#black people reblog if this goes for your space too!

[lubdubology]

When Things Turn Green Again

SYNOPSIS: Hoping to mend the pain of your broken heart and bury the memory of your failed marriage, you turn towards the woods. A cabin was left in your name and it’s the exact distraction you were looking for. What you didn’t anticipate is meeting a quiet, ruggedly handsome man along the way who helps you heal.

PAIRING: Logan x fem!reader

WC: 11k

WARNINGS: smut 18+; mdni; angst; mentions of cheating/divorce; emotional trauma; fluff; sexual innuendos; brief mentions of drinking; dirty talk; slight dom!Logan; oral (f receiving); fingering; doggy style; cock warming; sex with feelings; unprotected p in v

A/N: I pictured either Origins!Logan or Wolverine!Logan, but I think you can envision any Logan you’d prefer. And again thanks to @joelsgoldrush for the support through writing this ❤️ I really do love this piece I wrote and I hope you do too. Feedback is always welcome and appreciated! And thank you to everyone who has read, commented, liked and reblogged both Soft Edges and Til The Sun Turns Black—I never imagined either of those stories reaching over 1k notes.

The gravel crunches under your tires as you roll down the long driveway. Memories bloom deep in your chest as you near the cabin, of times simpler than this, unburdened by trappings of real life. You spent your formative years out here in the woods with your grandfather. Summers spent learning how to fish on the lake; how to recognize the poisonous berries from the nonpoisonous ones; and making fires, roasting marshmallows long after the sun had gone down. 

Your grandfather had helped build this cabin. He’d always preferred the outdoors and solitude from people—with the obvious exception of your grandmother and mother—and he’d often come here to escape. Especially after he lost them both. 

The cabin comes into view through the trees just starting to unfurl their spring foliage. Patches of snow still dot the landscape but the wet brown of winter is losing to spring’s verdant hues. The structure has seen better days, last having been lived in over ten years ago. 

A stab of regret pierces your chest. The cabin was willed to you when your grandfather died, but this was your first trip up here since the funeral. You planned to, of course, but as the old saying goes, life happened. Now, you’re hoping the old place can give you something to sink your energy into besides thinking about your failed marriage. 

You park the truck and step out, surveying the property. The shrubs and flower beds are overgrown and choked with old growth and weeds. Years worth of leaves rest upon the roof and clog the gutters. The front porch has several loose or missing spindles and you’re almost afraid to step up onto the old boards. Proving yourself right, the wood groans and creaks beneath your feet, certain spots threatening to give way.

“That’s going to be a fun project,” you mutter to yourself.

Opening the front door, you’re met with the damp mustiness of a long closed up space. A layer of dust seems to coat nearly every surface and cobwebs linger in the corners. You’re hoping the repairs needed inside the cabin are more cosmetic than costly.

You open up the old blinds, letting the early morning light filter in the room. It’s not a large space, an open kitchen, living room and dinning area with separate bedroom and attached bathroom. A small set of steps leads up to a loft, which also doubles as a sleeping space or bonus area.

You unload your belongings from the truck, tucking them away inside the bedroom, before opening all the windows to let in the fresh air. Thankfully, the glass and protective screens are in relatively good repair—a few need replacing, but an easy enough job. You feel a sense of purpose flourish within you, something you haven’t felt for months and you wonder if this is just the reprieve you need to find yourself again.

+++

You spend the morning taking inventory of the repairs needed around the cabin to make it immediately livable. Jotting down a list of supplies, you hop in your truck and head into town to hit up the hardware store. 

The owner, George, recognizes you from previous trips with your grandfather when you were younger. He greets you warmly and helps you find everything you need. As you’re checking out, he asks, “Run into Logan yet?”

“Logan?”

He nods his head. “Shares a property line with you. Has a cabin of his own just about a quarter mile north of yours. Asked him to keep his eye out on the place.”

“Oh, well, that was nice of him,” you comment, stuffing your receipt in your purse. 

George shrugs. “Figured it would give him something different to do. Doesn’t interact much with people.”

“Guess I’ll just have to introduce myself then,” you say, lifting your bags up off the checkout counter. 

“Good luck with that,” George responds with a huffed laugh. “He’s not one for small talk.” 

You give George a polite smile and leave the store, bags in hand. But the conversation sparks your curiosity and you find yourself thinking of the man who shares the woods with you. You promised yourself once you were settled, you’d make the short hike towards his place and introduce yourself.

Arriving back at the cabin, you park the truck and hop out, stopping short when you spot a lone figure walking around from the back of your property. You can’t stop the prickle of anxiety that zips up your spine as the figure comes closer, but he doesn’t see you yet, his eyes on the ground as he walks.

You shut the truck door with more force than necessary, the sound echoing off the trees. He looks up then and you suck in a short breath as his rugged features come into view—well trimmed but scruffy beard, wild dark hair and a fit muscular frame you can see even under the flannel of his shirt.

Butterflies flutter in your stomach and you can’t remember the last time you’ve felt like this. You can feel a blush creep across your face and you grip the bags in your hands tighter just to feel something other than the hammering of your heart in your chest.

He stops short of where you’re standing and jerks a thumb behind him. “Turned your electrical breaker on,” he says without introduction and you can only stare at him.

“Oh,” you say dumbly. “I, uh—thanks.”

He tilts his head and looks at you and you feel like you’re on fire under his glare. It’s an inquisitive one, like he can’t quite figure out what you’re doing in a place like this and you shift uncomfortably under his gaze. And yet, you don’t want him to stop looking at you. 

“Right,” he says, reaching into the pocket of his jeans for something. He fishes out a key and holds it in your direction. “This is yours.”

You shift the bags, so you’re holding them all in one hand and reach for the key. Your fingertips brush against his just briefly, but it’s enough to set sparks along your skin and you can feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. As he steps back from you, you blurt out your name and then immediately wish for a swift death at your awkwardness. 

God, this was embarrassing. 

It’s like you’ve never interacted with humans before.

He gives the barest hint of a smile. “Logan.”

“Nice to meet you, Logan,” you say, just so you can taste his name in your mouth.

Logan nods and turns to head down the path that leads away from your cabin and deeper into the woods. You watch him go, his figure fading further into the distance and you can’t help but think, I’m in trouble. 

+++

You spend the rest of the day keeping busy around the cabin—wiping down dusty surfaces, sweeping up cobwebs, replacing broken light bulbs—but your mind never strays far from Logan and the inexplicable pull you have towards him. 

You’ve dated. You were married. You weren’t a stranger to the opposite sex and physical attraction, but this felt like more. Like an unavoidable pull between you and him and you’ve just been spun into his orbit. 

And that attraction terrifies you. 

Over the next few days, you try and shove him from your mind. It helps that you haven’t seen him again, but your eyes inevitably dart towards the path leading away from your cabin as if you’re expecting him to come walking through. 

Then, the idea comes to you late one night as you’re sitting in front of the fire, watching the flames lick higher. No matter how hard you had tried, Logan remained firmly planted in your mind, his roots stubborn and unyielding. 

Your grandfather always said your grandmother’s cooking was always something that warmed his heart. 

But as you walk the small path towards Logan’s property you briefly wonder if you’ve lost your mind. You carry the small pie dish in your hands and as his cabin grows closer you’re actually contemplating turning back and forgetting the whole thing.

Who the hell bakes pies for people any more?

His cabin is smaller than yours, a little more rustic and worn, which seems fitting based on the little you know about him. Several piles of firewood line the roofed porch and at the opposite end, a single chair and table sit in front of the window. With one last shaky inhale, you climb the steps and rap your knuckles against the door. From inside you hear heavy footfalls and then the door opens.

Logan looks down at you and then towards the dish in your hands, an odd expression crossing his handsome features.

“I made you a pie,” you blurt unceremoniously and you instantly wish for the ground to open up and swallow you whole.

Logan just continues to stare at you and you think you see the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth. But maybe not.

“I, uh, my grandfather lived in the cabin next to yours and it’s mine now. I’m fixing it up, because…well, just because and he taught me to pick berries as a kid? So, I did that and I made you this,” you finish in a ramble, flames of embarrassment licking across your skin.

Jesus fucking Christ.

His eyes flick down at the dish in your hands again and you hold it up a bit higher, nudging it closer towards him. As he reaches out to take it, his fingers brush against yours and you again feel electricity tingle down your fingertips. If he notices it too, he says nothing, not that he’s said anything since you showed up on his porch. 

Logan tucks the dish closer to his body and gives you a slight nod. You take that as a good sign and step back to leave. “Okay, cool, cool. Well, um, enjoy. I made sure all he berries were the edible ones so you don’t end up throwing up everywhere.”

At that he actually huffs a chuckle. “Good to know,” he finally says, his voice warm and rich and just a bit gruff.

“Right, well, enjoy!” You turn to leave and can feel his stare against your back and it takes all your remaining functioning brain cells to walk normally.

You spend the next few days trying to forget all about your ill-fated attempt to play neighbor, figuring if he didn’t want to know you before, he definitely didn’t after that. 

You’re coming back from a hike when you spot Logan through the trees walking away from your place, hands tucked deep within his pockets. Your heart quickens in your chest as you walk up to the front door and find the baking dish sitting on the old welcome mat. It’s freshly washed with a folded up piece of paper sitting inside—Thank you.

You’re certain your smile could rival the light from the sun.

+++

It becomes a routine over the next few weeks—you bringing him food and him returning the dish, all without exchanging any words. You’re thankful he’s not much of a talker because you can’t seem to stop making a fool of yourself around him. 

And you don’t know why. 

He’s a handsome man, that anyone can see, but you’ve never been so flustered around a beautiful man before.

There’s something else about Logan you can’t pinpoint that sets your heart fluttering behind your ribs. He seems lonely in the same way you are, and you wonder if he’s out here to lick and heal old wounds just like you. You have an inexplicable want to help him, even if that means sharing your food leftovers with him and trying to chip away at the wall that surrounds him. 

A part of you is hoping he can help break down your walls, too. 

You’re waist deep under the kitchen sink when a knock on the door drags you from fixing the leaking drain. 

“Ah, fuck,” you curse, trying to maneuver out of the space while also not spilling the stagnant water left in the sink trap. As you set the old drain down you call out, “Just a second!”

You wipe your hands against your thighs and swing the door open to find Logan standing there, your glass baking dish from yesterday in his hands. For a second you blink silently at him, unable to think of anything but the fact that you’re wearing grease stained overalls and probably smell like a swamp. 

“Logan, hi,” you finally say, brushing your hair out of your face. 

He gives you a strange look as he hands the dish back to you. You open your mouth to speak when he interrupts you, “Why do you feed me?”

His question hangs in the air and you freeze. Of all the things he could have asked, you weren’t sure why you didn’t expect that one. His voice is a little gruff, but underneath there’s something that makes your heart race. Something vulnerable. 

You swallow and grip the edge of the glass dish. Logan stares at you, his gaze intense, and you feel exposed. Like he’s trying to dissect you with just a look. 

“Oh, well, I don’t know,” you finally admit. “You just���seem like you could use some kindness.”

He raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything else. The silence stretches between you, heavy and charged, and you can feel your pulse quicken. “I can stop if—if you want.”

“No,” he says, his voice rough, but with an undercurrent of tenderness. “No, you don’t have to stop. Just not used to people doin’ things like that for me.”

His admission catches you off guard being the first real piece of personal information he’s shared with you. You’ve gleaned certain things from George—he’s told you about Logan being a mutant and a few pieces of his past—but you know there’s still a world of history hiding behind his loner facade that he keeps hidden. You’re hoping eventually he lets you take a peak inside.

“Everyone deserves kindness, Logan,” you say. 

His gaze flickers, a shadow of something crossing his features that makes your heart ache. He shifts on his feet and stares down at the dish in your hands. “I’m not so sure of that,” he replies. 

“Well, I am.”

Logan’s eyes drag back up to yours and you try to calm the nervous energy that bubbles under your skin as his stare presses into you. He gives you a small nod then before turning to leave. 

He pauses as he hits your driveway and looks back at you, cursing lowly to himself. Scratching at the back of his head, he walks back up the steps and pulls something out of the pocket of his jacket. “I, uh, here,” he says uncertainly as he hands you the small cloth bag. 

You can only stare as you take the bag from him, the gift surprisingly light in your hand, but the gesture heavy with unspoken emotion. Your mind races as you think of what could be inside and your heart hammers loudly in your chest. 

Logan stands there, eyes not quite meeting yours as he waits for you to open it. Your fingers tremble slightly as you undo the drawstrings and peer inside, finding a mixture of different seeds. You can’t help but trail your fingers through them, feeling the faint warmth they hold from where they were nestled against Logan’s body. 

“Oh, Logan,” you murmur, your voice thick with emotion. 

You glance up at him and he’s looking at you, scratching at his beard, the faintest hint of blush staining his cheeks. “They’re wildflowers. Don’t know what kind. But, I dunno. I thought you could use them for your garden.” 

Your chest tightens as you pull the strings close and tuck the bag in your pocket. “I love them, Logan,” you say, offering him a smile. “Thank you.”

For a moment, you see the tension in his shoulders relax just a bit as he exhales. “Just seemed like something you’d appreciate,” he mumbles, more to himself than to you. 

Something has shifted between you and you find yourself itching to touch him, but you don’t. Not yet. The thread holding you two together is there, but thin, and you don’t want it to fray. “I really do appreciate it,” you say softly, stepping just the tiniest bit closer. 

Logan nods and his mouth tugs into something that’s not quite a smile, but close. He looks at you for a long moment, the weight of his gaze pressing into you. “Okay. Good.” Shoving his hands in his pockets, he turns and jogs down the steps. 

“Guess I’ll see you around then,” you call after him, a smile spreading across your face. 

He glances back over his shoulder. “Yeah. I guess you will.”

And maybe, just maybe, the walls around him are beginning to crumble. 

+++

Sweat beads across your brow as you work, but you pay it no heed. Your attention keeps slipping to Logan as you pry another nail loose from the rotted board. You’ve fallen into an odd relationship with the elusive man whose property line you share, yet you still barely know anything about him.

It’s been a week since he stopped by and gave you those wildflower seeds. A warmth still spreads in your chest when you think about it. And true to his promise, you do see him around, albeit not as much as you’d like. He seems wary, as if his gift opened up a part of himself he wasn’t ready for you to see.

But at least he doesn’t drop off your clean dishes and run anymore. 

As you pry the last nail free, the rotten board comes free and you toss it down onto the grass along with the others. Thankfully, the porch isn’t terribly large and you figure another hour or so to remove the remaining boards before you can start laying down fresh lumber. 

The crunch of gravel pulls you from your work and you look up to find Logan walking down the path, a large leather bag in his hand. You look up at him, wiping the sweat off your brow and lean back onto your heels, trying your best not to stare at his forearms.

“Oh, hey, Logan,” you say, wiping your hands against your jeans as you stand. “What brings you to my side of the woods?”

He actually smiles at you and nods towards the porch. “Need help?”

You hate the little flutter you feel pressing against your ribs. “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“Well, it’s good thing you’re not asking. I’m offering.”

You blink, caught off guard by his directness. “Oh, well, if you insist,” you say, trying to calm your nerves. “It would be nice to have a second set of hands.”

He sets the leather bag down on the porch with a thud and you catch a glimpse of the tools nestled inside. Logan notices you looking and comments, “I know a few things.” His smirk makes your legs feel like jello. 

“Oh, I bet you know a lot of things,” you blurt, and your eyes widen at the double entendre of your words, heat flushing across your face. 

Logan laughs, a real laugh, his eyes crinkling. “Well, it’s always good to be well educated,” he says with a wink.

Fuck, you feel like you’re going to spontaneously combust. 

Shoving down your raging embarrassment, you lay out your plan to fix the porch and Logan gives a small nod. He starts at the opposite end, prying loose the first board with ease. You try not to stare at the way his muscles move and how his skin begins to slick with the first beads of sweat. You work in silence for a while, the only sounds those of the forest around you. 

“So, what actually brought you out here?” Logan finally asks. 

You glance over at him and watch as he tosses another board onto the grass. He looks at you expectantly and you sigh. “I got divorced,” you answer honestly. “And I needed something pour my energy into other than wondering where the fuck I went wrong.”

You can’t bring yourself to look at him, your openness leaving you feeling raw, and instead focus on the board in front of you. Anger begins to simmer in your veins at the thought of the last couple of years and you grab the next plank with just enough force to wedge a splinter deep into your palm. A loud curse falls from your lips as you drop the board. 

You feel Logan next to you and you suck in a deep breath as he reaches for your hand, his fingers curling around yours. “Lemme see,” he says, pulling you close and you can smell the earthiness of him, like damp soil and campfire smoke. You find yourself staring at him, his proximity intoxicating, as you drink in his long lashes and the slope of his nose. 

He tilts your palm towards himself, his fingers pressing gently yet with firm enough pressure to push the splinter out of your skin. Pulling it out the rest of the way, his eyes flick up to yours. “Somehow I don’t think you’re the one that fucked up, sweetheart.” His voice is warm and you want to melt into him. 

“Well,” you start, clearing your throat, “I certainly wasn’t fucking his mistresses.” 

Something in his eyes darkens and a shiver runs down your spine. “He’s a fool for losin’ you,” he growls, and his words hit you with more force than you’d care to admit. 

His hand still lingers on yours, steady and reassuring and warm and for a moment you think he might lean closer. You desperately want him to. To press his mouth against yours, to feel his breath against your skin, to have his taste against your tongue. But he pulls back, his expression one of thin control, but you can see the storm behind his gaze. 

“A damn fool,” he mutters under his breath and you can’t help but wonder if he’s talking about himself or your ex. 

Logan lets your hand go, turning back towards the porch and you mourn the loss, your skin still tingling from the contact. You swallow hard, trying to shake off the intensity of the moment. It’s Logan—quiet, gruff Logan, who never really sticks around for a real conversation and yet here he is, offering help and showing that maybe he’s not entirely as unaffected by you as you thought. 

Your heartbeat drums in your ears as you watch him go back to work, prying up the next board, his muscles flexing beneath his worn shirt. His jaw clenches and there’s a focused determination in his movements and you can’t tell if he’s working out some anger or trying to keep himself in check.

You work in silence for several more minutes, the only sounds being the prying of loose boards and creaking lumber. There’s a tension between you now, more so than there was before, something palpable. 

It’s enough to drive you mad.

“What about you?” you finally ask, your voice somewhat hesitant. “You don’t talk about yourself much.”

Logan glances at you from the corner of his eye and his brow furrows, as if he’s weighing whether or not to answer. “Not much to tell,” he grunts, pulling up another board with more force than necessary.

“Somehow, I doubt that. You don’t just wake up one day alone in the woods with forearms like that.” 

Logan looks over at you and smirks. “Maybe I’m just really good with my hands.” His voice dips low and you can’t help the warmth that pools low in your belly at his words.

You swallow, your throat suddenly dry. “Yeah, no…yep. I’m starting to figure that out.”

He’s silent for a few moments as he goes back to work and the air between you hums with something charged. “You really want to know?” he asks, his voice rough. “I’ve been around for too long, longer than anyone should. Done things I’m not proud of.” He tosses another plank aside and all you can do it watch him. “I’ve…I’ve hurt people I care about. People I’ve cared about have hurt me. I’m not really sure I belong anywhere, so I just…drift.”

There’s something raw in his voice, something broken and vulnerable, and it catches you off guard. For all his outward strength, there’s man deep down inside who’s lost, and your heart aches for him.

“You belong here,” you say softly. 

He doesn’t look at you, but you can feel the tension shift as the weight of your words settle between you. Another board gets tossed aside. “Yeah, maybe.”

He finally raises his gaze to yours and for a moment the world quiets—the forest, the porch, all of it—as his eyes lock onto yours and his expression softens. You offer him a warm smile and then return back to the porch, hesitant to push him any further. 

You work comfortably together after that. The old boards removed, Logan helps you place and nail down the new ones. Your conversation is limited to the project, but you don’t mind. 

As Logan packs up his tools, you glance over at him. “Thank you.”

A half smile plays at the corner of his mouth. “You’re welcome,” comes his reply as he steps off the porch and heads down the path back towards his cabin. 

“Logan!” you call, lightly jogging after him before he slips out of view. He pauses and turns back towards you. “Can I make you dinner?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Haven’t you already been doin’ that?”

“No,” you say shaking your head, “I mean, yes, I have, but like a proper dinner? Fresh from kitchen to table. I can come by you, if you’d like.”

Logan studies you for a moment, his gaze intense and you can feel your heart beating against your ribs. He’s silent for so long you wonder if you’ve overstepped and you open your mouth to speak when he says, “Alright. Come by tomorrow, six o’clock.”

You can’t stop the smile that spreads across your face. “Tomorrow it is.”

+++

You’re up before the sun, your nerves a tangle of raw edges. You lay there, staring at the ceiling  and wondering what the fuck you’ve gotten yourself into. 

You weren’t expecting to meet someone out here in the woods. You were hoping for tranquility, a distraction to quiet the voice in your head that kept nagging you for how your life veered off course. That maybe if you worked more, did more, loved more you wouldn’t be a thirty year old divorcee. 

Instead, you find a mysterious man who sparks within you a flame you long thought extinguished. A ruggedly handsome man who’s somehow wormed his way into your life and has you wondering if maybe he can’t help mend the pieces of your broken heart. 

Except you don’t know if that same spark is ignited within him and if his gesture of dinner is simple kindness. A response to the kindness you’ve shown him over the last two months or if he’s feeling that same attraction you do. 

God, you hope he does. 

You spend the morning cleaning, trying to pour your nervous energy into something productive other than worrying about what the evening may bring. Driving into town, you agonize over what to make even though he’s been eating what you’ve made without complaint for weeks now. You opt to keep it simple—pasta with homemade meat sauce, a nice loaf of bread and a couple bottles of wine. 

While the sauce is simmering on the stove you get ready. You dress for comfort, a simple pair of leggings and a flowy top that hangs slightly off your shoulders.  You catch your reflection in the mirror and give yourself a silent nod of encouragement. Despite this just being dinner, the night brims with the possibility of maybe something more. 

Once the food is prepared, you carefully pack everything in a large basket and begin the walk to Logan’s cabin. The night is cool, but still holds the warmth of day and the promise of summer to come. You feel your anticipation heighten the closer you get to his place and your stomach drops when you see it appear up ahead. 

It’s just Logan, you remind yourself. 

Stepping up onto his porch, you give a hesitant knock at the door. He greets you almost instantly and you suck in a deep breath. Logan looks good and your heart does a flip as you take him in—well fitting jeans, a clean white shirt underneath a soft red flannel button down, his hair is still slightly damp from a shower. 

“You’re early,” he comments, standing aside to let you in. You catch the slight frown tug at his mouth as he notices the basket. “You coulda cooked here, you know.”

“Oh, well, I didn’t know if you’d want me invading your space,” you reply, following him deeper into the cabin and setting the basket down on the counter. 

Logan turns back towards you, bracing his hands against the counter. “I don’t mind you in my space.”

His words hang in the air between you and you can feel your pulse quicken. You glance up at him, and the way he’s looking at you—steady and unflinching—sends a thrill down your spine. 

You clear your throat, trying to settle the nerves in your chest. “Next time then,” you say lightly, hoping he can’t hear the slight waver in your voice. 

Logan’s lips quirk into a half smile. “Next time,” he agrees. 

He reaches into a cabinet above him, pulling down a couple of plates and glasses, setting a small table in the corner of the small kitchen. You keep yourself busy unpacking the food, arranging the bread, pasta and sauce on the table, working around him as he uncorks the wine and pours both of you a glass. 

Logan joins you then, raising his glass and clinking it gently against yours. He nods in a silent cheers and tips his head back as he drinks, his eyes never leaving yours. You can’t suppress the shiver that shoots down your spine.

Setting down his glass, he serves you and then himself, commenting, “This smells amazing.”

“Family recipe,” you reply, taking another sip wine. “Remind me to make it for you when I have fresh tomatoes. It’s even better then.”

“I’ll have to do that,” he says with a smile.

Conversation starts off slow, but not awkward, as you both test the limits of what you’re wiling to share. Logan’s answers are often short, reserved, but what he does reveal helps bring into focus the outline of the man before you. An outline you’re hoping he’ll let you fill in.

“George says you’re a mutant,” you start slowly and you don’t miss the way his posture stiffens, his fork scraping harshly against the plate. 

He goes still and you wonder if you fucked up. Crossed a boundary he wasn’t willing to cross.

Eventually, Logan’s eyes flick up to yours and he lets out a small hum. “He did, did he?”

You nod, chewing. “It doesn’t bother me.”

He’s quiet for a beat. “It bothers most people.”

“I’m not most people,” you reply, your voice soft. 

Something in his face softens then, the furrow of his brow a little less pronounced. A slight smile plays at his lips. “No. No you’re not.”

You feel a warmth bloom in your chest and your face flushes. Taking another bite, you ask, “Can I see?”

Logan studies you for a moment and you can see him deciding whether or not to show you that part of him he’d rather keep hidden. He sets the silverware down and he flexes his fingers before resting his palms back on the table. Then, he unsheathes his claws and you can’t stop the gasp that falls from your lips. 

You see him flinch at your reaction and he goes to retract his claws and you reach for him. “Don’t,” you say, your fingers hovering just above the blades. 

As he relaxes, you gently rest your fingertips against the metal, finding it surprisingly cool but still holding a faint warmth from his body. His eyes drop to where you’re touching him as you slowly begin to trace each blade with your fingers, following the slight curve down to where they emerge from his skin. You look up at him, finding his gaze fixed on you and you shiver under the intensity. 

“They’re beautiful,” you whisper. You feel him shudder beneath you as he retracts his claws, leaving your fingertips nestled against the skin between his knuckles. 

You pull your hand away from his, mourning the loss of his skin against yours. Logan clears his throat and pulls his hands into his lap, glancing down at them as if they’re foreign, something he’s never taken the time to notice before. He flexes his fingers once more before dragging his gaze back to your face.

“Do they hurt?” you ask quietly.

He shakes his head. “No. Not anymore.”

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “Thank you for showing me.”

Logan studies you for a long moment, searching your face like he’s trying to figure you out. You know he’s probably not used to this, someone seeing him as something other than a mutant, an aberration, someone who should be hidden away. Then, his face softens.

“People don’t usually ask,” he says quietly.

You smile gently, feeling that flame inside you burn just a bit brighter. “I just want to know you.”

He leans back in his chair, his gaze still steady, but more open, as if some of those invisible walls he surrounds himself with have started to come down. If only just enough to let the light shine through. 

An unspoken tension simmers, thickening the air, and you know he can feel it too, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s heavy with promise. You turn your attention back to your plate and for a few moments, neither of you speak.

“So,” you say after a beat, “Do you ever use them as forks?”

Logan huffs out a laugh, the sound surprising you and his eyes crinkle in genuine amusement. “I can’t say that I have,” he replies with a smile.

You grin. “You should give it a try.”

“If I do, you’ll be the first to know.”

The rest of dinner passes with easy conversation and you feel your nerves begin to settle, just a bit. Logan seems less guarded too, more at ease than you’ve ever seen him.

You help him clear the table, ignoring his request that you just sit and relax. As you stand next to him, emptying the leftovers into a container, you feel his eyes on you. When you hand him the container, your fingers brush again, but this time he doesn’t immediately pull away. His fingers linger just a bit longer than necessary and your breath catches in your throat.

“Thanks for dinner, he says quietly, voice low. “And for…understanding.”

You nod, feeling that unmistakable pull between you, the tug that’s kept you orbiting closer and closer to him. “Anytime, Logan,” you answer softly. “You don’t have to hide from me.”

There’s a flicker of hesitation in his eyes, like he’s been burned before and is still figuring out if he can trust what you’re offering him. And you understand his turmoil, trust having shattered your heart into pieces, pieces you’re still trying to pick up and reshape. 

Logan steps a little bit closer then and before you can say anything else, his hand gently reaches out and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is simple but intimate and it sends a shiver down your spine, heat pooling lowly in your belly.

“C’mon,” he says. “Let me walk you home.”

He grabs your basket before you can protest and you follow him out into the night. There’s a full moon hanging heavy in the sky, illuminating the path in front of you, yet you remain close to Logan. You curse to yourself as you trip over an exposed root and then you feel Logan reach out for you, his fingers wrapping securely around your own. The heat of his palm against yours is almost overwhelming.

Your cabin comes into view and Logan slows, his fingers slipping from your grasp as he sets the basket down on the porch.

“Good night, Logan,” you say softly as you walk up the steps. 

As you turn from him, he reaches for your wrist, his fingers curling and pressing hotly against your skin. Your breath hitches as he climbs the steps to join you on the porch, and your gasps dies in your throat as he tilts your chin up and forces you to meet his gaze. 

“Do I make you nervous?” His voice is low, breath hot and damp against your skin. 

“Yes,” you breathe, somehow inching closer to him, your fingers reaching for the hem of his flannel and twisting into the fabric. 

“Why?” He brushes his nose against yours and you chase after the touch. 

Swallowing hard, you look up at him from under your lashes. You tilt further into him, your mouth hovering just over his. “Because I haven’t felt like this in a very long time and I don’t want it to go away.” Don’t want you to go away. 

Logan nods and whispers, “I’m not goin’ anywhere.” And then he presses his mouth to yours. 

It’s soft, barely a hint of skin against skin, but when you whisper, “Please,” against his lips, Logan growls and then he’s everywhere. His kiss claims you, his tongue licking in your mouth and you whimper as his fingers curl along the nape of your neck somehow pulling you impossibly closer. 

You wind your arms around his shoulders, your fingers tangling in the short strands at the back of his head. Your entire world is focused down to the feel of his lips on yours and the press of his fingers against your jaw as he pulls you towards his hungry mouth. 

Logan’s grip on you tightens, one hand splayed across your lower back and the other pressed firmly between your shoulder blades, anchoring you to him. The heat between you is palpable, each movement of his lips setting you further aflame. You lose track of time, lost in the sensation of his beard scraping against your skin, leaving a tingling trail in its wake.

When he finally pulls back, you’re both breathless and his forehead rests against yours, your shared breaths mingling in the space between you. His eyes are dark and intense as they search your face and you feel untethered, Logan being the only thing keeping you grounded.

“You okay?” he asks, voice rough, but surprisingly tender as his thumb traces along the line of your jaw.

You nod, swallowing the lump that’s formed in your throat. You don’t trust yourself to speak.

His lips quirk into a small smile. “Good.” He brushes a stray strand of hair away from your cheek, his hand lingering at the side of your face. He presses one last soft kiss to the corner of your mouth before he steps back and walks down the path back home.

+++

You can’t stop thinking about the kiss—Logan’s lips against yours, the taste of his tongue, the press of his hands against your skin, hot and heavy, yet gentle. 

You want to live in that moment forever. Want to know only his kisses for the rest of your life, for him to be the first person you kiss good morning and the last person you kiss goodnight. For him to kiss you just because he can, because he misses you, because he can’t get the feel of your mouth out of his mind and he needs to feel you again pressing against him. 

You also want to run away, hide yourself from these emotions that are overwhelming you and leaving you feeling raw and exposed and absolutely terrified. You haven’t kissed another man in two years and he broke your heart, leaving nothing but shattered pieces and dust in his wake. Dust that still clings to you despite your best efforts to sweep it up. Those pieces of your heart are still sharp, jagged where they should be smooth. 

You’ve always been trusting, choosing to see the light in others as opposed the darkness. Believing deep down that everyone deserves kindness, deserves a second chance, that one bad deed does not a bad person make. But he stole a part of that from you and you hate him for it. Hate that even now, after all this time, he’s able to worm his way into your brain and make you question the motives of the man who’s made you feel more alive than you have in months. 

Last night you felt unshackled, unbound by the fear that had chained you for so long. You felt as if Logan’s very touch, his presence, had set your soul on fire and instead of fearing the burn, you were ready to embrace the warmth. 

But now, raw contempt begins to simmer in your veins and you need something to pour your frustration into before it threatens to consume you whole. 

Throwing your hair up into a messy bun and throwing on a paint-stained shirt and ripped jeans, you head outside looking for a project to sink fingers into. In the small shed behind the cabin, you find a few gardening supplies—a small shovel, trowel, bow rake—and you drag them out and to the overgrown flower beds.

You don’t even bother with the tools at first, ripping at the dead growth with your bare hands, pulling it from the earth in great clumps and tossing it aside. Your pulse beats loudly in your ears as you move from bed to bed, clawing away the old growth, your breathing growing ragged and your palms staining with dirt.

Grabbing the rake, you dig at the remaining plants, tearing at the roots, destroying the new growth. Tears run hotly down your face, blurring your vision and your throat aches from force of your breathing and screams you’ve been holding back.

From behind you, you hear the sound of your name and you whip around so quickly, the rake goes flying from your hands. You can hear the snikt of Logan’s claws as they unsheathe and the splintering of wood as he deflects the rake flying at him. It clatters to the ground between you as he retracts his claws and looks at you, his brow furrowed in concern.

You wonder, then, exactly what you look like in that moment. Dirt caked on your hands and under your fingernails, cheeks flushed with exertion, hair a halo of disarray. The pure adrenaline you’d been running on wanes and your limbs suddenly feel heavy and you sink to the ground in front of him. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, because you’re afraid of what you’ll see.

Logan approaches you slowly, kneeling down in front of you and gently raising your chin to look up at him. The stark worry etched on his face makes you ache and fresh tears burn in your eyes. You wipe at your eyes, which only serves to smear dirt across your face.

“I’m terrified, Logan,” you whisper, wanting to reach for him, but afraid to touch him. “I terrified of how much I like you.”

“You scare me too,” he confesses softly and your heart breaks.

He leans closer, fingers resting hesitantly against your knees. You reach for him too, grabbing on to the open sides of his jacket and pulling him to you. Logan doesn’t flinch, doesn’t push back and instead envelopes you into his arms, your head resting against the solid warmth of his chest. 

Safe in his arms, you cry. Harsh, broken sobs as he rubs your back, the soft caress of his fingers along your spine anchoring you to him as he holds you. He murmurs into your hair that he’s got you, to let it all out, and you do.

Eventually, you calm and sigh, pressing your forehead against his chest, loathe to move just yet. “I’m broken, Logan,” you mumble into his shirt. You look up at him then, the softness and concern on his face making you physically ache. “I still have broken pieces where I should be whole.”

Slowly, tentatively, he brings his hands up to your face, cupping your cheeks in his hands. His thumbs brush at the dirt and tears under your eyes and he smoothes the hair away from your forehead. “Maybe some of my pieces fit,” he says, voice low, but steady. 

His words send a flood of emotion through you, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him. Then the gravity of what he’s saying hits you—he’s offering you himself, all his jagged and scarred pieces, the pieces no one else sees.

The pieces he wants you to see.

You lean forward, pressing the lightest of kisses against the corner of his mouth. His sigh is hot against your cheek, but he doesn’t press further. 

“Thank you,” you whisper into his skin and somehow it feels like the most important thing you’ve ever said.

“C’mon,” he says, “Let me help you get this cleaned up.”

You nod, wiping your nose with the back of your hand.  Logan stands, offering you his hand. You take it, your fingers slipping into his and his grip is steady, yet gentle as he helps you up. 

Without a word, Logan grabs the broken rake and begins removing the debris from the beds you laid waste to. You watch him work for a moment before joining in, pulling the weeds from the beds you hadn’t gotten to yet. Every now and then your eyes meet, but you don’t say anything. You don’t feel the need to fill the space with words, his presence beside you speaking volumes more than he could ever say. 

After a while, Logan pauses and looks over at you, wiping the dirt from his hands into his jeans. “You still got those seeds I gave you?”

“Of course I do.”

“Go get ‘em,” he says nodding towards the cabin. “We’ll plant something new.”

You retrieve the small pouch where you’ve kept it safe and come out to find Logan kneeling in the dirt, his fingers making small pockets of earth to house the new flowers. He looks up at you, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. You join him on the ground, dropping a few seeds in each well as he moves to create the next one. 

“I’m not very good at this,” Logan starts, covering the last well with dirt, “but I promise I won’t break you. You don’t gotta be scared of me.”

He looks at you then, his hazel eyes meeting yours and you reach for his hand, your thumb brushing across his dirt stained knuckles. 

“No,” you reply with a smile, “I don’t think I do.”

+++

It’s been three days since that moment with Logan in the garden and the air between you has been quiet. Logan hasn’t come by the cabin, but you hadn’t sought him out either. You weren’t avoiding him, exactly. More a need for space, a chance to process the feelings you felt for him, to test if you were truly ready to open yourself up to him.

Your mind never strays far from him, though. An almost constant loop plays in your brain of the way he held you, the way he spoke, the quiet promise he made not to break you. There’s a large part of you that believes him; your heart is screaming at you shed your lingering doubt and trust him, but your rational brain is grasping desperately to the kernel of truth that vows can be broken. 

So you turn to what you do best—pour your energy into other things. The cabin is spotless now, cleaned of disuse and age, turned into a cozy place of retreat, a simple shelter turned into a home. And yet…

You’re sitting on the porch, watching the sun dip lower in the sky, the book you’d been trying to read long forgotten. The forest is peaceful, alive with the sounds of early summer. But as calming as it is, you can’t ignore the ache in your chest—you miss him. More than you thought possible.

Just as you’re about to stand, the sound of boots against gravel catches your attention. You look up and there he is—Logan. His hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his worn jacket as he walks up the path. His look is cautious, as if he’s unsure whether or not you’ll accept his presence. 

Your heart skips a beat and you stand, wiping your palms against your jeans as he draws closer. His hazel eyes meet yours and there’s something softer about him, something open.

He stops a few feet away from you, gaze steady. “I wasn’t sure if I should come by.” His voice is still gruff, but quieter than usual. “If you needed space or not.”

“I did, need space. But not from you,” you clarify. You take a hesitant step towards him. “I missed you.”

Logan sighs then, his posture relaxing just slightly. “I wanted so badly to see you. I didn’t know if I should stay away.”

Before you can second guess yourself, you step down from the porch, closing the distance between you. You stand in front of him, noticing the faint lines of tension around his mouth, the way his jaw is clenched as if bracing himself for your rejection. 

“Don’t stay away,” you say softly, “I want you here.”

You reach for him, your fingers brushing against his hands as you pull them from his pockets. Logan doesn’t pull away and the warmth of his skin against yours feels like the most natural thing in the world. You feel it then, that familiar pull—the one that’s been there since the beginning, drawing you closer and closer into his orbit, his sun.

You brush your thumbs across his knuckles and look up at him. “You wanna come inside?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll make you something to eat?”

Logan nods, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”

As you lead him inside, something in the air between you shifts, something subtle. But you know one thing for certain—you’re not afraid anymore. Not of this.

+++

The sun has set, the food long gone and as Logan’s hand reaches for the front door, you slip in front of him. His scent overwhelms you, that earthy dampness you’ve come to associate with him flooding your senses. 

“What if you stayed?” you ask, the slight waver in your voice betraying your boldness. 

You watch as his eyes darken and he leans even further into your space. “Do you know what you’re asking, sweetheart?” he replies, eyes searching your face. 

Swallowing, you nod. “I do,” you whisper. 

Then you slide your arms around his waist, pulling him closer as you lean in and kiss the hollow of his throat. You can feel him swallow hard beneath your lips and you smirk into his skin as you drag your mouth higher, over the long column of his neck to nip at the corner of his jaw. 

“Stay,” you murmur in his ear.

Logan turns, his nose brushing against your cheek as he seeks your mouth and you inhale deeply as his lips find yours. His fingers wind themselves into your hair, resting against the nape of your neck as he pulls you closer. You whimper into his mouth when he pulls back, eyes blown black.

“Show me where,” he says, his voice low.

You lead him up the stairs, his hand warm in yours and you barely make it to the top before Logan’s spinning you around, mouth finding yours. His is kiss is demanding, so different from that first one all those nights ago. This is urgent and desperate, like he can’t possibly get you close enough to satisfy the need deep within him. And you feel it too, pouring yourself back equally into the kiss, moaning as his tongue finally slips alongside yours. 

Your fingers fumble along the top of his jeans, pulling his shirt from where it’s tucked and sliding your hands up along the sides of his ribs. He rewards you with a deep groan of his own, nipping slightly at your bottom lip.

“Christ, sweetheart,” he rumbles against your lips, kissing you once, twice, “I’ve been dyin’ to feel your hands on me.”

“Me, too,” you reply, gasping as his hands find the hem of your shirt, lifting it just enough to brush his fingers hotly along your skin. 

Logan pulls back just enough to look down at your face, his fingers still clutching the fabric of your shirt, but lifting it just a bit higher. His gaze is questioning, asking for silent permission to continue. You nod once and he slowly drags the shirt up, his fingers skimming along your sides, over the swells of your breasts as he pulls the shirt over your head. 

Despite the heat coursing through your veins, you shiver under the intensity of his stare. He kisses you again, inhaling deeply, before moving down, nipping over your chin, your throat, in between your breasts. 

Logan’s hands follow his mouth, running a trail from your shoulders, down long your spine, easily flicking open the clasp of your bra on the way. He glances up at you as he moves to pull the straps aside, dragging them down your arms. 

“Do you know how beautiful you are?” he asks, his hands coming up to cup your breasts, thumbs fanning out across your nipples.

A jolt of pleasure shoots down your spine and pools low in your belly. You feel like you might spontaneously catch on fire and he’s barely touched you. You can’t remember ever feeling like this when a man has touched you, so consumed by want and need.

His fingers trail lower, brushing along the top of your jeans, popping open the button. You grab for his hand, stopping him. You see the concern flicker across his face and you smile. “Your turn,” you say, sliding your palms up his chest and pushing the flannel from his shoulders, his shirt following suit.

You revel in his muscular physique, your fingers tracing along his collarbones, down over the broad planes of his chest, feeling the wiry hair beneath your fingertips. His muscles flutter beneath your touch as you follow the trail of hair lower, down to the vee between his hips. 

Logan’s arousal is evident by the tenting of his jeans, and your eyes locked on his, you dip lower, giving the faintest of caresses over the fabric.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he curses. “Take your pants off.”

It’s a command, not an ask, and one you’re more than willing to comply with. 

Nervous energy licks at your skin as your fingers tuck into the waistband of your jeans and pull them down. Logan follows your lead, unbuckling his belt and shoving his jeans over his hips, kicking them aside. His cock juts out proudly, thick and heavy, nestled in a bed of hair.

Logan’s on you before you can kick away the last leg, hoisting you up under your thighs and forcing you to wrap your legs around his hips. His palms are hot against your ass and you can feel his cock trapped between you. 

He moves you both to the bed, setting you down before crawling over you and slotting himself between your thighs. Leaning back on his heels, he stares down at you, skin flushed. He kisses you softly once, before dragging a single finger down the center of your chest, hooking it into the waistband of your panties. 

“What do you like?” he asks lowly, eyes boring into yours.

You stare at him, unable to comprehend his question as he slides his finger back and forth across your skin. Electric sparks of anticipation crawl up your spine and you can feel the rapid flutter of your heart against your ribs. 

“You want me to touch you with my fingers?” His voice is low, so low and you shiver. 

Your mouth has gone dry and you can only nod. 

“You want me to touch you with my mouth?” Logan leans down, skimming his lips across your collarbone, nipping lightly. 

Your fingers stutter across his shoulders and wind themselves into his hair. Logan’s smirk presses into the corner of your jaw. “Want me to touch you with both?”

“Please,” you whine into his neck, breath hot against his skin. 

Logan trails back down your body, kisses peppering over your neck, both breasts, your belly before he presses a kiss to the top of your clothed mound. He hooks his fingers into the waistband and looks up at you, asking for permission. At your nod, he pulls he material down, eyes never leaving yours as he trails his fingers down your legs and tosses the fabric aside.

You’re fully bare, exposed in a way you haven’t been in a long time and your nerves blush across your skin. Instinctively, you try to close your legs, but he stops you, his hot palms curling against your thighs.

“You don’t gotta hide from me,” Logan says, kissing your knee and spreading your legs further apart. “You’re so pretty like this. Flushed and wet and smelling so sweet for me.”

A jolt of desire zips down your spine. Nothing could have prepared you for the filthiness of words that would spill from his mouth. Or how much you’d enjoy hearing them.

“I don’t want to disappoint you,” you murmur.

“That’s not possible.”

“Other men have—“

Your words die in your throat as Logan grips your chin, forcing your gaze up to his face. His expression is soft, but his eyes flash with a glint of something dark. “When I fuck you, I’ll be the only man in your bed, understand?”

The roughness and edge in his voice makes you shiver and heat pools between your thighs. You swallow heavily and nod.

“I want this,” he says, his tone softer. “I want you. Whatever you’ll give me.”

Slowly, you reach for his hand and guide his fingers to where you’re wet and aching for him. At the first brush of his fingertips against your folds, you gasp and your fingers dig deeper into his skin. 

“Relax, sweetheart,” Logan coos. “I’m gonna make you feel good.”

And then he’s touching you, fingers dragging through your arousal before circling around your clit. He caresses you like he knows you and you’re molten beneath him. One finger, then two slip inside you, pressing against that spot that makes you squirm and grip at the sheets beneath you.

“Fuck,” you breathe, “You weren’t lying.” Logan quirks an eyebrow, fingers still curling within you, his rhythm picking up speed. “You are good with your hands.”

His chuckle rumbles through his chest as he continues to move, this thumb working over your clit. Your hips jolt off the bed when Logan replaces his thumb with his tongue, drawing the sensitive bud into his mouth. 

He continues to work your cunt, long, flat presses of his tongue against your clit punctuated by the short, sharp thrusts of his fingers. The dual sensation is enough to wind that tension in your core tighter, building you up higher and higher until you feel yourself reaching that inevitable peak.

“Logan, I—I’m so close,” you gasp, fisting your fingers into his hair.

His growl against your cunt is enough to send you over the edge, the vibrations rippling through your body as your orgasm washes over you. Through half lidded eyes, you meet his gaze from between your thighs, his eyes dark with desire and you shiver at the intensity of his stare.

Logan crawls over you, pressing a kiss to your lips. You can taste yourself on his lips, bright and sour, as he licks into your mouth. 

“Do you trust me?”

Logan’s fingers are still moving against you, wringing out the last of your orgasm and you can only nod. He withdraws his fingers and you whine, but he just smirks and taps your hip. 

“Turn over,” he commands lowly. 

A shudder ripples through you as you willingly comply, rolling onto your stomach as Logan’s palm trails from your hip over the swell of your ass. His fingers kneed into your flesh and you squeak as he curves them over your skin, pulling you up onto your knees, drawing your hips flush with his. The thick feel of his cock presses into your ass and you can’t help but push back, enjoying the strangled moan that falls from his lips. 

“I can’t wait to be nestled deep inside you,” he groans, slotting his cock between your thighs, running the length along your wet cunt. 

You peer over your shoulder and smirk at him. “Then what are you waiting for?”

Logan lines up then and the air punches out of your lungs as he slowly eases himself in to the hilt. He’s deep at this angle and you feel claimed, owned in the best way possible as he begins to move his hips. The drag of his cock against your walls is exquisite and you’re sure you’ve never experienced pleasure quite like this before. 

His fingers dig into the flesh at your hips, grabbing as much as he can to pull you back into him and you push back, meeting him thrust for thrust. His grip is enough to be bruising, teetering that line between pleasure and pain and yet you relish it. 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he rasps. “Look so good stretched around my cock.”

Pleasure zips along your spine and curls along your limbs, each drag of his cock against you coiling that band in your belly tighter and tighter. Yet, you need more. You need to feel him, feel his arms around you, on you, feel his mouth hot and open against your skin.

“I need to feel you closer,” you whine. “Please, I—”

Logan’s arm slips underneath you, curling just under your breasts and pulling your back flush to his chest. He holds on, fingertips splaying across your ribcage as he fucks up into you, his breath hot and damp against your ear. 

You turn your head just enough to capture his lips, your mouth pressing against his in an open-mouthed kiss. He steals the moan from your throat as his other hand dips to where you’re joined, fingers beginning to circle around your clit. 

Slipping a hand into his hair, you hold him to you, your head falling back onto his shoulder. Logan groans when you rake your nails along his scalp and you do it again. Your mixed groans and the wet noises from where he’s thrusting into you fill the room and time seems to stop. There is nothing but the thick feel of him between your legs, the fervent press of his fingers against your clit and the tight grasp of his hand across your breast. 

A litany of praise falls from his mouth and his words burn through you, setting you aflame from the inside. It’s too early for thoughts of love and forever, but you can feel something real, something undeniable pulling you together, uniting you in a way more than just physical. You’re bound to him. 

Logan’s hand slides up your sternum, his fingers coming to cup your jaw, pulling your focus back to him. The pad of his thumb pulls at your lower lip. “Come for me, sweetheart,” he husks into your ear. “I wanna hear those pretty sounds you make.”

And you do, two more forceful thrusts sending you teetering over the edge, your orgasm ripping through you. Logan doesn’t stop, fucking you through wave after wave, his thrusts getting sloppier as he chases his own release. 

“Let me feel you, Logan,” you pant, your breath coming out in short gasps. “Please.”

With a deep groan into your shoulder he comes, his cock spasming deep within you, painting your womb with his seed. His arm around your hips holds you firmly in place as he uses your body to wring out the last of his pleasure, shallowly thrusting as your walls caress him. When he finally stills, breath hot against your skin, you can feel your combined come slick against your thighs. 

You don’t know how long he holds you like that, back to chest, keeping you in his arms simply because he can. 

Only later, when the sweat begins to cool on your skin and your flesh pebbles, does Logan lay you down, finally slipping from within you. He pulls you close and you rest your head against his chest, the comforting lull of his heartbeat echoing in your ear. 

You lightly trace your fingertips over the crest of his hipbone just to feel him beneath you. His breathing evens out, approaching that blissful edge of sleep when you glance up at him. Logan opens his eyes, gaze meeting yours and he smiles.

“Logan?”

His hum vibrates through his chest.

“I think we’re healing each other.”

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he answers, “I think we are.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 25

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: 😁.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The queen snores in her bed. At last, peaceful. You leave her as she is, piled in bedclothes amid the glow of the low-burning fire. You emerge into the corridor, silent, and the door drags closed with a scrape at your cautious pull. The shadow by the pillar shifts.  

You glance over at the guard. Gilles has been relieved of his watch and another man stands in his place. You think you recognise him. He must’ve been one of those which helped the queen seize your cart. The road feels so very long ago and yet there is still much ahead of you. 

“Hold,” the guard warns and gives a whistle, the noise echoing along the high ceilings.  

There’s scuffling further down and you turn to face another silhouette, this one slender and lithe like a wraith. Ezme steps into the light of a lamp and stare at you placidly. She beckons with a hand. 

“Come, maid, I will show you your quarters,” she says. 

You bow your head and go to her. It is unusual you wouldn’t be left to find your way to the servants wing yourself, likely near the kitchens, and yet you are much too weary to question any of it. She turns and you walk at her side. The promise of sleep, even if only a little, has you aching to recline. 

The corridors are quiet but for the soft pad of your footsteps. Fewer lamps light the way than in the daytime and the path grows black. You follow the stirring of the women next to you as she carries on. She touches your arm to stop you, nudging you to the right. You wait and listen as she lifts a latch, the metallic noise cutting through the din, and hinges creak loudly. 

She guides you into the dark chamber by your wrist. It is lit only by moonlight and a brazier burning at the foot of a broad bed. The door clanks shut and you shiver. Ezme moves around you, her skirts brushing your own, and she goes to the low mattress. You squint, these are not servants’ rooms. The bed frame, the brazier, the space swathed in darkness; more often, bodies crowded over bags of hay or on the scant tatters of blankets. 

“You will sleep here,” she says softly, “with me. You will be safe.” 

“Safe? From what?” You croak and rub your cheeks as they burn with fatigue. 

“Need you ask,” she replies knowingly, “it is much too late for those questions. Come, lay, the morning will be upon us swiftly.” 

You don’t argue. She is right. You go to bed and remove your apron and cap. You fold them and put them to the foot of the mattress. She moves a dark square over the blankets towards you. You pause and reach to touch the obscured shape as the dim light offers only vague outline. It’s soft, furry. You feel around and find the familiar rough patch sewn into the lining. It’s the king’s cloak. 

“You will want to keep that close,” she says, “the soldier made certain to leave it for you.” 

“Bryce?” You wonder aloud, “is he your friend?” 

“He is a familiar face,” she shrugs and pulls her dress over her head. “The Lord of the Castle likes him well enough.” 

You shift the cloak over your apron and strip off your outer layer, standing only in your shift. You mirror the maid across from you and slip beneath the thick blankets. A sigh escapes you as your muscles finally release the tension of the day. She is still on her back as you lay upon your side, staring at the low flicker of the brazier against the wall. 

Curiosity nips at your exhaustion. How does a servant come upon a room like this? Is it simply at your expense? For whatever reason Bryce has bid her to keep you close. Certainly, the old soldier is overly cautious. 

Your eyes close before you can think very much on the unexpected resting spot. The day has been turbulent and full of many surprises. You only dread those that await you on the morrow. 

⚔️

Ezme wakes you from a heavy slumber. You both dress in the morning hue, rinsing from a basin before you face another day. You leave the cloak on the assurance it will be waiting for you. A thought glimmers of what the king might think should it go missing. Would he blame you? 

You emerge and part from your nocturnal companion. You procede to the queen’s chambers to find them open and the corridor a titter. A pair of servants, themselves dozy, carry one of her chests through as her shrill cry careens through. You approach as the steadfast guard with the fiery hair watches you with narrow eyes.  

You peer within and find the Queen Jazlene digging through the contents, tossing fabrics without a care, in a desperate search. You are stunned to find her awake with the sunrise but not disheartened. It might be a good omen. 

"Where is it?" She throws her hands up and scowls as her eyes skim around, "you," she points in your direction, "where is my blue dress? The one with the silver lace? It must be here!" 

"Your highness, perhaps another chest," you step inside. 

"You did remember to pack it, didn't you?" She accuses as she stands, "I did bid it." 

"Yes, your highness," you affirm, though it was Merinda who would've taken the order. "Shall I go look in the luggage?" 

"Oh, yes, you shall," she struts toward you, "I will not be dressed as some northern wench for the banquet." 

Banquet? You withhold your curiosity and bow your head. You have a task and it is always better to tend to it without question. 

You spin and hurry from the room. You nearly collide with another servant, a tray in their hands. Another chore you needn't attend. You press on and find your way through the kitchens to the rear of the castle.  

The luggage remains mostly in the stables which entails a venture into the wintry without. You mourn the cloak upon the foot of the bed but it would be worse to flaunt the king's patch so heedlessly. You tuck your hands into your sleeves and put your chin down before you push through, the door resisting your strength as the wind blows against it. 

You stagger through and the heavy wood slams just as quickly as you clear its breadth. The gales are strong but the snow has relented. You see dark bodies speckled amid the white as powder dusts up in heaps. The servants work to clear away the thick piles and make pathways around the castle's yard. 

You cross to the stables and delve into the stink of horses and hay. The beast nicker and neigh as you pass as others doze without notice. You find the luggage, chests still upon carts as others litter the unswept floor. If you find the dress, it might just reek of horse. 

You recognise the crest of Debray upon a chest and the painted sides of a few others. You unstrap several lids and raise them, the cold nipping but sweat rising nonetheless. The longer you sift through the contents, the number your hands and fingers become, the clumsier you are. 

A patch of blue, so pale and shiny it's almost white, gleams from beneath the heaps of cloth. You yank upon it, bringing out several other gowns with the effort, and claim victory. You do not neglect to suss out a pair of slippers and a hair net you think might go with it. You set it aside and pack away the mess you've made, breathless from the expense. 

You hug your lot and curl around the next row of horses, searching out Daisy as she leans her head against Chestnut's dark neck. Their eyes widen at your approach and they huff almost in time. You pat their noses before you apologise that you must leave them. 

Once more, the violent gusts greet you in the open, sending a spiral of snow around you and dusting you with the chill. Your teeth chatter as the wind pushes you from behind and fill your skirts. You can hardly aim your steps as you end up against the castle wall, sidling along until you're at the door. 

Within, the cold follows and lingers in your bones. You flit through the kitchens, pots steam as the large ovens blaze and bodies cluster and clash. You barely avoid a collision as you pass into the corridor. As you step around one figure, another appears. 

“Aye, there the mouse is,” Bryce greets as he folds a leaf around his finger, readying it to pop in his mouth, “I see she’s got you at work already.” 

“Sir,” you stop before the soldier, “how was your night?” 

“Eh, dark,” he shrugs, “and you? The other maid saw to ya?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Very good. If ye can, stay close to that one at the feast,” he girds, “she’s wise. She knows well how to bide the shadows.” 

You nod and hug the fabric, another shiver flowing through you. He tilts his head as he continues to play with the leaf between his fingers. 

“Don’t tell me you were outside without a cloak,” he accuses, “where’s yours, then?” 

“Sir, it was only for a moment--” 

“This cold does not soften for summer maids,” he tuts and shakes his head, “you will make yerself sick and who should have to deal with it, hm? Who should have to hear the king rant of it?” 

“Apologies, I was only in a rush,” you pout. 

“Don’t be sorry,” he steps closer and touches the dress in your arms, “in a rush for flimsy gown. These halls are too cold for satin.” 

“The queen bids it--” 

“Oh, I would expect,” he chortles. 

You purse your lips, slanting them one way then the next, as you recall your task. You watch him pinch the silk before he rescinds his reach. He puts the leaf in his mouth and chews. 

“You said feast and the queen said banquet? Is that this evening?” You wonder. 

“Certainly, is,” he sucks on the sweet leaves, “Lord Vesemir would celebrate our departure most fervently but as any good winter lord, he would not send his guests out in the cold without full bellies.” 

“Oh,” you utter thoughtfully. 

“And I suppose, it will appease the queen,” he adds, “for a time before she is once more miserable in the wildlands.” 

“And we are to leave on the morrow?” 

“Aye, by the nightfall,” he crosses his arms. “They must clear the pass and ready the horses and carts. It will be a labour but best we move on.” 

“I believe so too, sir,” you teethe your lip. 

“Aye, you are prudent, as ever,” he lowers his gaze to the floor, “mouse.” 

You shift on your soles and exhale solemnly, “I must...” 

“Yes, very well, go on to your queen,” he steps aside, “I must find our king. I suspect he might be hounding the lord of this castle, if not sparring with him.” 

There is a reluctance between you as you carry on your way; Bryce to one wing and you to the other, as if to mark the divide of king and queen. You come up the stairs and hurry along, the queen’s doors still ajar. Her voice carries still and servant scuttles out as a plate is hurled after them, crashing onto the floor as it narrowly avoids their foot. 

You slow and cautiously peek into the room. The queen shakes her head and pinches a morsel of brown meat on her plate, eyeing it with scrutiny. For a moment, her face twists, then she forces herself to shove it in her mouth. She chews as a battle rages across her features. 

Her gaze is drawn by your movement and she gulps down her mouthful. She stands, nearly overturning the stool upon which the tray rests. She brings her hands up as she storms over to snatch your armful. You back away as she lets the dress unfurl and you bend to gather up the slippers and hairnet as they fall. 

“Ah, wonderful, a proper attire for my first proper appearance as queen,” she beams and dances around with the dress, “oh, my hair, my hair. You must braid it for me.” 

She lays the gown on the bed and gives it a longing touch before she retreats. She clammers to the plain wooden table upon which she’s had a looking glass propped up. She leans forward as you stand behind her. Her hair remains in the braids she’s worn for some time, looking wilted and ratty from neglect. 

“Yes, your highness.” 

“I suppose the king feels horrid for his display yesterday,” she preens at herself. “He must realise he cannot keep a lady like me cooped up.” 

You think to mention that it is more send-off than anything. That is on Lord Vesemir’s whim, rather than King Geralt’s. At least that’s how you have it. Yet, you know well not to argue. Let Jazlene believe as she well and the world is always a bit more pleasant. 

You set to undoing her hair, gently as you notice how dry it is, whether from the cold or the air. She snaps her fingers and demands another servant bring her the tray off food. She picks at it as you unwind her hair and let it free. 

She looks at herself one way then the other. She smiles and wipes her mouth with her sleeve.  

“I am still pretty, aren’t I?” She asks, “I will be after the child comes, won’t I?” 

You swallow and nod, “yes, your highness.” 

“Gilles, Gilles,” she chimes and waves a hand, “come, come,” she turns in her seat and you pull away from her, not wanting to tug on her locks. “Tell me, how pretty am I?” 

The man steps into the doorway and clears his throat. He looks as sheepish as you’ve ever seen. You glance back at Jazlene as she poses and bats her lashes. 

“You are beautiful, my queen, as the summer sunsets,” he avows. 

There’s a click in your head, a wriggle in your chest, and a churning in your stomach. No. No, it can’t be. She wouldn’t betray her marriage. 

Yet you thought the very same of her husband. That’s different. The king rules all, even the queen. And that she so garishly flaunts her fleeting affections. But how can you judge, when your own folly looms over you like a cloud? 

You think of the king’s story; Cerrill and Wynifred and their forbidden romance. It tints in a different effect now, it aligns more evenly, for you do not see this ending well for either queen or guard should they stray. Just as you don’t see yourself faring any better. 

[rose-maidenn]

🔹️Pick a card🔹️

Who is the main gaslighter/ manipulater in your life

What are they targeting about you

Hey guys , hope yall are doing well , as the Saturn retrograde goes may it break all your foes . Take a deep breath and choose with your intuition , if you like the reading consider a reblog , feedback or booking as it really helps me kiss kiss

Pile 1 :

Who is the main gaslighter/ manipulater in your life

Social media babe you're following a con and taking relationship advice from a novice , it's led you with false notions you will need some time to break free but recognise and realise it before it's too late , also a friend, their name maybe from n or t might have long shiny hair and talk too sweet almost devilish , they're manipulating you into doing them favours I would ask you to be beware as you're gonna be feeling disintegrated , I feel something like destiny swapping is happening here like copying you a lot or your gestures as well you're too innocent love wake up please .

What are they targeting about you

You want a guide in your life so you followed the influencer but you can find better guides I'm sure and if you resonate with the friend part they're targeting your forgiving nature they think they can easily take from you what makes you unique and then you won't bat an eye is pathetic like I also get something about a black dress have they borrowed something if yes ask them to return asap.

Pile 2 :

Who is the main gaslighter/ manipulater in your life?

A religious person or an authority figure , they're so homophobic or orthodox it's making you question yourself . This person might be a teacher as well , there's so much if your potential but they're forcing you to do something that's so limiting it's almost like you wasting your own potential ik it sucks , it could also be a sibling who are projecting their burn out in their life onto you .

What are they targeting about you

They're targeting your lack of clarity in your life they think you don't know who you are so they hit you in the nail , your developmental years were spent with them so you're attached to them in a way you think they know you so much but remember you know yourself the best.

Pile 3 :

Who is the main gaslighter/ manipulater in your life ?

It's your dusty ass boyfriend or crush or situationship, they also wanna be treated like a princess and are cheap and stingy , idk why you're with them tbh look at you 😭 people would kill for you , idk it also feels as if they're belittling your values or culture like someone wants to get straight hair because they feel they'll look prettier to their bf

What are they targeting about you ?

Worst of all they're targeting your love towards them they target your lack of identity and try to fill spaces in your self discovery journey , as lonely as the journey maybe it is solely yours so if they don't understand they must go alright love.

Thank you for reading love love 💗

[heartfeltcherie]

Hi! I was wondering if you can do a Alastor x paralysis demon fem! reader (basically reader is like Freddy Krueger and can haunts peoples dreams and kill them. If the person they kill in their dream dies, they also die in real life.) The reader can always be tired since when the reader themselves fall asleep they’re transferred to someone else’s dreams so they don’t get sleep. Like none. So it’s just some fluffy stuff with Alastor and very sleepy reader! Extra points if you include reader having a demonic sheep pet with them. (Like how when people sleep they count sheep 🌝)

— my first piece of alastor literature! i’m very nervous that this isn’t accurate but nonetheless, i hope you enjoy :)

☾. °.   ࿐  ` , •

oatmilk flavoured coffee, the type of beverage that comforted you and filled you with a sense of warmth and comfort. a yawn escaped you as the bags under your eyes were becoming more prominent with every night that ended up sleepless.

it was yet another tiring night of drifting off to someone else’s dreams and adding pure nightmare fuel to the peace and quiet of an innocent victim, only to off them and add them to your kill count — you didn’t mind. it was entertaining to watch them try and escape and think that they’ve won, only for you to be the last thing they see before everything goes black.

but oh boy, was it exhausting.

you were sat on one of the sofas in the main entrance of the hazbin hotel, your legs resting to the side of you on the plush cushions as you rested against the arm rest, warm mug in hand, sipping peacefully.

you really wanted sleep. even a simple nap would do. but that was never going to happen, and you knew it.

“heavens, my dear, you look exhausted!” you look up from your outer-space-daze on the floor to see alastor. he’s got that usual smile on his face; you’re happy to see it. you give a meek grin in response. “you know me, always tired”

your feet are on the floor now as you give alastor a place to sit beside you. something about his presence beside you makes you feel warm; just like the coffee your drinking. that’s almost cold by now, but it’s fine.

“oh trust me, my dear, i’m well aware of how exhausted you’ve been as of late,” you take small glances at alastor as he cleans his monocle with his red coat sleeve, the way his oh-so fluffy hair flops with grace atop his head. perhaps it’s the exhaustion taking over your body as you begin to feel fuzzy on the inside.

yeah, definitely exhaustion.

“these hotel walls are missing your lively personality, sweetheart”

“…you’ve noticed?”

he doesn’t wanna admit it, bites his tongue as to not speak of such a thing. he wants to use the excuse of ‘his shadows see everything’ — which wasn’t half a lie in this particular scenario. but he has been noticing your tiresome self a lot more. he rolls his eyes “i’m the steadfast hotelier, i have to take notice in some things, don’t i? otherwise this establishment would be an absolute mess!”

“damn, too bad you didn’t take notice sooner, maybe i wouldn’t be an absolute mess right now” you take a sip of your drink, hiding your now blushing face behind your coffee mug.

oh, you really shouldn’t’ve said that.

“hmm, are you saying that you wanted me to take notice of you?” he takes up another space closer to you. of-fucking-course he’d do that. teasing bastard.

“i’m tired, al. i have no idea what i’m saying. what did i just say?”

you hear alastor chuckle as he stands up from his spot beside you, his presence now cold air beside you.

“perhaps try counting sheep tonight, darling. at least it would put that… pet you have to good use” you stop mid slurp, looking up behind your mug at the radio demon in front of you with scrunched eyebrows. cute.

“you leave lambie out of this”

like/reblog/comment if you liked my work, i greatly appreciate it!

[sissa-arrows]

This tweet says it all… translation below.

(Repost because I wanted to make it into it’s own post instead of a reblog)

Banning the abaya is not a back-to-school "diversion". It is part of a plan.

Islamophobia is not an epiphenomenon. It is at the heart of a political project.

Racism is not an accident. It's a system.

There are absolutely no surprises in France.

The only "surprise" is that leftists and observers are still surprised by the repeated attacks against Black people, Arabs and Muslims in France.

No "red line has been crossed".

It's been going on like this for decades. It's just that depending on the mood or the privileges it touches, an opportunity arises where you "find out" what your fellow citizens are going through every day. It's there, too obvious for you to ignore, so you give it a tweet, an indignation, a passing concern. Then it goes back in the back of your mind filled with stuff that you don't live, while waiting for the next buzz that will occupy you.

The racist, sequenced, destructive and methodical harassment that targets Muslims in France varies only in its seasonality and its modalities of expression, but it is constant in its objectives as in its structures:

Muslim women are targeted in summer for the burkini, at the start of the school year for long dresses, on sports grounds because they want to play, all the rest of the year for their headscarves or their simple existence in public spaces. .

Muslim children are targeted at school for their beliefs, in the playground for their children's games (1), in the canteen for their "bismiLlah" and their diet.

Muslim men are targeted in their expression, treated as a security risk, criminalized in the public space.

Muslim associations and executives are targeted in their organizational methods, subject to political and ideological control by the prefectures.

And it just gets annoying to have to remind you of this with every controversy targeting Muslims, about twice a month.

The truth is simple:

France is filled by endemic Islamophobia. Racism is structural here. Antisemitism is structural here. Antiblack racism is structural here. The criminalization of migrants is structural here. Police violence is structural here.

And only racists deny racism.

Only those who don't experience it think it's a subject up to debate.

The "attacks on secularism" are as much shame on the French flag as the abusive reports that compose them, from the simple innocuous religious expression to the clothes police that are set up against young Muslim girls, as they are targeted with racial profiling to distinguish, by "use/purpose (2)" (the level of creative hypocrisy of racists) between the proselytizing use of a Zara dress (for Arabs and Blacks) and the admissible Republican use (for the others), while the handful of truly believable incidents are resolved with a simple warning and explanation.

The only attack on secularism is the establishment of a system of registration, denunciation and surveillance of Muslim students on a large scale. This is the count of students absent for Eid (3). It is the progressive decline of an educational institution which, since 2004, has gone from one moral panic to the next, with the same targets and the same results: the deterioration of teaching conditions and the systemic, slow and methodical stigmatization of some of the students. It is the silence that has become the choice of the majority of teachers and unions when their mission of inclusion and benevolent education of all children is ridiculed, that’s when they do not add their voice to the chorus of calls for the exclusion of students, calling for "clear rules" that invariably result in penalties and bans. It is the constant civilizing and post-colonial injunction to be free only according to modalities chosen by others than ourselves.

To people who still care about the fundamental freedoms of everyone (and in particular the young women targeted here for their clothing choices), I say: you are losing more than a battle, not to fight with all your might a fight which is already engaged, is tipping France into an authoritarian, racist and totally assumed oppressive posture.

To those Muslim men and women who minimize what is happening or blame young girls for their treatment, I say: you deserve what is happening to you. If you are humiliated in this way, it is because you allow it. To them their honor and to you your shame. They only wanted to study, without asking for the slightest preferential treatment or exceptional regime, while you found all the reasons in the world to defend their oppressors, out of unconsciousness if not out of cowardice. Those who already accepted the exclusion of young girls in 2004, those who looked elsewhere when imams were criminalized, those who believed in the promise of a state sanctioned Islam that would leave them safe if they remained docile to the exclusion of their brothers, those who allowed the associations which defended them to be dissolved and the mosques which welcomed them to be closed. If not out of modesty, at least for your own salvation, be silent and do not add your voice to those who make our children enemies of a republic which, rather than respecting them for what they do, chose to exclude them for who they are.

To my sisters, in skirts, dresses, jeans, sweatshirts or abayas, I want to (re)tell how proud we are of you. I don't know how to express the hope and sincere admiration I have for you when, in a toxic period like the one we are going through, I see the good you are doing, the projects you are planning, the enthusiasm and commitment that you display, in class, at home, on the soccer field or in associations, to respond to offenses with dignified words and smiles, to hold firm when we give up, to give us comfort in a world upside down, to pay the price for what is going wrong in our society and which should nevertheless concern us all. Rock in everything you do. Do not let yourself be locked into the image that some want to give of you, because you are not defined by any other voice than yours and by any other choice than yours. Please hold on tight. Be happy, make your plans and let others talk.

Maybe what angers them so much is to see you shine...

Notes:

1: Children love to see lay pretend and imitate adults. Some Muslim children (all below 10) pretended to pray at school. Some white kids eventually joined and instead of explaining to the kids to not play that way the teachers made a report. It ended on national news, they started acting as if it was super common and as if kids were forcing their non Muslim classmate to convert to Islam. It was a mess. To the point where the parents of the Muslim kids were so scared they pulled out their kids of all activities outside of schools… Some of the white parents actually had to get involved to ask people to calm the fuck down that it was just kids playing pretend. The end of the year school party was even canceled so no child would get attacked…

2: Teachers and schools were reporting and expelling Black and Arab girls for wearing long skirt or headbands. Those are obviously not religious clothes. People rightfully complained and said that it was racial profiling. Instead of telling schools and teachers to calm down the government changed the 2004 in 2022. Now clothes can become religious “par destination” so by purpose or use. Basically it means that depending on who (white or people of color) wears them clothes can become religious. If a white girl wears headbands very often that’s okay if a Black or North African girl does it then her headband is a symbolic hijab and she must remove it.

3: In the south west of France and in other regions the police asked schools to provide a list of all the children who did not come at school on Eid. For the record children are ALLOWED to miss school for religious holidays.

[princessefemmelesbian]

ATP I’m out of patience.

If I see anybody reblogging in agreement with genderkoolaid, spacelazarwolf, or hussyknee, I will block you. Even if we’re mutuals. I don’t care anymore. I am tired of this shit and I am tired of having to tell people how awful these individuals are, especially when they should already know.

Find better people to reblog from that aren’t anti-Black, transmisogynistic, lesbophobes with corrective rape kinks who believe in transandrophobia/anti-transmasculinism and actually make your blog a goddamn safe space for lesbians and trans women. This goes quadruple for non-lesbian and tme GBT people because lbr it is y’all doing this shit(and I barely follow cishet people lol).

If you see this, REBLOG. Don’t say I didn’t warn you of this boundary in advance. It shouldn’t be that hard to not reblog from the vilest and most demonic misogynistic asswipes on Tumblr, but clearly some of y’all don’t fact check and this fact is too confusing or inconvenient for y’all to understand.

[cookiepie111]

˚₊✩‧₊Fountain girl ˚₊✩‧₊

König x black reader

König walks around restlessly on Halloween night.

Present --------》 skip to the past

A/N-This is just a short fic. I'd like to thank 2 people for these fics first @terra-713 for the original nymph, water woman /Hephaestus post @cinnamonbunboii for the second part of the the nymph fic, When I saw their reblog i rushed to write it. The other post should be coming out soon ( I promise the second half is better😭) not proofread

It's Halloween night and this poor man is wondering streets

He misses his Aphrodite, a woman that was never really his. The hugging, kisses, smiles, gifts those all consistute as things one does with their lover, in a relationship right?

He poured out his feelings to her, and he opened up his heart to her, spilling out the weak feelings that brought him shame. Was he supposed to believe that all that meant nothing. That him, his feelings weren't returned that the smiles, kind smile and words were just platonic.

It makes his stomach turn just thinking about it. Clinging tightly to his arm dropping kisses all over him, giggling, cooing at each other without a care in the world. He cant explain it but its like he walked in on his partner cheating he feels the same emotions shock hurt anger but when he gets angry when goes to rip the two of the apart, to complain to those around him, nothing. Its like no cares brushing him off and laugh, looking at him with confusion. König and her were never really going out, so what's the problem

It could be worse right, he could be roaming the streets on valentines, bumping into whatever unfortunate man wasn't watching their step. König knows in his frustration he'd beat the man to a pulp without a second thought, break their poor girls heart like he wanted to do to her . But it's Halloween, this was better. He could get drunk, beat,scare whoever, get rowdy with no real problems.

Yet he's been aimless for hours, nothing but alcohol filling his stomach as he walks the streets.

It's only on the third loop around the town fountain. Something peaks his interest, something different, enough to make him stop, to momentarily quil his anger.

Another benefit of Halloween is the girls and their tight skimpy outfits könig never been so grateful for a holiday, eating up the sight before him.

All of sudden könig very sure of the drinks he's had they hit him all at once distorting the space around you, fluorescent lights shining like fake stars around you. You're so beautiful, thick curly hair, like small currents wash over your shoulder. Your skin wet from the splash of the fountain. So peaceful and tranquil eyes glossed at the ground below you, he wonders if you're real, if you are you're not human, No human is this beautiful.

God he didn't know where to keep his eyes, you chest or legs. Bare Corset held your breasts together so well, scaning down that skirt, what a joke it was a belt at best but he got to enjoy the full show of your legs on full display. It a while about scaning your body 5 time before he noticed the crocked fairy wings behind you, cleary beat from the dancing you've done throughout the night.

Maybe like Hephaestus this was just him getting his nymph his new lover,Cabeiro or like Hylas he'd he dragged to his death and drown in another terrible relationship. He's hoping the first, he doesn't think he can take another heart break

It's daze in a moment he finds himself at your front, and for the first time, you look up at him, soft, droppy eyes, you let out a small sound as he stands before you. Seeing you like he can feel the blood rush south.

God he's hard

He must be drunk cause he thinks you're the most beautiful, he thinks he's in love, last week he was in love too. how fickle and weak is his love

[hotpinkboots]

jealous mando x fem reader please? reader meets someone while they're out and the guy starts flirting with her

~~~~~~~~~~

~Jealous!𝕯𝖎𝖓 𝕯𝖏𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖓 x Fem!Reader Headcanons~

~~~~~~~~~~

I don't think you darlings know that I am audibly speaking to you because when I get a request I love it's an immediate "I LOVE YOU OH MY GOD" or a giggle and wiggle from me. I AM SPEAKING TO YOU PEOPLE OUT LOUD

THIS RIGHT HERE MADE ME GASP AND JUMP FROM MY SEAT THANK YOU

*insert more whining about how my black text option on Tumblr is still broken* so yeah it's boring and colorless :(

⭐REMEMBERRR THIS IS ALL PART OF THE MANDALORIAN SEASON 3 EVENT THINGY! Any requests I get with Mando will be done BEFORE any other requests in my inbox! This goes all week long!⭐

~Enjoy~

★★★★

𝕯𝖎𝖓 𝕯𝖏𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖓

★★★★

~So you finally were able to pull Mr. Metal Head out of the ship-

~But then it went downhill.

~Let's say the guy was just chatting with you because he thought you were cute and not because he was a pervert.

~Din, as soon as he saw, walked over and just looked at him, trying to be intimidating but not cruel. Just a warning.

~Guy got the point and backed off, sulking a little and feeling embarrassed because he didn't know you were taken. Oops :(

~But let's say this guy will NOT stop trying to chat you up.

~Maybe you're talking back because 1. he's a funny guy, or 2. because you're humoring him.

~Either way, Mando's way more sensitive than one would think. He feels a sense of abandonment that he always has to deal with because people are always tryna betray him or be like "if I do this for you then you need to do this for me", and his parents, and now you look like you're having fun with this guy so like

~Are you happier?? he wants you to be happy :(

~He knows how God damn AWKWARD he is too and how he's not good with words really.

~So maybe you think he doesn't love you?? What is it?

~Not to mention the fact you aren't even allowed to see his freaking face.

~He's overthinking and watching from afar

~But then jealousy starts bubbling up

~And he's like

~Who does he think he is talking to her she's way out of his league

~Totally glaring and trying not to let jealousy control him.

~Eventually the dude leaves, and Mando comes back. He doesn't say anything yet but he's obviously way more stiff than he usually already is.

~So when you're both walking back to the ship he's silent and weird. Not because he's angry at you but because he's self conscious and wants to bring it up but doesn't want you to think he's saying you aren't loyal.

~"...He liked you."

~It's blunt but straight to the point. He's not gonna tip toe around the subject like it's something that shouldn't be talked about.

~Din ends up getting real close to you and looking down at you like the intimidating bitch he is. In your personal space. Like drop everything you're doing because he's serious rn.

~"Did you like him?"

~Don't tease him about it. If you start teasing him that he's jealous he'll hate it. Makes his chest heat up and his jaw clench, and he just ends up walking away from you.

~Also sorry but purposely trying to make your boyfriend jealous is gross behavior that just makes people self conscious and upset c'mon man

~So it's best if you actually explain the situation and reassure him about it. Communication is key to a healthy relationship. Din wants you to talk to him about stuff even if he doesn't really know how to respond. He'll try his best.

~So yeah overall he's overprotective and might immediately glare daggers at someone if they try for one second to flirt with you. Jealousy makes him self conscious and sulky, maybe even a little annoyed at you for entertaining it and causing it to continue on rather than just speaking up that you're taken.

~~~~~~~~~~

I have the biggest FATTEST URGE to write a oneshot for this darling oh my gosh

~~~~~~~~~~

Here's my Masterlist!

And here are the request rules!

~~~~~~~~~~

⭐REBLOGS⭐>💀LIKES💀

~~~~~~~~~~

Discord Server! Here you can roleplay with and as your favorite characters, get updates on my fanfiction, and get sneak peaks for my upcoming videogames!:

~~~~~~~~~~

~Love, PinkBoots

[legallyacceptibleurl]

this shit infuriates me to no end

this isn’t a callout and there isn’t anything wrong with this post in and of itself, let me gripe

ID: screenshot of a post reblogged by @jewish-kulindadromeus

@sinothetimes: “while l'm on a roll of no longer giving a shit, I also think it's stupid to pretend that the rise in antisemitism, while terrifying, is a bigger issue than the active genocide being perpetrated in Gaza. like, the hate and the potential for things to get worse in the future is incredibly horrible. the fact that most like well over 100,000 gazans have been murdered in the last year is inherently worse because those people are dying right now. this is not saying stop talking about antisemitism but that is me saying if you use leftist antisemitism as an excuse to turn your back on the ACTIVE GENOCIDE youre kind of a shitstain.

End ID

what really grinds my gears is when someone like a-dinosaur-a-day/jewish-kulindadromeus/zygodactylus has the gall to act like eir’s not part of the problem.

EDIT I FORGOT TO ADD A CUT

ID: a set of screenshots showing @jewish-kulindadromeus reblogging from @shofarsogood, @starlightomatic, @notyourgoodjew, @tributary, @jewishlivesmatter, @yidpunk. End ID

(eventually i will have posts about all those blogs, but these take a long time to make because of the image descriptions but i will not skimp on accessibility. but if you know these blogs you know)

it’s good to have issues with how people use talking about antisemitism as a reason to ignore the genocide, but clearly ey doesn’t care too much about people doing that type of shit. a post here and there about how ey doesn’t believe in violence and reblogging a couple gazan donation posts doesn’t cancel out the much much more frequent posts reblogged from people who would like everyone to stop talking about the genocide pretty please

like it rings so fucking hollow when a few days later ey goes and reblogs this (on eir other blog)

ID: a screenshot of a post that @zygodactylus reblogged from @jewish-rock

@anshelsgendercrisis:

an image of the meme of two spider-men pointing at each other. one of them has the text “ppl who use "zio" as a slur for jews” and the other one has “ppl who use "pali" as a slur for palestinians”. the text of the post says “get it bc ur both extremist assholes who are making things worse.”

@transmascpetewentz: “radical antizionists (handshake emoji) kahanists

literally their entire ideology other than whose side they happen to be on”

End ID.

again it’s not the post itself (stupid as it fucking is), it’s the poster or rather who ey reblogged it from. this is @jewish-rock on the same day that @jewish-kulindadromeus/zygodactylus reblogged a posts which ends with “if you use leftist antisemitism as an excuse to turn your back on the ACTIVE GENOCIDE youre kind of a shitstain.”

ID: two screenshots of a post reblogged by @jewish-rock

@jewish-mccoi: “Can we talk about how fucked up it is that Jews and Israelis have no safe spaces online? And if we dare complain, we're told we're whining and other groups have it worse.

And no one seems to either notice or care. The pro Palestine movement is infested with antisemitism. Leftist spaces are infested with antisemitism. It's impossible to engage with the pro Palestinian movement because to do so, they demand you denounce Israel's existence and make you be their token Jew. Like no? The fuck gives you the audacity?

I'm tired of walking on eggshells around leftists for fear of being called a colonizer or a genocide apologist because guess what??? It doesn't fucking matter what I say, you're gonna do it anyway, because I'm an evil Jew!

I could talk till I'm blue in the face about cease fires or how Hamas is purposefully putting civilians in harms way, but the second I do, people are like "oh you mean Israel. Israel is the problem." Actually, you fucking black and white thinker, ISRAEL IS NOT ALWAYS THE PROBLEM. Israel has done fucked up things. So has every fucking country on earth. But the news is dominated by "Israel is awful" and "wipe Israel off the map." Why do you think that is.

IT'S ANTISEMITISM. It's just that simple. Really fucking is.

And because the movement keeps flooding Jewish tags on tumblr with antisemitism, I am gonna tag this so the "river to the sea" people ACTUALLY ADVOCATING GENOCIDE can have their safe spaces (Jew free spaces) interrupted. I'm tired of taking the high road.

You all would rather side with terrorists than Jews. That's how bad the leftist problem with antisemitism is. Terrorists who admit to using rape and murder and torture ON CIVILIANS as tactics. That's how much you fucking hate us.

Well, tough fucking luck. We're here and we're not going anywhere. Am yisrael chai, fuckers.”

End ID.

at most mildly perturbed by people using leftist antisemitism as an excuse to turn their back on an active genocide, not enough to unfollow them though

i find it so fucking spineless. be mutuals with & follow a shitload of zionists who have spent the last 11 months downplaying and trying to distract from the endless massacres in gaza, who try to discredit any and all efforts to help people who are fenced in & bombed. but claim moral righteousness by every now & then going “war is bad you guys, can’t we all be friends, i don’t support either side i support peace”, thinking that absolves you for supporting those people

[sailoragere]

Hello, and welcome to the sweet home base of #sailoragere. (Promise I’m not a witch!) /ref

I'll be your host, Sherman. If you didn’t read up there in my bio already, I’m white, and an autistic adult who is currently 26. You may be wondering,

“What is #sailoragere?”

It is to be an established hashtag to share and create age regression content related to Sailor Moon.

After close to a decade of shying away and being kinda desperate for agere stuff of my special interest, I felt brave enough to create this blog for the purpose of breaching--er..bridging the gap.

What will be featured? What can I post in the tag? What can I ask you/talk to you about?

Lots of things! For starters,

💗 Artwork!

💙 Fanfiction/Headcanons (AUs are encouraged)

❤️ Moodboards

💚 Outfit collages

🧡 Stimboards

and whatever else can be thought of!

(All versions/iterations of Sailor Moon are encouraged: Manga, 90s Anime, Crystal/Eternal/Cosmos, PGSM, CD Dramas, Stageplays, etc.)

On the blog itself, there will be a focus on positive posts, cute things such as plushies, toys, stimboards, stimming in general, aesthetics, “-cores,” that remind me of the characters and their canon culture. I will also be sharing my own works from time to time.

Sailor Moon used to be marketed primarily towards children in its American market in the 90s, but you may or may not have known that its Japanese target demographic used to be children as well!! There’s a seemingly endless amount of cute little trinkets and merchandise that appeal to me, therefore I’ll be sharing some of it here, too.

As for you, if you prefer to stay low or are just feeling shy/anxious, it’s okay. Just swap to Anonymous in the ask box and we can assign you an emoji to better accommodate you! (Please keep in mind I am chronically ill and will likely take a while to respond!)

I’d love to see what others come up with, and find fellow fans of Sailor Moon who also regress! Please spread the word by reblogging this post! (I could really actually use a boost)

Please click "keep reading" before following/interacting with this blog or hashtag! Don’t fall under any of the below and you’re good to to use the tag / interact!

‼️ The following will not be allowed nor tolerated. (In no particular order of importance:)

💔Pedophiles/Zoophiles/"MAPS"/"NOMAPS"/RADQUEERS

Self-explanatory.

💔Anti-antis"/"Proshippers"/Pro-fic/"Problematics" (literally so many different ways of putting this nowadays...)

Also self-explanatory.

💔Racism towards black, indigenous, and POC.

This will apply to any content shared within the blog or hashtag. Don’t drag others down for headcanoning or depicting a certain character as mixed Asian. Just so long as their canon Japanese culture and race are not being erased, anything goes. Anti-racist is the way to be.

💔Homophobia/Transphobia (TERF, Radfem, etc).

We love and support the LGBTQ+ community in this space. It’s totally valid to express gender and/or affectional orientation through your favorite characters. Romantic and/or platonic shipping is encouraged! (But please understand that shipping in a sexual context will never be allowed here or in the tag.)

💔Ableism towards autistic people (otherwise known as autmisia), or any other disability.

This includes anything relating to autism or disabilities be it a headcanon, piece of art or someone using the hashtag! The very person behind this blog is disabled and wishes to cultivate a diverse and inclusive environment for disabled systems, system littles, regressors, carers, and other individuals.

💔 Equating diapers to only a kink/fetish and/or something to make fun of/something that degrades a person.

They're inherently a disability aid, so they will always be included here!! Be ableist elsewhere. Same in bold goes for any other disability aids.

💔 Sexualizing age regression/agere and/or supporting others that do so.

Adult topics are not appropriate here and therefore will not be brought up. This is meant to be a space to escape and heal from that sort of trauma. (Personal to the admins in particular)

Speaking of trauma, that sort of discussion will be allowed, too, as age regression tendencies often stem from it. And these characters have been through it. Said content will of course be tagged accordingly. ^^

While this blog is fiction focused, above all, we care about the world and the people in it. The intention is to do that by sharing important posts about current events. I will tag those specific posts with warnings and #not agere just to be safe.

If I catch anyone misusing the tag for any of the above, you will be blocked! Please respect our boundaries for my sake and a lot of yours! With this all said, I cannot put forth the energy to scrutinize every single follower or interaction online anymore due to it becoming damaging for my mental health!

Play it safe and be kind to others!

[brideofdiscord-rewritten]

THIS IS A SIDE BLOG STEMMING FROM @atbussysparks! That is also me!! I will be attempting to re-write bride of discord

Respect for the original property goes to DisneyFanatic2362, writer of bride of discord. This fanfiction was not meant to be "better" but to be a love letter to the original author.

If you or your friend is into MLPFiM, please tag them in my posts!! I want new fans to be able to experience a modern take on a classic fanfic (⁠^⁠^⁠)

Others may write chapters, and I will reblog that! I will write them, but if someone has a better written chapter I'll reblog that instead

THERE WILL BE NO NSFW. While many people have been touched by this series, far too many have touched themselves to it.

I will omit some ridiculous examples of discord being emotionally or mentally abusive past the point in which he has fully developed as a good character. Instead he will face consequences for his abuse.

This is not a safe space for pro/comships. No questions asked

Spike will still have a crush on rarity, but spike being a romantic interest for adult ponies, or having his feelings reciprocated in any way will be removed from the story.

Music and silly corny early 2010s Disney channel humor will stay, unfortunately. BUT! WE WILL MAKE MORE FUNNY JOKES I SWEAR

No cursing within the story, and if they curse it will be subtle. Horse related. Replaced with @$#&*!?¥£€.

Hell, damn, frick, frack, crap, darn, dang, shoot, balls, loser, shut up, fools, doofus, dingus, and ugly are allowed.

The word "ass" will only be used 3 times. Make it count.

Topics such as death should be handled with care and emotions. It is okay to say stuff related to dying.

Characters can be LGBTQ, but explicit sexual references to ponys' relationships, homosexual or heterosexual, are not tolerated. these horses could be sequential hermaphrodites OR self fertilize through an asexual manner called parthenogenesis, and give birth by teleporting the baby horse from their stomach to the ground via magic nurses. But that's not for us to know.

SOMETIMES dirty jokes are allowed. Like, really subtle ones. BUT NO HORSES DO THE NAUGHTY IN THE PLOT. NEVER MENTION IT.

Please write zecora doing actual Hoo Doo. And respect it, as it is cultural magic. Where used to live people did not respect hoodoo and voodoo as actual lifestyles, and viewed them as Halloween gimmicks. In the same place, many black people practiced voodoo.

I'm sorry I will reference fat Albert. I used to watch reruns of it. Fluttershy will explicitly say "HEY HEY HEY" like in the damn YouTube vid. I'm sorry I loved fat Albert.

Rarity will have a daughter from a previous relationship, and the fully will not have that weird diet culture obsession.

Also justice for rarity what the heck did she do to deserve such a horrible life 😭😭😭

If Applejack's speech is funny y'all don't get to say nothing because I'm southern and i am clearly supreme in this area of expertise. She's probably Georgian but that's not my accent so suck it.

Bigots of any kind are not tolerated. Read my main account, (atbussysparks) about section.

And remember! This project was born of love for the original, appreciation of everyone involved with the creation of the audio drama, and the opportunity to make fat Albert references.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Grey Zone 3

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon, manipulation, age gap, bullying, toxic parental figures, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your relationship with your parents has never been good, and that with a family friend takes a strange turn(goth!reader)

Character: Lloyd Hansen

Note: I'm tired of being sick

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

You prefer the opening shift. Finishing early gives you extra motivation to make use of the rest of the day. Yet that morning is slogging by like wet sand. You still have an hour left before you’re free and even then, you have hours of studying to catch up on.

You enjoy your work, short of the occasional unpleasant customer. The shop is slow despite its location in the mall, but that’s expected with its niche catalogue. The New Age collection often attracts curious eyes but few purchases. The candles and jewelry sell most often, more marketable to those in the market for a gift or ‘just looking’.

You lean on the counter, doodling with a pen on a strip of receipt paper. Little stars and a crescent moon. The mall is starting to get busier as lunchtime approaches. You twirl the pen and look up, only realising then that you have a customer.

You drop the pen and quickly flit around the counter. It’s a good thing the manager is only in on evening shift. You approach the man perusing the bucket of discount crystals and slow as you recognise the back of his slicked hair. Really?

“Mr. Hansen?” You sputter in surprise.

He turns and smiles at you, a stone in his hand, “hey, little lamb,” he greets coolly, “fancy meeting you here.” You squint as he laughs at your cynical stare, “sarcasm,” he scoffs.

“Oh, uh,” you go to cross your arms but resists, instead hooking your thumbs into the chains attached to your black cargo pants, “are you looking for something?”

“Besides you,” he winks as he drops the stone back in the bucket, “they don’t have the hair gel I like at Carmine’s. Apparently they don’t manufacture that scent anymore. So I was wandering around and I just stumbled in.”

You nod and watch him reach into the bucket and pull out a small shard of lapus lazuli, “you got any Carnelian?”

“Carnelian?” You furrow your brow, “uh, I don’t know. Probably not in there…”

You turn and stride over to the shelf of labeled stones; those ones with a better natural shape or cut. You search the tags and find a small canister of orangish red stones, smooth and ovular; some opaque and few with patches of translucence. 

Lloyd stops beside you, close. Too close. He tends to do that. He crowds you in without realising it. You hold out the container.

“You like crystals?” You ask with an edge of doubt; you didn’t expect he would be into that sort of thing.

“Eh, I’m intrigued,” he takes the canister and examines it, “you know, after you showed me your cards, I was reading around. It’s kinda neat, this stuff. You know, I don’t really buy into the mystic shit but it’s fun.”

“Ah,” you nod. Most people have that opinion. It doesn’t bother you. You’re more pragmatic than dreamy. You accept that you have no control over the world, but you don’t believe there’s any force around that does.

“You got cards here?” He shakes the crystals as he lifts his chin.

“Uh, yeah, just over there,” you point to the other wall.

You back away and go back to the counter. You just need some space. In such a small shop, it’s easy to feel suffocated. He goes to the shelf of tarot cards and you languish in the silence of his perusal.

“There a difference between these things?” He asks.

“No, not really. Just the look.”

“Ah,” he accepts and spins on his heel. He approaches the other side of the counter and places down his purchases. The crystals and a deck of cards with a Roman mythology aesthetic. “Just these.”

You ring him through and he plays with the necklaces on the small rack next to the till. He tilts his head as he examines a piece of amethyst attached to black cord. He lets it dangle and reaches into his back pocket. He presents his card and you pass over the machine.

“When are you done?” He asks.

“Um, in an hour,” you answer.

“Hmm,” he nods as the machine accepts the transaction, “got the whole day ahead of you.”

“Kinda,” you wait for the printer, “want a receipt?”

He shakes his head, smiling at you. You take out a small black bag and put his things inside, sliding it over to him. As he takes it, his hands brush yours.

“Don’t work too hard,” he says.

“Er, sure, thanks,” you eke out awkwardly, “have a good day.”

“Going well so far,” he smirks before he turns away and struts to the door. 

He looks back and you raise your brows at him, perturbed. He finally leaves and you let out a breath. You wonder if he knew you worked there or if it’s as deliberate as it seems. 

You take out your phone and lean on the counter as you key in Carnelian. You don’t know much about the stone and you can’t remember anyone ever asking about it. You nearly choke as you read the description; ‘Carnelian is great for increasing sexual energy…’

Is he trying to embarrass you? Your mind lists to a couple nights before when he sat on your bed. It all seems a bit much, a bit too calculated. You just can’t find the punchline to go with the set up. 

🖤

Meghan shows up to take over for the afternoon. You leave her, intent on your mission. You’ll get your matcha to go and head to the library for your study session. Studying at the cafe had proven too distracting last time.

You get in line, flicking through your phone as you shift with the bodies ahead of you. You hear a rabble behind you as a large group enters, clustering at the end of the queue. You tuck your phone away as you recognise a voice and keep your chin down. You shrink down, hoping to go unnoticed in the busy cafe.

“Oh, look who’s back again,” Shania guffaws, “it’s the dead girl.”

You don’t look back. You have as much right to be here as them. You don’t know why she’s so pressed. There are other coffee shops and no reason for her to associate with you. High school is over. This isn’t the cafeteria, there is no cool table.

“Hey, Morticia,” Kaliana comes up on your left-side, “thanks for saving us a spot.”

They try to push in ahead of you but you step up, blocking them. You keep your head straight as Shania jostles you from the other side. At least this time you don't have anything for them to dump on you.

“Don’t be uncool, face paint,” Shania snarls, “know your place.”

“Go away,” you mutter to your boots.

“I can’t hear you over all that metal,” she reaches out and tugs on your nose ring. “Speak up, little girl.”

“I don’t know how you breathe around that snot catcher,” Kaliana chortles.

You shake your head and cross your arms. You step back and wave to the space in front of you, “fine. Go ahead.”

They girls laugh. They sound like hyenas. As they go to step in front of you, Shania cries out and liquid splashes over her shoulders, dripping down the front of her baby pink crop top. She puts her hands up and turns to face the culprit.

“You loser–” She yipes.

“Didn’t see ya,” Mr. Hansen’s voice brings your eyes up, “watch where you’re walking.”

“What? Me? You–”

“Look, I don’t need some knock off barbie shrieking at me so zip it,” he spits.

“Excuse you! You can’t talk to me like that.”

“I can and I am,” he snickers.

“Ew, you creep, get out of here,” Kaliana steps up next to Shania, “No one wants to hear from you or your dirty porn stache–”

“I didn’t ask, pancakes.”

“Pancakes?” She sniffs.

“Flip, flap,” he motions to his chest with a mean smirk, “if you’re gonna go out in a shirt like that, you could at least put a few socks in your bra.”

“Ugh, you perv–”

“Trust me, you’re the last thing that makes my dick hard,” he curls his lip.

“Whatever,” Shania blusters as she pulls the wet fabric away from her chest, “Kal, let’s go.”

The girls stomp off and you stare after them. Hansen puts down the empty cup and chortles. He turns to stand parallel to you, “well, I don’t know who’s drink that was but I hope they don’t mind.”

“What?”

“Oops,” he shrugs, “so what are we drinking, babe? Hmm. You seem like you got a sweet tooth. White mocha? Caramel?”

“Uh, no–”

“Wait, wait, dark chocolate, that seems more your speed.” You shoot him a look and he meets your eyes. He smiles and tilts his head, “kidding.”

“I can get my own drink,” you insist.

“I’m sure you can, but I want to get it for you.”

“Why?”

“Why?” He repeats.

“Why would you want to do that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“You’re not answering me,” you sigh and move up to the counter.

“I don’t know, you make me wanna do nice things,” he says and faces the barista, “black coffee and whatever she wants.”

You hesitate but take your cue. You order your matcha latte and he taps his card. You clamp your lips together. Does he think you’re pathetic? That you need him to pay for a tea?

You go to wait by the order window and sway impatiently. You grip the strap of your bag and stare out into the mall. Hansen leans into you, brushing his arm against you.

“So, couple of bitches, huh?” He says.

“What?” You whip around to face him.

“Those girls.”

“Oh, uh, yeah. We went to school together…”

“Figured,” he shakes his head, “they’re only jealous. Girls like that, they don’t know how to feel anything else. Always a competition.”

“Hm, I guess.”

“Not like you.”

You glance at him then to the counter. You just want to get your tea and leave. You tap your fingers on the strap of your bag.

“So, the lake house,” he changes the subject, “what do you think?”

���Uh, dunno,” you watch the barista at the steaming espresso machine, “dad didn’t say anything.”

“I’m not asking about dad. You ever been to the lake?”

“Which lake?”

He chuckles, “now who’s not answering who?”

You shrug and cross your arm over your chest, rubbing your shoulder. Your order is up. Before you can move, Hansen puts his hand on your lower back, ushering you with him to grab his cup as you claim your own.

You pull away from him as you leave the shop. He keeps pace with you as you try to figure out a way to nicely get rid of him. You didn’t expect to run into him twice. How reappearance convinces you it’s less than coincidental, but would he really wait around the mall just to bother you?

“I should go study…” you say at last.

“Study. Boring,” he comments.

“Maybe but… I have to.”

“Oh, do you always do the right thing?” He prompts.

You don’t know how to answer. You turn the hot cup in your hand as you walk along the mall corridor. 

“No, I don’t know, I…”

“A good girl like you, always doing what you should but never what you want to do,” he says, “did you ever even ask yourself what you want?”

“I.. I don’t know what you mean.”

“You want to what? Study boring books? Get a boring degree? Get a boring job?” He continues, “all so one day you can live in a boring house with a boring husband? And have boring kids?”

“I– I never… I’m just going to school.”

“Because? Because you never thought of doing anything else. Of anything fun. I’m fun, sweetheart.”

You blow across the lid of your tea and taste it. It’s good but you find it hard to enjoy. Not with him there. Not with your mind racing.

“I like being boring,” you say at last.

He snorts, “sure you do. You're whole look screams boring. Well, let me know when you’re really bored, sweetheart. I’ll give you everything you never knew you wanted.”

You peek over at him. His eyes are on you, his cheek dimples. He raises his cup in a toasting gesture and turns on his heel. 

“I’ll be waiting,” he tosses over his shoulder.

You stop and watch his smooth gait. His confidence is almost intimidating. It’s as if he knows things you don’t. You turn away and continue towards the south entrance. Boring is just fine, boring is safe.

🖤

“Shut your fucking mouth!” Your father’s voice carries through the wall.

“Ah, don’t you get fucking rude with me,” your mother slurs back, “fuck you, Ray. Fuck you!”

It’s not unusual. You’ve heard the same argument over and over. It doesn’t matter what starts it, it’s always the same. They yell until they’re hoarse, they slam doors, and in the morning, they act like nothing happened at all.

You put your earbuds in and turn up your music. You know how to tune them out. If you’re good at anything, it’s at shutting out the world around you.

You lay down and close your eyes, holding your phone against your stomach as you mouth the lyrics. You just want to fall asleep but the anxiety of knowing they’re fighting keeps you awake. You just need to wait it out.

Your phone buzzes but you ignore it. It’s probably just an email or another notification trying to make you spend money. You focus on the layers of the music; the strings, the percussion, the vocals. Your phone goes off again.

You raise it and open your eyes, the screen fuzzy as your eyes adjust to the darkness. You tap the speech bubble that signifies a new message. The number is private.

‘Getting packed?’ The message reads. You have no idea what it means. You send back, ‘wrong number’. Three dots pop up immediately.

‘No it’s not.’ The answer comes swiftly. You return a question mark and nothing else.

‘You’re going to need a good jacket for the lake house.’

You rub your forehead and sit up. You key in, ‘Mr. Hansen?’

‘The one and only.’ He confirms. How did he get your number? ‘If you don’t have one, we can take a shopping trip.’

You don’t get it. What does he want from you? You know the way he is, you’ve heard the way he talks about other people, you hear the stuff he says to your dad. Their friendship at most is acrimonious. Is this a ploy against your father?

‘I have a jacket. I’m sleeping. Good night.’

You lay down and turn onto your side, keeping the ear bud from slipping out as you put your phone beside your pillow. It lights up with a new message. You close your eyes. You lay in the storm of your nerves. You have to check. You reach for your phone and read the screen.

‘No you’re not’.

You don’t understand. How would he know? He’s bluffing. You won’t entertain his little games, he’s just messing with you. Just like everyone else.

[turtlemagnum]

my politics:

i don't like to ascribe political labels to myself because people hear a specific label and insert what they think it means and just sorta ignore whatever you actually have to say/believe. so here i'm just gonna describe my positions on various things not as a comprehensive explanation but as a rough rule of thumb. so, here we go:

im queer, and almost all of my friends are too. most of my friends are trans, i've spent a lot of time lurking in trans spaces, and frankly i believe that people should be treated like people so trans rights are deeply important to me. i wouldn't consider myself trans but i am nonbinary, and if you're someone who considers nb people to be trans i'm not gonna contradict you. i also consider intersex folks to be an important part of the queer community, and feel as though they're vastly underrepresented and frankly deserve more respect as people and not as a "gotcha" against gender essentialist shitheads, y'know. i realize it's very easy to say i'm supportive of a particular group and a lot of bigoted dickshitters claim the best of intentions, so i can just hope that spelling out my intent and trying to keep my actions inline with it is enough.

i abhor bigotry of all varieties, and of course a particularly important facet of that is racism and related issues like colonialism. i'm whiter than most literal crackers, but i'd like to think that growing up in the part of the US with the highest population of black folks outside of the deep south and having an indigenous uncle whose heritage i was always taught to respect gave me a bit of a head start on having good opinions in regards to racism. i actually have a lifelong interest in indigenous cultures the world over, which goes nicely with a lifelong interest in theology and linguistics. i distinctly remember reading some ainu poetry and crying, if that tells you anything

i'd consider myself to have very strong opinions in regards to freedom. not in the typical american borderline masturbatory insistence for a love for "freedom" that amounts to authoritarianism attempting to pass itself off as freedom. i'd like the freedom to live your life the way you want to, without having to live under the heel of a boss or a landlord. i'd like the freedom to live without constant surveillance or threat of police violence. the freedom to choose what's right for your body without having to crawl through a bureaucratic hellscape just to live as you need to.

in general i try to have a relatively chill policy of "live and let live". you may have noticed that i basically never reblog things and literally never talk about public drama that i might become involved in just by virtue of posting about it. internet drama is bullshit and is pretty much never justified, and is usually just about harassing someone (who, just coincidentally, usually happens to be a minority for whatever reason). if someone has an identity that doesn't make sense to me or a kink i think is gross or an interest i find cringe, i just go "ok" and move on with my life because it doesn't impact my life in the slightest. it's literally so simple to not give a shit about internet strangers, and also strangers in real life

[xi3lanzs]

This is a one-shot sci-fi romance with my ocs. I wasn't too sure if I should release it since I'm not that happy with it so I decided to make it a one-shot instead. There might be some errors but I hope you enjoy reading it nonetheless! I am a new writer so I am sorry if it is not to your tastes.

(Ty to @biaonww for proof reading <33)

(Credits to the creators of the dividers, they are posted in my reblogs)

Stars away

In a world nearing the collision of earth and the sun and humans relying on space, Kurage Akira was just 7 years old when her father passed from a disease. Akira sits in front of her father's resting place as she cries and weeps staring at her father's grave, the dirt soggy from rain, her black dress getting damp from kneeling on the wet grass.

She weeps as she gets a flashback from days before her father left her behind on this earth. “Dad I wanna be like you someday" little Akira says as she looks out a telescope watching the stars— "I'm sure you'll get to be an astronaut one day too" her dad smiles watching as Akira happily watches the stars.

Remembering that moment and many other moments makes her cries louder until she feels a hand on her shoulder, her dad's friend Mr. Smith who runs the space unit where he worked. He tries to console her and promises that he is willing to support her if she decides to become an astronaut too. He promises her that he will secure her a spot to become an astronaut someday. She was kind of happy by this seeing that she had someone to help her achieve her dreams.

*After the funeral.*

Back at the house, she goes to the back garden to see the cherry blossoms. They weren't just cherry blossoms since they bloomed 6 years before their original date and grew more petals than usual. They were the trees that grew from the cherry blossom seeds her dad brought to space with him to see how it affected the flowers.

She stares at the the beautiful pink and luscious flowers it grew, as the wind blows gently through the branches, while the sun shines through the leafs reminiscing her father. It saddens her, but gave her more determination to make him proud and achieve her goal in becoming an astronaut like him.

Now in college, she passed all of her exams with the help of Mr. Smith slowly but surely preparing her future that was set in stone in her heart ever since she was seven.

She has been working herself to the bone to complete everything and obtain all the things she needed so that she finally could apply for her dream job. She was worried but determined to achieve her dreams.

After barely passing, she was overjoyed at the fact she made it and was ready for her first mission… But work was not how she expected it to be. Everyone looked down on her for barely making it in.

They looked at her with judgmental eyes. Even the captains and people in charge didn't like her. She felt embarrassed but was still determined since she made it this far.

Mr. Smith greets her and starts a conversation as she gets a tour. Everyone wasn't very welcoming of her but she ignored it and did her best. After a while of working there, she was never chosen for a mission since everyone thought less of her. She was worried she wouldn't even be able to get on a ship at all. She tried to talk to Mr. Smith about it but he kept telling her that she just wasn't fit for the mission.

Rumors started to spread about her like her fancying up Mr. Smith so she could get a job here or her not even being on a mission. Yet soon enough, she finally got chosen for a single mission. Her only mission was to get on a ship, and fix up a satellite. When she got the news, she was excited at her first mission. But as she thought about it to herself.. It was kinda weird they sent her out on her own though, especially on a first mission. But she was too excited and shrugged it off.

Eventually, the day she was gonna get sent off was here. She excitedly got ready and overheard a few staff saying "They're sending her out there by herself?" a voice said "Yeah, I heard the shuttle is unstable maybe trying to get rid of her." the other voice said "Her shuttle is unstable?! But why?" more voices chattered and whispered, though she shrugged it off again as they were just jealous she thought.

Later on, she boards and gets sent off into space. Everything works out fine and she looks out at the stars excitedly. She's made it. Her dream is coming true right now. "Now let's just make sure nothing goes wrong—“ Suddenly she got cut off by the alarms on the ship blaring. A part of the ship had come off so she quickly called the station but there was no response as the signal was too weak.

She started freaking out and tried to come up with something so she clicked all the emergency buttons that could help her in some way, but all she got was nothing. Her oxygen won’t last long she thought—

She tries to calm down but accidentally bumps into a button which was.. the “Self-destruct" button.

Suddenly the ship counts down for self-destruction. She freaks out and tries to get in an escape pod, but the timer gets closer to the end..

Suddenly everything goes white.

tyy to all the people who made it this far!! There isn't much romance in this since there was supposed to be chapter 2 so this is mostly like a backstory chapter. There is kinda a lot of time skips sorry about that. I might continue this depending on your guy's feedback. thank you so much !! <333

[moonshinedyke]

Pinned Post:

-Asteria/Eris (+)

-Mixed Black/Indigenous

-Intersex genderfluid multigender transmascfem

-Alloaro bisexual lilaen lesbian.

-Stud, butch, (bull)dyke, faggot, tranny, freak, bulldagger

This is my blog for venting and just talking about bigotry. I didn't want to clog my main too much with these types of posts since a lot of them involve discoursey topics. This is not a blog that I plan to use to argue with other people under most circumstances. I'm using this blog to vent about my experiences, no matter how big or small they are. Check below the cut for some of my beliefs.

Just because I reblog from someone doesn't mean that I agree with everything they say and do. What it DOES mean is that I think they made a good point in that specific post they made.

-Many white queers have a problem with using their queerness to try and avoid accountability for their white privilege and racism. There is a HUGE racism problem in both online and real life queer spaces.

-Gender criticals are enormous pieces of shit with a very flawed view of sex and gender.

-The hyperpolicing of lesbianism on here is super lesbophobic. Stop obsessing over lesbians not conforming to your neat little cis fem white woman centric boxes. Let lesbians have some gender fuckery without frothing at the mouth.

-Bi lesbians/gays do not hurt mono lesbians/gays by existing. We are not responsible for homophobic cishets harassing you guys and saying that we are is violently biphobic. Stop being a narrowminded cishet bootlicker, assholes.

-Straight passing privilege does not exist. Invisibility and erasure is not a privilege.

-Lesbian separatism as an ideology is transphobic, biphobic, lesbophobic, and racist. If you defend lesbian separatism or pretend that it was even remotely okay then you are a bad person, straight-up.

-Intersexism is rampant in trans spaces. We are not your transition goals, we are not your gotcha to use against TERFs, and we are not nonbinary icons by default. The diversity of the intersex experience is unfathomable because of how many intersex conditions there are and how intersex conditions are viewed across the globe.

-Slur discourse is pointless at best and a straight-up psyop at worst. Let a bisexual call themself a dyke, let a transmasc call themself a tranny, let a lesbian call themself a faggot. I promise that it's not hurting you when other queer people reclaim slurs. Quit your victim complex.

-Butch and femme have always belonged to the whole queer community and have NEVER been lesbian exclusive. Denying that is spitting on ballroom culture- in other words, you're racist and transphobic as hell. Furthermore, Black non-lesbians have more claim to butch and femme than ANY white lesbian does. Read more here. It's a Carrd, yes, but it's a Carrd with actual sources, which is more than you can say for literally every Carrd written by exclusionists that you all choose to use anyways.

-Queer is not a slur and it's up to you to avoid people who use the word if it makes you that uncomfortable.

-Flag discourse is ridiculous. If you hate a flag that badly, just don't use it.

-You don't owe anyone an explanation for why you blocked them.

-I'm very wary of anyone who is against non-traumagenic systems. I don't really understand endo systems or other non-traumagenic systems, but I've seen tons of fakeclaiming and racism coming from the anti-endo community, so I tend to avoid them. I'm not interested in getting into syscourse and I generally keep my system life private.

-Well-researched self diagnosis is good, especially if you can't afford to get a professional diagnosis. Ultimately, you are the one actually experiencing what's in your brain.

-Shipping discourse is ridiculous and literally all of you need to go outside.

-Anti-transmasculinity as a form of oppression exists and to say otherwise is antiblack and transmisogynistic, since it often goes in hand with transmisogynoir.

-Nonbinary people do not owe you androgyny, let alone any change in appearance once they come out as nonbinary.

-Nonmen and nonwoman are not just terms that are super hostile to multigender people, they're also racist due to their hostility towards Two-Spirit people as well as how they've been used to degender Black people.

[noctivagant-corvid]

part 2 of my prime defenders dash simulator (pt 1, pt 3, pt 4, pt 5)

🪼mackleless Follow i make a post asking for tide x wavelength rpf fics. the post semi blows up. tidalwave(WE HAVE A SHIP NAME????) now has 300 fics. guys.

🪼mackleless Follow not complaining though. you guys are making the old guys fuck nasty and cry, and i’m here for it

5,231 notes

🤺tearfulatthefalling Follow my college is haunted by a emo kid

🍋 forscoreandsixyearsago Follow TEARS????? ELABORATE?????

🤺tearfulatthefalling Follow ALRIGHT GATHER ROUND LITTLE CHILDREN LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT THE EMO BOY WHO HAUNTS MY CAMPUS. around a year ago, people started seeing a pale boy with a strip of white hair and blue raccoon tails, along with little blue fires floating around him. he would appear, stare at the person who saw him, then disappear, along with his little fires. he wears a black hoodie with some weird text and sweatpants. he is almost always in the freshman boy’s dorm- except for twice people saw him in the library. he hasnt done anything but theres a tall kid with purple hair whos name i dont know who wore his sweatshirt once, so he might be fucking a ghost.

🍋forscoreandsixyearsago Follow tears what the fuck

👾bonemarroni Follow reblog if you are a kid with purple hair who might be fucking a ghost

12,374 notes

🪐plutoisaplanetish Follow some days you are the hero putting a giant sword through a space meatball. other days you are the space meatball getting a giant sword put through you.

🪐plutoisaplanetish Follow stop making this post about sex

287 notes

🪷locustlotus Follow shout out to lightspeed, the patron saint of lesbians. a roller derby queen.

🌜crescentshendo Follow [[ ALT TEXT: An image of superhero Lightspeed from two years ago, posing with a college roller derby team after a match. She's very sweaty. End id. ]] here's an image for all the women likers :3

🌜crescentshendo Follow [[ ALT TEXT: A screenshot of various tags left under the previous post, reading "#HOFOSGOS. #HOLY SHIT." , "#wwomen heart eyes" , "#i am. a lesbian!!!!!!" , and "#LORD IN HEAVEN FORGIVE ME FOR MY THOUGHTS." . End id. ]] glad we're all on the same page

8,674 notes

👁‍🗨darlingsos Follow DCs hair is red bc red has more positive associations than negative ones

🍭sweetlikevinegar Follow LET THE JOKE DIEEEE

👁‍🗨darlingsos Follow NEVERRRR

23 notes

🧿untimelyprophetess Follow do you guys think the heroes know they have fanfic

🧿untimelyprophetess Follow does bacon man sit down at home and decide to look through his ao3 tag (which has. 25k works.)

🧿untimelyprophetess Follow AND SOME OF THEM HAVE CHILDREN,,,, imagine you log on to ao3 and your dad is trending with either x readers or fucking his coworkers. horrifying.

🧿untimelyprophetess Follow [[ ALT TEXT: A screenshot reading "ASHES2ASHES liked your post: do you guys think th..". End id. ]] ASHES TWO ASHES ??????????

765 notes

🧶handsupplayingmysong Follow there's two kids on the train next to me and they're both wearing those big, over the ear Autism headphones and clearly overstimulated. theyre also holding hands. a great day for the gay community

17 notes

☄tapedtogetherhope Follow one of my friends grew up in deadwood and they will just say. the most concerning shit. at any given time.

☄tapedtogetherhope Follow examples of this: 1. "you know, the part in the forest where all the blood is." 2. "everyone's got the old man on the outskirts of town who might eat people." 3. "if you see a rabbit with too many eyes you just keep walking! same goes for a wall leaking black liquid." 4. "sometimes people just disappear. usually one every year. the highway is hungry. or maybe it's the forest." 5. "sometimes if you walk near the cliffs at night you feel like something's leading you to the edge." also how to skin and gut a deer but im not putting that here

🦌letheliketheriver Follow i think youre actually the weird one hope. this is all very normal

☄tapedtogetherhope Follow I GUARANTEE YOU IT IS NOT.

21,079 notes