#The World of the Noble Angels

[pizzacade]

The Toymaker's puppet show in The Giggle novelization is a bit more elaborate, with elaborate backdrops and puppets of a Weeping Angel, the Quantum Shade, and scissors resembling a Cyberman.

Also, it seems he's met Weeping Angels, finding them boring.

[silvermoon424]

Settei (character sheets) of the angels from Ah! My Goddess, scanned by me.

[chetungwan]

I wish I could reliably find goddamn His Dark Materials fics. But unfortunately, someone, somewhere made daemons in a fucking trope and now everyone fucking tags their little AUs with it and most of them don't even so much as Dust, much less multiple universes

[crows-of-buckets]

I think one of my favorite ways to make ocs is to take the traits that were already there and amplify them. This has literally never missed for me once. ESPECIALLY negative traits. I'll come back to an oc four years down the line and suddenly they are twice as much of a Cunt and also have several new Complexes about shit it's great 10/10

[buttercuparry]

Genocide flattens every discussion. There are no new conversations to be had about the destruction, death and cruelty. After more than a year, there is nothing left to be said about various media houses, corporations and international bodies of law aiding and abetting all that has been happening in Gaza, either. It is the banality of evil, it is colonialism. However even in this atrociously banal circumstance, I do think what still is a continued point of hope for Gazans and what still pushes so many of them to reach out to the world, is the support people around the globe have shown and still continue to show. Which is why I am here on behalf of the Shehab family ( @fahedshehab-new ) and requesting  you to help them survive through this winter. This won't take much of your time so please read: 

Fahed is currently supporting 13 family members in total- his own family and that of his sister’s.

He has to look after 8 children now, with the youngest being his son Yayha who is barely having anything to eat because the price of baby milk  is exorbitantly high in Gaza. 

The genocide has taken a toll on Fahed’s daughters. Sahar and Dana spent a whole year under the threat of bombs and right now instead of getting to be teenagers, they ask their father if they will survive. They have even said they don't want to live if they lose someone. 

The family right now immediately needs clothes to keep them warm throughout winter. Fahed’s family is from the north and has been displaced several times before they came south. Displacement is dangerous and a silent killer because often essential items are lost and cannot be replaced in time. 

Please consider that the weather has already turned colder around the world and that which is only mildly uncomfortable to us, presents a dire situation for Gazans. The families don't have a shelter and there is no way for tents to adequately protect from cold winds and rain. So right now the immediate need is for warm clothes and it can cost upto $400 per person. With THIRTEEN PEOPLE to take care of Fahed immediately needs to raise at least 5k to buy the required apparels. So please boost and donate. 

Currently at $66,248. He needs to reach $71,248. Please help however you can. 

Vetting link

Please remember that every donation, even if it is 5 dollars, is a ray of hope for the families who have lost everything.

Tagging for reach 🙏🏽

@brutaliakhoa @appsa @malcriada @aces-and-angels @three-croissants

@schoolhater @briarhips @timetravellingkitty @tiredguyswag @neptunerings

@brokenbackmountain @transmutationisms @fuckgimp @jezior0

@imjustheretotrytohelp @sunflowersmoths @khanger @autisticmudkip @zigcarnivorous

@maaszeltov @contra-file @venus-is-in-bloom @fading-event-608 @lesbianmaxevans

@girlinafairytale @heliopixels @celadonwanderer @paparoach @furiousfinnstan

@forgetfulrecord @flyskyhigh09 @aflamethatneverdies @thedigitalbard @lesbincineroar

@noble-kale @maoistyuri @lamngen @thatsonehellofabird @roadimusprime

@a-shade-of-blue @ramshackledtrickster @C-u-ckoo-4-40k @galacticmermaid @heydreamchild

[cornelianlute]

tag dump.

[philsmeatylegss]

To everyone in red states where book bans are likely to take place soon, here’s some lists for you <3

As a history student going into library science, people way under hype how crazy book banning is

A follow up post I beg you to also read.

Multiple lists of books already banned in schools/libraries or ones that likely will be:

Banned Books Week 2024: 100 of the Most Challenged Books

Banned Books: Top 100

Banned Book List

Colorado Banned Book List

The Complete List of Banned & Challenged Books by State

Banned Books from the University of Pennsylvia Online Books Page

Top 10 Most Challenged Books in 2023

PEN America Index Of School Book Bans – 2023-2024

Challenged and Banned Books

Places to order books other than Amazon:

Internet Archive (free)

Libby (free with library card)

Thrift Books

Book Outlet

BookBub

Abe Books (owned by Amazon)

Half Price Books

Barnes & Noble

Better World Books

PangoBooks

Book Finder

Goodwillbooks

Alibris

Places to support that fight against book banning:

American Library Association

Unite Against Banned Books

National Coalition Against Censorship

PEN America

There’s a reason politicians fight so hard to limit knowledge and it should scare you.

Some recs below based on reviews I’ve seen

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sing by Maya Angelou

The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros

This Book is Gay by Juno Dawson

George by Alex Gino

Looking for Alaska by John Green

The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini

All Boys Aren't Blue by George Matthew Johnson

Gender Queer by Maia Kobabe

All American Boys by Jason Reynolds

And Tango Makes Three by Justin Richardson

Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe by Benjamin Alire Sáenz

The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas

The Color Purple by Alice Walker

Flamer by Mike Curato

Let's Talk About It: The Teen's Guide to Sex, Relationships, and Being a Human by Erika Moen and Matthew Nolan

Lawn Boy by Jonathan Evison

This Day in June by Gayle E. Pitman

Me and Earl and the Dying Girl by Jesse Andrews

Stamped: Racism, Antiracism, and You by Ibram X. Kendi and Jason Reynolds

Sex is a Funny Word by Cory Silverberg

Prince & Knight by Daniel Haack

The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood

Drama by Raina Telgemeier

This One Summer by Mariko Tamaki

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time by Mark Haddon

I Am Not Your Perfect Mexican Daughter by Erika L. Sanchez

Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry by Mildred D. Taylor

The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie

Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi

Beloved by Toni Morrison

[sceletaflores]

come on into my bed with me (i know you want to)

pair: old man!logan howlett x fem!reader

wc: 4.1k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, some sad vibes because i can't function without them, large age gap (but isn't that obvious by now? mid 20s/old as fuck), established relationship but only kind of, falls in the logan 2017 timeline but very loosely, LONGINGGGG, gratuitous nickname use (kid, baby, honey, ect), nasty dirty talk cause he's old and gross, not so dry humping, JUST THE TIP RAHHHH, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

nat’s note: this was heavily inspired by imogen heap's 'i am in love with you' because that song fucks so hard and it really gave me lots of old man logan vibes. i was just so overcome with nasty thoughts that the beat possessed me and i blacked out and listened to it on a constant repeat while i wrote this instead of doing my a&p work. kisses!

dividers by angel @saradika-graphics!

you can't sleep, logan left his door open...

Rain pelts at the smudged glass of your window, drops trailing down the span of the panes that you follow with your eyes.

It's been raining nearly all week, a rare thing in Mexico, especially somewhere as dry as Sonora.

You used to love the rain. You felt a special kind of comfort anytime night would come and there'd be a certain chill swirling through the air, that familiar scent of damp soil and wet stone rising as the first drops hit the ground.

In Sonora, rain is supposed to be a gift—a reprieve from the unrelenting heat, a chance for the dry earth to drink.

It should feel cleansing, like a reset of sorts, and maybe it would have a few months ago.

Now it just feels heavy, oppressive. Each raindrop splattering against the glass feels like a reminder of everything that's stuck, unmoving.

The soft noise of it was almost enough to lull you to sleep, but it was still no match for your wandering mind.

You’ve been finding yourself here a lot recently, shrouded in the scratchy sheets of your bed in the quiet dark encompassing your room, mind racing.

It was raining the first night he touched you.

You've been with Logan and Charles for nine months.

A runaway hitchhiker turned caretaker after you fled from the meaningless scraps of your life back in Texas.

Logan found you on the side of the highway coming back from a shift in El Paso. One stop with the hazards on and a hasty conversation through a rolled down window later, you were throwing your bags in the back of his limo and climbing into the front seat.

You didn't realize until much later that he never truly asked you to stay, or to care for Charles alongside him.

It was only supposed to be a temporary arrangement, a roof over your head in exchange for your help. Watch over his ailing father for a few days while he went out to get him more medicine, that's what you settled on.

Yet somehow, here you are, nine months later.

You cook meals in a dusty kitchen that always smells faintly of motor oil, listen to Charles’ stories about a world you’ll never fully grasp, and watch Logan patch himself up in grim silence after he’s returned from whatever trouble found him this time. 

It's strange how the days seemed to stretch endlessly, but the weeks have slipped past like a blink. You carved out a routine in this crumbling house in Sonora, built something that resembles a life even if it feels borrowed, like a second-hand coat that never quite fits right.

At first, you weren’t sure what kept you here. Maybe Charles. 

You warmed to him almost immediately, drawn in by his gentle demeanor and the way he seemed to see right through you without a hint of judgment. 

Even when his mind faltered, slipping into tangled memories or distant fragments of a life long past, he treated you with a kindness you hadn’t felt in years.

You’d come to think of him as a king, regal and noble. A king stripped of his castle, yet still wearing a crown, if ever so skewed—a king nonetheless.

You still aren’t sure, but you can’t shake the sense that leaving now would be like tearing off a scab—painful and unnecessary.

And then, one night, the rain came.

You remember it vividly, a torrent so sudden and unrelenting. The downpour soaking the dry dirt surrounding the plant. 

You couldn’t help yourself from wandering out, stood barefoot on the porch as the cool air nipped at the skin of your arms and legs.

“You’re gonna catch a cold standin’ out here.” Logan said from somewhere behind you, his voice rough and low after the silence of a long shift.

You hadn’t moved, hadn’t even glanced his way. “I like the rain.”

There was a beat of silence before he stepped closer, the warmth of his body radiating against your back. His hand had been hesitant at first, a brush of calloused fingers against your arm. 

You didn’t pull away.

The heat of his palm felt scalding, causing goosebumps to pebble along your damp skin. His thumb swiped across the circular scar just above your elbow, a cigarette burn, one of many.

He didn’t say anything as he turned and walked back into the house. You learned quickly that Logan’s not the type to fill silences with empty words, but you both knew something shifted.

He came into your room later that night. The squeaky mattress of your bed dipping under his weight as he slid his hand down your stomach, pausing just above the waistband of your shorts, a silent question.

He didn’t kiss you, but the rain pattering against the tin roof was enough to swallow your soft moans and gasps.

You settled into something undefined—a constant push and pull of need and silence. Logan touched you when he needed to, and you let him because you wanted to.

It wasn’t love, not then. It wasn’t even comfort. But it was connection. A tenuous thread in the quiet storm of your lives.

You figured that was enough.

The rain hasn't slowed. If anything, the howl of the wind is stronger than before.

The soothing rhythm of droplets hitting your window turned aggressively sharp, like darts thrown against a worn cork board.

The boom of thunder is nearly in sync with the pulse of your core, aching and insistent in its need.

It’s been weeks since Logan touched you last, his endless cycle of guilt stronger than it's been before. He’s never outright said it, but you know it’s there.

The silence between you both has stretched longer than you'd like to admit, a quiet that isn't comfortable anymore.

You know he’s got it in his head that he’s somehow taken advantage of you. A perverted old man falling weak to the pretty, young thing taking up space in the bed two doors over from him.

The thought stirs something deep within you, a mix of frustration and confusion. He’s not wrong, not exactly—but he’s not right either. You aren’t a child, and you aren’t helpless. You knew what you wanted, what you needed.

And that hasn’t dared to change.

You shift in bed, the sheets tangling around your legs as your body hums with a restlessness you can’t shake. The air in your room feels thick, charged, and suffocating, a mirror of the space between you and Logan.

He doesn’t understand that you want him too, that you weren’t some helpless thing to be protected or shielded from his darkness. It eats at you until your skin is practically buzzing with it, buzzing with the need to show him.

There’s only so much silence you can take before it becomes too loud to ignore. 

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, the hardwood cool against your bare feet. You know it’s late, but you don’t care.

You walk through the dimly lit hallway, the creak of the floorboards quiet under you as you make your way to Logan’s door. It’s cracked open, a yellow glow spilling through to guide you like a lighthouse guides its ships to shore.

When you reach the beat up wood you don’t hesitate, you push it open the slightest bit, peering through the widened gap. 

He’s there, sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to you. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t acknowledge you, but you know he knows you’re there.

You cross the threshold, your heartbeat loud in your ears as you pull the door shut behind you, leaning your back against it.

“Logan,” you say softly, your voice rougher than you intended.

He doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he runs his hand through his hair, pushing it away from his face. The lamplight catches the sharp planes of his face, a familiar weariness etched into his features.

His fingers flex at his sides, and for a moment, you think he’s going to tell you to leave—to go back to your room where it’s safe, where you won’t make things more complicated than they already are. You almost brace for it.

But then he speaks.

“What’s wrong, kid.” His voice is nothing but a deep rumble, like gravel crunching underfoot.

You shrug noncommittally, hands messing with a stray thread hanging from the edge of your shorts. “Can’t sleep.”

Logan sighs long and slow through his nose, hands pressing into his thighs. “Thought you liked the rain.”

You smile faintly at the irony, chest swelling with something dangerous. 

You take a step further into the room, pushing yourself off the closed door. The familiar scent of him invades your senses. It’s a mixture of leather, earth, and something raw—something undeniably him. 

You stand there for a moment, letting the silence stretch thin and taut before you finally speak.

“Can I stay?” The words come out barely above a whisper, but they land like a crack of lightning.

You feel your heart thud painfully in your chest, not from fear, but from the sudden vulnerability that makes your skin burn.

The room feels smaller now, the walls pressing in as you step forward, each movement slow and deliberate. You stop at the edge of his bed, the sheets pressing against the bare skin of your thighs.

Logan’s gaze flickers over his shoulder, meeting yours briefly before he looks away again, like he’s trying to convince himself that the ache in his chest isn’t real.

“You should go back to bed,” he says, voice gruff. “It’s late.”

“I don’t want to go back.” You shake your head even though he isn’t turned around to see it.

Without thinking, you crawl onto the bed, the comforter making soft shushing sounds under your hands and knees. You reach out, fingers brushing the back of his neck, the muscles there tight with strain.

Logan flinches slightly, but he doesn’t pull away, and that’s all the permission you need.

You shift closer, pressing your chest against his back, and letting your hands settle on his shoulders. The heat between you is electric, charged with something unsaid, something raw and undeniable.

“Please,” you whisper, your lips brushing against the back of his ear, your voice a mixture of defiance and desire.

Logan stiffens, but this time, you feel the shudder that runs through him, the way his body responds despite the walls he’s built around himself.

You know he’s torn, that he wants to fight this. You feel it in the tension that radiates from him, in the way his body seems to be fighting against the instinct to turn toward you.

But you don’t care anymore. You’re done with silence.

Your fingers slide down his back, feeling the rough fabric of his shirt against your skin as you press yourself closer. Your breath is hot against his neck now, and you can feel the rapid pulse in his veins beneath your lips as you hover just above his skin, waiting.

“Logan…” Your voice is softer now, almost pleading. You don’t know what you’re asking for, but you don’t have to.

His hand comes up, brushing against your wrist as if testing, as if he’s afraid you’ll pull away. But you don’t.

Instead, you lean into him further, your lips brushing the curve of his neck, whispering into the tension that still hangs heavy between you. “Please.”

The last shreds of Logan’s resistance snap under the cloying weight of your touch.

He’s moving before you can even register what’s happening, rearing up with heavy hands that land on your shoulders to push you backwards.

You fall back onto the bed with a soft gasp, bouncing on the mattress once, twice, before Logan follows. His body settles over yours like a warm blanket, thick forearms braced on either side of your head to support his weight.

"Why couldn't you sleep, honey?" he asks, dark eyes boring into yours intense enough to get your stomach churning. The green of them is deeper than normal, like fresh moss growing over stone.

“I was thinking,” you whisper, breathless. Your pulse races beneath your skin, you wonder distantly if he can hear it too.

“Thinkin’ about what?” he presses, breath fanning over your lips temptingly. 

Your brows furrow, a soft noise escaping you. You can't help but tell the truth. “About you.”

Logan hums, eyes trailing along your face slowly. He slots a knee between your thighs, groaning softly at the wet heat that seeps through to his jeans.

You gasp, hips bucking down instinctively. Your pussy aches desperately, leaking arousal into the cotton gusset of your panties.

His jaw clenches at the sound, muscle ticking just beneath the grey of his beard. “Is that right? You been layin' in that bed, thinkin' about me, gettin’ all worked up?"

Your face burns under his scrutiny, but you don’t shy away. You arch your back, pressing yourself as close to him as possible, letting the heat of your body speak for you.

“Yeah,” you breathe, the confession trembling on your lips. “I need you, it hurts.”

Logan exhales sharply, like the words knocked the air out of him. His hands slide from your shoulders, rough palms gliding down the skin of your arms before settling right under the swell of your breasts.

“Where’s it achin’, baby?” he asks softly, words almost getting lost in the dark of the room. “Show me.”

You let out a soft breath, reaching down to take his hand in yours.

Without breaking eye contact, you guide his hand down your trembling body until his palm rests over the apex of your thighs, where the damp fabric of your shorts clings to your swollen folds.

“Here,” you whisper, voice barely audible above the rain pounding against his window.

A low growl rumbles from deep in his chest, and his fingers press more firmly against you, feeling the slick heat that’s soaked through the thin cotton. His eyes darken further, the green almost swallowed by the black of his pupils.

Logan’s thumb drags over your clit, slow and deliberate, coaxing a needy whimper from your lips.

“Jesus,” he mutters, his voice thick. “You’re drippin’ for me, aren’t you? Didn’t even need to touch you, and you’re already so fuckin’ wet.” 

You whimper softly, bucking your hips against his hand, desperate for more.

"I've been like this all night," you admit, your voice going high and needy. "Thinking about how good you make me feel. How much I want you."

Logan’s eyes lock onto yours, and there’s something new swirling through them, something you’ve never seen before.

A beat passes—too long—almost agonizing. His free hand lifts from your hip, gently cupping your cheek, fingers brushing against your skin, like he isn’t sure if he has the right to touch you like this. 

His thumb brushes your lip, his gaze flicking to your mouth before returning to your eyes, asking for permission, even though neither of you had ever really needed it before.

"Logan," you say, the sound a little breathless, unsure of how to navigate this sudden shift, but he doesn’t keep you waiting.

He closes the distance in a heartbeat, lips crashing into yours with a ferocity you didn’t expect.

It’s like the world around you falls away, leaving only the warmth of his lips, the taste of him, and the pressure of his body against yours. The raging storm outside dulling until it’s nothing but fuzzy background noise.

His kiss is rough, deep, urgent, but there’s something more in it, a slow unraveling. Like he’s trying to carve himself into you, a permanent mark, a reminder that he was here, even if he never says it out loud.

Logan tastes like rich smoke and whiskey, the sharp edge of him mixing with the sweet burn of need. It sends your head reeling, arms coming up to circle around his neck.

You can’t find the words to describe it, not with the way his fingers slide through the wetness gathering at your entrance, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core.

Your hips thrust upward, begging for more, your body hungry for the release he’s just out of reach of giving.

“Want you inside me, Logan,” you moan desperately, slick lips brushing his with every word. “Please.”

Logan's body stiffens against yours at the sound of your pleading, his grip tightening on your cheek like he's trying to anchor himself in the reality of what you're asking.

“Shit,” he growls under his breath, his forehead pressing to yours as he closes his eyes. His chest heaves, the tension in his body palpable. "I—" he pauses, struggling to form the words, but you can see it in his eyes. He's conflicted, desperate, yet still hesitant.

You move against him, your body restless, your need undeniable, feeling the rigid outline of his hard cock pressed firmly against your thigh. A thick plane of heat that has your pussy clenching around the tips of his fingers.

You don’t want to push him, not anymore. But you’re past the point of waiting for permission.

Your lips meet his again, softer this time, coaxing, until he finally gives in, groaning against your mouth as he kisses you back with an intensity that steals your breath.

“I want to feel you,” you whisper, your hands trailing down to the hem of his shirt, pushing it over the swell of his pecs. 

His skin is hot under your fingertips, rough and familiar. Your fingers trail lightly across his chest, nails scratching through the salt and pepper hair dusted across his skin as you urge him closer.

“Just the tip,” Logan mutters under his breath, barely above a whisper. His voice hoarse, like he’s bargaining with himself. “Just to make you feel good, but that’s it, understand?”

You bite your lip, the edge of frustration gnawing at you. It’s not everything you need, not everything you want, but it's something. And right now, it’s enough.

You nod your head, hands already moving to the front of his jeans. You undo the button with shaking fingers, tugging the zipper down and pushing the worn denim away. 

His cock springs free, already hard, leaking with the same desperation you feel. You run your fingers along his length, feeling the heat of him, the steady throb of his pulse.

Logan peels down the thin layer of your shorts, cursing under his breath when he finds you completely bare underneath, your slick pussy shining under the dim light.

You watch him, chest heaving, as he stares down at you—his eyes dark and full of something primal, something raw.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his fingers tracing the outline of your wetness. He groans low in his throat, his thumb circling your clit once before moving down, dipping inside you just barely. “You’re perfect, baby.”

“Logan,” you whine, thighs spreading in a clear invitation. You patience is running exceedingly thin, your whole body alight with the feeling of a raging forest fire

“I know,” he mutters, placating. He takes the throbbing length of his cock in his hand, swiftly settling between your legs. “I know.”

The thick head drags through your folds, smearing pre-come along your skin and adding even more to the mess between your legs.

A quiet moan passes through your swollen lips, your muscles tightening as he slides himself along your clit. A slow back and forth movement that sends sparks shooting up your spine.

Logan grits his teeth, his breath shallow, as he finally aligns himself with your clenching hole. 

The air around you feels charged, a taut thread stretched between anticipation and restraint. You shift your hips slightly, just enough to encourage him, your eyes locked on his as you beg him silently with your gaze.

Then, with a low growl that vibrates through you, he pushes forward, just enough to make you gasp in relief, the head of his cock sliding home in your entrance.

And though it’s only the tip, the sensation of him inside you is enough to set your world alight. 

You can feel it, deep in your bones—the simmering, searing heat that makes everything else fade into the background.

Logan presses his lips to your forehead, his breath hot against your skin as he keeps his movements slow, deliberate, his hands holding your hips steady. "This is what you wanted, huh? Got you begging for it, honey," he growls softly. "Even if I’m only givin’ you a taste."

His hips roll languidly, staying true to his word and never sinking deeper than the thick head of his cock. His hand grips the base tightly, his fist fucking slow strokes over the length of himself to where he’s spreading your pussy open.

His scarred knuckles bump against your clit with every stroke, fanning the fire building in your lower stomach.

“Feel so fuckin’ good, honey,” he groans into the skin of your neck, the pace of his hips speeding up ever so slightly. “Feels like heaven.”

You claw at the skin of his back, touch wild and desperate. It takes everything in you not to shift your hips down, to sheath the rest of his cock deep inside your and lock your ankles around his back so he can never leave again.

Logan’s lips find your neck, teeth grazing your skin as he shifts against you. “Tell me you want this,” he says, his voice low, almost a command, yet laced with something tender. “Tell me you want me.”

You meet his gaze without hesitation, your voice steady despite the tremble in your chest. “I want you. I’ve always wanted you.” 

The words come out without thought, raw and honest, and you see something in his eyes shift—a flicker of relief, of something deeper than lust.

Logan groans like he got shot, his body shuddering above you as a low growl tears its way from his chest. He fucks into you faster, short, quick thrusts that steal all the breath from your lungs.

Sparks go off behind your closed eyes, bright white and glittering. You can feel yourself getting closer, your body trembling as you grind up against him, meeting him halfway, needing more, needing release.

“Logan,” you gasp, your hands gripping his shoulders harder, nails digging in. “I’m so close. Please—”

“Let go,” he growls, his pace increasing, his body pressing harder against yours. “Come for me, sweetheart.”

With his command, you unravel, the world spinning around you as the pleasure crashes over you, leaving you breathless, gasping for air, your body quivering beneath him as he holds you through it.

Logan follows, tearing himself from the tight grip of your pussy with a sharp jerk of his hips, your name falling from his lips like a prayer as he shoots thick ropes of come over your slick folds.

Your body shakes at the feeling, a breathless whimper pulled from your slack lips at the sticky warmth of his release.

He collapses onto the mattress next to you, his body shuddering enough to match your own. The room falls into a deep silence, the only sounds your mingling breaths and the distant sound of thunder.

A sick sort of dread bursts through the sweet afterglow of your hazy mind, settling in your stomach like a lead weight. You think that this is the moment where Logan will realize what you’ve done, that he’ll retreat back into himself and send you away.

Send you back to your own room and leave you to lay in the cold aftermath of your own recklessness.

You brace for it, the instinct to pull away, to protect yourself from his withdrawal, but it never comes. 

Instead, you feel his strong arm slide over your waist, pulling you closer, his body heat a stark contrast to the chill creeping in from the window.

His breath is warm against your neck as he shifts, his fingers tracing absent circles on your skin in a move that’s so endearingly human it has your chest aching.

"Stay here tonight?" he asks, his voice rough, almost a whisper.

Your heart clenches, tears burning at your waterline at the vulnerability of his tone. It breaks the dam inside you, relief and something dangerously close to love flooding your body in a bursting rush of water.

“Of course,” you murmur, your voice shaky.

Logan’s hand tightens around you, his thumb brushing over your ribs. He presses a soft kiss to the bare skin of your shoulder, settling onto the mattress with a slow breath.

You drift to sleep more relaxed than you’ve felt in years, even with the knowledge of the slow journey that lies ahead of you. It won’t be easy, it never is with Logan. You can’t find it in yourself to care.

Because even though the rain falls, the desert doesn’t bloom overnight. 

And neither do you.

tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!

[reignpage]

Tailor!Nanami considers the cutting table an altar. Every precise cut of fabric laid out in perfect symmetry whispers of meticulous care, gentle hands, guiding and soothing. Chalk lines drawn and respected along the finest of materials, pincushions standing proud to serve to his right, and needles organised neatly in rows in their wooden drawers by his legs, hidden along with the sharpest of scissors and the longest of measuring tapes — a place for everything and everything in its place. 

Indeed, the way he moves, with grace, urged by muscle memory and not his senses, speaks of countless stories, amalgamations, of his time spent dedicating himself to the craft. From sweeping the floors as a boy to being a stand-in mannequin as a teenager, and then now, to owning his very own temple, cleaned and dusted only with the most loving of hands, he is a man in his elements, born again, tethered to a noble calling, serving a purpose beyond himself.

This is more than a profession; it is a way of life. 

Professions could be learned through textbooks and seminars. What he does is a skill, a talent, bestowed upon by the Heavens and cultivated only through years of hard work, defined by pricked fingers, of late nights, calluses, of exploring the shape, size, feel, scent and sound of every part of a suit until he saw each one he birthed not as mere items of clothing, but rather as armour. 

Barriers to the skin, the weak flesh beneath, and covering the fragile soul from the chilling cruelty of the world, he rebukes the thought that a suit is a luxury, a thing reserved for the wealthy or something to be hidden away, deep in closets. 

It is a necessity.

Of course, he thinks not of himself as an artist. Only a vessel. The sacred ideas course through his veins, fuelling him with life. His eyes do not see what could be, only what should be. Those long, nimble fingers do not yearn to feel anything but wool, cotton and linen. It is the rhythmic sounds of a mechanical heartbeat, whirring as it threads fabric together, that he hears and would only ever want to hear. 

Tailor!Nanami does not want for more than he believes great powers have designed for him. 

That is, until he hears the chime of the bell and his eyes dart from the plaid trousers he’s sewing to a new customer. An utterly foreign creature. One that so very clearly does not belong amongst the items of a time long past that it forces a laugh out of him. 

Your curious gaze meets his. His heart stops. 

An angel visits him. 

And Tailor!Nanami dares not to ignore the calling of the gods for a new purpose. 

[moeitsu]

Every time someone in this fandom romanticizes Abigail's prostitution, an angel looses its wings.

I can’t believe this still needs to be said, but let’s clear something up: Abigail Roberts was not “saved” by the Van der Linde gang out of the goodness of their hearts. She was a 17-year-old working girl. Yes, a prostitute—brought into the gang by Uncle because of her profession, not because they wanted to “help an orphan girl.” Pretending otherwise is not just wrong, it’s an insult to her character and completely misrepresents the darker themes of the game.

“They wouldn’t take advantage of a 17-year-old girl!” Really? These are men who rob, kill, and lie without hesitation. They absolutely would and did take advantage of her. Dutch was not some saintly father figure; he was an opportunist who saw value in people only as long as they served his needs. The gang didn’t “rescue” Abigail, they exploited her vulnerabilities and used her just like they used everyone else.

Even within the game, there’s a camp interaction where Susan Grimshaw tells Abigail she should return to prostitution to bring in more money for the gang. If that doesn’t make it clear how the gang viewed her role, I don’t know what will.

Abigail’s story isn’t some fairy tale about a group of noble outlaws saving an orphan. It’s about survival in a brutal, unforgiving world. She didn’t have a choice in staying with the gang. This idea that the gang was Robin Hood-like and only “stole from the rich to give to the poor” doesn’t erase the fact that they were still criminals who exploited people whenever they could, including Abigail.

The game wants you to sit with the uncomfortable truths of these characters. It shows you the dark realities of their actions and the systemic issues of the time. Romanticizing Abigail’s situation or painting the gang as her saviors completely undermines that. It’s not just naïve...it’s flat-out wrong.

This kind of take isn��t just ignorant; it’s borderline insulting to anyone who’s been in a similar situation. Abigail’s story is powerful because it’s not pretty. She was used, exploited, and forced to live a life she didn’t choose—but she fought tooth and nail to survive and make a better life for Jack. That’s what makes her compelling, not some sugar-coated fantasy about her being “rescued.”

Take off the rose-colored glasses and actually think critically about what the game is showing you. Abigail’s resilience is what makes her an incredible character—not some fake narrative about Dutch and the gang being her saviors. They weren’t.

It’s fine to love the characters, but stop twisting their stories to fit some idealized version of the gang. They’re criminals. Abigail was exploited by them. That’s the truth, and nothing about it is going to be pretty.

Abigail deserves way more respect than this.

[orphiclovers]

no one is an ugly man enjoyer the way javier is an ugly man enjoyer........ catastrophic taste in men. hysterically down bad for his ugly fucking boyfriend

*sees lloyd make the worst face known to man and demon kind, makes every creature flinch* smiles softly :) this look suits you :)

*hears singing so bad it literally kills birds and fish* I love :) your voice :) there's no more noble sound in the world :) and angel can't sing as well as you :)

[hazem1948]

Let me tell you about the largest and most dangerous prison in the world—a prison of genocide. This prison, called Gaza, stretches 41 kilometers in length, with a width varying between 6 to 12 kilometers, covering an area of 360 square kilometers. Inside this prison, children, the elderly, and even animals and cats live in fear. Everyone is punished here, and the cruelties seem endless.

In this prison, people are burned alive without reason. Others have their limbs amputated without anesthesia, because medicine is simply unavailable. There are those who are shot just for searching for water or food for themselves and their families. This is what happened to Ahmed’s cousin—he was out to get water for his children, only to be struck by a bomb. He died, leaving behind his children, including a newborn baby.

In this place, random shelling never stops. Everyone is constantly threatened—death, burning, or being imprisoned in an even smaller cell, where torture is inevitable. And of course, there is barely any food or water here. Only kind souls like you provide the little that helps these families survive in this massive prison.

Inside this prison, people are punished without reason, without trial, because international courts can do nothing, and injustice has become the norm. Everyone in Gaza must endure their sentence, though no one knows how long they will survive—whether they will succumb to hunger or be killed by the bombs before they can taste freedom.

This is the brutal reality for our families in Gaza. Please, don’t leave them to suffer in this prison. Help them escape this torment and breathe the air of freedom. Help evacuate Ahmed’s family—your generosity or even sharing their story can make you the reason they are saved, the reason they survive this cruel, unjust imprisonment.

@appsa @buttercuparry @turian @timetravellingkitty @schoolhater

@aces-and-angels @magnus-rhymes-with-swagness @malcriada @jezior0

@neptunerings @brokenbackmountain @khanger @determinate-negation

@transmutationisms @sylvianritual @imjustheretotrytohelp @bryo-zoan

@maaszeltov @heliopixels @zigcarnivorous @armysurplus

@executing @venus-is-in-bloom @lesbianmaxevans

@trans-to-the-misogyny @brutaliakhoa @furiousfinnstan @paparoach

@celadonwanderer @girlinafairytale @2tbssd @forgetfulrecord

@lesbianmaxevans @fading-event-608 @repulsion @noncathartic @gusherbug

@autisticmudkip @FUCKGIMP @tiredguyswag @briarhips @three-croissants

@fly-sky-high-09 @maoistyuri @noble-kale

@bilal-salah0

[hebaw]

Urgent Appeal for Help – A Family's Fight for Survival and Hope

My name is Heba, I am 28 years old, a mother of two beautiful children, and my husband is a dedicated doctor. In December 2023, our lives were shattered when our home in Gaza was bombed. I was trapped under rubble with my children, struggling to breathe as dust filled the air. When I finally managed to get to my husband, I found him badly injured, his head and ear severely damaged. I feared the worst, but against all odds, he was still alive.

Despite my desperate efforts to get him medical help, the bombs kept falling, and we couldn’t reach an ambulance or anyone who could help us. For 40 hours, I stayed by his side, trying to keep him alive, while the world around us seemed to be falling apart.

Eventually, after a month of suffering, my husband's condition stabilized, but his ear was left severely damaged, and he needs urgent surgery that can’t be performed here in Gaza.

This is not just a plea for financial help—it’s a plea for my husband’s life and for our family’s future. Every dollar you contribute means a chance for us to escape the horrors we’ve lived through, for my husband to receive the treatment he so urgently needs, and for my children to have a safer, healthier future.

Please, help us rebuild our lives and give my husband a second chance. Your support can make all the difference, and we will forever be grateful. the link to read my full story and donate here

Thank you for your compassion and generosity during this incredibly difficult time.

@appsa @lamngen @turian @timetravellingkitty @schoolhater 

@aces-and-angels @magnus-rhymes-with-swagness @malcriada @jezior0 

@neptunerings

 @brokenbackmountain @khanger @determinate-negation 

@transmutationisms @sylvianritual

 @imjustheretotrytohelp @sunflowersmoths 

@maaszeltov @heliopixels @zigcarnivorous 

@armysurplus 

 @executing @venus-is-in-bloom @lesbianmaxevans 

@trans-to-the-misogyny

@furiousfinnstan @paparoach 

@celadonwanderer @girlinafairytale @2tbssd 

@forgetfulrecord 

@lesbianmaxevans @fading-event-608 @repulsion @noncathartic 

@gusherbug 

@autisticmudkip @erectiledisfigurement @tiredguyswag @briarhips 

@three-croissants 

@fly-sky-high-09  @maoistyuri @noble-kale @heydreamchild @thedailydescent

@dlxxv-vetted-donations @scary-yuri @staff @appsa @anyonghalimaw @dr-lapdance @funds4gaza @stuffandthangs @gaza-evacuation-funds @jezior0 @neptunerings @nabulsi @lesbianmaxevans @leahsfiction @wellwaterhysteria @gazavetters @zigcarnivorous @xxx-sparkydemon-xxx @nezreblogz @n@kaapstadgirly @hack-saw2004 @90-ghost @a-shade-of-blue @autisticmudkip @irhabiya @acepumpkinpatrick

[yandere-daydreams]

If we are going vaguely medieval au I propose Nanami as the very exhausted master of the coin trying to regulate all of prince gojos spending habits, and who keeps the member of some minor noble house that in severe dept to the crown, in his quarters. After all you came here willingly to try to beg for some sort of extension on your family debts, so it's perfectly reasonable for him to slap a ring on your finger, eat you out when he comes home stressed, and hide the fact that in the end your family has to face their repercussions for owing the crown. But it doesn't matter, you bear his name now, so you're nice and safe

there truly is not universe wherein that poor man isn't chronically overworked T-T at least, in this world, he knows that after every long day tending to the national treasury and tailoring the frivolous king's desires to better suit that month's allotted budget, he can drag his weary head home to you - his sweet light spouse, an angel descended from the heavens for no other purpose than to bake and sing and remain so blissfully unaware of the troubles outside the walls of his modest, countryside estate. he'd never ask you to tend to him, but you make sure he always come home to warm meal and a soft place to rest his feet and, best of all, a welcoming body to bury himself within as he works out that day's frustrations. it's a selfish thought, but if he had it his way, there'd be no moment where some part of him wasn't connected to some part of you - whether it's his fingers intertwined with yours or your lips wrapped around his cock as he reviews the king's coffer's for the thousandth time. were the world a kinder place, he'd never have to go a moment without your company. it's a shame that it's not.

that's why your little home has to be as warm as it is, as safe as it is. that's why, when you gather your courage and ask him about the family you once bargained on behalf of, he can never quite find the resolve to tell you that they were executed only days after your wedding, that the childhood home you speak so fondly of was torn down and the property gifted to one of the king's favored lords, that there's nothing left for you outside of these walls save for a loving husband and all the many things he can provide to you. he may be burdened with the knowledge of your futile sacrifice, but you don't have to be so weighed down. the only thing that should ever cross your mind is how best to please your doting, loving husband - lest he be forced to resort to more taxing methods of preserving his little slice of perfection.

[medievalandfantasymelee]

👑🌹Queen of Love and Beauty🌹👑

Round 4: 1 of 2

The Queen of Love and Beauty shall hold the honour of presenting unto the winner of the Tournament his Champion's Coronet.

Vote for the lady who, to you, best exemplifies feminine dignity, grace and loveliness.

The two contenders with the most votes will advance.

Propaganda

Brienne of Tarth, Game of Thrones (2011-2019) Portrayed by: Gwendoline Christie

Brienne is so noble and honorable! If she makes a promise, she will not give up until she sees it through, no matter what happens along the way. She's a knight and dresses masculinely, which is very misunderstood by others, but she always asserts herself. She's a skilled swordfighter and she looks handsome in a suit of armor!

Danielle de Barbarac, Ever After: A Cinderella Story (1998) Portrayed by: Drew Barrymore

Genuinely the most beautiful woman little me had ever seen, clever, unshakeable in her ideals, AND she'll throw a man over her shoulder to save him from bandits.

Guinevere, BBC's Merlin (2008-2012) Portrayed by: Angel Coulby

She is the true people’s princess, and she puts up with the most bullshit of anyone and faces it with absolute grace and dignity. Her beauty and poise are forever unmatched.

Additional Propaganda Under the Cut

For Brienne of Tarth:

"Look. She has a sword, and armor, and shield and will fight creepy men for you. Is there anything hotter than a competant tall strong woman with a sword? No. There isn't. She's also the kindest character in GoT and genuinely tries to make the world a better place."

[rainydayathogwarts]

Angel of music - Remus Lupin

ˋ°•*⁀➷ Phantom of the Opera - Prologue

☆ 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓  ☆ 𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ☆ 𝐌𝐀𝐉𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇 ☆

summary: You had always been grateful that your parents put all their money into making you the best at something you loved - musical theatre. The opening night of your new show is opening doors for you beyond your career.

Deluded by your parents’ insistence of this industry’s difficulty, you imagined all the women in the audition room glaring at you. Whether it be due to their belief that you would fail, or their jealousy, you didn’t know, but it was okay, because you were only imagining it. You’d finally learned that after three years of countless auditions. Each time you booked a role, your confidence in your abilities was reinforced. Shutting your eyes, you let yourself be serenaded by the piano on the other side of the thin wall, an auditionee singing to her heart’s desire.

“Ms. Black?” Your eyes snapped open, and you stood up with a kind smile on your face, instantly putting up a confident front as you followed the lady into the audition room. The woman who had gone before you was just finishing up, thanking the panel before walking out. You didn’t miss the discouraging look she gave you, and you couldn’t suppress the surprised tug of your eyebrow. Despite the obvious years she had on you, the grown woman still had the audacity to try and scare you. Pathetic.

“Right, Ms. Black, we’ll have you sing for us first.”

The casting director’s words echoed in your mind as you stared into the opera theatre’s blinding lights, your co-star now commanding you “Sing, my angel of music!” for the first time in front of your audience. All of the wealthy, noble wizarding families watched you with scrutinising — no, mesmerised gazes, your siren song ringing in their ears and manipulating their thoughts to secure the idea that the Black family had the best performer in the history of wizards. And it wouldn’t stop with you. With your legacy, any children you bring into your bloodline had to be performers, classical singers, dancers, embodiments of elegance and beauty.

Just like you, they would be angels of music.

As you did your bows at the end of the show, holding hands with the rest of The Phantom of the Opera’s brand new cast, you bathed in the praise. You were aware that your parents had pushed you to become the perfect pure-blood woman. The more your brothers rebelled, the tighter of a hold they had on you. But in this moment, hearing the applause from over a thousand of the richest wizards in world, you were grateful. Grateful that whilst you had been torn apart and sewn back together until every unique strand of hair was in its place, it had been whilst your parents paid for lessons with the most talented teachers to make you the best at what you loved: musical theatre.

You weren’t aware of the two men your age sitting at the second row of the stalls. They were both up on their feet, feeding into the standing ovation the crowd had given you, but your brother and his best friend were officially your two biggest fans, and they wouldn’t let you forget it.

taglist: @ravisinghs-wife, @amatoanima, @starry-remus, @pain-in-the-ashe, @hiireadstuff, @superlegend216, @treefairy-28, @superlegend216, @kitkatkl, @rory-cakes, @boromoony, @stta-princess, @arielthee-potterhead