#met coal

[soleildiddle]

some witchlight things

[bear-cubs-art-things]

💔 FOR GIDEON

OHOHO~ >:)

ASK AMD YE SHALL RECEIVE

-

Ever since his captivity, Gideon has attempted to disconnect his life before captivity to now. You could say he has his happy memories before his capture, but now chooses not to remember them. he still can should he choose to think about it, but the thought of his comfortable (if you could call a farmlife comfortable) life before everything, his home, his personal possessions that were few, his Pa... Its too painful for him to remember those now. The reality is, they're gone. They're long gone. And a part of him is long gone too.

Why else would you think Gricko mentioning his Pa makes him snappy and bitter? It's like reopening a deep wound, and it hurts. It hurts a fuck ton.

[lepusrufus]

I play this shit too much

[bumblingbabooshka]

I don’t typically like when star trek characters reference legacy characters just to talk about how great and perfect they are but I do like this route where even though Tuvok calls him a great visionary in the end he brings Spock up to say he argued with him. I think this is the way of the future. Lean in. Star Trek characters should say things like ‘An old man cut me off in space traffic the other day. I think it was McCoy?’ and another should nod and shake their head like he’s always doing that shit

[birdinabowl]

This you??

Yeah :3!!

[shywhumpauthor]

I can’t believe October is over already wow

Final word count for the month: 52,520

Pages (double spaced google docs, size 11 font): 118

Yeah I have no idea what other stats to include, thanks for everyone’s support! I don’t think I’ll post for Kaden today, but I’ll start falling into a habit of posting every few days as soon as I have more written lol

[sinceileftyoublog]

Andrew Combs Interview: The In-between Space

Photo by Austin Leih

BY JORDAN MAINZER

Andrew Combs has discovered the magic in the stillness. For this singer-songwriter with a family, including young kids, the evening, post-bedtime, represented the do-or-die moment for creativity: He could either kick back and relax or start some new tunes. What he found was that such hours of the night were actually the most fruitful. At ease, Combs was able to tell all kinds of stories, from autobiographical and biographical to fictional, with tones ranging from light, sweet, and romantic to heavy and devastating. The result is the aptly titled Dream Pictures (Chunk of Coal/Missing Piece), a collection of songs that started at home and built up into their own surreal worlds in the studio.

Upon reading the history behind Dream Pictures, I immediately thought of Combs' previous album, Sundays, because it was also named after and born out of a regular schedule. (Combs wrote a song during the week and recorded it on a Sunday.) But in speaking to Combs last month, it became clear to me that Dream Pictures' existence as a product of mental clarity was more casual than it was some newfound, purposeful desire to create. It's also not an album of kitchen table existential dread like Hiss Golden Messenger's Bad Debt; while they contain moments of self-doubt or even anger and violence, the songs on Dream Pictures are attitudinally variable, even within themselves. On "Eventide", Combs' dedication to his wife rife with subtle drums and piano, muted pedal steel, and whooshing synths, he nonetheless delivers lines like, "I passed away deep in my slumber / Far from fury and far grief." The folky, soulful, and textural "Your Eyes and Me" juxtaposes clever, pointed similes--"Your melancholy hair like curtains in between your eyes and me"--with verses that are weighty in their ambiguity. "Swan dive in the water / Down to the bottom of the lake / Visions of you and our daughters / But I drowned them all now, didn't I babe?" Combs asks, as you gasp, wondering who or what (the visions? the daughters themselves?) was exactly drowned. The very same song contains a plea to "remember the good before the bad," a useful mantra no matter the context.

On Dream Pictures, Combs worked again with Dom Billett, the drummer on Sundays. Billett co-produced Dream Pictures and helped Combs flush out the instrumental arrangements, playing drums, bass, piano, and synthesizers and providing background vocals. Overall, Billett's keen ear for atmosphere, combined with Combs' acoustic and electric guitar playing and Spencer Cullum's pedal steel, gave life to the idea of "dream pictures." Opening track "Fly In My Wine", written by the three of them, is an instrumental consisting of upright piano, pedal steel, and field recorded audio from Richard Serra's installation at the Bilbao Guggenheim. "To Love" is another sonic experiment, one not too far removed from Combs' initial demo, Combs delivering high-pitched, starry-eyed mantras over analog synths, electric guitars, and noise. "The Sea in Me" binds scraped acoustic guitars with an 8-bit synth line. These off-kilter sound collages effectively represent the fragility of memories and dreams. Even on comparatively traditional pop songs like the ballad "Point Across", the echo and delay on Billett's snares feel like time being bent. And when the instrumentation itself is cleaner, it effectively contrasts Combs' unhinged narrator: On Burton Collins co-write "I'm Fine", an electric guitar and Rhodes jam, Combs plays the part of the lovelorn person denying his own heartbreak. "Do I ever touch your heart at all?" he asks, "Or are you busy laughing while I'm punching the walls?"

When I spoke to Combs, he was again in the stillness, but he wasn't working. He was on a beach in the Florida panhandle, on a vacation with his family and parents, getting some much needed rest before moving again. Starting tomorrow, Combs will embark on a two-and-a-half-week tour of the UK, Ireland, and the Netherlands, armed with an acoustic guitar, drum machine, and keyboards. Though Combs is known as a Nashville singer-songwriter, his first love was electronic music, and these days, he writes most of his songs on piano as opposed to guitar. And if the sparkling smog of Dream Pictures is any preview, he might just be able to shed that Americana label once and for all. Below, read our conversation, edited for length and clarity.

Photo by Austin Leih

Since I Left You: Sundays was titled and formed around a dedicated day of the week that you sat down and recorded the song you had written over the past seven days. Dream Pictures is sort of similar in that it was inspired by your periods of creativity after your kids went to sleep. Is there something that's special in general about setting aside consistent time for music?

Andrew Combs: Honestly, it started out of pure necessity. It's [when] I can have time alone. I don't know how conscious I [am] of it, but at this age, I'm trying to stay more present and really take in every day and what I'm grateful and thankful for. That doesn't necessarily mean that the songs are all about that, but [I'm] trying to be cognizant of the world that I'm living in now. That time of day is when [songwriting] is easiest to do, [when] I'm still with it enough that I can formulate creative output that may or may not mean something.

SILY: Let me ask you a couple questions about what the songs on Dream Pictures are about. First, I'm assuming there are some songs on here that are not autobiographical.

AC: Yeah. I do feel like pieces of me are in every song, but "The Sea in Me" is about two friends going through a breakup with each other. That's not about me at all, really, but there are things I identify with in that song from my history.

SILY: Even if songs aren't about you, however, they have that same sort of biographical presence, that "moment in time" feel.

AC: Listening back now, I definitely think that's correct. They are little snapshots in time.

SILY: Quite literally, the opening track, "Fly In My Wine", has field recordings, which I find, when mixed with abstract instrumentation, to be very dream-like, which would go along with the theme of the record. When did you realize you wanted to open the album with something like that?

AC: When I figured out the album title was going to be Dream Pictures. I'm right there with you in that field recordings mixed with abstract music feels dream-like. I also really love the song "Eventide". I wanted it to be the first song, but I didn't feel like just starting [the record] with the song itself. I wanted to have some sort of bed to dip your toes into.

SILY: "Eventide" is, on the whole, a dedication to your wife, but one can read yourself working through some troubles. A line like, "I passed away deep in my slumber / Far from fury and far grief"--I don't know what you're referring to, but both within the album and within certain songs themselves, there are moments of struggle or darkness.

AC: Totally. I'm always looking for the darkness in the light and the light in the darkness. Maybe I should try to accept the light when it's light and the dark when it's dark.

SILY: But the former is more true. It speaks to the complexity of things, that things aren't one or the other.

AC: Sure. It would be nice, though, to live in the light.

SILY: If we could figure it out, everybody would be doing it.

AC: That's right.

SILY: What's the story behind "Heavy the Heart"?

AC: Without getting too namey, it's sort of about Elvis, but it's really about a couple people I've known within the music industry who burned it at both ends. They've all been tragic people deep inside, destined for a large and horrific crash.

SILY: Spencer Cullum's pedal steel stands out to me throughout the record. Normally, pedal steel stands out in general by virtue of its sheer quality, but on a lot of this album's songs, it's really subtle. Was that a product of Spencer's choice, the mixing, or something else?

AC: It's a combined brainchild of Spencer, myself, and Dom. Pedal steel is a beautiful instrument, but being in Nashville and starting our careers in the Americana sphere and hearing pedal steel all the time, it can be overplayed and overused. We three have all gravitated towards simplicity and stripping back instead of layering and putting a lot of stuff on top. That being said, on a song like "Mary Gold" or "Genuine and Pure", we really wanted it to stand out for a solo section. I know Spencer's taste is similar, and Dom's is probably the same, but I really like Steely Dan pedal steel instead of alt country [pedal steel,] a more tasteful, thought-out thing. Some of [the pedal steel subtlety] is in the mixing, but I'd say 90% of it is where we chose to put it.

SILY: The instrument has become really prevalent in indie rock to the point where so much prominent indie rock is basically alt country. You'd be considered more of an Americana artist, accurate or not, but Dream Pictures is closer to me to Steely Dan than it is alt country.

AC: Yeah. I know how I got into [Americana,] but I don't necessarily know how I'm gonna escape those tags. [laughs] I'll let time deal with that.

SILY: You've definitely never released a song like "To Love", which is electronic. Can you tell me how that song came to be from start to finish?

AC: I made demos for a lot of [the Dream Pictures] songs on my computer at home. I have a really simple setup with the MIDI controls, microphone, and guitars. That was the only song for which we actually used a lot of the demo. I didn't think or know if it was gonna fit. I still don't really know, but I like it a lot. I definitely feel like there's a handful of songs that I really like that I have stowed away in that vain.

When I first got into music, I was into electronic music. Besides hearing The Beatles and knowing it was something special, when I first started making my own compositions or songs, it was all electronic stuff. It's something I've always loved to do. I haven't always felt confident enough to put it on a record. I definitely feel like I'm doing it more and more. [On the] "To Love" demo, I had done the drums and some of the keyboards and the guitar solo and the vocals. [Dom] added percussion, more keys, and real bass. I don't have a real bass, so I just played bass on the keyboard. It's definitely different than the rest of the record.

Photo by Austin Leih

SILY: I wanted to ask you about "Table For Blue", which seems like a very sweet, simple, almost low-stakes song, in the best way. Is that how it fits within Dream Pictures, providing levity?

AC: Yes. It's the kind of song I've always been trying to write since I started writing songs. It is a low-stakes songwriting song. I'll always try and write songs like that, but they're fewer and farther between these days.

SILY: You co-wrote "I'm Fine" with Burton Collins. Can you tell me about your working relationship with him?

AC: Burton and I have written a lot since 2011 or 2012. For six years, I had a publishing deal where I was co-writing all the time for people on Music Row. Burton is one of the very few people I've maintained a working relationship with. He's mostly an actor. He doesn't play or sing. But he's a brilliant lyricist. He writes with Doja Cat and also collaborates with country people. He did a kids play. He likes to keep his fingers in as many things as possible. We've written a lot over the past ten years and try to do so once or twice a year.

Dream Pictures cover art

SILY: How did you come up with the front cover for the album? Lately, you have a lot of experimental photographs of yourself adorning your records.

AC: It's a photo my buddy Austin Leih took. He's done videos for me in the past and did the "Eventide" visual accompaniment. I was just messing with the picture and the idea of "dream pictures" and the in-between space, [such as] between dreaming and sleeping. I might have hit the nail too much on the head.

SILY: It doesn't have to be subtly symbolic. It can just look cool.

AC: Good. [laughs]

SILY: You co-designed the record cover, too. I know you paint, but do you do design work?

AC: My dad is a retired graphic designer, so I grew up knowing that world. I've always dabbled in it, but I've never had the money to buy the Adobe suites and have never had the time or want to learn how to do it technically well. It's something I do find pleasing to toy around with. I didn't have much money behind this record and Sundays, so [I tried] to do as much as I could by myself.

SILY: Will your upcoming tour be the first time you've played these songs live?

AC: I've played a few of them at a show here and there, trying them out, but yeah, in terms of a formal setting. I'm playing solo, so it's not going to be a full record experience, but I'm trying to incorporate drum machine and keyboards. I'm so bored by the [just] acoustic guitar thing.

SILY: I'm sure it'll prove an artistically satisfying challenge to adapt the songs in that way, too.

AC: Totally. It's actually been really fun.

SILY: On what instrument did you write most of the Dream Pictures songs?

AC: A lot of them were on keys. I'm not a great keyboard player. I just kind of plunk along with chords. Dom did the more elaborate arrangements. I have an old RMI Electra-piano and mess around on that a lot. There are certain things that only guitar can do, but I've grown bored with it being the thing I reach for every time. I think it's nice to start with keys or even a drum beat to change things up.

SILY: Are you planning on touring in the US?

AC: I don't know. I'd like to do some stuff. I can't really foresee doing a real long tour, hitting smaller markets, because I can't afford it. I would at least like to do New York, Philly, the East Coast big city stuff. Do a Nashville show, maybe go out West. It might also depend on if a big artist likes the record and wants to take me out to do some opening sets. I'm always keen on that in the States. It's a lot easier that way.

SILY: That makes sense. You don't have to do a ton of the planning yourself.

AC: And if they have an established audience you haven't tapped into. I did some shows with The Milk Carton Kids, and it was the best opening slot ever, because their crowd is quiet and respectful and they listen. What I do is subtle and can be quiet, so it worked. Then you have those people on your side.

SILY: Are you writing right now?

AC: The time period after you make something and before it comes out is actually really productive for me. It's a time to dream and mess around without a deadline or expectations. I don't know what exactly it is, but I have ideas floating around for what's next. Who knows whether it will stay that way or morph into something different. A lot of my time right now is being spent getting ready for the tour.

SILY: When you're making music, do you try to not consume other media? Or are you pretty good at compartmentalizing and not letting other records, TV shows, movies, or books affect you?

AC: I like learning and listening and seeing new stuff all the time, so I keep it going at all times.

SILY: Anything recent you've liked?

AC: I read [Daniel Mason's] North Woods, which was really beautiful. I'm re-reading East of Eden, which is one of my favorites. The King Hannah record is really cool. I'm listening to these Romanian folk songs, which are mostly a capella with maybe some sparse instrumentation, but they're really cool. I wouldn't know how to tell you what they're called, though, because they're in a different alphabet. I don't watch a ton of TV. I really liked The Zone of Interest.

Photo by Austin Leih

Tour dates

8/22: The Keep, Guildford, UK 8/23: The Railway Inn, Winchester, UK 8/24: Stanford Hall, Bottesford, UK 8/25: Caroline Street Social Club, Shipley, UK 8/26: Kazimier Stockroom, Liverpool, UK 8/27: St Mary's Creative Space, Chester, UK 8/28: The Workmans Cellar, Dublin, Ireland 8/29: Cleere's Bar & Theatre, Kilkenny, Ireland 8/30: The American Bar, Belfast, UK 8/31: Run of the Mill 2024, Paisley, UK 9/1: Sneaky Pete's, Edinburgh, UK 9/3: Water Rats, London, UK 9/5: De Doelen, Rotterdam, Netherlands 9/6: Luxor Live, Arnhem, Netherlands 9/7: Burgerweeshuis, Deventer, Netherlands 9/8: Sugar Mountain x Indiestad Met Festival, Amsterdam, Netherlands 9/9: Muziekgebouw Eindhoven, Eindhoven, Netherlands

[dduane]

Had an idea you might be able to use for something: Klingon Soap Operas.

(sigh)

Thanks for the thought. I appreciate your kindness!

But unfortunately, because you've sent me the idea and I've read it, I can now not use it, ever. No matter how much I might like to.

This isn't about you, you understand. And in its way it probably seems like a cruel paradox. You were only trying to be helpful! But if I was working on something for Trek and this concept came up even in casual discussion, I would be honor-bound (and contractually required) to inform them that the idea had come to me from a reader or fan. And then—rightly, from their point of view—they would forbid me to use it, because the idea's originator might some day, despite all their friendly intentions now, sue them over it. And the evidence that I was at fault would be easy to obtain. Sending a DM on any major platform generates an electronic "paper trail" that will confirm its target has opened and read the message in question. And that electronic record can be subpoenaed and submitted as evidence, and would stand up in court.

"Oh, come on, who'd do a thing like that, what are the odds...?" people will say. But it's not generally known that I've already been involved in a high-stakes lawsuit in which someone tried to sue Mattel over material I wrote when developing the initial form of the "Barbie: Fairytopia" universe (and the first Fairytopia film) for them. I'd never so much as met or communicated with the person suing them, had never read even a word of their work... but they still went to great trouble and expense attempting to prove that I'd had access to their material and used it without permission.

Mattel won the suit (as I'd frankly been expecting: the attorney handling their defense was one of the most expert IP lawyers in the US). But it gave me the chills... and made it clear how very wrong things could go, and the kind of damage that could be done to my career and my personal life, if I even accidentally used ideas from unauthorized sources.

Seriously, folks. I know you all mean well! But please don't make me tap the sign. DO NOT SEND ME STORY IDEAS, no matter how vague or general or unformed they may be. To do so is to absolutely guarantee that they will never, ever happen.* (And in my own universes, your innocently-meant suggestion could mean that neither you or anyone else will ever see that particular Young Wizards or Middle Kingdoms plot, no matter how much you'd like to... because I take this stuff seriously.)

...Thanks, all.

*This is also why I don't read fanfic set in my universes. Which you also shouldn't send me: please and thank you.

ETA: I would really, really appreciate it if y'all would refrain from giving @eldritchcatpossumamalgam grief in the tags. They made an honest, well-intentioned mistake, that's all, and they don't deserve to be personally raked over the coals for it. (And any of you who think I would derive any kind of satisfaction from that happening plainly don't know me very well.) So thanks in advance for your cooperation.

[kisses4reid]

missed it | ·˚ ༘ spencer reid ,,

summary - you celebrate your birthday alone in tears, until someone knocks on your door.

genre - colleague!reid x fem!reader, angst, fluff

warnings - angst, crying, memories of neglect and favouritism

a/n - a little self indulgent. thank you for 450 followers!!!! taglist is open as always, sorry for the cliff hanger.

Crisscross applesauce on a wooden barstool in front of leftovers from the night before. Exactly how every Wednesday night is. It’s raining, you can smell petichor, and you had just finished a book your colleague had lended you two days prior.

There is nothing special about today.

Your day was full of paper work and coffee breaks. Exactly how every Wednesday is. It was overcast, you could smell petichor, and you had just handed in some classified paperwork to your boss.

There was nothing special about today.

You night will be sleepless, full of tears and terrible memories. Not like every Wednesday night. It will storm, you’ll smell dirt and mud, and you’ll show up the next day to pretend you’re as bubbly and smiley as every one thinks you are.

There is nothing ever special about today.

You gripped your fork and stuffed the last of the leftover rice into your cheeks, chewing as a coping mechanism for the ball gathering at the back of your throat.

Glancing at your phone every two minutes didn’t help the gathering tears either, especially when it was a black screen every time. It happens every year.

Maybe your little cousin will send some emojis and a love heart, but it’s been years since that last happened. Your brothers and sister would get posts on your mothers Facebook, and you got a happy birthday from a distant aunty you met once when you were 3.

Maybe this is why when you dry yourself and start your nighttime routine, you light the candle you bought yourself, and get changed into pyjamas you bought yourself, and you light a skinny colourful candle you bought yourself.

You don’t get the chance to blow it out before a tear extinguishes it.

A sob rakes through you. Even in these warm pyjamas surrounded by your favourite vanilla and citrus scent, you can’t seem to be happy with what you’ve got. That’s what your father would tell you every birthday until you were 11 - when the presents stopped rolling in.

Be grateful for the clothes you’ve already got, for the books you’ve already read, for the food you’ve already eaten.

Be grateful that your little sister can breathe to blow out your candles, that your brothers have hands to open your presents.

Be grateful.

You are grateful you got that part time job to move out so young, that you were accepted in the BAU and welcomed with open arms, that it gave you the financial stability to own your own apartment with windows to get rained on and bookshelves to fill.

The covers on your bed were darkening with every tear that dropped from your cheek. It was ruining your skincare.

A laugh escapes you, barely audible through your closing throat, before you hear a firm knock on your front door.

Slippers on, hair loose and messy, you opened the door with a frown. It was not the day nor time for any soliciting or girl scout cookies. But you stopped for a second and glanced at the time displayed on your oven. It was 11pm.

“Y/n? Are you awake?”

Your eyes widened at Spencer Reid’s voice, eyebrows furrowing and hand quick to twist the door knob.

“Spencer what are you-“

“Happy birthday?” A full teeth smile was plastered on his place, but you didn’t notice as his face was hidden by a vanilla cake and small bag with plastic casing over it.

Any other time Spencer would be welcome in, it would make sense today wouldn’t be any different. For gods sakes, he has a key to your front door - but when his smile fades and you feel the last tear drop catch on your socks, you rethink opening the door all together.

“Y/n… are you okay?”

You felt a pit of coal and ash stir in the bottom of your uneasy stomach. Your eyes flashed between his eyes and the cake, one last single tear dropping down your cheek.

Spencer caught it with his thumb, wiping it with a deep frown.

“I’m fine,” you stepped back to let him in, plastering an awkward smile on your face (something you hoped would say caught me!), “Sad movie, that’s all.”

“A sad movie on your birthday?” He set down the bag and cake on your kitchen countertop, concerned expression not lifting after your lie. You bit your lip as his eyes wandered the apartment.

He had been there a million times, but now he seemed to be profiling it.

There was an orange stained plate in the sink - probably your left overs, no indent on the couch nor movie playing on the TV. He peered into your bedroom to find a wrecked bed and slouched pillows, tissues splayed amongst the duvet.

You swallowed, feeling caught and trapped. There was no escaping this, Spencer was too good of a profiler.

“I’m sorry, Y/n.” His eyes were a deep brown, glossy against his matte chocolate hair. He wore those glasses you liked, even when he insisted he hated how he looked in them. What a beautiful sight in such a sad situation.

You brought your left hand to your right elbow and shook your head, “It’s okay-“

“No it’s not.”

“Spencer, I’ve dealt with this for over 12 years. You get used to it.”

Spencer stood a metre away from you, eyes scanning you like he was trying to scrap the skin off your bones, see what was really going on.

And at that point, in your den of lies and self-pity, you felt no more rotten truths could hurt you more than you had hurt yourself. Spencer wasn’t much taller than you, but looking at him for this long at an angle was beginning to hurt more than your heart.

You grabbed the cake off of your counter top and smiled as if nothing wrong was happening, “Cake! You brought me cake.”

Spencer followed you into your living room awkwardly, “Yeah. It’s vanilla- I brought it because we didn’t eat at work today, nobody…”

Said Happy Birthday.

You nodded to yourself, patting the space beside you for Spencer to sit. “I know, it’s okay. It was a very busy day, I don’t blame them.” You undid the lid of the cake - obviously store bought - and took in your hand a wine glass that had stood empty for around half an hour. “Thank you, my favourite flavour is vanilla.”

“I know.” The tall boy let out a small smile then, but it quickly disappeared. He hated how you shrugged off such a devastating situation, how it meant nothing to you, how you claimed it had been like this for 12 years and not broken down.

“Y/n-“ Your loud sigh cut him off, stabbing the wine glass into the cake and lifting it, taking a bite of cake that slide out of the cup. The couch softened under your sudden slouch, Spencer faced you with his legs spread like a man.

Your eyes felt tight, chest collapsed. Nothing could be worse than this.

“My birthday is a week after my older brothers, so even when we did celebrate my birthday, it was small. And then one of my uncles passed away a few days after, and celebrating my birthday was seen as inappropriate.” You took another bite and talked through the frosting, “Instead at Christmas they let me choose which presents were for my birthday, many months late. I was grateful, that was all that mattered.”

Spencer moved closer and whispered, “Being grateful for neglect isn’t healthy, Y/n.”

“But it helped me, as a kid. As a girl who wanted to be loved so badly. When your siblings blow out your candles, and your cake is your sisters favourite flavour, all you can be is spiteful. And when I was, I was reprimanded. Be grateful, Y/n. At least you have siblings who can breathe and eat.”

You laughed after some time, Spencer’s mind racing at a hundred miles per minute.

“So I never told anyone my birthday. That’s why I showed up at the door looking like this,” you point to yourself and giggle, “I didn’t think anyone knew.”

“You look gorgeous.” He whispered, thigh touching yours on the plush couch. His hand lifted and skimmed your face, thumb moving to wipe a dot of frosting off of your lips. His hand fell.

“What’s in the bag?” You ask.

“Open it and see.” He replies.

What’s inside surprises you more than his initial arrival. It a medium sized glass bottle of perfume, with simple rinestones and gorgeous patterns engraved in it, a baby pink ribbon around its neck. The words were in french, the only words in english reading vanilla & citrus, in cursive writing.

A breath escaped you, your fingers tracing each detail like you were to memorise it. Spencer gulped as your eyes were glued to the writing and the shiny glass, how the liquid inside sloshed only slightly at every move.

“It is… do you like it?” He asks, turning his body towards yours trying to scope out your expression.

“I love it.” You mumble in awe.

“What?”

“I love it, thank you. Spencer, this is…” A wide smile escaped you, an incredulous giggle accompanying it. He let out a held breath and wove his shaking fingers through his hair. He was still at a loss for words at your previous confessions, but at least he made you happy, laugh.

Your eyes held each other for a moment, the room getting so suddenly small and hot.

“I…” you try to finish your sentence before you notice his gaze flickering to your lips, causing a small smile to appear.

“Happy birthday, Y/n. I’m sorry your birthdays were overlooked, I promise they won’t be anymore.” Spencer whispered, leaning in.

taglist (open!!) : @jeffswh0re @reap3erslov3 @candyd1es

[writtenbymoonflower]

how about

and hear me out

room mate! marauders who are obsessed with their shy roomate

oh trust me, hunny, i am hearing you. hope this is okay! shy gn!reader x poly!marauders

cw: nothing really, just fluff, reader is very flustered

1.1k words

Your eyes were blurry as you shuffled into the sunny kitchen. You weren’t used to waking up to the curtains open and breakfast on the stove. You’d lived with people before of course, but none as lively as this bunch. You weren’t complaining, though, you were quickly warming to them, even though you had probably spoken a total of 50 words to your new housemates in the three weeks you had lived with them. Most of these words likely consisting of sorry, excuse me, thank you. 

They had been talking though. Ever since the day you met they had been treating you like their best friend. Not even that. They were all best friends. (Though you considered that wasn’t all, on more than one occasion you had caught Sirius with his head in James’ lap, or Remus’ legs swung over one of the other boys. You had also observed a fair number of kisses between the three boys). But rather, they treated you like something precious, like a porcelain doll they were begging to get a hold of.

That thought made you immediately think of the nickname Sirius (or ‘Pads’ as the boys occasionally called him) had stuck you with. 

“Hey, dollface! You sleep well?” The coal-haired boy looked like he was itching to beckon you under his arm, but resisted. You were thankful, not knowing if you could survive that.

“It was good.” You hummed, barely legible to James over the sound of his bacon sizzling. You padded over to the breakfast table, sitting one chair away from Sirius and his huge bowl of cereal. No sooner had you sat down when a steaming cup of coffee was placed in front of you by a spindly hand. 

“Here you go, dovey.” Remus sat in the chair between you and Sirius. 

“Oi, Moons. You’re blocking my view.” You turned in your chair to look behind you at the ‘view’ he was referring to, brows scrunching in confusion when all you saw was the archway. You heard a light chuckle from Remus and a snicker from Sirius as you whipped back around. The possible meaning dawned on you, making you his your heated face in your mug.

“Don’t torture the poor thing.” James scolded, giving a (what you were sure he believed was comforting) squeeze to your shoulder before he sat on your other side.

“I never tortured anyone.” Remus corrected from behind his morning paper, slowly eating a cup of berry-yogurt. “Collective punishment is a war crime, Prongs” 

“Leavin’ me to the wolves huh, Moons?” Sirius sassed, sipping on his coffee that was mostly just cream and sugar. 

“Oh trust me, I’m sure we all know how much you’d love to be left to the wolf.” James smirked, clearly in on a joke that you had no idea about. He abandoned his teasing to turn to you, fixing a horribly kind look that made your tummy turn to mush. “There is some bacon and eggs on the stove for breakfast, but I’m sure Sirius would let you into his cereal.” 

“There’s also yogurt.” Remus looked pointedly to his near-empty cup. 

“Oh no, I’m okay. I could never take your food. I’m not hungry anyway.” You muttered into your mug. 

“You’ve gotta eat somethin’ babydoll. Can’t have you skipping meals.” Sirius had a playful, if not protective tilt to his tone. 

“I’ll find somethin’ don’t worry.” You scrubbed your bleary eyes with irritated cadence, still on the brink of sleep despite the warm caffeine swirling in your system. Thick fingers wrapped around your wrist to pull your offending hand away. 

“Gentle, sweetheart.” James scolded lightly. “Gonna hurt yourself like that.” He squeezed your hand before letting it go but it felt oddly like your face and your lungs were being squeezed as well. If this was the boys normal, you weren’t sure if you were going to survive. 

You mumbled a sorry looking at the mahogany table like it held the meaning of life, or the extra hour of sleep you desperately craved. 

“What’ve we told you? You say sorry too much, sweet thing. It’s like, your favorite word or something.” Sirius laughed, slurping down his cereal milk and licking his chops. You bit back another apology and rubbed your eyes again, though much more gentle this time. James cooed in sympathy. 

“You still sleepy?” He rubbed your back again, which made you both more heated and more drowsy. 

“Yeah.” You hummed, shamefaced as you played with the hem of your oversized t-shirt. You were thankful that you were still too shy to not wear long pants around them, because they would definitely be able to tell how tensed your legs were. Remus set his paper down.

“Do you have work today, love?” 

“No, ‘s my day off.” James grinned at that, but Sirius spoke up. 

“Happy coincidence! It’s ours too.” He grinned. “How about we all watch something? We can put something on in the lounge room and you can catch a bit of sleep on the settee?” He suggested. You shrunk at the thought of sleeping in front of them, but weren’t opposed to the idea.

“We’ll make sure to wake you up so you don’t sleep the day away.” James added, still rubbing your back. You were easily convinced. 

“Okay, that does sound nice.” Barely above a whisper. 

“We can all have a big lunch when you get up, too. Maybe we could go out?” Remus suggested as he led you gently to the living room. You tried to make your way to the armchair, but you were tugged to the couch. 

“That won’t be comfy, dollface. Here you go.” Sirius sat on the settee close to one arm, Remus by the other. Sirius pulled you between them while James sat on the floor and you whined in protest. 

“No, I’ll move. You sit here, James.”

Remus swore that was the loudest he had ever heard you speak. 

“No, I’m good right here. Thanks though, sweetness.” James reassured. He was sat in the middle, though rather close to Remus so the mousy boy could reach out with one hand and scratch James’ scalp, roving his long fingers through the thick curls. You were so distracted that you were startled when Sirius tugged on you again, maneuvering your head onto a pillow that laid on his lap. You tensed before relaxing into his warmth. You tucked your legs into yourself as Remus covered you with a blanket before going back to loving on James. 

“There you go, baby. That feel nice?” Sirius said, unfamiliarly soft as he stroked your hair, hand a welcome warmth on your scalp. 

Baby. Baby. Baby.

It would surprise you if you woke up from this nap. Your heart had nearly stopped on the spot.

[a-leg-without-fear]

Strange Love

i am so fucking obsessed with this man it ain't even FUNNY. oh btw here's some filth

Ship: Logan Howlett x Mutant!Fem!Reader 🩸

Rating: 18+ (i need jesus)

Wordcount: 4.5k

Warnings: smut, foreplay, mentions of PTSD, bloodplay, PnV sex, oral (fem!receiving), fingering, logan's teeth, choking, knifeplay, slight voyeurism if you squint seriously this is so dirty i NEED jesus

Song: Strange Love by Halsey

It wasn’t the tossing and turning that woke you. It wasn’t the occasional movement of his hands, the pushing into your side, the sheets being tugged off your body. You had grown accustomed to the flinches and twitches. Those things were typical when sharing a bed with someone. 

It was his breathing. Short, quick, ragged. Like a band of iron was squeezing his chest and restricting his lungs.

Your eyes snapped open and flicked to Logan. He was covered in sweat, beads dripping down his forehead plastered in drenched hair. His teeth were bared, grinding. Sharp canines digging into his bottom lip and splitting the skin before the wounds would seal themselves. Fists clenched in the damp sheets, claws just barely poking out of between his knuckles, fingers squeezing the cotton between them.

Right, a nightmare. He was having a nightmare.

These were a nightly occurrence for him. Logan’s past would dredge itself up in his sleep and torture him for hour upon sleepless hour. Raking his mind through the coals only for him to wake up and not remember a thing. 

It was risky to wake him like this. Once, Marie had tried to get him to wake up only for Logan’s adamantium claws to end up pierced in her stomach. She was fine, having briefly absorbed Logan’s healing ability and allowed herself to live.

That wasn’t a risk you could take. You had a minor amount of healing your body was capable of. Smaller cuts and bruises were your specialty. You could manipulate the rate at which blood flowed and carried the necessary chemicals in order to seal wounds and reverse bruising. Foot-long claws stabbed into your abdomen weren’t something you could easily fix.

You cleared your throat, shifting to the side of the bed opposite him, and said, “Logan?”

No response. He continued to breathe heavily, eyes darting back and forth beneath his furrowed brow. You sat up, determined to end this round of nightly torment. 

“Logan? Hun, wake up,” you said, louder than the previous attempt. A string of incoherent mumbles escaped between his clenched teeth. You sighed and climbed out of bed. Turning to face him and crossing your arms, you braced yourself and yelled, “Logan!”

His hazel eyes flew open as he jolted up, claws shooting out and chest heaving. Silver light glinted off the six razor sharp claws jutting out of his fists. The sheets bunched around his bare waist, his pillow falling off the bed and onto the floor.

“Logan?” you asked, as quiet and calming as possible. Logan’s gaze shifted to you from darting wildly around the room. As soon as his eyes met yours, the claws retreated back beneath his flushed and clammy skin.

He swallowed with difficulty as his mind registered who you were. You could practically see the gears turning beneath his soaked, dark hair.

“Logan? It’s me,” you said. Logan squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed at his eyelids.

“Shit, I’m sorry, doll. Did I wake you?” he grunted. He leaned back on one arm as he smoothed his hair away from his face. It was hard to prevent your gaze from wandering. A toned, tanned chest peppered in dark chest hair melting into defined abs with a trail of dark hair leading beneath the sheets. It took a lot of willpower to look back at Logan’s face.

“Eh, I’m used to it,” you replied, an easy smile falling across your lips. You kneeled back on the bed and ran a comforting hand along his shoulder. His gaze fell to your hand then met your eyes again. 

“It’s not the best thing to get used to,” he said. You could feel the muscles in his shoulder tensing under your palm. A frown stretched across his face, “I shouldn’t be wakin’ you every night.”

“It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make,” you said softly. You lifted your free hand and smoothed out the wrinkles created by his furrowed eyebrows. Logan smacked your hand away as you laughed.

“Seriously. I could hurt you,” he insisted. To emphasize his point, a single claw extended from his right hand, opposite of the side closest to you. He lifted the metal beside his face and said, “When I sleep, I ain’t in control of these things. I… I can’t lose you.”

You raised your hand, running your fingertips across Logan’s arm, before taking his fist in yours. He allowed the action, keeping the claw extended. You moved his hand closer to your face.

“What’re you doin’?” he asked, tugging his hand out of yours. The silver claw retracted back between his knuckles. You sighed while climbing into his lap, straddling his hips with your thighs. You grabbed the same hand again.

“Do you trust me?” you asked. Logan’s glare searched for some kind of trick or fear hiding behind your amused expression.

“Of course I do,” he replied, albeit a little apprehensive. You placed a chaste kiss to his middle-finger knuckle.

“Then extend your claw, handsome,” you breathed into his skin.

Logan’s shoulders shuddered, his eyes falling closed as a strained breath floated from his lips. The hand you had stroking along his neck shifted to bury its fingers in his hair. His back arched, his bare chest meeting your sleep shirt.

“Vampire-”

“Extend your claw. I’ll prove that you’ll never hurt me,” you whispered. Your lips trailed across his knuckles while your fingers tangled in the soft strands at the base of his neck. A quiet groan bounced around inside Logan’s chest.

Slowly, reluctantly, his middle adamantium claw slid out of his fist. Moonlight danced along the sharp edge and gave the claw an almost ethereal glow. You turned Logan’s hand, inspecting the claw at all angles, enjoying the reflections it projected on the walls.

“Do you trust me?” you said, repeating yourself. You needed absolute clarity before continuing. Logan nodded as another shudder worked its way over his chest. You ran your eyes over his expression. His eyes were closed, tense, his lips parted slightly. The hand you had in his hair rested on his jaw, fingers buried in his short beard, thumb tracing his bottom lip, “Yes or no, Logan.”

“Yes. Yes, doll, I do,” he replied.

With the affirmation you needed, you shifted your focus back to the threatening claw in front of you. You considered it for a moment. The length, the width, the sharp edge. Squaring your shoulders and steeling your nerves, you brought his hand closer to your face as you parted your lips. 

You ran the blade along the center of your tongue. The bite of cold metal pierced your flesh and stung as it slid along the muscle. You felt blood pool in your mouth, leaking out of the corners of your lips and down your chin.

Logan’s eyes popped open when the scent of your blood filled his nose. He yanked his fist away as his claw disappeared. Both of his palms clung to the sides of your face. You kept your mouth open, smiling, cradling the pooling blood on your tongue.

“What the shit? The hell’s wrong with you, vampire?” Logan exclaimed. Your smile held steady as his expression grew frantic. You watched Logan’s face closely as you enacted your plan. 

Your blood began to float out of your mouth in small beads, tiny planets chasing each other, flying from your tongue and into the air around you, forming a ring circling your head. Once you’d cleared most of the blood, you focused on closing the wound. You felt the flesh knit itself back together inch by inch, wound stitching itself closed. When the last bit of leaking blood had exited your mouth, your tongue fully healed, you closed your smile and let the droplets orbit your head.

“You won’t hurt me, Logan. No more than others have in the past,” you said. Logan’s expression remained unchanged, still eyeing you like you were fucking insane, hands clutched to both sides of your face. You stuck your tongue out again. “See? No harm done.”

“You… You can heal?” he asked. His thumb glided across your face to run along your bottom lip. You let your mouth fall open so he could see the absence of blood. He scoffed, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s not nearly as strong as yours. I can heal surface level stuff on anyone, not just me. Blood manipulation and all,” you explained. A fond smile remained settled across your face. You willed the blood floating around you to soar through the air in a stream, like crimson ribbons braiding and weaving into each other, before directing it into an empty glass on the nightstand.

Logan looked like you had told him the wildest theory about the moon landing imaginable. Eyebrows raised to his widow’s peak, nose scrunched, lips parted, eyes wide. It would have been amusing, laughable even, if it wasn’t such a tense moment.

Without warning his mouth was on yours, fingers tangled in your hair, arms shoving your chest against his. His hips rocked up against yours and you felt just how hard this conversation had made him. You gasped into his mouth when he tugged at the base of your neck.

“All this time,” he murmured. One of his hands left your hair and tugged up the hem of your t-shirt. His teeth trailed from your lips, to your jaw, to the soft skin at the crook of your neck, “All this fuckin’ time. I was worried I’d hurt you. That I’d wake up and skewer you like I did Rogue.”

A choked moan escaped your lips when his hand squeezed at your breast. Rough and calloused and almost mean. Logan’s sharp canines nicked the skin above the artery that ran beneath your ear. You whined as blood leaked from the new wound.

“But you? You’re just full of fucking surprises, aren’t you?” he said. He licked a broad swipe across the blood streaming down your throat. You ground down into his cock, the heat between your thighs seeking as much friction as possible. Both of you moaned as the deep liquid coated Logan’s mouth. 

“We’ve got-shit, plenty of time to find them all,” you said through a breathless grin. The fingers in your hair tightened and tugged your head back, baring your throat as Logan lapped at your neck, staining it red. 

You continued to grind into him while your hands gripped his forearms. Your nails dug into his skin, pinpricks of red sprouting around the crescent shapes. You brought a finger up to your mouth and licked along the tip of the nail. An explosion of copper coated your freshly healed tongue. A taste like none you’d ever had before, like a long-aged wine that’d just been opened. 

You needed to have more.

The knife you kept on your nightstand, the pommel a glass ball filled with your blood, swished through the air and landed in your open palm. Your other hand carded through Logan’s hair in an attempt to get his attention.

“Can I cut you?” you breathed. A feral grin spread across Logan’s face. His claw shinked back out of his fist and slashed down your shirt. The cotton separated like butter under a hot knife, your shirt sagging down your shoulders and falling away from your chest. A thin cut was left between your breasts. Like a red clay path between two rolling hills. 

“As long as I can cut you,” he replied, tongue tracing the new wound. Your head fell back as you arched into his mouth, doing your best to focus on closing the bite in your neck. Getting the skin to connect was growing more difficult as Logan coated his tongue in red and his half-lidded eyes met yours.

“Fuck, okay, I’ll take that as a yes,” you said through gritted teeth. You shrugged off your destroyed t-shirt as you felt the cut on your neck close. Your left hand tugged at Logan’s hair, bringing his lips back to yours, bare chests colliding. 

The air between you grew heated and humid. Teeth clashed, tongues darted into each other’s mouths tasting of copper and sin, claws and nails and blade slicing through skin, fingers pulling on hair. Each wound that closed was replaced with a fresh one, tongue and lips following the lines of leaking blood. If you were normal both of you would be covered in more scars than one could count. But, because you were mutants, the skin sealed as if nothing had ever pierced it. Smooth and soft and absolutely covered in blood.

You felt the room spin as you and Logan flipped. He had one hand on your shoulder, pinning your torso to the bed, while the other wrapped around your throat. His broad, warm hand nearly encompassed your whole neck. The power he held over you stoked the flames in your abdomen to burn away at your sense and reason.

His mouth was back on yours, drinking from you like a dying man. Teeth nipped at your lips, your tongue, your chin. Sharp bites that left the taste of copper in their wake. The hand on your shoulder traveled down your overheated body. Passing over swathes of skin painted red and bruises long since dissipated. His fingertips brushed along the waistband of your shorts and a growl reverberated from his throat.

“You have three seconds to get these off before they’re ripped off,” Logan said, the words echoing in your mind like a prayer in an empty chapel.

You had never stripped yourself so fast in your life. Your fumbling hands slipped beneath your waistband, having to concentrate on both getting naked and Logan’s mouth on yours, and you slipped both your panties and your shorts off in one pull. You kicked them off the bed in record time.

“Mm, that was five seconds. I’ll need to see to that later,” he said, kissing down your jaw between growled words. A shiver rolled across your spine at the way his voice thrummed against your neck. You felt the hand gripping your throat tighten, restricting your breathing, making you gasp. Your hands launched forward, seeking anything to grab in their path, landing on the forearm choking you. Logan nipped your collarbone as he said, “Don’t be surprised to see those shorts in shreds tomorrow.”

He loosened his grip slightly, letting warm air back into your heaving lungs. You felt your pulse rushing in your ears.

“Logan, please,” you whimpered. The heat between your legs was unbearable. Wave after wave of arousal slammed into your trembling body and left you breathless. Your thighs were definitely soaked. You could feel wetness dripping off your skin and onto the sheets below you. Logan bit harder at your lowest rib, making you cry out, “Please! I need you. Please, Logan.”

“I’ve got you, hotstuff. Don’t worry,” he purred. His canines dragged along your stomach, leaving fire in their wake, as he shifted lower on your body. The hand gripping your throat slid down your chest and pinned your hips in place, arm slung across your stomach like a lead pipe. His free hand massaged and groped at your shaking thighs. He looked up at you through his eyelashes, grinning, “So polite, how can I refuse?”

The first pass of his tongue through your cunt made your back bow off the bed. Your hands scrabbled against the soaked sheets, nonsense and cries of ecstasy escaping through your kiss-swollen lips.

A low groan passed through his throat and vibrated against your clit. Your eyes rolled back in your head at the shocks of pure pleasure zipping through your bloodstream.

“Fuck, sugar. All this just for me, huh?” he murmured. You weren’t entirely sure if it was meant for you, but before you could decide he buried his face in your cunt. Tongue spearing inside you, nose bumping against your clit, large fingers holding you open. The air inside your lungs shot out of you like a bullet. 

If your mind had any sense left, the sounds you and Logan were making would’ve been obscene. The wet squelching of him licking at your folds, his rough grunts, your breathless moans and airy whimpers. It would’ve made you embarrassed to ever show your face outside of this room again. But with Logan between your thighs and his arm braced across your abdomen, you could hardly care. 

He shifted so his lips could wrap around your clit, sucking and running the blunt edge of his teeth over where you’re most sensitive. A startled yelp kicked out of your mouth. Your hands flew to his hair and tangled in the damp strands. You felt his fingers run along your entrance, gathering slick along the calloused pads.

“You want me inside you, doll?” he asked huskily, sounding almost as wrecked as you felt. It took all your willpower to lift your eyelids and meet Logan’s eyes. 

“Please. Please, please, I need you Logan,” you slurred. Your grip on his hair tightened in an attempt to emphasize your point. 

He latched back onto your clit, eyes still locked with yours, as two fingers pushed inside you. The digits entered you with almost no resistance, you were so soaked. A loud moan fell from your lips as the accompanying noise from your cunt made you feel fucking filthy.

“Fuck, doll,” he grunted against your clit. He started pumping his fingers inside you, slow at first, letting you feel every ridge and knuckle glide in and out, making sure to brush against that spot inside you that made you see stars every time. Your thighs involuntarily clenched around his head. Your head flew back against the mattress beneath you, breath leaving your gaped mouth in quick bursts.

When his pace increased, you knew you wouldn’t last much longer. That coil in your core was tightening at a speed that even Peter couldn’t compete with. Your fingers scraped at Logan’s scalp, breathing seeming to be a thing of the past.

“Come for me, vampire,” he said, slipping a third finger inside you. The claws attached to the arm across your waist extended, piercing into the mattress and securing you further on the bed. If Logan wasn’t who he was, you’d be afraid of hurting him from how tight your thighs were squeezed around his head. But that chrome dome was nowhere near perturbed as he shoved you into your first orgasm of the night.

Sparks of white hot electricity short-circuited your brain and rendered you breathless. Your back seized up and arched off the bed, mouth flying open, breath halted inside frozen lungs. Pulsing, neverending, world-encompassing pleasure covered you like a thick, electrified blanket. Zaps of shityesgood sparked across your skin, burrowing deep into your flesh and filling your veins.

“There ya go, that’s a good girl,” Logan said. You barely registered him, the roaring in your ears was so loud. He continued to finger you through your orgasm, placing the occasional kiss on your hyper-sensitive skin, making you jolt.

It took several minutes for the aftershocks to stop, for the blanket to lift off your body. Logan slid his fingers out of you and brought them to his lips. Low groans brought you back to reality as he licked your slick off his fingers.

His claws retracted as he climbed back up your body, placing sloppy wet kisses as he went. You hummed when his lips found yours. You could taste yourself on his tongue, tangy and salty and distinctly you. Mixed with Logan’s smoke and whiskey, you felt like you could breathe this taste and grow intoxicated. You whined as Logan pulled back.

“Ready for more?” he asked. You nodded, biting your lip as a smile graced your features.

Logan grinned back as he hiked your legs up onto his hips and positioned himself by your entrance, cock hard and heavy in his hand. Your hands laced in his hair and yanked his mouth back to yours. The wet, hot tip of his cock glided through your folds, making both of you groan into each other’s mouths.

The first push inside stretched you almost to the point of pain, but you were so wet and needy you hardly cared. Your breathing grew ragged, panting into Logan’s open mouth, as he slid inside you. Every vein along his cock dragged against your walls, making you whine and cant beneath him. 

When he was buried to the hilt inside you, hips connected with your thighs, he braced one hand above you while the other held your leg on his hip. It seemed to take all of his willpower to open his eyes and look down at you.

“Shit, you feel good. Doin’ alright?” he groaned. You nodded a frantic yes, gripping his hair tighter and touching his forehead to yours.

“Logan please fuck me, please, please,” you whispered. You were barely cognizant. Just a body made of an animalistic need. A pure, feral, unadulterated need that only Logan could satisfy.

Logan chuckled, “When you ask like that, doll, how could I say no?”

The slow drag out of you made you grieve the loss of feeling completely full. Your nails dug into Logan’s scalp as whiny moans passed through your clenched teeth. He whispered reassurance into your skin as he pushed back inside, a smooth glide all the way in. He tried to set a slow pace, tried to give you time to adjust. But the pleas spilling from your lips and the grip of your thighs around his hips gave him the last shove he needed.

Quick, wet slaps bounced around the room as he rammed into you, over and over and over again. Pounding into you so hard you swore you could feel him in your throat and that if you weren’t mutant, you would break. High moans met choked grunts in the air between you. The bed’s wooden headboard slammed into the wall behind you in pace with Logan’s thrusts. 

And just like that his teeth were on you again. Biting and scraping and marking, drawing blood just for it to disappear under his tongue. Your shoulders, your collarbone, your breasts, your neck. None were left unmarked. And they remained ravaged, your mind too fractured by his relentless fucking to focus on healing yourself. 

“Fuck, vampire,” he moaned against your skin. His eyes were glassy, distant. Like his entire mind was devoted to filling you to the brim over and over again. The hand braced above your head grabbed the back of your neck, lifting your head so his lips could crash into yours. You were a mess of teeth and tongues and blood. Mindless, breathless moans swallowed between you.

You could feel that coil again. It tightened tauntingly at each thrust, each pound into you that drove you further into insanity. Flames of pure need licked and burned along your skin, only satisfied when Logan was filling you to the brim. Jesus, if you couldn’t feel every thrust rattle your teeth and send you further into oblivion.

Logan adjusted above you, nearly folding you in half as both his hands landed next to you on the bed. Like this, every thrust hit that spot inside you. Splitting you open to leave nothing but a moaning mess behind. 

He groaned above you, teeth gritted, and his claws shot out of his fists. The sound of fabric tearing filled your roaring ears. Deep gauges left in the mattress on either side of your head. Threatening, terrifying even. But to your fuck-drunk mind it only turned you on more. The unquenchable furnace burning in your core flamed into a blazing inferno. Your fingers scraped along his skin, searching mindlessly for something to ground you.

Another groan from Logan, reverberating from deep in his chest, as his forehead touched yours again. A spot of gentleness in the undeniably brutal way he was fucking you.

“I’m-Fuck!-I’m getting real close, doll,” he grunted, his pace never slowing or lessening in its ferocity. He unburied his hand from the bed, retracting his claws, and lowered it between your bodies to rub circles into your swollen clit.

“Ah! Fuck, Logan!” you yelped. You could feel yourself hurtling toward your inescapable second orgasm. Your eyes, unfocused as they were, tried to zero in on Logan above you. You felt like you were caught beneath a launching rocket, being blasted by the flames from the metal beast above you.

One, two, three more thrusts and then you were gone. Ecstasy poured into your veins like ink in water, drowning all you were, all you knew, all you felt. Eyes clouding over with swirling spots of black and white, the inferno in your core overtaking you like a forest fire. All you were was burned away, flames inhaling your body and mind, until all that was left was a mewling, breathless, writhing person that didn’t feel like yourself. 

Logan wasn’t too far behind you. The relentless pounding inside you grew ragged, sloppy, his fingers tangling in your hair to let him breathe the same air as you. A sharp groan echoed from his chest as his thrusts stilled, spilling inside you. Hands gripped at the soft flesh on your hips, pinning you against him, prolonging his orgasm.

You felt weightless, like you were floating on the destroyed bed below you and the only thing keeping you grounded was Logan on top of you. Lazy, trembling fingers traced the veins on his forearms, still clutched to your sides. Your hazy vision focused on his face. Blissed out, eyes closed, chest heaving. You felt a lopsided grin stretch across your swollen lips.

“Told you, ya won’t hurt me,” you rasped. You must have screamed at some point, because your throat was scratchy and sore. Not that you minded.

Logan let out a breathless chuckle above you. His fingers massaged soothing circles into your hips as his eyes opened, gaze landing on your post-orgasmic smirk.

He cleared his throat then said, “You sure? I got pretty rough.”

Your eyes fell closed as you used the remaining fragments of your mind to close the wounds across your neck and chest, willing the skin to seal and the bruises to flush away. Once you were satisfied you opened your eyes again.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” you said, grinning. Logan shook his head, matching your grin, as he slid out of you. An involuntary whine slipped up your throat at the loss of him inside you. The loss was quickly remedied by him laying down beside you, wrapping you in his arms and tucking you against his chest. You settled in, nestling your cheek against his damp skin, while he hummed above you.

“I know you can, but I’m not so sure about the sheets.”

Embarrassment flooded your cheeks as you observed the carnage around you. The once (somewhat) pristine, light blue sheets were absolutely covered in blood, loose threads, and other results of what the two of you had just done. Not to mention the holes in the mattress that could no way in hell be fixed.

You let out a sigh as your hand covered your eyes, face flushed. Logan smirked and kissed the top of your head.

“We’ll get ‘em replaced, doll. Don’t worry about it,” he said, amusement at your situation laced in every word.

However, the two of you froze in response to the words that filled your heads, the disappointment palpable and tone icy.

“It’ll come out of your wallets.”

i'd like to thank @madschiavelique and @gracethyomen for encouraging my obsession with logan. much love to them both and the rest of the murdock tuna team 🐟

[mostlysignssomeportents]

"Efficiency" left the Big Three vulnerable to smart UAW tactics

Tomorrow (September 22), I'm (virtually) presenting at the DIG Festival in Modena, Italy. Tomorrow night, I'll be in person at LA's Book Soup for the launch of Justin C Key's "The World Wasn’t Ready for You." On September 27, I'll be at Chevalier's Books in Los Angeles with Brian Merchant for a joint launch for my new book The Internet Con and his new book, Blood in the Machine.

It's been 143 days since the WGA went on strike against the Hollywood studios. While early tactical leaks from the studios had studio execs chortling and twirling their mustaches about writers caving once they started losing their homes, the strikers aren't wavering – they're still out there, pounding the picket lines, every weekday:

https://www.cnbc.com/2023/08/09/how-hollywood-writers-make-ends-meet-100-days-into-the-writers-guild-strike.html

The studios obviously need writers. That gleeful, anonymous studio exec who got such an obvious erotic charge at the thought of workers being rendered homeless as punishment for challenging his corporate power completely misread the room, and his comments didn't demoralize the writers. Instead, they inspired the actors to go on strike, too.

But how have the writers stayed out since May Day? How have the actors stayed out for 69 days since their strike started on Bastille Day? We can thank the studios for that! As it turns out, the studios have devoted so much energy to rendering creative workers as precarious as possible, hiring as little as they can getting away with and using punishing overtime as a substitute for adequate staffing that they've eliminated all the workers who can't survive on side-hustles and savings for six or seven months at a time.

But even for those layoff-hardened workers, long strikes are brutal, and of course, all the affiliated trades, from costumers to grips, are feeling the pain. The strike fund only goes so far, and non-striking, affected workers don't even get that. That's why I've been donating regularly to the Entertainment Community Fund, which helps all affected workers out with cash transfers (I just gave them another $500):

https://secure2.convio.net/afa/site/Donation2?df_id=8117&8117.donation=form1&mfc_pref=T

As hot labor summer is revealed as a turning point – not just a season – long strikes will become the norm. Bosses still don't believe in worker power, and until they get their minds right, they're going to keep on trying to starve their workforces back inside. To get a sense of how long workers will have to hold out, just consider the Warrior Met strike, where Alabama coal-miners stayed out for 23 months:

https://www.thenation.com/article/activism/warrior-met-strike-union/

As Kim Kelly explained to Adam Conover in the latest Factually podcast, the Alabama coal strikers didn't get anywhere near the attention that the Hollywood strikers have enjoyed:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UvyMHf7Yg0Q

(To learn more about the untold story of worker organizing, from prison unions to the key role that people of color and women played in labor history, check out Kelly's book, "Fight Like Hell," now in paperback:)

https://www.simonandschuster.com/books/Fight-Like-Hell/Kim-Kelly/9781982171063

Which brings me to the UAW strike. This is an historic strike, the first time that the UAW has struck all of the Big Three automakers at once. Past autoworkers' strikes have marked turning points for all American workers. The 1945/46 GM strike established employers' duty to cover worker pensions, health care, and cost of living allowances. The GM strike created the American middle-class:

https://prospect.org/labor/2023-09-18-uaw-strikes-built-american-middle-class/

The Big Three are fighting for all the marbles here. They are refusing to allow unions to organize EV factories. Given that no more internal combustion cars will be in production in just a few short years, that's tantamount to eliminating auto unions altogether. The automakers are flush with cash, including billions in public subsidies from multiple bailouts, along with billions more from greedflation price-gouging. A long siege is inevitable, as the decimillionaires running these companies earn their pay by starving out their workers:

https://www.businessinsider.com/general-motors-ceo-mary-barra-salary-auto-workers-strike-uaw-2023-9

The UAW knows this, of course, and their new leadership – helmed by the union's radical president Shawn Fain – has a plan. UAW workers are engaged in tactical striking, shutting down key parts of the supply chain on a rolling basis, making the 90-day strike fund stretch much farther:

https://prospect.org/blogs-and-newsletters/tap/2023-09-18-labors-militant-creativity/

In this project, they are greatly aided by Big Car's own relentless pursuit of profit. The automakers – like every monopolized, financialized sector – have stripped all the buffers and slack out of their operations. Inventory on hand is kept to a bare minimum. Inputs are sourced from the cheapest bidder, and they're brought to the factory by the lowest-cost option. Resiliency – spare parts, backup machinery – is forever at war with profits, and profits have won and won and won, leaving auto production in a brittle, and easily shattered state.

This is especially true for staffing. Automakers are violently allergic to hiring workers, because new workers get benefits and workplace protection. Instead, the car companies routinely offer "voluntary" overtime to their existing workforce. By refusing this overtime, workers can kneecap production, without striking.

Enter "Eight and Skate," a campaign among UAW workers to clock out after their eight hour shift. As Keith Brower Brown writes for Labor Notes, the UAW organizers are telling workers that "It’s crossing an unofficial picket line to work overtime. It’s helping out the company":

https://labornotes.org/2023/09/work-extra-during-strike-auto-workers-say-eight-and-skate

Eight and Skate has already started to work; the Buffalo Ford plant can no longer run its normal weekend shifts because workers are refusing to put in voluntary overtime. Of course, bosses will strike back: the next step will be forced overtime, which will lead to the unsafe conditions that unionized workers are contractually obliged to call paid work-stoppages over, shutting down operations without touching the strike fund.

What's more, car bosses can't just halt safety stoppages or change the rules on overtime; per the UAW's last contract, bosses are required to bargain on changes to overtime rules:

https://uaw.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/09/Working-Without-Contract-FAQ-FINAL-2.pdf

Car bosses have become lazily dependent on overtime. At GM's "highly profitable" SUV factory in Arlington, TX, normal production runs a six-days, 24 hours per day. Workers typically work five eight-hour days and nine hours on Saturdays. That's been the status quo for 11 years, but when bosses circulated the usual overtime signup sheet last week, every worker wrote "a big fat NO" next to their names.

Writing for The American Prospect, David Dayen points out that this overtime addiction puts a new complexion on the much-hyped workerpocalypse that EVs will supposedly bring about. EVs are much simpler to build than conventional cars, the argument goes, so a US transition to EVs will throw many autoworkers out of work:

https://prospect.org/labor/2023-09-20-big-threes-labor-shortages-uaw/

But the reality is that most autoworkers are doing one and a half jobs already. Reducing the "workforce" by a third could leave all these workers with their existing jobs, and the 40-hour workweek that their forebears fought for at GM inn 1945/46. Add to that the additional workers needed to make batteries, build and maintain charging infrastructure, and so on, and there's no reason to think that EVs will weaken autoworker power.

And as Dayen points out, this overtime addiction isn't limited to cars. It's also endemic to the entertainment industry, where writers' "mini rooms" and other forms of chronic understaffing are used to keep workforces at a skeleton crew, even when the overtime costs more than hiring new workers.

Bosses call themselves job creators, but they have a relentless drive to destroy jobs. If there's one thing bosses hate, it's paying workers – hence all the hype about AI and automation. The stories about looming AI-driven mass unemployment are fairy tales, but they're tailor made for financiers who get alarming, life-threatening priapism at the though of firing us all and replacing us with shell-scripts:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/09/autocomplete-worshippers/#the-real-ai-was-the-corporations-that-we-fought-along-the-way

This is why Republican "workerism" rings so hollow. Trump's GOP talks a big game about protecting "workers" (by which they mean anglo men) from immigrants and "woke captialism," but they have nothing to say about protecting workers from bosses and bankers who see every dime a worker gets as misappropriated from their dividend.

Unsurprisingly, conservative message-discipline sucks. As Luke Savage writes in Jacobin, for every mealymouthed Josh Hawley mouthing talking points that "support workers" by blaming China and Joe Biden for the Big Three's greed, there's a Tim Scott, saying the quiet part aloud:

https://jacobin.com/2023/09/republicans-uaw-strike-hawley-trump-scott/

Quoth Senator Scott: "I think Ronald Reagan gave us a great example when federal employees decided they were going to strike. He said, you strike, you’re fired. Simple concept to me. To the extent that we can use that once again, absolutely":

https://twitter.com/American_Bridge/status/1704136706574741988

The GOP's workerism is a tissue-thin fake. They can never and will never support real worker power. That creates an opportunity for Biden and Democrats to seize:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/18/co-determination/#now-make-me-do-it

Reversing two generations of anti-worker politics is a marathon, not a sprint. The strikes are going to run for months, even years. Every worker will be called upon to support their striking siblings, every day. We can do it. Solidarity now. Solidarity forever.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/21/eight-and-skate/#strike-to-rule

[hysteria-things]

KISS THE GIRL

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: chris x fem!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: because of his biggest fear, chris has some trouble getting the courage to kiss the girl he’s been connecting with for months.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: FLUFF, swearing

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 662

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: okay i know i said a matt fluff but i finished watching the little mermaid an hour ago and thought about this…

commitment is chris’ worst nightmare. he’d rather step on hot coals than do anything with a girl, especially being a boyfriend for crying out loud. he’s getting ahead of himself here, but these are the exact thoughts pacing through his mind at this very moment. why is he acting like this? it’s all because of you.

the two of you met through a mutual friend and hit it off quickly, gaining a relationship to the point where you guys have been talking for months. old chris would say run for the hills and never turn back, but there’s something about you. it’s like you reeled him in without trying.

currently, you’re walking next to each other — not hand in hand but insanely close — on a path that separates the beach from the sidewalk. chris paid for dinner, although you insisted on splitting the check.

this isn’t the first time you guys are hanging out, but this time around feels different. he so badly wants to kiss you; feel his lips in sync with yours. he’d be lying if he said he’d never thought about it. on the other hand, he’s terrified to do so. what if he’s been getting mixed signals this whole time? what if you only see him as a brother?

“are you alright?” your voice startles him as he shakes his head to get out of his trance. “you seem to be thinking about something.”

“i’m fine.” he smiles. “want to walk on the pier? we can get a good view of the sunset from there.”

you nod as he leads the way, the sun making the ripples of the water an orangey-pink haze. you lean your back against the railing, your elbows propped on the metal beside you.

inhaling sharply, he then exhales. he’s surprisingly much calmer now, the moment beautiful along with the girl of his dreams. maybe he can kiss you after all—

PING.

groaning, chris reaches his hand into his pocket where the noise is coming from.

DA BOYZ

nick

did you smooch yet?

no

matt

what are you waiting for?

idk

nick

chris you can’t hear me but i just sighed really loudly i thought you’d like to know

we’re watching you by the way

you’re what

matt

[attachment: 1 image]

hi

bro

nick

KISS HER ALREADY

COME ON

matt

i’ll do it

fuck off matt

nick

i wish i brought my binoculars i can’t really see from here

matt

👩‍❤️‍💋‍👨

this is going to be me and y/n in like five minutes

stop that

matt

i’m getting out of the car as we speak

go home

nick

not until you 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋🥰

sighing, this was his reminder to turn his ringer off. he placed the phone back in its place and sighs. “sorry about that.” he mumbles, moving closer to you to place his hands where your elbows are, leaning down to rest his head on your shoulder. you snake your arms around his neck and play with his hair. “are you sure you’re okay? you’re tense.”

“i want to lay here for a bit, that’s all.”

it’s now quiet, except for the waves hitting the shore. you both are comfortable, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. feeling a peck on your shoulder, it travels to your collarbone… and then to your neck… and then… finally!

it’s hard to tell who pulled in who first, being that you pulled him in by the neck while chris pulled you in by the waist. god, your lips feel good. your mouths dance at a rhythm better than he’s ever imagined. unfortunately, it has to come to an end.

he pulls away to catch a breath, your cheeks and the tip of your ears flushed pink like crazy. alas, you’re grinning like a fool before you say a sentence chris wasn’t expecting at all. “you can tell them to stop staring at us now.”

𝐭𝐚𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!

@bunbunbl0gs @lexisecretaccx @thy-mission @angelic-sturniolos111 @sophssturn @moncherriis @janiellasblog @blahbel668 @meg-sturniolo @mattslolita @sturnbaby @imwetforyourmom @tillies33ssss @sturnifyed @raysmayhem-72 @ripmattitude @p1xieswrld @alorsxsturn @multiluvr @delilahprentiss @tworosesblackthorn @gnxosblog @junnniiieee07 @flowerxbunnie @imaslut4kehlani @sturniolosandmoree @hearrtsturns @stars4matt @freshsturns @etershine @tpvmz @sukiipjs @h3arts4harry @sturnioloblogs @creamoncreamoncream2 @ivyyyyyysposts @iluvm4ttsturni0l0 @mbsbaby @mattsdollie @thesturniolos @nononopenono1 @bitchydragonparadise @gdsvhtwa @hrt-attack @dwntwn-strnlo @venusbabysblog @meerkatzthings @bernardsbendystraws @hoes4matthew @fratbrochrisgf

[multi-fandom-imagine]

A/n: Husk is fucking adorable...sidenote I wish this could have been better :/

Warnings: Knotting, bitting, marking, creampie.

"Just stay away!" Husk snapped, he didn't mean to yell at you. The cat demon hated snapping at you since you were so special to him, he did care about you.

He loved you, he just didn't want to hurt you. He's never been with anyone when he went through his ruts. What if he ended up really hurting you? What if he scared you away?

He couldn't have that, so that's why he had to haul himself off in his room. He was doing this to protect you. Know matter how painful it might be on his end.

Leaning on your palm, you sighed drumming your fingers on the table. You missed Husk, you hated knowing that he pushed you away. "Am I an idiot? Shouldn't I be with him?"

Angel Dust titled his head to the side, his lips pulling into a grin. "I think ya should toot's. Go in and surprise him...trust me. He's not gonna be able to resist ya...make sure you shake those hips he likes so much too.

Straightening your body, you gave your friend a wide grin feeling more confidant. "I think I will." Slipping out of your seat you gave him on last nod. "Thank you." Then with that you were off, Angel Dust chuckling softly.

"Good luck toots."

Nibbling your lip, you knocked against the door. A deep grumble coming from the room. "Go away!"

Sighing, you slammed your fist against the door away. "Let me the fuck in Husk."

"You need to leave! I can't." You hear Husk rest his head against the door.

Frowning, you placed your hand on the door knob clutching it tightly. "Please Husk...I'm not going to leave you."

"Fine...I warned you." Husk grumbled as the door swung open.

The first thing you noticed were his hears flat on his head, wings wrapped tightly around his body. You can see his fur standing on end, tail twitching as Husk refused to look at you.

“You need to fucking leave before I....I-don’t want to” The demon was struggling, fangs digging into his lower lip, his nails into his palm.

Shaking your head you just gave the man a determined look, you came here for a reason, you came here to help your lover. Taking a step towards Husk, you placed your hand to make him look at you. He felt so warm, but his fur felt so soft.

“Let me help you.” Giving him a smile, Husk shifted his body as his gaze slowly met your own.

“I need to mate...I....fuck this shit is embarrassing...I don't want to hurt you."

Feeling like he swallowed hot coal he continued to speak. “You're so small”

Gritting his teeth he found that it was getting harder to him to talk, he didn’t like you so close but the man couldn’t deny by how good you smelt.

You hated this, Husk didn't talk much about this to you. You couldn't even imagine what your lover might be going through. Glancing down, let your head press into his. "It's okay Husk...I know you would never hurt me. So let me help you with this rut or whatever it is Husk. I am your lover, I do care about you. I hate seeing you in pain.”

Watching his adam's apple bob, Husk did his best to take in what you said. His wings slowly folding out. Grunting he tugged you close as his tail wrapped around your body as he lifted you off the ground.Eye's closing, he nuzzled his nose into your neck as his fangs gazed the skin. “I'm not gonna hold back now, your scent is intoxicating."

“I don’t want you to hold back, I want you to knot me Husk."

Grunting, Husk placed you on the bed, your skin growing warm. You looked up at your love through a heated gaze. Husk's chest rising and falling as his paw pinned you to the bed.

You could feel his arousal against your inner thigh, hot and heavy. A slow smile forming on your lips as you ran your fingers through his fur. A small purr rumbling through his chest as he rutted against you.

"Husk."

Hearing you say his name, the cat demon's eyes snapped opened. A small snarl escaping his lips as he tore at your clothes. A shiver running up your spine, you whimpered feeling a claw push past your folds. "So fucking wet for me."

“You’re so beautiful.” He whispered grasping your wrists gently as he nuzzled into your neck again breathing in your scent. You smelled so good, it felt like a high. His tongue gliding across your neck to taste you, you tasted even better.

Sinking his fangs into your neck he was determined to leave a mark as he kept rutting against your thigh. Pulling away, he smirked seeing the red mark on your neck as his tail wrapped around an ankle forcing your legs open. "You ready for me?"

Your gaze fell to his pulsing shaft, your teeth sinking into his lip. "You sure that's gonna fit Husk...it's bigger than usual." You teased.

Letting out a scoff, Husk adverted his gaze as he slowly worked his cock. He hated feeling this nervous. You were his lover, you wanted this, wanted him. "I...it hurts then I'll stop." He muttered slowly pushing his members past your folds, a deep grumbled leaving his chest. Squeezing your legs around his hips, you could feel the wetness starting to coat his member.The feel pf his cock was making you light headed.

Trying his best to be gentle with you Husk slowly thrusted in deep in your warmth as he let out a deep grunt in your ear. Continuing to thrust deep into your pussy, Husk lent down letting his tongue glide across your nipple, his paw slowly massaging your breast as his wings involved your body.

His name spilled past your lips, you did your best to meet his frantic thrusts.

Husk biting back a snarl as he pulled away from your breast. A trail of saliva spillng past his lips as his tail tightened is grip around your ankle pulling you onto his cock as he then moved to your hips.

Your gaze taken in your lovers appearance, fangs poking last his lips. Ears flat on his head, you could feel the edge of his wings ticking your sides. 'He was so beautiful.'

Bending down, Husk nuzzled into your neck doing his best to mark you, everyone will know that you were his mate, that you belonged to him. Fangs out, he let one claw brush your clit, a shudder running through him feeling your pussy clench around his cock tightly, you were so wet, you felt so good. He could feel the spasms course through your body, knowing he was closer himself he let his fangs sink in your neck trying to draw out more cries of pleasure from your lips.

Cock swelling he anchored himself so he wouldn't hurt you.Pulling his fangs from your neck, he started to lap at the blood as he continued to thrust. His cock swelling until he finally released into your warm. Spurts of cum spilling from the tip of his cock as he filled you up with his seed.

Primal thoughts of filling you with his seed,watching your belly grow with his child, Husk was determined to make you pregnant with his kits...

You'd make such a wonderful mother.

His thrusts started to slow, the base of his cock swelling into a knot to keep the cum where it belonged. Remaining with in you, Husk bent down letting his tongue glide across the mark on your neck until he finally gave you a soft but brief kiss.

"I know, I do not say this much but I love you."

Husk muttered as he rest his head on your chest, his fur felt so soft, so nice. His eyes sliding closed as a soft purr left him.

Smiling softly you let your fingers run through his soft fur, a yawn escaping your lips. "I love you too Husk..."

You both fell into a blissful sleep, knowing or rather having a feeling that Husk's rut was far from over.

[tojigasm]

Tobacco Deco

Warnings: 18+ nsfw, daddy kink, step-dad!Logan, reader has serious daddy issues sorry guys, pet names, angst, fluffish, creampie <3

It's late at night that the two of you find solace in one another.

Hidden away from watchful eyes and muffled words. The two of you untamed and muddled under the white light of the moon.

You find it poetic in some ways - how he enters your room long after curfew. The amber lights from the hallway illuminate his dark figure.

He's dangerous.

You're dangerous.

This whole thing is dangerous.

Even more frighteningly aware when he's got the curve of your ass on the edge of the bed and his tongue deep in the heat of your cunt. You're not there.

Even with his hands on you, warm and big wrapped around the plush of your hips.

You're just not there.

You haven't even noticed he's stopped to peer up at you from between your thighs. his thumb stroking the soft skin of your inner thigh.

"Y'okay?" he kisses the side of your knee.

you nod shakily, head turned away from him.

"Y'wanna stop?" he runs the back of his knuckle up and down the side of your shin.

You shake your head, knees opening and closing nervously. Reaching a hand between your thighs, you weave your fingers through his hair and pull him back towards your wet cunt.

Sometimes you need this.

Just need to shut some parts of your brain off. Hiding from the watchful eyes from your peers and sharp gasps and whispers.

Logan licks a long stripe up the center of your heat to circle his tongue around your clit.

You shiver as he takes your hand from his hair and wraps his fingers with your own.

You're not sure when you started crying. Only aware of the fat tears bubbling over your hot cheeks when you accidently bump your forearm against your chin.

A soft whine crawls up your throat.

You feel ripe.

"You're worn." Logan's voice is coarse in your ear. hot like coal.

Wiping your eyes, you look at him between your thighs.

"What?"

"What?"

you only stare at him.

"What did you say?"

"Didn't say anything," He keeps your gaze for a moment, leaning down again to run his tongue up your folds.

you drop your head back with a wet moan.

Logan pulls himself up from the floor, unbuttoning his jeans to grip the girth of his cock.

He keeps you steady with a large hand on your hip, pushing the thick head of his cock past your folds.

sex with Logan is never predictable. The way he fucks you is never reflective to his emotions and he's gentler than some would assume.

Your cunt welcomes him eagerly, sucking in the girth of him and massaging his veiny length.

you're a mess beneath him. teary eyed and voice raw from crying.

He kisses your tears on your cheeks and circles a thumb around your clit.

you've learned to associate that pleasure with broken things often.

It's often at times when you're alone, seeking him while he's out of town, wishing he was there to take care of you all the time.

"You're worn."

you wish he had been there. Been there when you'd cried for your father, and he'd never come. Been there for you at the father-daughter dances your school had put on before you'd moved to X-Mansion. Before you'd met him. You wish he'd been there to tie your shoes and cut your fruit for school, wish he'd been there to tell you that you were his baby.

Why wasn't he there.

you're worn.

And you suppose, maybe you are. Worn by the long heat of the sun and the sadness rotting in your bones like water to wood. You're worn by all the things that'd left you behind.

Logan smoothes a hand over your cheek.

"Where are you, baby?" He whispers, thick brows furrowed.

You can feel the cigarette burns from earlier on his palm. Reminding you of something he's been worn by, though he tries to hide it.

he smells like Tobacco and of a bourbon cologne you had bought him for his birthday last year.

"M'here." you say softly, voice cracked.

"Hey," He says, voice so gentle you almost sob.

you're worn.

he gives you a gentle thrust that has you wrapping your legs around his hips instinctively.

Why do you love me? you want to ask.

Instead-

"Am I okay?"

he seems to stifle at that, not entirely sure what to make of that.

"Yes," He nods, holding a hand on the base of your neck, "Yr'okay, and I'm here with you."

your next words fall from your mouth helplessly- voice horribly shook and choked.

"I wish you were my dad."

Logan doesn't say anything, and horrible uneasiness settles into your belly.

You're too afraid to look at him, covering your eyes with your forearm, skin sticky with the salt of your tears.

His hand is gentle on your elbow, pulling your arm away from your eyes to press a kiss on your lips.

And it's something in the gentleness of it that settles the unease in your bones with a soft warmness.

Something about him not saying anything was what you needed.

His cock his heavy in your heat, the gurthy length of it stroking back and forth as he thrusts into you.

The room is hot.

You pant beneath him, meeting his eyes.

Logan keeps a hand on your cheek, holding you steady. He asks, kissing a line down the side of your jaw.

You hum through a shiver, tightening your thighs around his hips.

Logan hums against your skin, slipping his free hand under your thigh, sinking deeper into your heat.

"Haa-"

his hair is soft between your fingers as you weave your hand through his thick black tufts. Still angled up like all those years ago.

"Daddy's got you," He says so low you nearly miss it.

You're worn.

When you unravel beneath him, it's almost religious with his hands bruising into the plush of your skin. His side burns tickle your jaw as he runs his tongue over your teeth and along the insides of your cheeks.

His cum warms your cunt as he fills you with a broken groan, thick brows furrowed and lips pressed roughly against your soft ones.

Logan continues to pump into you, a white ring of cum and your juices wraps around the girth off his cock.

When he pulls out of you, a sob draws past your swollen lips, and he's quick to soothe it, stroking his hand down your jaw to hold your chin between his forefinger and thumb.

you look up at him from under your wet lashes, strung together thickly by the salt of your tears.

"Hi," you whisper, and his thumb rests on your bottom lip.

His brow is wet with the heat of it all and his eyes lay lidded as he looks you over.

He looks... tired.

The type of tired that rots in your bones and aches in the back of your head like a reminder of all things hard and mournful.

Logan doesn't say anything as he slips his thumb from your lips and makes his way to the bathroom.

You realize what its meant, to be worn and to be wanted, as many things are.