait, every night he was gone, every goddamn wall he put between you is funnelled into this one desperate plea.

He tightens his grip on your hip, holding you still even as his tongue speeds up, flicking faster over your bud, pressing harder, driving you higher. “Shhh, darlin’.” You don’t have to see his face to know that smug fucking smirk is plastered on it. He drags his tongue slowly, collecting every bit of your arousal soaking through the lace before returning to your clit, sucking it gently between his lips. “You’re so close, aren’t ya?”

Close doesn’t begin to describe it. You’re teetering on the edge of something vast and terrifying and wonderful. His voice alone nearly does it - low and velvet-dark, laced with command and comfort and familiarity. Something that says he knows exactly what you need. When you need it. How far you can bend before you break.

Your breathing stutters, hitching in your throat as his tongue dances over you again, slow and sure and merciless.

Your back bows, fingers clutching at his shoulders now instead of his hair, nails biting into fabric as your hips rock helplessly under his grip. You surrender like it was never a question.

He watches you arch beneath him, beautiful and broken and on the edge of coming apart at the seams - all because of him. Because of what he’s doing to you. To your pretty panties soaked through with need. To your clit, throbbing under his tongue like it recognizes who it belongs to.

And he doesn’t stop. He keeps licking you slowly, savouring every shudder, every whimper torn from your throat. Revels in the way your nails bite into his shoulders like you’re trying to anchor yourself to something solid while he unravels you.

“That’s it, darlin’.” His voice is gravel and gasoline, ready to light you on fire.

You’re shaking. Shaking so hard you think your bones might rattle apart, like you’re dissolving into a million pieces beneath his mouth, his hands. There’s a scream lodged somewhere in your chest, trapped behind a throat too tight to release it. All you can manage is a strangled, keening cry - raw, wordless, desperate - as your body tightens impossibly further, the coil snapping, sending shockwaves ripping through you.

Wet heat pulses against Logan’s tongue, your orgasm crashing over you in blinding, breathtaking waves, soaking to the lace clinging to your pussy.

You come like a damn hurricane, shaking and crying out like he’s tearing you apart. And he still doesn’t stop, he can’t. Not when you taste this good, not when your pussy’s pulsing against his tongue.

He yanks the ruined lace aside, ripping it off of you and tossing it, and then dives in deep, flattening his tongue against your slit, dragging it up slowly to collect every drop of your release. Your clit is hypersensitive now, swollen and begging for mercy - but he isn’t merciful. Not tonight.

“You can do another, darlin’,” he murmurs against you, fingers digging into your hips to keep you still. “Come for me again.”

Your body jerks like he’s shocked you, every nerve ending flaring to life all over again - even more sensitive, more aware, more desperate than before. You gasp, strands of damp hair sticking to your flushed face as your legs tremble violently under his hold. “No…oh God, Logan…I can’t-”

But even as you protest, your hips betray you, pushing into his face, chasing the contact, craving the ruinous pleasure only Logan seems capable of delivering. Your clit throbs, painfully erect, and when his tongue brushes over it - firm, deliberate - it sends sparks shooting straight to your spine.

Your nails claw at his arms, slicing into him as the second wave begins to build, heavier this time. He smirks, tightening his grip on your hips as he braces himself. Second wave. Bigger. Meaner. The kind that’ll knock the wind right out of you. “Oh, you can, darlin’.”

He drags his tongue slow and thick through your folds again, dipping lower to lap at your entrance before licking back up, focusing just on your bud - teasing it with feather-light licks, just enough to keep you teetering. “You’re gonna come again.”

He presses his palm flat against your stomach, holding you down as his tongue picks up speed.

You’re panting now - shallow, frantic bursts of air that barely fill your lungs before they’re stolen again. His fingers on your stomach ground you, but it’s a cruel kind of grounding - one that reminds you that you can’t run, can’t hide, can’t escape the relentless pull of what he’s doing to you. What he’s making you feel.

You come again, your whole body tensing under his hands, arching like you’re trying to launch yourself into the stars. Your pussy clenches, spasms, drips like honey on his tongue, and he eats you like he’s earned every drop. Like he was always meant to be the one making you scream.

He keeps his tongue moving in slow, soft circles over your clit as you ride down from your high, letting you crash gently instead of hard. “So goddamn beautiful when you come, baby.” His voice is rough with pride and possession, fingers releasing your hip to stroke lazy patterns over your stomach.

Your body collapses bonelessly, trembling in the aftershocks of what he just did to you - what he dragged out of you with ruthless precision. Your eyelids flutter open, hazy and half-lidded, your breath catching at the sound of his praise. He called you beautiful, said it like it was the gospel truth. You’re soft and pliant beneath him, like he has melted every rigid edge you picked up while he was gone.

Logan shrugs out of his hoodie before crawling back up your body, bracing himself over you like he can shield you from the whole damn world. He kisses you deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, marking your lips with his like he owns every breath you take. You moan into his mouth, sweet and sleepy and still so very turned on, your lips clinging to his like you never want to let go.

Only when he feels you relax does he slide one finger inside of you.

With just one thick finger, he stretches you wide, and you gasp, breaking the kiss with a shuddering breath. Your walls flutter around him, still sensitive from everything he’s done to you, but it feels so good you can’t help but push down slightly, urging him deeper.

You’re so damn tight, wrapped around him like silk and fire, and he can’t help but smirk against your lips. “Still so fuckin’ tight, princess.” His voice is thick with amusement. “Remember how you struggled takin’ all of me that night in the tub?” He flexes his finger slowly, deep, watching your reaction. 

Heat floods your cheeks, the memory rushing back in vivid flashes - steam, water droplets on your skin, his hands gripping your waist as you lowered yourself onto him inch by agonizing inch. You’d bitten your lip trying not to cry out from the overwhelming stretch of him, the way he filled you so completely.

“I…I wanted you too much to stop.” You say it like it’s still burning in your veins.

Logan curls his finger, dragging the pad over that spot inside you that makes your breath hitch - watching your face like he’s starved for every reaction, every flinch, every moan you try to swallow.

“You wanted me too much to stop…” He repeats it low, rough, like it’s the sexiest damn thing he’s ever heard. “Good girl.”

He presses his thumb against your clit, circling slow and punishing as he adds another finger, stretching you wider. “Hope you still want me that bad, doll.”

Your hips jerk upwards, a sharp gasp tearing free from your throat as his fingers hit that perfect, tortuous spot inside you. Your body responds instantly - clenching, throbbing, flooding with wet heat that coats his fingers and leaves you shamelessly slick beneath him.

The pressure of his thumb on your clit has you squirming, overwhelmed and hyper aware of every sensation, every whisper of touch that threatens to undo you all over again. You can feel tears pricking at the corners of your eyes - not from pain, but from the sheer intensity of it all, the way he touches you like he owns you, mind and body.

“I-I do…” The words fall from your lips, breathy and sincere, almost reverent in their quiet desperation. “I want you so bad, Logan.”

You say it like it’s a confession. Like you’re admitting you’re his, no matter how many times he tries to convince himself he doesn’t deserve you.

Logan smirks, slow and dirty, curling his fingers. “Bad enough to take more?” He drags his thumb in slow circles over your clit, adding just enough pressure to make you squirm, make you ache, make you beg. “Or you gonna fall apart on me again before I even get my pants off?”

Your breath stutters, caught halfway between a sob and a laugh, your cunt pulsing greedily around his fingers. You grab his forearm, clutching him like he’s the only solid thing left in a world that’s spinning wildly out of control. Every twitch of your body sings a hymn only he knows the words to. He can feel you getting close again - tightening, trembling, teetering on the edge.

A wicked grin comes across his face as he pushes a third finger deep inside you, stretching you even wider, watching your eyes roll back and your lips part on a breathless gasp.

“Soaked,” he murmurs, voice rough as sandpaper, as he starts to pump his fingers slow and deep, setting a rhythm that’s all his to control. “You feel so fuckin’ good, baby.” He rolls his wrist, hitting that spot inside you again - harder this time - while his thumb bears down on your clit, relentless. “Think you can take me now?’

Your vision blurs, white-hot pleasure lancing through you as his fingers move inside of you. A broken whimper, hips rocking against his hand, chasing everything he gives you. Your body screams for more, greedy, even as your muscles tense with the effort of keeping yourself from flying apart again.

“Yes-” You choke on the word, swallowing it, then forcing it out again, louder this time. “Yes, I can take you.” You say it like a dare.

Logan withdraws his fingers slowly, relishing the way you whimper at the sudden emptiness, before dragging them up your stomach, your chest, stopping just beneath your chin. Letting you see how wet you get. How much you want this. Want him.

He leans down, bracing himself over you, pressing his lips to yours. “You feel that, darlin’?” he murmurs against your mouth before trailing kisses along your jaw, your neck, your collarbone. “This ain’t just fuckin’.”

Your pulse races beneath his lips, hammering like a drum only he can hear, and you swear you feel every syllable he speaks settle into your bones, wrapping around the pieces of your heart you thought he had destroyed. This isn’t just fucking. No, this is something else entirely - something deeper, heavier, sacred in its ruin.

You lift your hand slowly, trembling fingers brushing through his hair. Your body still thrums for his touch, waiting, hungry for him.

“I feel it,” you whisper.

You look at him like he hung the damn moon. Like he’s something worth holding onto, even after everything he put you through.

Logan captures your hand in his, lacing your fingers together, pressing your palm flat against the hard ridge of his covered cock. Letting you feel exactly what you do to him. “You feel this, darlin’?” He grinds slowly against your hand, voice rough as hellfire and twice as sinful. “All for you.” He leans in, lips grazing the shell of your ear, breath hot. “No one else.”

Your breath hitches sharply, a shiver racing down your spine at the feel of him - thick, hard, pulsing against your palm like a promise. The raw certainty in his voice wraps around you like a chain, and you let out a quiet, needy sound that barely qualifies as a whimper.

He drags your palm up slowly, aligning it with his chest, right over the place where his heart pounds. He locks his gaze on yours, untried and open, no more walls left to hide behind. “Never leavin’ again.” There’s no deflection, no sarcasm, none of the usual masks he uses as shields. Just the truth. Heavy and real and terrifyingly beautiful.

Your fingertips press into him, feeling the wild rhythm beneath your palm, matching your own heartbeat in its urgency. Tears well in your eyes again, unchecked and unstoppable.

Logan stares down at you, drinking in the sight - flushed, trembling, crying like he’s the answer to every prayer you’ve whispered in the dark. He doesn’t deserve this. Doesn’t deserve you. But he’s selfish enough to take it anyway.

He kisses you again, slow and deep, before sitting back just enough to shove his pants down, exposing himself to you like it’s the first time. Hard. Aching. Ready.

You watch him - bare and breathtaking, carved from years of pain and survival, yet here. Here with you. For you. It should scare you how much power he holds over you, how easily he could destroy you again, but in this moment, all you see is the man who fits inside you like fate, who fills the hollow spaces no one else knew existed.

Your breath catches at the intimacy of it - the silence between you thick with promises neither of you may be able to keep, but offering them nonetheless. Your thighs open wider, inviting.

When he brushes your hair back, so gently, you close your eyes, leaning into his touch like a flower bending towards the sun. When you open them again, they’re steady on his, glassy but unwavering. You look at him like he’s something worth saving, worth fighting for. Like he’s not just a weapon, or a monster, or the guy who walked away when shit got too real.

Like he’s yours.

Logan tightens his jaw, swallowing back every damn regret that tries to claw its way up his throat. He can’t change the past. Can’t erase the damage he did. But he can do this. He can give you this.

He shifts slightly, settling between your legs, his cock lining up with your entrance, the heat of you soaking him like a second skin.

“Keep your eyes on me, baby.” He needs to see your eyes when he sinks inside you. Needs to watch you take him. Needs to see you want him.

The deep timbre of his voice alone threatens to unravel you, each word vibrating through you. Your breath quickens, anticipation tightening your stomach into knots as you obey his command, keeping your gaze on him. Your hands find his biceps, gripping tightly.

Logan presses forward slowly, letting the broad head of his cock breach your tight entrance, watching your face like he’s starved for every flicker of pleasure, every tiny grimace as you stretch to take him. “Tight as ever, doll.” He braces himself on one forearm, the other tangling in your hair, holding you steady as he starts to sink deeper, inch by excruciating inch. His eyelids flutter as he groans. “Tryin’ to be gentle, but Jesus, baby…”

Fire. That’s the only word that comes to mind - slow, molten fire as he pushes inside you, claiming space you swore was off-limits until he came roaring back into your life like a storm with nowhere to run. Your nails bite into his skin, your breath hitching painfully in your throat as your body fights between adjusting and demanding more.

Lashes fluttering rapidly, eyes glossy and unfocused. Full. God, he makes you feel so full. Too much. Exactly what you’ve missed.

Watching you take him - every inch, every painful, glorious second - is like witnessing something holy. He slows his thrusts to a tortuous crawl, letting you adjust, letting you feel every ridge, every heartbeat-throb as he sinks inside you.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, thumb brushing the corner of your eye where a stray tear clings to your lashes. “Takin’ all of me like you were made for this.” He tilts his hips just enough to hit deeper, watching your lips part on a breathless moan. “Made for me.”

He’s everywhere, filling you in ways you didn’t think were possible, stretching you apart and holding you together all at once. Your uninjured leg lifts slowly, wrapping around his hip, pulling him closer, urging him deeper.

He kisses you, stealing what little breath you have left, drugging your senses, melting the last of your resistance into nothing more than embers waiting to catch flame again. He tastes like sin and salvation, and you drink him greedily, tongue tangling with his like you’ve been starving for this exact moment.

Then he moves again - just a fraction - and you gasp into his mouth, your body arching beneath his, chasing the friction, craving more. So much more. “Logan…” Your cries spill out with every stroke - soft, desperate whimpers and sharp, breathy moans, each one a confession.

He doesn’t hold back anymore. He lets his hips pick up speed, still deep, still thorough, but now there’s an edge to it - raw, desperate, like he’s carving his name into your soul with every thrust. His cock slides in and out of you like it was made for this, for you, for the way your pussy grips him like it never wants to let go.

“You feel so damn good,” he growls against your lips. “Keep lookin’ at me, baby.”

You force your eyes open, locking onto his with a mixture of submission and worship, your pupils blown wide with desire. The intensity of his gaze feels like another layer of pressure building inside you - one you’re not sure you can survive, but God, you’d die trying.

Each thrust drives the air from your lungs, every growled word from his lips sending shivers racing down your spine. “Yes…yes, Logan…” Your fingers dig into his shoulders as your hips rise to meet his.

Everytime you say his name, it’s like a match to gasoline - burning hotter, driving him deeper, making him want to ruin you over and over just to hear it again. He slams into you, watching your lips part on a choked-off cry, feeling your body arch like a bowstring ready to snap.

“That’s it, baby,” he grits out, one hand sliding down to grip your hip, holding you steady as he drives into you harder, faster. “Take all of me.” His free hand slides between you, thumb finding your clit and rubbing slow circles.

Your mouth falls open in a soundless cry, your entire body tensing beneath him as your core tightens violently around his thickness, pulsing around the aftershocks of something greater than pleasure alone. Your nails drag down his back, trembling fingers catching the curve of his spine as you struggle to breathe, to think, to exist outside of what he’s doing to you.

When his thumb finds your swollen nub, circling slowly and deliberately amidst the chaos of his thrusts, you nearly scream. You come apart like a symphony only he knows the notes to - every twitch of your body, every broken cry, every desperate squeeze of your cunt around his cock feeding the fire in his veins. Watching you lose control like this - wild and unrestrained and utterly his - makes something vicious and proud swell in his chest.

“Beautiful,” Logan growls, thumb pressing firmer against your clit as he pounds into you harder, faster, like he’s trying to erase every second he wasted being anywhere but here. “So goddamn beautiful, baby.”

Your hips jerk helplessly against his hand, against his cock, chasing every pulse of sensation like you’re drowning and he’s the only thing keeping you alive. Air leaves your lungs in ragged bursts, your vision blurring as your climax crashes over you.

Logan takes it all, takes all of you. Every shattered whisper, every drop of pleasure wrung out of you with his hands, his mouth, his cock.

He leans down, capturing your lips in a kiss. “You’re mine,” he murmurs against your mouth.

“All of this-” he thrusts deep, slow, letting you feel every inch of his thick cock inside you, “-is mine.”

You arch beneath him one last time before collapsing into the floor with a shuddering sigh. Your leg falls off of his hip. He stays buried deep inside you, surrounded by your heat, your scent, the soft, satisfied tremors that ripple through you with every breath.

He holds himself up on one elbow, brushing a damp strand of hair away from your face, studying you like he’s trying to memorize every flicker of contentment behind your tired eyes. “You okay, darlin’?” His thumb strokes slow circles over your hip bone.

You let out a soft, breathy laugh, weak and warm and utterly sated, your eyelids drooping lazily under the weight of exhaustion and bliss. Your body feels heavy, boneless. “Mmm…better than okay.”

You open your eyes just enough to meet his gaze, searching it softly before murmuring, “Come inside me, Logan.”

You say it like it’s a gift. An invitation. A command he never thought he’d hear again.

He tightens his jaw, swallowing back a surge of something ugly and possessive. His hips start moving again, slow and deep, dragging every last shiver out of you before he lets himself go.

“Fuck, baby…” He grits his teeth, fingers tightening on your hip as he slams into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt and letting you have it all.

“Mine,” he growls, pressing his forehead to yours as he spills inside of you, marking you. “Always mine.”

Your breathing slows beneath him, slow and steady, your body limp and warm like you’ve finally let go of every fear, every worry, every ghost that kept you up at night. He doesn’t pull out, not yet. Just stays curled over you, sheltering you from the world, from the cold, from anything that might try to touch what’s his.

He presses a kiss to your temple, his thumb still tracing idle circles on your hip like he’s trying to draw his name into your skin. “You gonna fall asleep, darlin’?”

You hum. “Mmmhm…but don’t you dare move.”

A rumble of quiet laughter vibrates in his chest, rough and low, as he carefully shifts to wrap an arm around your waist, pulling you closer. His nose nuzzles against the side of your head and he breathes you in - vanilla, sweat, sex, and something purely you that he could never put into words.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmurs against your hair. “Sleep, darlin’. I got you.”

You fall asleep quickly, your body nestled against his, breath soft and even, every little sigh a melody only Logan is allowed to hear. He doesn’t close his eyes - not yet. Can’t risk missing a second of this.

You’re the kind of woman a man sins for. Not because you tempted him into the darkness, but because you made him crave the fire, even when he knew it would burn. You’re grace wrapped in temptation, forgiveness dressed in lace and danger. And Logan? He’s a bastard who doesn’t deserve you, but he’ll kill anyone who tries to take you away from him.

He presses another kiss to your forehead, fingers tracing slow lines down your arm like he’s writing vows he isn’t yet brave enough to say out loud.

“Sleep tight, princess.”

He lets his other arm drape loosely around you, shielding you, anchoring you, promising without words that he’s not going anywhere. Not tonight. Not ever again.

He’s done running.

[enbycrip]

On TDOV, a historian’s perspective on the transphobic nonsense some people spout about bones, burials and gender.

We have been finding burials of gender divergent folk and folk outside the binary since we started any form of organised study of archaeology. The 18th and 19th century European and European-derived archaeologists who didn’t recognise that were the ignorant ones, assuming their definitions of gender were “universal”. Including within the binary; their definitions were deeply reductionist and deeply inaccurate, failing to recognise that even societies they actively claimed some form of cultural descent from had very different definitions of what a “man” or “woman” was from theirs.

Notably, they came from a *very* colonialist society that was doing its best to destroy living cultures with fuller definitions of gender than it allowed. We are still living in a framework of repairing the damage they did in how we understand past cultures, and modern media is frequently very unhelpful on how it reports on discoveries and interpretations, erasing or flattening the huge element of interpretation and uncertainty involved even with the exciting level of data that new techniques can give us on any given site.

Anyone who takes even a cursory look into bioarchaeology will find out that “sexing” bones - which every modern archaeologist knows is at best one element in gendering the person they belonged to - is *incredibly* fucking difficult. A lot of the techniques for it involve measuring proportions of anatomical features that may well not be present - it’s rare for a specimen to be intact. And, frankly - humans are a spectrum in every physical feature. Height, weight, bone density, width of shoulders and pelvis etc etc. Cheaper and more widespread DNA testing is slowly making more people realise that chromosomes aren’t the final word they were told in first year high school biology either. For the remains of people from some cultures, we have some written history to cross-reference archaeology with about the meanings of artefacts. In others, we don’t - and even when we do, half the time what we have is the interpretation of two lines from some dude from a different culture altogether, or from an aside in a religious tract, or a recipe book.

Almost every older specimen we have has been reinterpreted multiple times. Probably the oldest remains as yet found in the UK, from circa 31,000 BCE based on current best estimates, were known as “the Red Lady of Paviland” because they were dyed red with ochre, and the person who found them in 1832 decided from that fact and fact that there was jewellery found with them that they belonged to a female Roman-era sex worker. From around 200 years more work, and considerably more data, we now interpret them as having belonged to a male hunter-gatherer, likely from a nomadic or semi-nomadic people who frequently lived much closer to the coast than the place in Wales where the remains were found. We do not have the information about this person’s culture, how their culture viewed gender, the pronouns their language used and if they related to gender; this was minimum 20,000 years before and on the other side of the world from the oldest writing we have as yet found. We are putting data together and interpreting as best we can, with the awareness that there could be a discovery tomorrow that could utterly change that.

I’m sorry if this seems an obscure topic to address for TDOV, but I do know how this idea of “the bones don’t lie” has got into plenty of folks’ heads when they are having a bad time. So I wanted to address the fact that not only is it bawbins, the entire series of assumptions it posits is bawbins of the type that TERFs and transphobes, like racists, misogynists, and fascists in general, like to spew out there - that gender, or indeed race, is biological, fixed, and essential, that their understandings of it are “fact-based”, and that science is a series of fixed, immutable facts that are just lying there like stones on a beach.

And all of that is complete and utter bawbins.

Gender, and race, like all human frameworks of knowledge and understanding, are constructs - tools we use to understand a ridiculously complex and difficult world. They may *reference* objective facts, but are not in *themselves* facts. None of which means they aren’t incredibly meaningful or don’t have massive impacts on our experiences as humans. But they are mutable, ever-evolving, and incredibly open to constant interpretation and re-definition, and while your individual experience of them will be mediated by your culture, it’s also unique to you too.

No one else’s definition of your gender can *ever* be more accurate than yours. Because it is *yours*.

Happy Trans Day of Visibility, everyone 🏳️‍⚧️💛🤍🖤💜🩷🤍💙

[unironicallytes]

✨📜 A Mostly Very Specific Elder Scrolls OC Ask Game 📜✨

I wanted to talk about my TES OCs, so I threw together an Ask Game - anyone can use it, so play to your heart's content if you feel inclined! Remember to indicate if you have multiple OCs that can be asked about. I hope you have fun with it!

What era(s) is your OC from?

What is your OC’s birthsign? Does it affect the way they live their life?

What is your OC’s race and cultural heritage? Are they multiracial?

How old is your OC? Is their age typical for their race, or are they an outlier?

What is your OC's first language? Do they know any others?

Does your OC have any formal education? Via what organization, if so?

What province does your OC currently live in?

Does your OC tend to live on the road, or do they tend to settle in one place?

What is your OC’s current primary living space? Ex: a house, a mansion, an alley, a dormitory, campsites, etc.

How does your OC decorate their primary living space?

What does your OC's daily/nightly schedule look like? Do they have any routines?

Which different provinces has your OC visited? If they haven't visited any others, do they have a particular place they'd like to go?

Can your OC ride a mount? If so, what do they ride?

At what age did your OC leave their hometown and why? Or have they never left?

Has your OC ever been to the sea? Is it mundane or remarkable to them?

Can your OC swim? Do they like or dislike it?

Does your OC have a living family? What is/was their relationship like?

Does your OC have a companion, romantic or otherwise? How did they meet?

How easily does your OC make friends?

How does your OC earn money? How much does money affect their life?

What skill lines does your OC primarily excel at? Which ones are they weak in?

Is your OC passionate about an area of study? What got them into the topic?

What are your OC's opinions on vampires and werewolves? Do they belong to one of those groups? If so, what is their opinion on vampire/werewolf clans?

What moral boundaries does your OC have? Have they ever crossed them? What happened?

What are your OC’s religious beliefs? How strong is their faith?

How does the game’s main plot affect your OC’s life? (ex: Skyrim = civil war and dragons; Oblivion = Oblivion crisis; etc.)?

Your OC runs into some bandits on the road. Does your OC comply with their demands, fight them off, flee the area, or etc.?

Somewhere in a town your OC has frequented, another character mentions their name in conversation. What reactions do others have to your OC’s reputation? Does your OC even have a reputation, or do they fly under the radar?

Your OC sits down at a tavern. What food/drink are they ordering?

While walking through town, your OC is approached by a beggar asking for some gold. How does your OC respond?

Your OC is packing for a day-long trip on the road. What is in their travel bag?

A guard has confronted your OC, suspecting that they've broken the law in some way. What offense is your OC most likely to be accused of? Did they actually do it?

Your OC has just woken up from a horrible nightmare. What was it about?

Your OC feels that they are about to die. What are their last words, and to whom do they speak them to?

After miraculously surviving a near-death experience, your OC regains consciousness. What are the first words out of their mouth, and to whom do they speak them to?

[fruithoughts]

NCT AS ADDAMS FAMILY.

members included: jeno, jaemin, taeyong, yuta, mark, jaehyun, ten and kun.

cw: multiple possessive and slightly derogatory pet names, smut? kind of?, VERY suggestive, mentions of jealousy and possessive behaviour, losers in love, creepy behaviour in the end of jaehyun's segment, poly, religious references.

— Gomez!Kun who gets a little too angry whenever any of the boys(with the exception of M!Ten) insist on leaving his sweetheart's neck full of angry, possessive purple marks, his princess is HIS, and whoever has the privilege of being allowed to do so much as touch her, should treat her as what she is, someone else’s most precious possession which ultimately doesn't belong to them.

— Gomez!Kun who only allows the boys to touch her at all because if there's something the many centuries of living in this dark mansion has proved him, is that they’re the only men in this world, other than himself, who are deserving of being around his angel.

— Gomez!Kun who sometimes gets too jealous and considers taking away everybody's "touching the princess" privileges, but stops entertaining the idea as soon as he considers how much she likes them because he would rather force himself to ignore his possessive tendencies than to see his sweet girl upset over something he did.

— Gomez!Kun who only allows his pup into his office so he can keep an eye on her somewhere he knows nobody else in the house would dare to come in, they know better. Who bought a fluffy white rug and a vintage pink armchair to put in the middle of his big office, right in front of his desk, so he could watch his lovely petal waste the afternoon away watching things on her phone or reading a book, all his to watch, all his to use and break, all his to keep on his lap while he’s working late at night, all his.

— Morticia!Ten who woke up in tears in the middle of the night because he had a nightmare about God himself coming down to take their angel away from them and back to heaven, claiming that it was a mistake that she fell on earth in the first place and now he's taking her back.

— Morticia!Ten was in such distress he didn't even think before holding her closer and quickly started pounding his sweet puppy into oblivion, leaving scratches, bites, bruises and handprints all over her beautiful body as a desperate attempt to make her unholy, if there was anything about his girl that made her deserving of ever witnessing the golden gates, there wouldn't be anymore, not after he was done with her.

— Morticia!Ten who pays for a whole new closet to be built and added to the master bedroom(which belongs to him, his princess and G!Kun) all because he loves to dress her up in all kinds of pretty gowns that just won't fit in one closet, so he makes another.

— Morticia!Ten who clicks his tongue in fake disgust whenever he holds his angel’s chin and judges her bright and cute makeup, who tells her that she should ask him for help to do darker makeup instead of ruining the family’s aesthetic. Who smiles to himself when his doll sticks her little pink tongue out at him and calls him a “toxic goth” for bothering her about her style.

— Morticia!Ten who secretly adores her cute makeup and even gets off to the fact that she’s so different from everyone in the house, but will keep bothering her about her looks until she ultimately goes to him to ask for help on doing a darker makeup look, then he’ll be able to sit his princess on his lap and look at her adorable face while doing the very same makeup he puts on himself everyday on her instead, his own little twisted way of making her his, even if she doesn’t even realize.

— Gomez’s Brother!Jaehyun who was so cautious about the family’s new “pet”(who was only considered for the family until G!Kun and M!Ten decided to claim her as their girl, less than a week after she arrieved in the mansion) and was so sure that her personality was all for show and it wouldn’t take more than a month for her to lose her mind with the dynamics of their home, ultimately letting her true self shine through. Who got, oh, so bitter when he realized he could not have been more incorrect in his judgements.

— Gomez’s Brother!Jaehyun who becomes intoxicated with affection for this girl to the point he keeps traveling around for "no specific reason", the real motive being to prevent him from becoming as dependent of her as the others in the house. He misses her a lot when he’s away, but knowing his and his brother's temper, it’s for the best that he doesn’t get too attached to her, sick possessiveness runs on the family.

— Gomez’s Brother!Jaehyun who buys her cute trinkets in all of his travels, who goes to every single vintage shop in and out of sight to get her unique things from everywhere around the world, things she couldn’t have get from anyone else. Who gets all warm and fuzzy when he comes home and hears the girl’s fast footsteps coming down stairs to see him.

— Gomez’s Brother!Jaehyun who messages her on a daily basis, knowing damn well most of the old souls of his family refuse to use phones regularly, especially to talk to people inside their own home, he knows she is always free when it comes to messaging him, so he takes advantage of that.

— Gomez’s Brother!Jaehyun who gets not-so-innocently excited when she texts him “yeah!! i’m free to call :D” so cute, he could destroy her, but unfortunately she girl isn’t truly his to break. Who swears that his phone’s camera isn’t working properly and that’s why he won’t turn it on, lying straight out of his teeth while he gets off to her sweet voice in the most silent way he can manage.

— Pet Servant!Mark who was not expecting to see a person coming home with his bosses after they told the whole house that they were "going out on a mission to find the perfect family pet". Who was not disappointed or appalled by the surprise either. Of course he had many actual animals to care for, The Adams had snakes, cats, dogs, rodents, fishes, they had just about any thing that could show some sort of life in the house, but the girl was sure a fun new addition to his daily routine.

— Pet Servant!Mark who takes full advantage of the fact she loves animals to easily scoop her away all for himself for the whole day whenever he starts the morning taking care of the snakes, she loves them but no one other than M!Ten is allowed in the snake’s area, no one other than PS!Mark, who feeds them, cleans their spaces and makes sure they stay healthy. Who mindlessly breaks one of his very few rules by bringing her into the snakes area because she likes them.

— Pet Servant!Mark who allows her to change the pet’s collars to pretty pink bows for long just enough for her to take cute pictures of them, then he changes it back to their black leather collars with big spikes. Who sits in the garden with her the whole day while claiming that he’s “watching out for the dogs”, he isn’t, he rarely remenbers they're even there. Who has decided that his favorite part of the day is the sweet kisses he gets to have with The Adam's Pretty Girl as soon as the sun starts fading out.

— Pet Servant!Mark who spends the rainy days with her lounging in The Adam's big living room, him slouched on the couch, hands massaging her soft(and often sore) thighs resting right above his own while she reads a book, both enjoying comfortable silence.

+ thing!yuta has a normal body, his hand is just detachable +

— Thing!Yuta who wasn't very excited about his new toy when G!Kun and M!Ten walked into the house, only to be pleasantly surprised by the sight of a beautiful girl in a pretty skirt instead of some smelly animal. Who as soon as he realized just how sweet and pure said girl was, decided to become her living nightmare.

— Thing!Yuta who once overheard M!Ten refering to her as “his marionette” and decided that’s the only nickname he would ever call her, shamelessly stealing her actual owner’s little pet name, just like he would shamelessly steal his girl the second he had a chance of doing so, the chance would never come, he knew it, but a man can be delusional every once in a century.

— Thing!Yuta who did it all, said all kinds of vulgar things to tease her out of nowhere, all of the things that made his pretty baby's snap her, usually all marked up, neck at him in dangerous speeds. Who always laughed at her big reactions and found it hilarious she behaved so innocently even after all of the filthy things they’ve done with her, all of the filthy things they've done to her.

— Thing!Yuta who sneaks his detached hand on her multiple times a day just to scare her because he's bored. Who everytime she complained about him scaring her made sure to remind his dear marionette just how much she loved his "magic hand" whenever he and W!Jaemin played with her.

— Thing!Yuta who daily fantasies about the possibility of using his special hand to touch his pretty girl while she’s with someone entirely, the idea of him not even being in the same room as her but still being the reason behind her sweet little sounds just made him go a little bit insane, he hasn’t had the courage to talk with her or his house members about it yet, he will eventually, it's bound to happen.

— Manservant!Taeyong who was just so, so shy as soon as her pretty face showed up in the door, he was so scared of her. This poor thing who never thought of himself as presentable or handsome, was just so embarrassed of doing so much as being in the same room as her, when he noticed that despite his distant behavior she continuously kept trying to talk to him, he gave up on hiding and faced world's scariest monster, who just so happens to also be world's prettiest girl.

— Manservant!Taeyong who went out his way to start reading books so he would have something to talk about with the pretty girl instead of just listening to her rambles, as much as he enjoyed them, he wanted nothing more than for her to find him interesting, cool even, it was his dream.

— Manservant!Taeyong who opened up about feeling insecure in comparison to the other men in the house and listened very carefully as she explained to him that he was just as handsome as them, the only difference was that they had a very specific style which fit them well, and they took advantage of it.

— Manservant!Taeyong who went around all smiley with his precious girl to the mall in search for things he liked, who was confident enough to joke with her and was just SO giddy when she laughed. Who had trouble falling asleep because his brain keeps replaying all of their sweet moments together that day. Who after a while starts having trouble falling asleep because his mind keeps replaying all of their sinful memories that make his mouth water and his body shake.

— Manservant!Taeyong who years after the arrival of his dear girl looked almost unrecognizable, multiple tattoos and some piercings here and there, who started dressing with clothes he liked instead of the work clothes he was used to, so much more talkative, much more of a goofball, a proud goofball. Who actually had conversations with the people of the house and felt like a part of their family. And her, god, he adores her. His sweet little thing, who he leans down to multiple times a day so she can hold his face with her pretty hands and place a thousand kisses on his cheeks.

— Wednesday!Jaemin who was convinced upon first sight that he would have to ignore her constantly and was so sure she would be nothing but a huge pain in his ass with her pink clothes and her shiny hair that looked so soft and smelled so good. She smelled good all the time, it annoyed him, spending such a long time inside meant he was pretty much used to the same 7 smells for such a long time. Then this lil kitten turned human shows up with her pretty kissable face and plush red lips and long sparkly nails and the sugary tone of her voice and… Oh, oh no. He likes her.

— Wednesday!Jaemin who kept telling her to stop following him everywhere after he mysteriously started showing up in all of her favorite places in the mansion, who dreamed that at some point she would like him enough to follow him around like she did with her owners.

— Wednesday!Jaemin who discovers a new side of himself while he teases her alongside T!Yuta. He, who was always the reserved, quiet one of their friendship, had seemed to have found a new passion in bothering their favorite girl, as time went on he became louder and louder and the boys seemed to be amused, watching him change into someone else right in front of their eyes, that was, until he started bothering them as well.

— Wednesday!Jaemin who somehow always ends up being her little toy that she walks around with through the whole mansion the entire day because once they hold hands for some reason in the morning, he simply doesn’t have the heart to let go and just allows her to drag him like a ragdoll while pretending to be annoyed, he secretly loves it. Who keeps telling her every single scary story that comes to his mind(or that he makes up at the spot) only to not-so-discreetly offer his companion to protect her when the night comes around.

— Wednesday!Jaemin who gets pathetically addicted to her, her scent, her voice, the feeling of her hand on his, the feeling of her lips on his, the feeling of her body on his, he’s long gone. Who takes far too much pride in being the person G!Kun and M!Ten allow to sleep with their precious doll on the all too rare occasions that they aren’t home. He spends these glorious days teasing her about experimenting with group intimacy, said experiment would be kept as their little secret. Nothing actually happens, he knows that their girl is far too obedient and would be telling her owners about everything as soon as they arrived back home, but a boy can dream.

— Bodyguard!Jeno who was, at the very least, really confused when he arrived to pick up M!Ten to his monthly trip to town’s fanciest mall and said man walked out of his mansion not only with his husband, but also with someone else, someone new. His bosses didn’t give him much information about her, they had always been secretive so it came as no surprise, they only told him that she was a new addi(c)tion to the family, therefore, outside of the mansion; she was under his protection too.

— Bodyguard!Jeno who found all too amusing just how gentle yet undeniably obsessed his bosses managed to act around their new found passion, he wondered what was it about her that would make these well put together men act like feral dogs protecting their territory. Who just after his second ever encounter with The Adam’s girl, got his answer. He, who barely spoke to his bosses during all these years of serving them, found himself laughing comfortably and even engaging in her never stopping rambles.

— Bodyguard!Jeno who allows her to doll him up while they hang out in his parked car in front of the mansion, ready to go home, but not wanting to just yet. Who lets her put sparkly shades all over his face and test different lip combos with her newly bought makeup, who plans on letting his hair grow a little bit so she can play with his hair like she does with T!Yuta, he’s sure that she does it with M!Ten as well but he’s never seen it.

— Bodyguard!Jeno who shoves information about all kinds silly things she likes in the boy’s group chat, any movies she mentions, any new style she’s looking into, any new interests at all, they all do it but he does it the most selflessly for sure, the others hide most of the important information they get from her to use for their own advantage.

— Bodyguard!Jeno who doesn’t allow himself to be delusional when it comes to The Adams’s girl. He knows that at the end of the day his little shot of a expresso of a person isn’t truly his, nor will she ever be, he’s fine with that, as long as he keeps his head in place and doesn’t let himself fall into the dreamland(which she proves time and time again to be quite the challenge), he’ll be fine and she’ll be safe, and that’s what matter the most.

[plaidos]

I am a transmasc, and I have kinda been struggling with a question that I obviously don't wanna ask any other transmasc cause I can't trust them to not be biased, but I also am afraid to ask my transfem friends because I don't want them to feel bad about it. I've been feeling pretty weird about my social place and responsibilities in multiple friends groups that are majority trans women. I sometimes get scared that my transfem friends are like, too comfortable around me and might not understand the threat that I pose to them. I hear a lot of stories about transfems who don't know what's being done to them until it's too late, and I don't want to condemn my friends to that fate, but I also don't want to treat them like they don't know any better. For this reason, I sometimes feel like it's my responsibility to subtly encourage them to pursue transfem-exclusive spaces, and from there they might organically integrate into a social system that is safer for them, so they won't feel like they need me and other TMEs for social connection.

At the same time, I've been feeling actively more avoidant of the two other transmascs that I know. I kinda feel like transmascs are "invaders" in some way, and that it's my responsibility to actively push other transmascs away from trans communities, and encourage them to further push even more out. I don't feel like transmascs really belong there, as they take up space and offer nothing to trans people as a whole, and that further fuels my thoughts on encouraging transfems to pursue places that don't have us in them.

The one time I brought a portion of this up with a transfem friend, she seemed to think this was some kind of self harm, and that I shouldn't pursue this. I'd normally be inclined to agree with her on these things, but I feel like if she'd been massively abused by transmascs like most other transfems, she'd probably feel differently.

For months, I have constantly debated with myself over whether these thought processes are just or if they are flawed. Were I not so limited in my mode of talking about this personal issue, I certainly wouldn't have come to tumblr about it. It definitely doesn't feel good to make a transfem feel like she needs to play teacher just for this one problem, but I've gotten a bit desperate. If there's a better place to talk about this problem, do let me know!

there’s a lot to talk about & unpack in your ask, but i think the first and most important thing to remember is that being male (whether you’re a cis guy or a trans guy) isn’t like this inherent sin or danger (and indeed no serious transfeminist is suggesting these things i promise you lol); indeed the things that are dangerous are the power structures & how they encourage, reproduce & justify potential abuse rather than the individuals, right? when you see transfems talking about the abuse they’ve experienced (& that has been justified & normalised by the world around us) from transmascs, you shouldn’t internalise that as inherent to transmascs interacting with transfems (because this too justifies & enables it by acting as though it is inevitable) but rather reflect on what social power structures & beliefs have encouraged & enabled this abuse to take place.

it sounds to me like you’re mired in a lot of personal guilt problems (or it seems that way from somebody who chronically suffers with that due to a religious upbringing) and getting that mixed up with politics. if you’re in a lot of spaces that are mostly filled with transfems, then the chances are most likely they feel safe and comfortable to have you around.

saying this as kindly as possible: you might wanna reread what you’ve said here with the phrase “white knight” in mind. we categorically don’t need transmascs being our bouncers, we don’t need to be protected by you unless you’re being like asked explicitly to walk one of us home etc, we need solidarity with you, to be seen on the same level & listened to, not looked over like a flock of sheep.

if you wanna really really be helpful to transfems as a group you can start by doing some transfeminist reading — that will help you more effectively recognise the mechanisms that enable transmisogyny, which thus in turn helps you recognise if/when you or people around you are benefiting/disbenefiting from those systems & how to prevent & mitigate that when it’s within your power. if your doll friends aren’t already on transfeminism you could even (as non condescendingly as possible) share quotes and snippets from the texts you’re reading that you think they’d think were interesting or relevant to them etc.

remember to be in conversation with us. we’re all from the same planet

[holy-puckslibrary]

━ 𝐁𝐋𝐔𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐈𝐀𝐍.

main masterlist

pairing(s) — MITCH MARNER x reader (est. relationship) wc — 4.5k synopsis — think hilary duff’s balcony engagement circa 2007

note — this belongs to the i don't remember this bar collection

specific content warnings below the cut.

cw — profanity and other vulgar language, taking the lord’s name in vain + other religious-ish imagery, oral sex (m receiving), unprotected PIV intercourse (multiple) + creampie/breeding kink, discussion/thoughts of cum play, outdoor sex and mention of previous exhibitionism, mention of previous choking + breath play (f!reader receiving), pain kink situation (both), one line of blood play (f!reader receiving), justified violence (not directed at reader!!!), slight d/s dynamics, and possessive!mitch being a domestic little horndog

“Before we talk about that beautiful, game-tying goal in the tail-end of the second and your overall command of the offensive zone throughout tonight’s game, I first want to congratulate you on some major life news. A few weeks belated; my apologies.

For those who don’t know, you came back from the All-Star break with more than just a tan; you came back with—and as—a fiancé.”

Mitch does nothing to dim his megawatt smile or to dull the sparkle in his eyes. The mere mention of you coaxes out an impossibly giddier version of himself, unencumbered by the stress and pressure of a waning season. It’s always been that way.

It's difficult to remember a time before you. He doesn't want to.

Despite of meeting on arguably one of the worst nights of his life, somehow, all he feels when the memory rises to the surface of his mind is joy.

He remembers your laughter, warm and buoyant, and the way the low light painted flattering shadows across your kind face as you spoke animatedly about your passions and dreams. He remembers being treated like a person before anything else, not some character in a video game or a pawn in someone else’s fantasy league, and he recalls your fervent, genuine interest in his off-ice hobbies. Not once did you ask anything invasive or demand he share more than he was willing.

Nor did you fish for tickets.

For Mitch, privacy was paramount, and the sentiment echoed throughout your lengthy relationship. It was your through-line, and it should’ve blanketed the intimate proposal in safety.

He gets hot under the collar just thinking about it.

Mitch will entertain the host’s questions to an extent. Because, despite his insistence on privacy, he will never pass up an opportunity to sing your praises or brag about his luck.

“Did you bring anything else back? Any special souvenir to commemorate such a momentous occasion?”

Mitch is instantly hard, his pale cheeks ablaze, eternally grateful that the camera is filming from the chest up.

Carried in on a warm evening breeze, the evocation is so palpable he can taste the blue curaçao on his tongue and feel its muted burn in the back of his throat. The air smells of pineapple and your fragrant shampoo, a comforting scent that clings to him like a second skin. The phantom of your touch sends a shiver down the expanse of his sore, sweat-drenched back.

“—holy fuck.”

The crinkled, two-word curse tumbles from Mitch’s mouth with little effort.

Every modicum of tact was either battling against the warm rum coursing through his body or fighting to keep his guttural, damning moans at bay.

They are getting hot and heavy on a patio, after all.

Mitch knows this isn’t smart. He knows he should’ve moved the celebration indoors, that he should've waited until you were curtained in safety to give in to his desire and your wandering hands.

He knows, he knows, he knows.

The problem is he just doesn’t care.

Mitch wasn’t about to delay the appreciative mouth of the woman he was going to make his wife, not even for a second.

Even if she dropped to her knees with only a hedge to play look-out. A line of decorative foliage is their first and final defense, the leaves carelessly swaying between them and the rest of the luxury resort he booked for All-Star weekend.

It’s difficult to make sound decisions when the hand wrapped around your cock is newly weighed down by five carats.

The dazzling rock shines proudly in the concluding rays of a setting sun. Glittery and perfect, like the woman who wears it.

Mitch hisses when the tip taps the back of your throat for the first time that night. The sensitive skin melts into your tongue like an ice cube, the creamy droplets of anticipation swallowed greedily by your ravenous mouth. He sees stars in the cotton candy sky peeking through the palm trees.

It hasn’t been that long; his day began with your nose nuzzled against his pelvis, his head limp against the cool tile of the shower a few feet away.

When it comes to you, nothing is ever enough to curb his appetite.

Always needy, never satiated—a pair of perverted peas in a pod.

Your tongue repeats the delicious motion it had previously, too, lazily tracing along the underside of his length until he’s whimpering with no regard for anything besides spilling himself down your throat. He feels you smile around his thickness, pleased by the ease of his undoing. You were damn good; you deserved to be proud.

In all honesty, it took very little effort on your part to make him weak in both his knees and in his resolve.

However, there was a special kind of magic in your pretty face, now dusted by a salty sheen, nestled against his taut abdomen, his cock engulfed by the vice-grip of your throat.

Mitch is close already.

White-hot sparks descend through his quads and calves to zap his sandy toes. Electrified, his hips sputter of their own volition, but like the godsend you are, you accommodate every jolt and tilt in stride.

With one hand braced against his hip and the other gently massaging the heavy weight of his balls cradled in your palm, you peer up at him through a fan of fluttering lashes.

He whines—at the mischievous glint in your glassy eyes or the bite of your manicure as you sink your nails into his burnt skin, he can’t be sure.

Some of your fingers curl into the nasty bruise eating up his lower back, the by-product of a gruesome communion with the ice a few days prior. Sharp nails nip at the fragile skin. Mitch doesn’t know if the twinge of pain was intentional on your part, but he loves it either way. Perhaps a little too much, he thinks to himself as he twitches violently in your grasp.

And perhaps you aren't the only one with a masochistic streak. It's clear from the heaviness of your lids the converse applies to you.

His sweetheart's sick and sadistic. He's never been prouder.

“Get off,” he husks. Abruptly, he steps out from your embrace.

In retrospect, Mitch could’ve been nicer about it. At that moment, however, he was far too desperate for chivalry.

Staring down at your wide, despondent eyes—a pup deprived of her favorite bone—your fiancé amends, “Calm down, sweetheart. I’ll give it back soon. There’s no way in hell I’m wasting a load in your mouth when I know how good your pussy feels around my cock.”

Heat scales Mitch’s spine as he spreads you wide open against the chaise. Your folds glow brighter than the jewelry on your left hand.

With the tip of his finger, he tests the waters. Gingerly, at first, like he's still unsure you'll be able to take him. That charade hardly lasts, but tonight, it's barely a blip.

Your body eagerly welcomes the attention, mouthing at him before sucking the touch past the taut, elastic ring of your entrance. Your faint groans elicited by the intrusion harmonize so sweetly, so perfectly, that Mitch’s eyes fall shut in tranquil bliss.

When your hips rock against his palm, they snap open.

Blinking at him hard and fast, your teeth sink into your bottom lip, turning the plushness a sickly shade of pink—of desperation. Tears crowd your lash line but never cascade down your shiny cheeks; they, like you, are impatiently waiting for reprimand.

Mitch almost laughs. You did jump the gun, so he can't fault you for expecting the corresponding punishment. But it's a special occasion—you're celebrating, so it never manifests.

And Mitch wants to do more than just spank you silly. Plenty of time for that later. A lifetime's worth of it.

Instead, with the flick of his wrist, Mitch encourages you to take your pleasure.

The subtle, tantalizing movements, building in speed and ferocity with each pass, beckon him forward until his sunburnt skin is close enough to burn yours. Feeling you beneath him, feeling his weight rest against your body, feels better than heaven, and he’s barely started.

Like before, Mitch is painfully aware he won’t be able to last long. Judging by how silky-slick you are against his palm, you won’t be either.

With his free hand, he catches your jaw and, with little resistance, tilts your head to keep your gaze from straying. Your mouth falls open when he slips another finger inside. Mitch grins down at your lust-blown pupils and the feel of your hot breath against his lips. He leans down and licks into your idle mouth. A third finger causes your bottom lip to tremble between his and your forehead to ease, every little muscle going soft and pliant between the cushion and his chest.

“Atta girl,” Mitch praises. His lips press briefly to your cheek before beginning their descent along your throat. The touch is featherlight and sends a shiver down your spine, coaxing your chest further into his. “—love seeing you like this, all beautiful and open. And all fucking mine.”

Mitch wouldn't necessarily consider himself a territorial person, and he can't recall ever feeling possessive of a partner. Until he met you.

It had nothing to do with trust or a lack thereof; you were his the minute your eyes met through the crowd, and you reassured him of that fact constantly. It was never you that needed a reminder—it was everybody else.

The men who openly leer at you from every corner of Scotiabank Arena. The NHL hopefuls in your Instagram comments shamelessly flirting as if he didn’t exist or wasn’t in the photo, too. The unprofessional commentators who found ways to sneak in a lecherous comment or two under the guise of camaraderie whenever they spoke about his prowess.

You weren’t some object to be won or bought. You made a choice, and he’d make sure they knew and respected it.

Sure, the engagement ring will aid in this up-hill endeavor, but a little due diligence never hurt either.

“Tonight, it's gonna take. I’m making damn sure of that, sweetheart.”

Your walls squeeze his digits in recognition. Mitch chuckles, dark and dry, against your shoulder. You might like the implication more than he does.

You two weren’t trying, but you weren’t not trying either. Seeing you wearing his ring—the one he picked and purchased—kicked him down a perverted spiral. Flipped the last switch, cut the final cord. He wanted to complete the picture. He wanted to give those good-for-nothing losers one more reason to keep their mouths shut and their eyes to themselves.

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you? Love for me to fill you in a way that’ll last? C’mon, sweetheart, tell me what you want. Tell me how badly you want to be stuffed full of me, how much your pussy needs it—how badly you want to be heavy and swollen with my kid."

Mitch tends to your clit, keeping you borderline incoherent as he tickles your ears with more filth before you can reply to the first goading.

Your eventual responses are muffled by a long, primal whine.

When he has you swaying on the brink of collapse, he’s painfully hard against your inner thigh. There's an iridescent river pearling from the weeping head, freely flowing down to pool beneath your ass. It beams in the dim light like a beacon.

Transfixed and desperately in love, Mitch could cum right now. Just like this.

But staining a stupid fucking cushion would be more of a waste than shooting himself your throat. So, much to your chagrin, he, once again, retreats back onto his knees.

“C-come back,” you whimper with a loud hiccup. The choked sound is as pitiful as your attempts to reach for him. “Please, please, please—”

Satisfaction spreads over the bridge of his nose, leaving him rosy from one cheek to the other. He pins you with a heated, half-lid stare as he strokes himself.

His palm doesn’t feel as good as yours, but Mitch is grateful for that. He wants to drag this out. Instead of rutting into you like a teenager in the backseat of a car, or like himself after a long stint away.

That can’t—and won’t—happen if he keeps touching you. He has to back off before he loses his ever-loving mind.

“Stop being a tease,” you chide. Irritation weighs heavily on your voice. “Haven’t I waited long enough?”

“There’s something I want you to see first, you little brat,” he replies, adopting your sharp tone as he brings his open palm down on your inner thigh.

You shriek, but your eyes beg for another. Maybe he shouldn't have cut you any slack earlier...

He grants your silent wish with a matching blow to the other side before guiding his rigid cock to rest over your body.

And it was better than Mitch ever imagined.

He groans at the sight, “Can you see it? Can you, sweetheart?”

Mitch waits patiently for it to click in your mind, but the confusion that swiftly overtook your fucked-out features never dissipates. Eyes rolling, he shifts forward. Hand still wrapped around the base, Mitch leans over until the full length of him sits against your bare stomach.

Your body quivers over the contact, so he has to hold your hips down to keep you from wiggling and ruining everything.

“I know you can feel it, but I want you to see it. I want you to see how deep I get inside of you, sweetheart. All the way up…” Mitch trails off as his hands glide from your outer hips to the center of your abdomen.

His voice is so deep. So hungry. Your whole being—mind and body—goes weak at the foreign richness.

With tender thumbs, he applies pressure beneath his swollen tip. “—here.”

Mitch moves slowly at first, as if he'd just been sheathed inside of you. With each careful thrust, his stones caress your aching clit, all puffy and pouting.

It feels wonderful to be touched again, even if only in short bursts. But it's not enough friction or force to do much more than aggravate you further. Even when he picks up speed, it’s more hurtful than helpful.

Still, you cannot tear your eyes away from the angry, ruddy head dribbling out ropes of arousal or voice a shred of discontent. The opaque beads form a nonsensical pattern, but it's mesmerizing nonetheless.

If you were any less needy, you’d take your time running your fingers through the milky mess. Swirling around in the evidence of Mitch’s desire until you had enough to lick clean.

As if privy to your thoughts, he pins your wrists at your sides again.

Mitch isn’t faring much better than you. His eyes are trained on the shadow bisecting your middle. Locked, laser-focused. This little…exercise was as much for his amusement as it is for your education. He knows how far he can reach inside of you—knows how fucking fantastic it feels to be buried at the root, but seeing just how deeply he can fuck you is something else entirely.

It's enough to make him question why and how he ever stops fucking you. He’s an idiot for depriving himself. For neglecting you. An exercise in frustration as much as his fruitless effort to shun the rose-colored perversions dancing wild in his mind, Mitch has wasted so much time.

Fuck penance and fuck propriety—it would be a sin to do anything other than worship at your altar as a devoted acolyte. Cardinal, even.

His stomach tightens as he considers how empty you must feel in his absence—and how deliciously whole you must feel when he drives home. He wonders how forlorn your folds must look right now as he keeps what you covet just out of bounds. His body obstructs the view, but Mitch knows you’re open and fluttering around nothing, pleading for mercy.

If he were a cruel man, he’d ignore your begging and continue on like this until his balls were empty and your chest was covered in ivory threads. Lucky for you, your future husband is of the clement variety.

Before you can get another babble, his mouth is back on yours. He keeps your arms tight to your sides, so you’re incentivized to convey your fervent need for more—of anything, really—through your lips and tongue.

Mitch is greedy when he kisses you and needy while lapping up your fire—happily, and without pause. His head pounds like he finished a handle in a single sip, but he doesn’t want it to stop. Ever. It’s disorienting, and yet, he can’t seem to get enough no matter how much of you he drinks down. Mitch wants to spend the rest of his life drunk on your lips.

Begrudgingly, he tears his mouth from yours. Then, tanned chest heaving, he positions himself between your glistening southern lips. Mitch looks down at you, and when your vision finally focuses, his eyes have been shadowed in darkness by his hulking brow.

His prior impatience dwindles ever so slightly even though he's on the precipice of complete satisfaction. Mitch hasn’t gotten a good look at you since your nimble hands relieved him of his shorts some twenty minutes ago, and you are glorious. A celestial nymph with dominion over his heart, devastatingly beautiful and all-consuming in every conceivable way. The hold you have over him is dangerous, verging on obsession. There isn’t a thing he wouldn’t do or say if it appeased you so.

He isn’t fearful. He’s honored. The gratitude he feels knowing that you were, and remain, receptive to his devotion is overwhelming. And now, watching the lucid waters of lust ebb and flow in your glazed eyes, he’s never felt luckier.

Mitch thumbs the gem resting atop your finger, and you shudder as if it were the one tucked between your thighs.

His other hand lingers around your right wrist, though not as tightly as before. With his pulsing head shallow in your heat, he knows you’ll behave. Disrupting him now would only prolong his teasing. A lesson you learned—and were often reminded of—the hard way.

As his fingers trace the metallic band, warmed by the tropical sun and his furnace-like touch, Mitch pushes his hips forward, slow and steady, until he’s fully enveloped by your wanting walls. With your snug, pillowy softness stretching and constricting to accommodate his generous blessing, his grip on reality slips.

“You’re a fucking dream,” your fiancé rasps.

His hands are now splayed wide on either side of your head, effectively caging you beneath him as he builds a faithful rhythm. Teeth clenched, he works diligently to fashion a tribute worthy of your ethereal beauty and power.

“—always so warm and wet for me, just begging to be split open on my thick fuckin' cock. How long have you been this needy, sweetheart? Since I bent you over on the boat? Right over the railing where anyone could’ve seen you?”

You nod, bruised bottom lip pinched between your teeth. Tears well in your eyes.

Your afternoon tryst had been as quick as it’d been rough. Sundress bunched high, the fragile fabric wrinkled between your hips and the cool metal railing as Mitch’s right hand wrapped around your throat. His talented fingers pressed firmly into your sun-kissed skin, relentless in their torment, as he pawed at the pathetic knot struggling to hold your bathing suit in place. His mouth curled into a smirk as it whispered a heady mix of degradation and praise. All while you preened for him, a large crowd just steps away.

That wasn't the first orgasm you were robbed of today.

The hem of the thin material that clung to your anguished body floated demurely above your ankles, landing just shy of the bone. The sullied garment hid the incriminating evidence that inched down your sore thighs with every step you took. The irony was not lost on you as you walked back to your room.

“D’you know how hard it was to stop myself from fucking you in front of all those people? To hold back like that—to not bend you over and take in broad daylight? Of course you do, you sweet, sadistic minx. You always know how to rile me up—and you always find a reason to.”

Mitch grins against your lips before his teeth momentarily replace yours. They nestle into the grooves as if that was the expressed purpose of the faint indentations.

“With the way you’ve been behaving, I’m willing to bet you want a better souvenir than a gift shop tchotchke, hm? Y'gotta be patient for me, though—good girls wait for their rewards. Jus' wait… Oh, I don’t know, nine months? Give or take? Think you can do that for me?"

He’s being cheeky on purpose. He likes the way gentle irritation plays out between your legs—always has and always will.

Mitch releases your lower lip again, but only after he’s nicked it with his canines. A dainty bead of crimson materializes. Covetous, his tongue laps it up without pause. Painted lips kiss from cheek to cheek.

Your back arches. Your hips lift to rock in time with his thrusts.

“God, I can’t wait till we get those fuckin’ keys,” Mitch mumbles, almost absentmindedly.

The lean muscles of his upper body ripple as he sits up to grab ahold of your jaw, a calloused hand on either side. He has an unimpeded view of your dazed, saccharine countenance. His hips slow until they match the thumbs stroking escaped tears into your cheeks.

“—m'gonna take you in every room, against every surface. That way, there won’t be a single thing in our home that—fuck—that doesn’t remind you of me and how well I take care of you—you and your tight cunt.”

With little fanfare, he threads his arms under your dewy legs. Mitch uses the newfound leverage to tug your body even closer.

A shriek rips through the firm seam of your lips as his length traverses an unexplored depth. Your knees snuggle against the pit of his elbows, pleased to be so close in spite of the pain.

Mitch holds your gaze, reveling in your silent screams. He winks, then slowly lowers himself down until your body is folded squarely beneath his. Your muscles burn with the fury of budding resentment, which you’ll surely feel towards him in the morning after this unprompted foray into acrobatics, but the new angle is too good to do more than just... take it.

His hands are glad to have been relieved of their duty and, eager to take advantage of their newfound freedom, palm your chest as his mouth descends on your poor neck. The delicate skin is utterly defenseless against the desire thumping deep within his chest and spilling over his ribs.

Mitch wants to stake his claim—to mark his territory. A stammer of expletives accompanies the vulgar jut of your hips when he rolls your sensitive nipples, swollen and begging for attention, between thumb and forefinger. Bracketed by his forearms, you surrender completely.

Mitch hums at the lewd, sucking sound made by your arousal. Wet squelches ricochet off the adjacent wall with each and every thrust.

“I’ve really made a mess out of you, haven’t I?”

You nod, eyes pinched in concentration.

You’re close. He can feel your body trying to milk him dry. Fortunately, Mitch isn’t far behind. You feel too fucking good to prolong the inevitable.

He brings a hand to your clit, and it moves in messsy circles as he speaks, “Not done yet, though. Gonna flood this pretty cunt—gonna leave you all sticky and hot. I know you want it, but I need you to cum for me first. Go on, sweetheart, I’ve got you.”

You unravel on command, your chin falling to the side in ecstasy. Mitch’s firm hand is quick to wrench it back; he needs to watch your face contort as you crumble like he needs air to breathe. Mitch won't be able to think straight until he reaps the rewards of fucking and rubbing you through it.

The sob that wrecks your body is high-pitched and perforated by little gasps, and the rush of wetness is more pathetic than any noise you could and would make in your lifetime. More than you ever thought your body was capable of, more than your new fiancé expected, more than either of you anticipated.

He's soaked in a matter of seconds—as are you and the cushion dripping onto the concrete.

Mitch's climax comes in quick succession but, unlike yours, without warning. Undoubtedly, his peak was triggered by the gush of your undeniable satisfaction.

Drained dry, Mitch hunches over to capture your lips once more, determined to distract you from the inevitable bodily ache on the come-down. Delicately, he places your trembling legs onto the chaise and nestles into the space they vacated. He feels every little muscle twitch and spasm when he hugs you tightly to his body.

The world is muted, fuzzy around the edges, and drowned out by the aftershocks, so you miss most of his sweet-nothing rambling, but the relief and contentment that flood your spent body is reply enough.

He isn’t sure how long you stay like that—tangled together in paradise. You doze off, dipping in and out of consciousness, and wake just after the buttery sun slips entirely behind the horizon. Through the darkness surrounding your bare bodies, silvery moonlight replaces the golden rays of sunshine, but you—and your ring—shine as if nothing's changed.

You keep up a quiet conversation. Nothing of importance is spoken; it's carried on purely for the enjoyment of one another’s voice. Mitch peppers your skin, sticky from humidity and exertion, with tender lips, and you return the favor tenfold. You’re both smiling so wide, so happily.

And you keep grinning into the night, even when your cheeks begin to ache. It’s only when the light breeze ghosts over your bare skin that either of you consider relocating. In no rush and reluctant to leave your deep warmth, he’s leisurely about moving into the dim suite.

Mitch freezes abruptly. His stomach splatters at his feet when his mind catches up to his instincts. Murmuring. He hears murmuring. Terror races down his spine like an ice-cold chill. It's quiet at first. Almost as if the evening wind picked up a distant conversation yards away and softly settled it in his paranoid eardrums. He can’t make out any particular words—except his last name.

His mood sours beyond repair with the realization that the juvenile whispering is much too close, the giggles muffled only by the permeable wall of greenery bordering the suite’s ground-floor patio.

“We just wanted to be the first to say congratulations!” A teenage voice devoid of tact and respect calls out above a chorus of snorts and giggles.

Mortified, you bury your head into the crook of his neck. His chain is cold in comparison to your shame.

Mitch growls and reaches beside the chaise. He shouts something that would’ve made even the most shameless of shit-talkers blush, then sends a half-empty bottle of Dom Pérignon clear through the leaves. It shatters, and the crisp bubbles spill out on the concrete, sending the herd of inconsiderate assholes scattering like mice.

“I’ll go pick up the glass,” he sighs, knowing you’ll chastise him for the mess. "—later."

Mitch couldn’t be honest with the journalist.

He wouldn’t even if he could.

He shares so much of himself and his life with the world already—a hazard of the flashy, public-facing occupation he chose—and you’ve offered up far more of your world than he’d ever ask of you. He doesn’t mind a photo here or a video there, sometimes a press junket or two in a philanthropic context, but Mitch won’t bring the media into your private moments beyond where they’ve already encroached.

Especially not for a leading question intended to bait him into saying something stupid. Or to prematurely announce the impending arrival of your first child.

So, instead, he simply says, “Towels. But if the Four Seasons—or my future wife—asks, I’m totally joking, and I definitely put them all back.”

⤑ to my inbox💌

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[mellowdisko]

Vulpes Inculta headcanons 👀👀

oh gladly! i've been waiting for this moment.

vulpes is young—far younger than most would expect. like in his early twenties. his age leads people to often mistake him for just another low-ranking legionary, dismissing him outright until he reveals his rank as summus frumentarius. but rather than seeing this as a hindrance, he uses it to his advantage in espionage: disguising himself as a farmboy from arizona or a green NCR recruit.

as I said in this post, i do believe vulpes to be a religious man. he was raised by priestesses, within the cult of mars and knows no other way of life. his faith is absolute, a fanaticism that drives him to follow its teachings without question, gladly committing atrocities in the name of his gods. yet, he does not make a spectacle of his faith when it comes to personal practices. he prays in silence, visits temples alone. and he prays a lot, especially in battle or before undertaking a dangerous task.

he also prays for his own men—asking that they return from their missions both victorious and alive. maybe he cares for them; maybe there is a small part left in him that aches when he sends them into the bear's land, a part that keeps him up at night, a part that makes him smile when they radio in for report. maybe they’re the older brothers he never had growing up, maybe he does want them to survive, maybe there is some love in that. or maybe he just hates losing any reliable tools of the legion, simply hates being wasteful with his resources. no one really knows.

as said in the post he is superstitious too, especially when it comes to "omens" he sees in nature. like he'll rather walk all the way across the mojave than to go through a shortcut a vulture flew over. lucius constantly mocks him for this (also like I mentioned in the linked post my hc for lucius is that he's too old to have grown up into the legion's religion. he was raised with science rather than cultish teachings, making him far more rational than the younger legionaries.) vulpes acts indifferent about lucius’s skepticism, but deep down, it unsettles him. like a lot.

he dislikes working in the strip or any other urbanised areas like that. he's more of a “child of the desert”, the city doesn't suit him.

he probably doesn't enjoy enclosed spaces overall, doesn't feel too comfortable with a roof over his head. unlike most other frumentarii assigned to new vegas, he has no fascination with luxury or comfort. he'd prefer to sleep on the desert floor rather than wake up to a greasy casino ceiling. he hates the neon lights and the tall buildings. hates the noise, the crowd, the "degeneracy". he doesn’t belong to vegas. he loves the wasteland, that untamed emptiness waiting to be conquered; he loves wandering, trekking through it—taking the fox act a little too seriously.

but that does not mean he disregards the old world as a whole, no, I think he'd find it interesting, alluring even—collecting every small piece of it he's allowed to have in legion land. novels, cassettes, maps...nothing radical enough to be seduced by a world outside the legion but faded fragments of a forgotten era just loved enough to be cherished and be tucked away into a corner of his tent.

vulpes has a natural aptitude for languages. he is probably fluent in multiple tribal dialects and has used that talent for the legion's benefit since we know the frumentarii do act as ambassadors. caesar secretly hates this part about him because it reminds him of a particular someone with blue eyes who too was also good with languages.

definitely hates chess with a burning passion. he thinks it is redundant and naive because warfare is not two neat lines of soldiers marching toward each other on an even playing field. the structure of turns, limited moves and pieces frustrates him. he thinks you have to be unfair in war, deceive, be unpredictable, and strike when the enemy least expects it, win by cheating basically. he's also terrible at it which is definitely not a reason for this dislike.

[olderthannetfic]

Any way you could recommend some sort of intro guide to fantasy for dummies to me?

I'd like to have a couple of magic related elements in my fics sometimes, but I'd like to sort of, sidestep the world building part if possible.

So is there some kind of bare bones universal structure I could borrow from as a reference point for like, a magic system? I don't want to embarrass myself by showing i know so little of the rules I'm breaking them all over the place. And I know tons of people have fun figuring out how things work mechanically, so I'd love being able to outsource from them so to speak because that's not what up my street at all.

--

Hah! There are so many versions of "fantasy". Right now, I'm brainstorming for a very elaborate secondary world fantasy that's heavily inspired by wuxia but not claiming to actually be wuxia. I'm trying to figure out what Western elements I want to work in and how I can come up with names that don't make me cringe.

There is no one bare bones guide and there cannot be because different subgenres have nearly nothing to do with each other. In fact, even calling it collectively "fantasy" and thinking that these subgenres belong in one category together depends on location and era.

If you want to know about magic systems... oh dear... I'm going to have to recommend... you all know it's coming... Brandon Sanderson's lectures. There are some on Youtube.

--

But before you go look at a guide, I think it's important to understand the parameters and discourse around this subject. Sanderson is the poster boy for unnecessarily complex systems that appeal to the kinds of guys who fill out wikis of canon minutia and complain that the grain harvest and export policies don't make sense in derivative fantasy doorstop #57. This kind of fan annoys the bejesus out of people who care about theme and allegory. Also the many people who've noticed that Sanderson's books would probably be better at 200k than 400. >;D

Sanderson himself is much less of a dumbass about the topic, thankfully. He talks about how there are systems that work like real world science: put in X grams of magic thing one and Y grams of magic thing two, and you get a predictable potion result. But there are also systems that are more numinous. In the same book, you may find magic that's your most boring physics homework and magic that's essentially a religious experience where strict categorization and the logic of the laboratory have no place. There can also be systems that are unknowable and systems that your characters don't understand but that the audience grasps are perfectly logical to an expert.

--

If you're using magic as set dressing in fic, decide what the vibe is and pick a system that supports that. Don't bother going full Sanderson.

Fairy tale: Magic works on feels. Twu wuv will revive dead people for no reason, and you do not need to justify anything as long as it feels right. Hanahaki fic rarely bothers to explain the science. We all know it isn't about that.

Harry Potter: Unholy mix of fake-science and rule-of-funny. You should probably pick only one to copy. If it's fake science, just write about the characters half remembering chemistry class and replace all the words with technobabble.

For another example of rule of funny, check out The ABCs of Spellcraft by Jordan Castillo Price, a gay romance series where all of the magic is puns and stupid wordplay and the general tone is extremely silly. In book 1, a villain tells his magically compelled goon to take the hero outside and "pound" him. The hero takes one look at all those muscles and is like "You know, that instruction can be interpreted multiple ways!"

Some systems are full of stupidass levels out of a video game with actual numbers. This gives fans of stories about leveling up a massive boner, but it is undesirable in most fic. Instead, treat magic like intelligence or learned skills: You know some people are naturally smarter and some people have learned more, but measuring it with a precise number is both impossible and obnoxious.

--

Decide if your magic is hereditary or learned. Western fantasy is full of hereditary magic, including magic with a simple on-off setting: you're either magical or you're not. Eastern fantasy tends to go with highly variable natural aptitude but systems that anyone can theoretically learn.

Decide if your magic is extremely literal and science-y, even if the characters don't know how their laptop works, or if it's more of a metaphor for love or social forces or if it's just a witchy aesthetic because who doesn't love a coffee shop with a punny name and pentagrams on the cups?

A lot of backdrops for shippy fic are vibes-based only. They don't stand up to the world building police, and they don't need to.

Just don't tag the fic as 'magical realism' unless you actually know what that means and are actually writing that.

[serpentface]

Four khattanocuy. (Clockwise: a simple ornament with woven textile, a decorative and protective silver ornament with a khait figure and dual pelatoche, an inscribed guardian lion ornament with white lionsmane tassel (uses deified hair from a sacrificial lion, restricted to Odonii and their blood kin), and a ruby-inset ornament awarded in recognition of valor in battle.)

Khattanocuy refers to tassel ornaments occurring predominantly within the Imperial Wardi cultural sphere, usually worn on the belt as a decorative element of masculine dress.

Their defining feature is the use of animal hair, usually that of a khait (the name itself is a way to say 'khait tail'). A few variants use feathers instead, most often for their visual appeal but sometimes as specific symbols of office (for example, tax/tributary provincial officials wear white gullfeather khattanocuy). Very cheap variants utilizing horse wool have a mocking colloquial name of tsimounacuyit ('(little/baby) horse tail').

The base of the tassel can range from plain undecorated metal to elaborate silver and gold ornaments with inlaid precious stones. 'Doubled' khattanocuy integrate the basic small tassel design (sometimes multiple) on top of a wider base with long hair.

Many men wear simple khattanocuy on a daily basis (a belt/sash itself is an element of everyday wear, used to carry belongings and as an attachment for pouches). Outside of people who have/want to project the impression of great wealth, more complex and decorative khattanocuy tend to be reserved for formal occasions. It is considered a highly masculinized item of dress and generally regarded as inappropriate for women to wear (though some small tassels that are khattanocuy in all but name make appearances on women's hats/headbands).

These items serve no direct religious function, but their wear may at times have elements of spiritual protection/medicinal purposes. They are frequently made with silver (ascribed protective elements against sickness and/or curses) and may have small apotropaic amulets/motifs added to them. Very rare variants are made with hair/feathers from sacred animals sacrificed in public rites (whose parts are considered to become bodily relics of god in death). The wear/use of these holy animal parts is usually restricted to members of priesthoods and their immediate kin, though they can be granted as gifts to laymen by priests of significant authority.