#the unthinkable podcast

[smoakqueenfam]

The Unthinkable Podcast - 1x18 recap!

Happy Sunday, friends! @smoaking-greenarrow & I were shocked to discover that this is one of our favorite S1 episodes so far. Roy needs saving, OTA is thriving, soft, married Olicity emerges, and the plot thickens! 👇🏼

Don’t hesitate to give us your thoughts 💚

[smoaking-greenarrow]

Hi Ellie, how are you? I was listening to your podcast, and heard you say you liked Slade as a villain, why how you liked his falking from grace. I agree with you 100%. This is why he is my favourite villain. Because we saw him descend progressively to this madness ( you'll see more in S2 flashbacks) . I love his mentor/student relationship he has with Oliver, and how that makes him a harder enemy to defeat.

They tried to make this with Ra's but it fell short, what with the rushed storyline and all.

I also love how Slade planned his revenge in all Oliver's life. It worked very well, and they replicated this with Prometheus.

My only regret is that they didn't take more time redeeming him back, after the miracuru wears off. Although I don't know if I don't prefer him as a villain.

Thank you for the podcast. Have a great day :)

Ooooh yay! We’re getting ready to start rewatching season 2 and I can’t wait to dive into Slade’s place on the show more. I didn’t necessarily need a redemption for him after Moira, but that would have been interesting too! He’s one of the only characters that I truly liked his arc start to finish. I didn’t mind how they locked him up on Lian Yu and he stayed there. It made sense whenever we saw him/whenever the characters encountered him again.

Adrian had everything for me except for the storyline. I wish his ties to Oliver were deeper and more fleshed out, and I wish he stayed longer on the show. For the most part it worked, but you’re right they definitely copy and pasted some themes from Deathstroke into Prometheus!

Thank you for listening and reaching out!!

[maximusboltaqon]

karnak, who's main thing is seeing the flaw in everything, telling triton that his disability is actually a strength,,,,, crying

[anim-ttrpgs]

Eureka Rules Breakdown! Episode 1 of an Actual Play of Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy by the Tiny Table Podcast!

Episode 1 is out now, and you can listen to it right here!

This is the first ever Actual Play of Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy, so we’re super excited, especially since Tiny Table really puts the “Actual” in “Actual Play.” They may edit out a stutter or bad mic read here and there, but you won’t find any prescripting of character arcs or setpiece events, just them, the rulebook, and the module.

This first episode is only about 15 minutes or so and introduces you to a brief rundown of Eureka’s rules and concepts. If you have been wondering what all the fuss is about with Eureka, but don’t feel like you have the time to download the free beta version and give it a read, then this fifteen-minute rules breakdown might be a great place to start!

The next episode, releasing on Tuesday, August 20th, will be the start of the actual Actual Play. Stay tuned for the Tiny Table crew to tackle FORIVA: The Angel Game, an adventure module for Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy.

FORIVA: The Angel Game is a 1990's investigation that sinks deep into a pit of dread and intrigue as the investigators step forward into a bizarre psychological horror mystery - one which may leave them unable to recognize themselves on the other side. To seek out the truth, an investigator must use all their wits and all the resources at their disposal - but only they know if they are ready to fall into the unthinkable rabbit hole that awaits. Stranger and stranger the story shall grow - and stranger still, what will grow in those who follow it.

Somewhere, a mother stares wordlessly at her hospitalized son who doesn’t recognize her, and wonders why this is happening to her family. Somewhere, a private detective smiles as his client offers a generous reward for someone–anyone–to blame for what was done to his children. Somewhere, a young girl tears down the advertisements that were covering up the missing poster of her friend. 

The year is 1999, and society is equal parts optimistic and apprehensive about the new millennium. Fears of the Y2K bug are circulating, Bill Clinton is still in office, and the popularity of video arcades is on the decline.

A rash of hospitalizations and disappearances has struck in Shreveport, Louisiana, with all of the victims so far being teenagers and children. Each case might at first seem unconnected, save for their close proximity in time to one another sending ripples throughout the community. Local news has been covering the story for days now, capitalizing on the fear and uncertainty of concerned parents, something that might seem like a distant problem to each investigator, until it strikes someone they know….

Having already listened to the whole thing ourselves, we can assure you that listeners who stick with it are in for a real great time! Episodes will be coming out each Tuesday, ending with a post-adventure discussion, and then an interview between the Tiny Table team and the A.N.I.M. team!

Elegantly designed and thoroughly playtested, Eureka represents the culmination of three years of near-daily work from our team, as well as a lot of our own money. If you’re just now reading this and learning about Eureka for the first time, you missed the crowdfunding window unfortunately, but you can still check out the public beta on itch.io to learn more about what Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy actually is, as that is where we have all the fancy art assets, the animated trailer, links to video reviews by podcasts and youtubers, etc.!

You can also follow updates on our Kickstarter page where we post regular updates on the status of our progress finishing the game and getting it ready for final release.

Beta Copies through the Patreon

If you want more, you can download regularly updated playable beta versions of Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy earlier, plus extra content such as adventure modules by subscribing to our Patreon at the $5 tier or higher. Subscribing to our patreon also grants you access to our patreon discord server where you can talk to us directly and offer valuable feedback on our progress and projects.

The A.N.I.M. TTRPG Book Club

If you would like to meet the A.N.I.M. team and even have a chance to play Eureka with us, you can join the A.N.I.M. TTRPG Book Club discord server. It’s also just a great place to talk and discuss TTRPGs, so there is no schedule obligation, but the main purpose of it is to nominate, vote on, then read, discuss, and play different indie TTRPGs. We put playgroups together based on scheduling compatibility, so it’s all extremely flexible. This is a free discord server, separate from our patreon exclusive one. https://discord.gg/7jdP8FBPes

Other Stuff

We also have a ko-fi and merchandise if you just wanna give us more money for any reason.

We hope to see you there, and that you will help our dreams come true and launch our careers as indie TTRPG developers with a bang by getting us to our base goal and blowing those stretch goals out of the water, and fight back against WotC's monopoly on the entire hobby. Wish us luck.

[cherrywhite]

"What's the opposite of a sacrifice?" The Silt Verses asks. A gift, is the audience's knee-jerk reaction. It has to be a gift, right? But no, perhaps that's too simple, isn't it? It can't be that easy. Neither Paige or Carpenter got the answer, so it has to be something more complex, right? Maybe...something reclaimed? Preserving in the face of sacrifice? Maybe the answer is something loftier? And episodes later, we finally get the answer and it's...

A gift. Of course it's a gift. How could it be anything else? A joy with no conditions. 

And I think this brilliantly shows how unthinkable a life without sacrifice is, in the world of The Silt Verses. Sacrifice is so ingrained into the society they've built that an opposite is entirely unthinkable. Paige didn't get it. Carpenter dismissed the question entirely. And ya, they were both taken off guard by the question, never really gave it serious consideration you could argue. But even we as the audience began to turn ourselves inside out, trying to find an answer to the riddle that would fit for the world of The Silt Verses. You've won, because they can't get away from you, says Val, they’ve never once seen the light beyond the light you made for them. There's no getting better for any of us. That answer, something that was right in front of us this whole time, seemed as if it was too easy, too simple. Outside of the parameters of the complicated world these characters must live in.

And Hayward will sit with Carpenter, the two enjoying each other's company despite the odds, and describe how stars provide light without asking for anything in return. He will go on the radio with Paige, neither of them able to decipher each other's words, the connection too flimsy, and be content with just the gift of getting to hear her voice. This is a world where the opposite of a sacrifice is unthinkable. And yet, it exists anyway. The answer exists in all these small moments. In Paige sitting down for breakfast with Carpenter and Faulkner. In Carpenter and Faulkner finally understanding each other, the two standing at the edge of a pier as their god's currents come to take them away. In Hayward and Paige giving characters like Elgin a second chance, her life previously forfeit as nothing more than a body for the government. In Gage asking their sister to go home together. In Shrue extending a hand out to Cross. Acantha, offering a warm seat and tea to Carpenter as she decides where to go next. Val, getting on the phone one last time, to ever so slightly shift the winds.

And I'm not sure what my point was here, I'll admit. But these are the moments of the podcast that will forever stay with me. All these moments of genuine love and warmth and everything in between. It can still end with love, can't it? asks Carpenter. And it can; and it does. It always could. And that's a gift in and of itself. 

[pookietv]

number one fan | george clarke

this was requested! and i couldn't resist the end lmao so !!

george had always been supportive. he liked to consider himself his friends biggest fans, always turning up to whatever may be important to them, from arthur's tours, to his home friends graduations, he always wanted to be there and be able to show his pride in the people in his life.

so when he began dating a singer, it was to no one's surprise that he became the biggest fan out there.

your music a staple of the household, to the point where an intervention was called by arthur and chris.

"geooooorge can we not put on different music now?" chris said with a slight smile on his face as he rolled his eyes jokingly.

"you know we love y/n's music but george, this is a little excessive," arthur agreed, giggling to himself a little.

"just let this song finish! its the best one," he protested whilst cooking at the kitchen island, earning a joking groan from arthur.

"i'm convinced that just by living in this house we may know her lyrics better then she knows them," chris laughed, and george just shrugged with a mockingly innocent look.

when you first got signed by a manager, changing from original songs uploaded to youtube to a real publishing plan.

"george?" you grinned to yourself as you went into his room, having been let in by arthur, seeing him sat at his desk, seeing you and pulling his headphones off his head.

"hey, you! didn't know you were coming around today," he said, standing to press a quick kiss to your hairline, and you could barely stop yourself grinning at him like the cheshire cat.

"what's that look for?" he asked as he pulled away, quirking his head slightly as a small smile approached his face too.

"i got offered to be signed! by a real label! they actually want me to be under their label!" you practically babbled out, watching george's grin grow wider before wrapping you in a hug, practically lifting you from the ground.

"no way! that's amazing, darling," he muffled into your hair, his arms around your torso only wrapping tighter, "i'm so so so proud," he beamed, pressing another kiss to your cheek.

"thank you george," you smiled back, your cheeks glazed with red, "you've been so supportive, and i appreciate it so much,"

"so, now can i convince you to write a whole album about your biggest fan?" he teased, and you playfully pushed his chest.

"well, maybe i could write a song for arthur, i mean he was so lovely letting me open for his tour, he definitely has been a loyal fan..." you teased in return, pretending to ponder, causing george to mock pout.

"hey, hello, i am your biggest fan you muppet!"

when your first album released, and it was all george could yap about for at least a month afterwards.

when he featured on his bach and arthur's podcast? practically the first thing to leave his mouth.

"yeah, so i've not been up to too much, y/n was really busy recently so we decided now she's done and the album's released, we might try and go away somewhere - the album's out now on all streaming platforms! go listen, she's brill," he says with a cheesy grin on his face.

"what was the timer on george mentioning y/n there? under five minutes?" bach laughed, george's face going slightly red as he shrugged.

"it is a good album, in his defence," arthur laughed a little.

when he's in one of chris' videos? practically every goal he scored was backdropped by the beat change of one of your songs.

"if you miss this one, we're not letting you aux the flat for a week," chris chided with a grin, and george rolled his eyes as he placed the ball down, lining it up and kicking it in.

"see? he's the biggest fan around! the second the thought of not playing y/n's new album 24/7 is unthinkable to george," arthur laughed, before continuing, "i don't even live with you guys and i think i've heard y/n's music more times then i have actually met her in person."

going to your first big concert?

you had offered him to be backstage, but he had said no - of course he wanted to be in the front, seeing you perform like he was anyone else, he wanted to see you properly, from the floor.

"you're sure you don't wanna be backstage?" you had asked him on facetime earlier that day, when you were already at the venue for sound checks but he had assured you no.

"we're all coming in the pit, we've gotta see it like a normal concert!" he grinned down the phone, and you rolled your eyes playfully.

"you at least gonna stand at the back so you guys don't get like, mobbed or squashed or something? 'cause people might ask for photos," you said, slightly concerned for him, but he just shook his head.

"we can take photos afterwards with whoever wants one - i'm not standing at the back and barely seeing anything just cause some people may try and be rude and take photos with us whilst you're performing, that's not fair to you," he hummed slightly down the phone, "plus, chris wouldn't be able to see from the back and you know that," he laughed a little at his own joke

you cracked a small smile as you shook your head, "you're so stubborn, george, you know that?"

and when he showed up to the concert, with both of the arthurs and chris, all stood as close to the front as they could be, and before you could even notice anything else, you saw george's shit eating grin at his shirt, which he wore in a teasing sort of pride, that just said 'i fucked the singer', and as he saw your eyes roll, you could hear his laugh from the crowd.

[dean-winchester-is-a-warrior]

I Believe You, But Tell Me Again

(x)

Summary: Y/N is wondering if Jensen still sees her as he used to.

Warnings/Explicit 18+: Lots of fluffy smut. Sexy af Jensen. Rockstar!Jensen. Definitely a warning. Unprotected PinV sex. Oral (f receiving), Brief fingering, some slightly insecure thoughts, established relationship. Fluff.

Pairings: Jensen x Reader

Word Count: 3,314

A/N: This fic is a request by @lacilou .

I'm not sure if you're taking requests, but I can't get this out of my head. Jensen, in the photo you're using for Off and On Again. Where he's super hot, and he knows it. Kinda cocky but totally in love with the reader (established relationship - married, long-time girlfriend??) And reader doesn't understand why he's so into her, but she KNOWS it even though Jensen has to remind her with "Feel this? It's all for you, "while he's holding the reader's hand over his bulge. If you could throw in "this what you want?" while he's slowly stroking himself as he walks towards the reader, lust in his eyes.

I hope you enjoy it sweetie, and everyone else too.

The dividers below were created by @talesmaniac89

The lights were bright, slightly blinding, as Y/N sat in front of the two cameras aimed at her. There were two cameras so they could decide later on which side was her better side. Or possibly her worse side, depending on the tone of the interview. 

Y/N squinted at the primped and stylish woman sitting across from her getting her makeup touched up. She wondered, would this interview be a friendly one? An interview to say, “Look everyone! Aren’t the Ackles great?” Or would it be one of those interviews that had an edge of nasty hovering just beneath the smile of the interviewer. 

She watched this interviewer, Shauna, pull away from her makeup artist, scowling. “It’s fine, Lisa. Just leave it alone.” 

Uh oh.

The interview started off friendly enough, touching on the things most journalists talked to her about - Jensen’s incredible skyrocketing success, his status as a rockstar icon, what a talent he was. As Jensen’s biggest fan, Y/N always enjoyed those kinds of questions. She couldn’t get enough of bragging about her ridiculously talented husband. 

But then the mood of the interview shifted and Shauna started asking much more pointed questions. 

“Now, Y/N, you and Jensen have been married over a decade now, right?” Y/N nodded. “Is there a secret to your success?” Shauna was smiling, but Y/N could see that her gray eyes were calculating.

It was a question she’d been asked a lot in the last couple of years as their ten year anniversary came and went. People seemed very interested in the fact that their marriage had lasted so much longer than had been anticipated. When Jensen had started dating her, just a nobody from nowhere, everyone had predicted it wouldn’t last. 

People on social media and angry people with podcasts all had an opinion on their relationship.

-- She’s not cut out for the limelight.

-- It’s way too hard for someone like her.

-- She’s not used to the media. She’s gonna break under the pressure.

-- He’s a rockstar who could literally get any girl he wanted. So, what’s up with him picking her?

-- It won’t last. These showbiz marriages never do.

But ten years on, now people were wondering how they actually made it to a decade. “What’s the secret?” They all wanted to know.

“There’s really no secret, Shauna.” Y/N said with a smile. “When two people are madly in love with each other, when they respect each other and work together as partners, staying together becomes much easier.” 

It was a variation on the same answer she’d given dozens of times. It happened to be true, but Y/N was still tired of trying to find new ways to explain to people that they got married because they loved each other, and they stayed married because the alternative was unthinkable for either of them.

Shauna smiled a sharp smile. “And in all those years, you’ve never been worried about the rock and roll lifestyle…leading Jensen astray?”

Y/N kept smiling because she couldn’t falter and let the reporter know she’d scored a hit. They weren’t usually that pointed with the infidelity question. Usually they skirted around it, saying things like, “Does it ever get hard when he’s on the road?” or “You must miss him when he’s touring. How do you keep tabs on him?” 

Y/N’s personal favorite version of this question came from a middle-aged woman reporter with lipstick on her teeth. “Have you ever just shown up to surprise him, or tried to catch him being naughty?” It was said with a cheeky grin as though they were just besties chatting, but Y/N had wanted to snatch the woman bald.

Shauna’s version of the question was the closest anyone had ever come to asking her outright, “Do you worry about your husband cheating on you?”

Y/N kept smiling and shook her head. “No, never. If you knew Jensen, you wouldn’t wonder about it either. He’s the most loyal man I’ve ever known, and the most honorable. I know beyond a doubt that he doesn’t take our vows lightly, and that he would never, ever hurt me like that.”

Shauna seemed slightly taken aback by Y/N’s adamant, genuine answer, clearly expecting some anger or some kind of dramatic reaction from her. When she didn't get it, the reporter just smiled again.

“So sweet.” Was her response, acid dripping from her words.

***

The day of interviews had taken quite a bit out of Y/N, especially the last one, and she was tired as she wandered out to the limousine that was waiting to take her and Jensen back to their hotel, whenever he was done with his part of the press junket.

The limo driver opened the door for her and smiled. “Fatima says Mr. Ackles is almost finished and will be out in about ten minutes. Do you want to wait for him? Or should I take you and send another car for him?”

Y/N smiled back and shook her head. “No, let’s wait for him.”

“Okay, great.” The driver said as he closed the door behind her. 

In less than ten minutes, she saw Jensen push out of the double doors, and amble towards the car. He wore black jeans that clung to his thick thighs, and a gray t-shirt covered by a black, long-sleeved denim shirt. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing the veins and corded muscles in his forearms - muscles he’d gained by long hours spent playing the guitar.

As he got closer to the car, she watched him push a hand through his long hair, sweeping it off his forehead, and she sighed deeply. Good God, he was so stunningly sexy. 

Even when he was just walking, he moved with the same seductive grace he used like a siren song onstage. No matter how many times Y/N watched him in concert, she never got used to that kind of magnetic, cocky seductiveness that poured out of him when he was singing. He knew he drove people crazy. He knew it, and it just made him smile.

He was smiling now as he climbed into the car. “Hey beautiful.”

Y/N smiled tiredly at him, feeling her heart warm at his usual greeting. When he settled into the seat, he reached over and pulled her into his lap.

She squealed lightly as he lifted her, and then chuckled. “You know there are seatbelts we’re supposed to be wearing.”

Jensen shrugged and squeezed her tighter against him. “Nah! I gotcha.” 

Y/N laughed again. “Oh, okay then.” She said, snuggling closer to him. The interview had knocked her off kilter a bit, and it felt especially good to have Jensen’s arms wrapped around her. 

She tucked her head under his chin, and he ran his big hand up and down her arm. “Hey,” he said with concern lacing his voice, “everything okay?”

Y/N nodded. “Yeah, just a long day sitting in the same room, being asked basically the same questions.” She shrugged. “I just wanna get home. Or, well, hotel.”

Jensen accepted her answer, kissing her forehead and then her lips. “Me too.” 

They ordered in their dinner, neither of them keen to face more crowds and questions, and spent the evening watching some trashy reality TV before calling it a night a bit earlier than usual.

Y/N went into the bathroom to get ready. She brushed her teeth and took off her makeup, and as she stood in front of the mirror she looked at her face closely. 

There were some lines there that hadn’t been there when she first met Jensen. She knew there was a gray hair or two hiding amongst the rest that also hadn't existed back then. 

She pulled her silk nightgown tight against her body and could see where she was rounder than she had been when she was younger. Her muscle tone wasn’t as good. 

I should hit the gym more, she thought.

She pinched one of her love handles and pulled at her skin, wondering what Jensen really thought about all these changes. She knew he loved her, knew that he’d always found her attractive. But how was that holding up these days? Did he still feel the same kind of heat for her? Did he still want her as desperately as she still wanted him?

She jumped slightly as Jensen popped up in the mirror behind her to wrap his arms around her waist, and nuzzle his face in the crook of her neck. He wore his pajama bottoms and nothing more. She looked at his biceps flexing around her as he squeezed her back against him, and his round, muscled shoulders, broad and strong, and she sighed. He was still so unbelievably perfect.

She lightly tapped his forearm where it rested just below her breasts. “You scared me.” She said, her voice accusatory.

He chuckled. “Sorry, I thought you heard me.” He caught her eye in the mirror. “But you seemed to be lost in thought.”

He moved his lips to her temple. “What thoughts are swirling around in that beautiful mind of yours? Hmm?” He murmured. 

She shrugged a shoulder. “Nothing.” 

Jensen’s face in the mirror wore a disbelieving look. “Don’t believe that for a second.” He pulled back slightly, and turned her in his arms so she was facing him. A small line of worry was creased between his brows.

“You’ve been quiet all evening; something is obviously on your mind.”

Y/N shrugged again and looked down at their bare feet. “Just tired.”

Jensen put his knuckle under her chin and made her look at him. “Y/N. Tell me.”

Y/N was caught completely by surprise as her eyes welled up with tears. She didn’t know where these doubts were coming from or why she was feeling this way. Maybe it was just one too many snide questions.

Jensen’s face crumpled as he saw her tears. He cupped her cheeks and brushed them away as they spilled over her lashes. “Baby.” His voice was worried and confused. “Hey, hey. What’s wrong? What happened?”

Y/N shook her head. “No, nothing happened. Really. It was just this reporter.” 

Jensen waited for her to continue, but his worried expression darkened slightly in anger.

Y/N bit her lip and debated what to tell him, how to explain the feelings she barely understood herself. Finally she just went for the honesty they’d always had with each other; they’d never been afraid to ask for what they needed from one another, and what she needed was reassurance.

“Do you still want me? I mean, the same as you used to.”

Jensen seemed completely taken aback by the question. Clearly that hadn’t been where he expected this conversation to go. He shook his head.

“Why would you even ask that? Of course I do.”

Y/N frowned. “Don’t just tell me what I want to hear. Please, tell me the truth. Are there things about me you’d change if you could?”

Jensen’s expression turned thunderous and he dropped his hands from her cheeks to grip her upper arms. “Y/N.” He said firmly. “What the hell are you talking about? Where is this coming from? Of course I don’t want you to change.”

“I don’t mean my personality, or whatever.” Y/N explained wiping her tears away with both hands. “But my face or my body, the way I look. I know it isn’t the same as when we first met.”

Jensen shook his head, his voice incredulous. “Well no, you don’t look exactly the same as the day I met you over a decade ago.” He blew out an exasperated breath. “But you know, I’m pretty sure I don’t either.”

Y/N felt her skin flush. “But you’ve just gotten hotter.” She frowned. “Guys do that.” 

She opened her mouth to say something more, but Jensen slammed his mouth down on hers, sweeping his tongue into her mouth and invading her completely. She let out a little whimper as his hands let go of her arms to grab her ass and press her hard against him. He kissed her long, deep, swallowing every soft moan.

When he pulled back his voice was husky with want. “Baby, I don’t know where these questions are coming from, but I know the answers.” 

He grabbed Y/N’s hand and placed it on his hard cock where it tented his pajama bottoms, obviously not restrained by underwear. She bit her lip as he closed his eyes and groaned when she wrapped her fingers around him. 

“Feel this? It’s all for you, all because of you. Fuck, Y/N do you see what you do to me? Still? Always?” He pushed aside some of the bottles and jars that littered the countertop and lifted her onto it easily. His hand slipped between her legs and he groaned at her bare, wet pussy. “Believe me when I tell you that I want you. Every day. All the time. Years don’t change that.”

He shook his head. “In fact they just make things better cause now I know what happens if I do this.” 

He dipped his head, sucking her satin clad nipple into his mouth, while his thick middle finger slid inside her body at the same time. A strangled cry left her lips and she thumped her head back against the mirror.

She felt him smile against her. “Exactly.”

He took his hand out of her to tug on her nightgown. She shifted slightly so he could pull the silky material over her head as he continued.  “And yet, your body’s always a revelation to me. It never stops fascinating me.” His eyes followed the path of his fingers as he trailed them down her arms and then over the soft swell of her breasts. Gooseflesh erupted on her skin and her nipples puckered.

He circled his forefinger around the tight little bud, before dipping his head once again to flick the tip of his tongue against it. 

Y/N moaned deeply and wrapped her fingers up in his honey brown locks. “Jensen.” She gasped as he sucked her breast into his mouth and drew on it deeply, causing her cunt to clench and quiver.

He pulled her forward, to the edge of the counter, and then dropped to his knees. He wrapped his arms around her thighs and pulled her wide open so he could reach his tongue up to tease her hole. Y/N plunged her hand back into his hair and tugged on it before pushing his head harder against her dripping pussy. 

“God, fuck Jensen, yes.” She rambled.

He hummed against her folds before nibbling at her clit, making her knees try to lock around his ears. But his superior strength kept her legs spread wide so he could feast. He breathed hot against her, alternating between flicking his tongue against her clit and sucking it between his plump, luscious lips.

It wasn’t long before Y/N was bucking against his mouth as she rode out her climax while he lapped up her juices. She panted desperately and tugged on his hair again, begging him. “Please Jensen, fuck me. I need to feel you, need you inside me so badly.”

Jensen stood and scooped her off the counter, walking back into their bedroom. He laid her out on the bed, making sure her head was propped up on the pillows, before stepping away from her. He moved far enough back so that she had an unencumbered view as he slowly lowered his pajama bottoms. 

His cock sprang free to lean, hard and dripping, against his stomach. Y/N felt her mouth go dry and a keening moan erupted from her throat as he gripped himself in his fist, pumping slowly.

He walked towards her one slow step at a time. His voice was a growl. “Is this what you want?” She nodded, biting her lips and trying desperately not to come again, just from watching him.

“Tell me you want it.” Jensen ordered.

Y/N nodded again, almost frantically. “Yes, fuck. I want it. I want your cock.” She reached for him as he stood barely a foot from the side of the bed. “I need it. I need you.”

Jensen climbed onto the bed on his knees, grabbing up her wrists with both hands and pressing them into the pillows on either side of her head. He stared into her eyes as he spoke. 

“And I need you too, Y/N. I need you desperately, obsessively. I need you every waking minute. I need your love and your kindness. I need your good soul and beautiful heart.” He entered her in one hard thrust and she cried out. “But I also need your soft body. I need to sink into you. I need to feel you move against me. I need to hear you say my name like a moan. I need to feel you clench tight around me.”

He began moving slowly, sliding in and out of her with silky, unhurried movements. “I will always love you. I will always want you. And I will never need you any less than completely.” He cupped her cheek with one hand. “Do you understand me?”

Y/N nodded and gasped as his cock slid over her sweet spot. “Yes. Yes.” Was all she could manage to chant. But it satisfied him and he began to move faster.

He switched positions slightly so he could lift her hips off the bed, hooking her knees over his forearms. He began to slam into her, hitting that same sweet spot over and over until Y/N was screaming out her overwhelming pleasure and falling into euphoria. 

Jensen continued to jackhammer into her, grunting harshly with each thrust. He pounded into her pussy over and over until she was once again on the precipice of bliss. As his hips faltered, he dropped one of her legs so he could slide his thumb between their bodies and swirl it against her clit. She screamed again and fell for the third time, clenching around him and pulling his climax out of him, along with her own.

The familiar aftermath of damp skin pressed together and lungs starved for oxygen, brought Y/N a kind of all encompassing satisfaction and peace. When Jensen finally rolled off of her, she rolled with him, so she could slot herself up against his side, wrapping one arm over his ribs and laying her head on his chest as he ran his fingers teasingly up and down her back making her shiver.

They were both quiet for a few minutes before Jensen broke the silence. “Y/N tell me the truth.” He said, and Y/N could hear the protectiveness and anger on her behalf permeating his tone. “Did someone say something or do something to hurt you today?”

But she just shook her head. “No, it wasn’t any different than a million other interviews really.” She shrugged. “Something about it just hit me, I guess.”

She raised up on her elbow, chin in her hand, to look at him. “But if you tell me you love me as truly, madly, deeply as you did the day we met, then I believe you.”

Jensen frowned slightly. “Are you comparing me to a Savage Garden song?”

Y/N giggled, but ignored the question, kissing him softly before laying her head back down on his chest. She smiled against his skin as she spoke. 

“I believe you, but tell me again.”

Jensen’s breath ruffled her hair as he sighed contentedly. “I will love you, and desperately want to devour you, every single day of my life - for the rest of my life.”

Y/N nodded, and her voice was full of confidence as she snuggled closer. “Thought so.”

Jensen RPF and Any/All Characters: @lyarr24 @lacilou @deans-spinster-witch @globetrotter28 @suckitands33 @akshi8278 @evznackles @jackles010378 @impala67rollingthroughtown @krazykelly @candy-coated-misery0731 @envyaurora95 @spnwoman @deans-baby-momma

Any/All Fics Regardless of Character or Fandom: @kazsrm67 @slut-for-evans-stan @sexyvixen7 @nancymcl @waywardcheshire

Everything Incl. Fan Edits: @k-slla @leigh70 @eevvvaa @kickingitwithkirk @foxyjwls007 @notinthislife50 @roseblue373 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @avanatural @mrsjenniferwinchester @all-alone-he-turns-to-stone

[themareverine]

BED OF BONES

─ Logan Howlett x fem!OC

synopsis: When he promised her something different, she didn't think it would be this. Alaskan stars, scraping to survive, trying to feel. Anonymous faces in a forgotten frontier. It isn't much, it's barely living—but really all she needs to live is him.

warnings: comic adaptation, pre-established relationship from my Mare & the Wolverine series, angst, survival aesthetics, mentions of hunting, dead carcasses, extreme minimalism, blood, mentions of Logan's time at Weapon X, implied sexual content.

a/n: after listening to the podcast drama Wolverine: The Long Night and its sequel, Wolverine: The Lost Trail, i'm kinda obsessed with Richard Armitage's take on Logan. tortured, angsty, deeply raw and emotional—sign me right up for that. there's a scene that describes Logan's living conditions when he makes his home in nowhere Alaska, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it.

MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION

Conditions beyond the four walls of the high-woods cabin would be not far removed from that of frozen hell, if laid out parallel to the everyday eye. Void of sunlight at dinner hours. Harsh wind howls, clawing the boards of the condemning thing so bravely titled architecture—even at this altitude, as the crow flies from the water.

Mountain landscape is wild, unforgiving—snow manages to hurricane in sideways, somehow, snaking between trees and low brush, rock. Drives a hard blanket of heavy wet to the once-lush forest floor. Thick trees Goliath tall in an unmovable, chaotic troop. Lowlight, and you would never see the slatwood slapped together with tar and faith—evergreen fronds sentinel away the world, strong walls taunting the world beyond the reach of woods. 

When the sun breaks the horizon over the water, the world will be still. Canvas of untouched snow, pure like a virgin, will breathe life into the forest again. Creatures will cull from their caves and beds, will roam freely the fresh from God—breathe air normally unthinkable to mortals. Mountain stone, miles away in the untouched Yukon, will reach jagged fingers to heaven, as if they themselves in their might will rip God from heaven. Kissed with snow even at a distance, they impose harsh laws of the wilderness—survive or die. Life, or death. 

There are no lines to walk in Alaska when it comes to the games of living and dying. They are the masters, humanity but an unwise player at the table of chance. Fools before the slaughter. Life, here, is fickle—left up to the false gods of chance and fate. Day and night. Sun and moon, life falls on the blade of time. 

Time, and most often attributed by headlines and big-city newscasters, luck—either kind. Four-leaf, or devil-may-cry. The fortunate see the colors of sunrise, breathtaking and pure, over crystalline waters whitecapped with rage and promise. The not-so, well—

—they become quickly acquainted with that throne the mountains try to steal from God. 

For those who try to die and don’t—for them—it’s another thing altogether. An Eden, the holy-of-holies away from the battle of living, the war of the being seen. Paradise lost to the knowing. A forgotten frontier, cursed and barren in the hands of men ill understood of the way the wolf walks, the hunger of prey scratching at ice in spring. Fruitless and forbidden, existing on maps as No Man’s Lands and undesired terrains— spinning in the hearts of those who cry someday and never again. 

A simple life with little reward beyond morning, Alaskan wilderness reeks of chore and survival. Mundane and petulant. Concepts now lost in the age of machines, swipe right, thumb left; technology’s far-reaching lust of instantaneous gratification. Such things scream louder than the cry of fresh air and escapism, of ample and simple. 

Man is blind to the fruit of the earth, lost to concrete. And concrete always wins—the machines. They always win. 

“Where are you, Logan?” 

Pacing the threadbare boards of the cabin—minding the one every fifth step, it wobbles with the threat of breaking—has yielded no different answer to the question Mare Howlett has asked four other times, checking the sky outside as if the night will change as the hours do. Fire snaps from the hearth on the west wall, blasting heat throughout the small, single-room space like an oven. Sweat has started accumulating between her shoulders, the river of her spine. 

It’s after one. In the morning, at least. It’s hard to judge the night by the black veil of the sky, but, she’s learned over the years. Watching the moon, forces of habit—the amount of hours spent not sleeping in the darkest midnight would make God laugh. It had become life, just another part of heartbeats and pulses, blood and living—sleep was, most of the time, a luxury. Expensive, if you knew it. Dangerous. 

Palms slick with worked-up perspiration, two more paces has her in a staring contest with the door. Her eyes flick to the slide-board lock—-it’s knocked back, any wind could force it open. And that makes the corner of her mouth lift with amusement, the thought of the wind—he would be furious. 

Time and countless time again in the six months they’d been squatting here on Alaskan rock he’d checked this very lock. Like it was his religion, and in a way, it is. Staying alive is a form of religion to those not guaranteed daylight again, Logan had always told her that. Full time job stayin’ this side of the dirt, honey—just to see the next sunrise. I’ll get you to the morning, sweetheart, don’t you worry.

If staying alive was religion, they wrote books. 

Logan may as well be a priest. 

Back teeth gnaw at the mesh of her cheek, canines pinching the chap of her bottom lip nearly to the point of blood—any second she expected the sting of copper on her tongue. Rocking forward on her toes only to fall back to her heels, her arms cross at her chest, leathers of her jacket groaning with the effort. Eyeballing the door may as well be willing it to vomit what she knows it doesn’t have, so she turns on the ball of her foot—thick wool from her sock catches on the callous of her heel. Doesn’t care, hasn’t ever cared. These were the same pair of socks she’d been wearing since Christmas—last year. 

Low hunger gnaws at her guts like a wolf biting at the marrow of bones, sucking every last drop only to burn again tomorrow. It’s only been a four hours since he’d taken north, but it may as well be eternity—even God had created oceans in less time, had knit man together out of dust. Perfect, savory meat boils in delicious broth in the thick pot at the hearth, simmering like it has for hours even before the sun had fallen. Bread, laborious bread warms on another of the hearth’s rocks, golden. Glistening. Practically the food of gods. 

And butter—she hadn’t had butter in weeks. It taunts her from its little throne, a pewter dish sat not a stone’s throw from that very hearth, far away to keep soft but not destroy. Logan had surprised her with convenience groceries two weeks ago, coming up the mountain from the water—even the growl of the truck had felt heavier. She’d heard the thunk of something in the bed as he’d pulled up to the door, heightened senses triggered by the crunch of snow, the little squeak of extra weight on the shocks. 

“Figured some food we didn’t have’ta kill would make your day,” not that fresh game had been an issue—Logan was an excellent hunter. It came with the territory—with the Wolverine. Venison, rabbit, goose—they hadn’t starved, by any stretch of imagination. Field dressing just didn’t top her list of favorite activities, even as a wife. 

He’d almost smiled when she’d popped up from her place before the fire, dropping the rucksack off his shoulder to his feet. Presenting it as if it would cleanse him of sin, “Would you believe they had butter. And honey,” her smile couldn’t have been any brighter, giggling like a child at the feet of Christmas as she’d curled her arms around his thick neck, chilled with the bite of night and dusted with snow and cigar smoke. His nose had brushed into her hair, hand at the back of her neck as he’d pulled her close. “‘Sweet’n you up a little, hm?” She hadn’t expected him to have the jar on his person, but he’d plucked it from his pocket with gusto, like a proud child. 

“Excuse me?” her nose had crinkled, shoving his hand down in favor of running her nails along the line of his jaw, through his beard. Mutton chops. Features that belonged to her. “You saying I ain’t sweet?”

How he’d laughed—“Darlin’. If you were any sweeter, my teeth would rot outta my head.”

Nevermind such a thing being the opposite of possible—-they’d found creative ways to use the precious commodities of honey and sugar. She’d never seen him be so greedy. Quick work fo the goodies aside, the rest of the haul she’d squirreled away in the corner, among their provisions—provisions not so playworthy. Due for water, which is what had sent Logan north, away from her. Two kliks to the stream, the hunting grounds. He’d check her traps and trails—pastimes for him, duties for her when he was away earning greenbacks on the water. 

Even here in the woods, away from the living, money was a god. 

It never took him this long—an hour, maybe. Logan was nothing if efficient, especially on nights like tonight when the weather challenged even the unkillable. Not that he actively worried, being unkillable, but for her sake he made tracks and kept them quickly. He was on the water so often, every second he was here she kept him here—memories of simpler days chiseled her into a desperate little thing. Reduced to the ashes of wanting him close, of fighting to keep his body. How had she ever not wanted him around, survived distance? Opposite schedules? Grueling nine-to-fives, endless missions that always seemed over before they began. 

Cursing memories hadn’t ever been something she’d imagined herself doing, but, she did. Multiple times an hour. If being mutant—if being unkillable—meant holding onto every memory, in vivid and living color, God must’ve really stretched His hand the day He had given Logan breath. Some days never seemed to end, trapped in this prison of  cabin in the hell of the woods, alone with her own thoughts. Memories of the living, of the dead. They cut deep like adamantium, unforgiving thieves.

A bed of bones, the place of nightmares coming to life like Lazarus from the grave. 

Walking on the tips of her toes, hands fiddling with the buttons of her flannel, the snap of the fire almost oversings the unmistakable crunch of snow beyond the walls. Heart kicking heavy behind her ribs, pain flares in her chest—and for a moment, she thinks maybe it has touched bone, but quickly disregards it when blood hurricanes through her skull. Pupils blown wide with thrill, heat floodgates down her spine, sending lightning energy through every nerve in her body—-she all but leaps like a cat. 

Flesh between her knuckles split, mutation coming full force without even thought. Habit, like breathing—-takes little thought. Hardly removed from sucking air into her lungs, it’s muscle memory. A slight trigger of muscle, a flick of the wrist—she’d gutted men with less effort. And it doesn’t even take suspicion, being afraid, not like before. Once, maybe—but now it’s daily motion. The nine-to-five. 

The little thrill of clotting blood has her glancing at her weapons, her bones. It marveled her still, how beautiful and precise they were. How, somehow, they looked like her—how bones could look as if they belonged somewhere. Considering them for all of a few second has the porch step moaning like a lover, creaking in the way it had since they’d paid the deposit. Floorboards vibrate with weight, tremble with the weight of presence, and before she can even think to maybe, by chance, consider it isn’t Logan—-it kicks open, bounces on the hinge as it hits the wall, light from the fire bleeding out into the open maw of midnight beyond their haven. 

Fractions of seconds and he’s still lingering in shadows, Logan stepping through the front door. Thick snow clings to his boots like a bad habit, which he knocks off on the frame. Cheeks blazed with color, if he were anyone but the Wolverine he’d surely be aching with dangerous cold, but, he isn’t—barely kissed by the weather. Merely flirting with the idea of conditions. Facial hair frosted and eyelashes blinking away remnants of snow, he looks more Hallmark than he does Survivor—Logan has always thrived, though. Any celebrity pales in comparison, even in the blood and guts of survival. 

He doesn’t miss the weapons drawn at either of her sides, elephants in rooms of their own power. Brow triggered up in surprise, his eyes flick up to hers. Not upset, but the cant of his head suggests amusement. 

“Jumpin’ at shadows, pretty?” 

Tension that’s been hanging like a lead ball in the center of her breastbone releases, and like barbed wire it releases down her spine, cutting away stress hormones and adrenaline. Loosens the knot between her shoulder blades that kicks like a mule. Snikt. And as soon as the claws come, they leave. 

“Shadows are better company than suspicion.” Disregarding his jibe that teases the edges of her resolve, she approaches, holding open the door with a foot. He finishes knocking off his boots at the door, “It’s been hours, Logan. I was beginning to worry.” 

He chuckles, and it’s like honey whiskey—low and warm, setting her blood on fire like it’s gasoline. “Always worryin’,” his lips press into a thin line, “when you stop, hell’ll be as frozen as my ass.” It’s untruthful, but, the point lands—his brows lift at the muscle in her jaw ticking with the strain to not smile. Soft eyes flick over her features carefully, wrinkles drawn around their corners with a lift of a barely-there, quicksilver smirk.

After a few seconds beneath his gaze, she shifts—ignores the something, whether it’s heat suddenly kicking around the cradle of her pelvis, or the pang of hunger in her gut, she isn’t sure which. He fights a smile, she can see the muscle in his jaw tick. Watches the swell of his tongue tracing his front teeth as he watches, studies—concentrates. When his eyes lift from their stalking of her abdomen, he takes a more serious tone. 

“Hungry?” 

He’s able to hear her gut sounds, she knows that. Being an endless abyss is, well—there’s nothing like it. A lifetime before her mutation, she’d eaten like a bird. Now food is a culture, a thing which to obtain, treasure. Worship. Either of them were always hungry—insatiable creatures always prowling, snatching when well within reach. Bears before hibernation and after, equal amounts of desperate and always empty. Fact which prompts the growing supply of kill buried in the shed beyond the cabin, hanging carcasses and squirreled-away skins. Normal, since her mutation—hunger came with rapid-fire metabolism, with regeneration. Logan had been consuming food like a cretin since before she knew him, certainly. 

She lies. “Not really.” Hell fed on such lies. And Logan knew it.  

Audacity to call her on her bull had always been one of Logan’s strongest suits in their relationship, even before the vows binding them together in the sight of God and Canadian law—he doesn’t hesitate to call her BS. “Well, that would be somethin’, wouldn’t it?” His lips dust hers in a chaste kiss before he’s leaning back outside the door, reaching for full water canisters. Already dusted with frost and sloshing with the slush of chilled, partially-frozen snow. 

Passing one to her, “Too bad I don’t believe you.” The back of his knuckles are warm, somehow, skimming along the line of her jaw. Logan runs hot, always had—part of that regeneration that won’t say die. 

The question hadn’t been so much a genuine investigation as Logan’s roundabout way of admitting he was on the hunt for something for his gut, a practice only time would perfect to know. Years together had shown his hand—she knew him pretty well. Wolverines, after all, were sheltered. Hideaway creatures by habit, preferably unseen and unknown outside of their own order. At their genesis, she hadn’t been—had been privileged, really, with what he’d let her see. 

Now, she’s one of him. Two of a kind, two of a breed—two where there, once this side of heaven, had only been one. God had willed it. Genetics executed.  Two Wolverines, running in the same lines, stalking the same moon—she didn’t, wouldn’t, wear the name, but it was the same class, different act. 

Biting the inside of her cheek, she gestures with her head towards the fire, their feast awaiting. It’s one in the witching hour, but who couldn’t eat?  “Stew and bread, on the hearth—knew you’d be hungry.” And she does, like so many other things. 

Lips tipping up, he chortles. Pleased. The housewife in her keens. “Y’know me pretty well.” 

Keening into his lingering touch, his appreciative hum is deep. Echoes off the adamantium in his chest, a low thing that rises her womb from the frozen wastelands—he’s tired. His deep eyes hold hers, unwilling to let go—dangling on some precipice, the edge of glory. And she can see the shadows fall in like soldiers, demons. Frothing, uncaged phantoms that lap up the blood of his living, his being. Wolves that pick him from between their teeth—had, for centuries. For nearly two centuries, he’s been mummified in unknowns, in could’ves, should’ves, maybes. Such memories, such living, came calling when the sun was low and sleep was little more than a dream.  

Taking the canister from her, Logan rests the pair in the corner, beside the standing bath bucket and towel. Limp accommodations compared to a lifetime ago, in mansions and gardens. What she wouldn’t give for a deep, lava-hot bath in a swirling tub of bubbles and bought water, champagne and silk. Faraway dreams, certainly, but beautiful ones—-sugarplum, delicious. Kicking the door closed, she drops the sliding lock, moving to the fire to roust the stew. 

Checking the bread with the back of her fingers, which has swollen to a delectable, Betty Crocker-gold, she lifts the lid of the thick pot with the hem of her flannel. Thick broth bubbles with heat, the swirl of meat and carrots all but mouthwatering. Eyes moving to consider him, he stretches his hands while glancing out the window. Thumbs rubbing hard, deep circles into the heel of his palm— shrugging out of his heavy jacket, brushes off the remnants of hell outside. 

Laying it out before the fire, he sheds his best and outer flannel. Squats to begin unlacing his boots in nothing but jeans and that faded, almost-stand-in-the-corner t-shirt they’d nabbed from a boutique in NOLA, dodging agents and suspicious eyes. It needs washing, she should take it to that north stream and beat the living hell of it on the rocks, but—another day. Better time. She’s too enthralled with the idea of his boots being sat in the corner, empty, to worry about laundry. 

It lifts her brow. Logan doesn’t ever not wear those God-heavy things, even inside. It’s one of the habits of an all-soldier mindset, that little piece of go, go, go that never leaves the living who have crawled beyond blood, through bone. Actually, in the last year—since X, since…since the labs—she’s maybe seen Logan’s actual feet a handful of times. Even in bed, when he so gorgeously steals her breath. Makes a prayer out of her name. Reminds her to whom she belongs—they’re there. Tangled up in bed, hard against the soft heat of her feet, their tomorrows. Always on, symbols of a living weapon. 

She should be more careful, Learn by example, pretty. But freedom is rapturous, too good to spoil with adrenaline and survivor’s guilt, cold fear. Tastes sweet—forbidden fruit.  

Kicking them off with a groan, Logan sheds thick woolen socks. Lays them before the fire beside his outer layers, like sacrifices. And they are, in a way—and, nose even scenting the savory pull of stew and warm, carby bread on the hearth, the entire room fills with his scent. Cigars and snow. Cold and pine. His freshwater kiss still lingers on her lips—the scent of the stream clings to his clothes, even before crackling flame. She can feel him move even in the depth of her bones, which practically sing with every breath he draws—how he stands in front of the hearth, fire kicking shadows over his features. 

Everything about him is like living color. Heightened senses, hunger. King returned to his castle, he takes up the air like it’s a throne. Turning from the fire, Logan drops one of the cut oak stumps before the fire. Makeshift furniture for a keeps-out-the-wind home, she swears to Christ she can hear the shift of adamantium in his skeleton as he lowers onto it. Watching her intently, he nods to the pot. Elbows on his thighs as thick, calloused fingers scratch through his facial hair. 

His back arches in a catlike stretch, a small smile trying to play on his lips. “Smells like jackrabbit,” that roundabout way, smells good, “what else you got in there, pretty?” Pretty. Even now, years later—it raises pink to the apples of her cheeks. Fondly, Mare remembers the first time Logan had ever graced her with such title, title he’d been using for years—even in the blood and sinew, even in the waist-high sludge of the stay-alive. 

Pretty, not aesthetically— in soul. 

Turning, she retrieves the bread from the stone hearth and tosses it his direction. He catches it like a pro. “Carrots, the last of the potatoes. A hit of whiskey,” his brow raises suspiciously as she smiles, “I’ll have to get some staples from the store next time you leave me with the truck.”

She stands to retrieve the hollowed gourd bowls, balancing them in her palm before stooping to dip them into the stew. Handing one of them over, she receives the half loaf he’s split for her. 

Sinking to the floor, cross-legged, it takes seconds before the bread is gone. Warm, in the pit of her gut. Logan is practically licking his bowl, “I was thinking we could get some rope—I’d like a washline,” she shrugs a shoulder, nodding towards the door, “and we could use some lumber. Couple of the boards are rottin’ out—I’d rather not heat dirt.” 

He knows. Nods, “I’ll make it happen,” and it won’t be difficult—Logan makes good money working the rigs. Cash, no questions—no fed papers or taxes, identification is laughable. Half the men on the crew are probably anything but Jim, Jack, and Johns, but she prefers it that way—even if Logan refuses to use another name. 

Money is good—and money spends anywhere, just as easy as anything. And it’s low man’s work, but Logan doesn’t care, simple work means clean breaks when the time comes. Less complicated, less messy. One thing they could never get enough of is cash, and if the work is honest—well. Can’t ask for more’thn that, darlin’. 

Get around Benjamins, Logan called it. Cash moved, and one could go anywhere for the right price. 

Precisely why she’d been trying to drive through his thick skull her want of a job. Not anything long-hour or even long-term—this makeshift home was her first responsibility, her priority. But, if she could work in town, off the mountain and with people, she could keep an eye on the happenings. Scout out the bodies, the gossip—something Logan couldn’t do for days out on the water. She’d already been approached for some work in the bar, and contacts at the local watering hole weren’t a bad thing. Network was everything, the grapevine was even faster than Google. 

And God never said discounted booze was an unwelcome thing, either. But Logan had been adamant she stay on the mountain—selfish reasons. Out of sight, out of mind. Beyond the press of curiosity.

He, after all, worked the water in a town primarily built on the foundations of fishing. One woman in Burns for every five men, and it didn’t take Hank McCoy genius to do the math. Two weeks—ten days for her to beg the truck off of him, and he’d done so with such reluctance that she’d had to practically fuck logic between his ears. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t care, got a high off controlling her. Logan hadn’t ever superimposed harsh rules in their union, just expectations and thrills. Satisfactions and proud-ofs, she knew the things that stoked his trust and kept him coming home. Logan was a simple man, and he didn’t need much from her—he wanted, but never towed the line. Wanted her to thrive, to love, and that was a fine line to draw in the sands of marital relations—especially from a man who knew little to nothing about lasting love. 

In simpler days, he asked very few questions. He’d cut out his heart and hand it over, if the situation were right—hedged bets on her, even in the early days of her mutation rearing its ugly mug. Cared very little about outside opinion, there wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle. Watertight confidence and grave-tight faith —in her. In other people, well, that was another shitshow. 

Logan didn’t trust anyone even farther than he would be able to toss them off his claws.  

After a few heartbeats of quiet, she stands. Sets aside good-enough dishes, blows out a long breath between her lips. Rising on her toes, she about-faces on the ball of her heel to face him. “Logan—” stops short when she notices his attention is welded to her in an unshakable way that implies the study of fine artwork. Some soft, dreamlike look on his face—wrinkles around his eyes deepen, smile growing a little more lopsided, a little more white. Her brow furrows, head canting to the side. Never unappreciative of his attention, she managed a little chuckle, “—pfft. Staring much?” She fingers one of her curls behind her ear, which has fallen from her half-loosened bandana. 

Dismissing her with a little shift of his shoulder, he lifts a hand and crooks a finger for her to come. “You gonna blame me?” Can’t argue with logic that knocks the wind from her bones, sends her knees together like some kind of schoolchild. “C’mere, darlin’.” Leaning forward, his elbows find his thighs —she can’t do otherwise. 

Foot over foot, she crosses to him in a handful of steps. She lifts fingers to card through his hair, his big hands anchored on her hips. Strong thumbs rub gentle circles as he shuffles her a little closer, leans to nuzzle his nose beneath her breast, against her ribs. Breath heavy against the apex of her heart, her nails gently rake through his mutton chops, one of his hands moving behind her thigh, nudging her to lower to his lap. 

“You gonna let me ask you something?” 

He hums, nodding once. “Depends what you wanna ask, honey.” Ask me later. Much, much later. It’s there unspoken, in the depth of his eyes and the half-cocked smile that deepens the wrinkles at his eyes. 

Familiar territory—he’s due on the water in two days. Never knows how long he’ll be gone, it’s always a heartbeat too long. Hours may as well be days, days small eternities in the eyes of heaven. Being alone is a burden, high in the air, among the silent evergreens and giants of mountain shadows. Logan left her too often for a man who promised never to—promised life. And this may not be much of a life, but it was theirs together—and all her living really needed was Logan, anyway. 

Dropping her full weight to his lap, the boards beneath his oak stump creak a little, surprised. Resting her hands on his shoulders, her thumbs trace his defined collarbones lazily, the muscle of his arms and familiar veins alive with his moving, breathing blood. His palm presses hard around the back of her neck, thumb tracing over her steady pulse—other fingers dip into the soft curve of her hip. A flick of his wrist tips her pelvis forward, against his. Hardly feeling her weight, her hand presses against his abs, feeling their definition. Engaged, riveting. Almost trembling. 

And suddenly the room is barely contained, a dreamstate of everything and nothing at once. Logan’s fingers, working buttons on her shirt steadily, like a pro. Flesh seeking flesh, fingertips brushing against breastbone. Deep breaths, the steady pulse in his chest is strong, alive—possessive, hers. He eats every one of the shallow breaths she manages between biting the corner of her lip and the tip of her tongue. 

Keening, drunk on the dark of his eyes, how the fire moves in and out of them like dreams—the methodical way he fingers aside the front of the flannel hanging open on her frame. And it’s so intimate, at its finest— heart-to-heart, bone to bone. Logan’s bed had never been anything but this, close. Open, unified. Everything he’d ever wanted, all he’d ever asked—-share, honey. Share me. And she does, willingly, gives what he asks, even unto the half of her soul. 

His head tips back just enough to manage a half-cocked smirk at her as her fingers curl into his shirt, skips through the hair on his arms. He pulls the bandanna from her hair, lets it fall from his fingers. Chuckles at the way her cheeks flame, hair wilding away every direction as his fingers pick, play with it like it’s a plaything, amusing. Her eyes fall to the floor, but two strong fingers on her chin pull her attention back. 

Saying nothing but managing a low hum, he kisses her. Deeply. Almost hurts how good he feels—how she can taste the water of the stream somehow, still, in his mouth. Push and pull, give and take—Logan pulls a whimper from somewhere along her spine, guides her arms around his neck. She obliges, folding against his chest—-chest to chest, she can feel familiar muscles in her musculature itching. Burning between her knuckles, begging. Starving, craving. 

Kissing her hard and rough, heat curls low in places only God had designed. “Hold tight,” before his hands slip under her ass, lifting her as if she’s nothing with little more than a huff and a flex of muscle and heat—and she isn’t nothing, but that’s aside for a mutation that enhances everything all at once. 

Kicking the stump aside, it rolls noisily until it thunks against the wall, her legs firming up around his waist. She smiles, touching her forehead against his. Nose nuzzling the end of his, his heavy feet carry her the God-knows how many steps to the corner—-their corner. And before she can even haul in another full breath, her toes kiss the thick spread of hide as he lowers her to her feet—deer, bison. Elk, bear, wolf. Prizes from six months of survival, success. Need for blankets doesn’t exist when you have the whole of the woods to suffice, and Logan had learned how to cure hides years ago.

The warmest, safest bed she’d ever slept in. 

Big hands practically shove the flannel off her frame, toss it somewhere in the abyss of existence beyond the positively filthy way he suckles a thick mark to the flesh of her neck. Greedy, like a man just fat on hot stew and bread—his fingers curl over the waistband of her jeans, old Wranglers she’d been making due for over a year. A tighter fit than before—she’s gained weight. Fresh diet and good air, peace made her fat. And while Logan may be the chiseled sun to her Icharus, she’d never been lean, never been built right—he hadn’t ever cared. Still didn’t, his low moan in her evidence enough. 

Taking his face between her hands, she softly presses her lips against his. Nips at his bottom lip, takes her time—slowly manages to her knees. His fingers in her hair tips her head back enough to look her in the eye, an amused glint lighting up the flick of a smile on his mouth. Closing her eyes, her fingers curl into the denim clinging to his thighs, breathing in a heady whiff of him as her nose gently bumps the front of his belt buckle. 

Forehead brushing the hair on his abdomen, she feels him shed the t-shirt she still needs to take to the stream. It takes herculean will to not lose track of her surroundings—the makeshift cabin in the deep woods, the fire that seems to roar a stone’s throw from their nest. Food that’s low and warm in her belly, the small shed with hanging meat for tomorrow’s another-stew. Washing that needs done, wood that needs split—there’s a dozen things that need doing, but that’s the way of this life. This life he’d given her, fought for her. Logan had waged war against the coming future for this—this moment, this iteration of them far beyond the reach of Weapon X, the faraway memory of the X-Men. Of the secret they bury, deep in bones and marrow. In the depths of the living. 

It wasn’t what they’d originally thought, not even close. A lifetime away, but it’s enough. He’s enough. God, and peace—-Alaska. Logan. 

Taking her chin between his fingers, Logan crouches. Kisses her, sweetly—like in the early days, when this, this life would’ve been laughable. The stuff of nightmares. He reaches for the thick splay of bison hide, her favorite—draws it over her shoulders. His eyes land heavy in hers, searching, scouting and tracing the lines of the moment. She’s able to read it in his eyes—-he doesn’t want to leave. Will never want to leave, but the Wolverine has lived a life of doesn’t-wants. If it means her happiness, he’d stay. A thousand times and again, he’d forsake the world and weld himself here. 

But going means safety. And that, she knows, he’d fight any long war for. 

His brow pulls into a deep line, uncertain of the look on her face. “You ok, darlin’?” He tips her chin up a little, eyes shifting before his palm moves to cradle her cheek. The pad of his thumb traces the plush of her lips, until her hand at the buckle of his belt gently pushes him to the mess of deer and elk and bones they call theirs.  

Drawing the bison skin tighter around her shoulders, she swings a leg over the cradle of his hips. Looks down on his quirked brow with a quicksilver smile of a thing she can’t quite put a finger on. And, with a brush of her fingers through the curl of hair on his chest, she shrugs a shoulder. 

“I’m fine now,” lowering to kiss the corner of his mouth, she hums as his finger traces up her spine, down again. Callouses rough against her warm skin. “You’re here, and I’m just fine.” 

And that, really, is the truth of God. 

tags: @fandomxo00 @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88

Based on the podcast─

[abuzd]

listening to insane true crime podcasts is more often comforting bc Yes SEE?? people who do monstrous things to children exist!! but then they go on to say things like “i would never believe a guy like this without all this hard evidence!” oh. “now what he did to this child, we can’t even talk about, it’s just too much but you can imagine!” well… that’s the thing, isn’t it? decent people can’t fathom that another human being could do unthinkable things. and that’s why these perpetrators get way with it. they make it unbelievable on purpose. every time, every single time i tell someone the dusting on top of the iceberg of my trauma they’re like “oh wow yeah don’t tell me more, i can imagine.” and when they eventually find out anything more they always say “i thought i was prepared but, i didn’t imagine that. i don’t think i can hear anymore if that’s okay.” and of course it’s okay. and of course it’s not what you imagined. how could you? who would want to? who would want to picture what i’ve been through? no one wants to see that. or know it exists in the world. not just from one encounter but many. that many monsters? no, can’t be. right? definitely not.

people don’t believe me not because they don’t care about me, but because they can’t wrap their heads around the reality of what’s out there. that it happens. that it happened. that it happened to someone they know. to someone they love. how can i ask them to believe me? i can’t. so why would i tell them? to make ME feel better? at their absolute expense and traumatising stress to hear and process? no. oh fuckin well that this is the hand of cards i was dealt. i’ll have to take it to the grave and it is what it is.

[kineticpenguin]

I think that liberals are Like That because they pride themselves on being Reasonable, The Adults in the Room. To admit that bringing Republicans into the fold is unacceptable would be Divisive, and we are So Polarized and So Divided and whatnot, and that just won't do. I mean, moderate Republicans bitch about polarization and The Divide* too, so it must be the reasonable, centrist thing to do to bring everyone to the table!

*Seriously, we have a local Fox affiliate reporter whose recurring show/podcast is literally called The Divide which bills itself as an "in-depth look at the most divisive issue of the week, with a focus on local voices and the search for common ground." It's mostly been "wow liberals are crazy." Wait, she's got a YouTube called [un]Divided now? How's that going-

Yeeeeeeeeeah. The Divide is the problem.

But the thing is, Republicans solved this problem for themselves a long time ago. To be a Republican and say "Yeah I'll hire a Democrat" 20 years ago would be to mark oneself as a RINO, Republican-In-Name-Only. To do it ten years ago would be to declare your status as a Cuckservative. To do it today would be utterly unthinkable.

That's the thing about this terrible, terrible Divide. It's always up to everyone to the left of Republicans to bridge it, to heal it, to close it up. It's never, ever a problem for Republicans to solve. Both Democrats and Republicans apparently agree on this.

It's beyond enough is enough. This fucking spinelessness needed to stop 40 years ago.

[discord-lurking]

Dungeons and Daddies Wiki Drama: A Greek Tragedy Told through the Medium of Forum Posts (Part 2)

Act 2: The Wax Melts, The Sea Beckons

In which the wings begin to fall apart.

Despite the drama unfolding over the November admin discussion post, wiki life continued. User posts showed cracks in the foundation. Something was rotten in the state of Wikia.

November 6th, 2023:

November 9th, 2023:

It seems that the administrators were deleting pages, instituting rigid new rules about how long a post could stay unfinished (and, apparently, what qualified as unfinished).

Enter anonymous wiki user Chekovsnakess.

November 23rd, 2023:

Chekovsnakess pointed out the issue inherent in the deletions- moderators wanted more people to engage with the wiki, but what's the point, when the page will get nuked?

Chekovsnakess: "The wiki feels more of the admins' wiki rather than a community wiki."

The admins didn't take well to this critique.

TwoRatner: "In no way have we, the admins, been hostile."

TheOneTrueGod41: "It can't be unprofessional if we absolutely mean it."

PawnSum: "Uh, you can't type fast or something? I can, so that shouldn't be a problem."

Also, iconic quote from PawnSum: "I literally broke my ankle and couldn't get home, so I understand what pain is."

PawnSum makes a good point- only they, a wiki editor experiencing mild criticism and a broken ankle, could ever understand true pain.

Opening a paragraph with "you also don't seem to understand that your opinions aren't facts" and closing it with "Please stop leaving and just stay!"

A masterpiece of salesmanship. Glenn and his high Persuasion rolls could only hope to reach the levels of charisma displayed by wiki administrator TwoRatner.

Other iconic TwoRatner quotes:

"Admins are like princiPALS after all, or a nice janitor."

"You want me to quick my job? I can't! I already paid for the funeral and now I need more money to feed my family."

After this, Chekovsnakess remained silent, perhaps choosing to disengage from fandom wiki drama and move on with their life. An unthinkable choice, to be sure.

More users turned to the forums to express frustrations with the wiki, falling on the administrator's deaf ears.

November 29th, 2023:

December 3rd, 2023:

With this, we segue to the moderator response to wiki user critiques: splitting the wiki into two websites with separate mod teams, one for season 1 of the podcast and one for season 2.

In haunting Anakin-like fashion, TwoRatner says "I promise to bring about a satisfying future to this wiki." A promise they would be unable to live up to.

December 2nd, 2023:

TwoRatner's attempt to bring peace to their new empire wiki would first involve mysterious user Largeo and a separation on par with the Great Church Schism of 1054. Equally important decisions with equally worldwide consequences.

TwoRatner made the generous decision to put this up for a community vote, with only one dissenter: Zilstreet.

Zilstreet pointed out the obvious criticism: wouldn't splitting a wiki for a single show between two different places make it confusing for casual browsers? What about characters that appear in both seasons? Was there a specific game plan?

This was met with a measured, thoughtful response from the administrators.

"When life gives you grapefruit, you make grapefruit pellets to shoot at your friends, because plastic pellets hurt." -HungerBunger, December 5th 2023

How dare Zilstreet not take into account HungerBunger's trauma and exercises in extending trust???

"It's very obvious. We clearly thought about this."

Indeed.

More users with suspiciously similar speech patterns chime in to support TwoRatner's proposal.

Interestingly, MotPot brings up jazz unprompted. Where have we seen that before? Honic Washington and The One True God 41, in Part 1.

Clearly, there must be a lot of overlap between jazz fans and D&D podcast wiki editors.

Marth8204 came out swinging, telling Zilstreet that they should be ashamed for having the audacity to ask questions about a drastic site change, but seemed pacified by TwoRatner's warning to "tone it down a bit."

TwoRatner imposed a deadline for users to vote on the change.

FunderStun also came out swinging- this time, against Gaycowboyrats (featured in Part 1) and... Amber Heard? Then they delivered this line: "There is no savior, so we have to be."

Again, poetry.

And again, I'd like to put a pin in the Gaycowboyrats reference.

Thus ended the split discussion thread, leaving me with more questions than answers.

Nicoh Watonshing seems to be referring to wiki security breaches. Was this an ongoing issue? Were admins getting hacked? If so, by whom? What could hackers possibly want from the wiki?

What happened between Brazil86 and TwoMarshall? What did Brazil86 do wrong? Are there any words in the English language that can strike as much fear in one's heart as "abnormally long Discord call"?

Note the TwoMarshall brother reference: this is very similar to references made by TwoRatner to a brother that died. How coincidental.

This period of forum volatility closely follows the themes established in Act 1: a strict, opaque sense of wiki justice, wiki moderator power as a status more important than wiki functionality, calling for more community engagement while largely ignoring community engagement when it happened, and making drastic changes in response to real or perceived wiki problems.

Here, we see more new administrator names pop up in the forums with similar styles of speech and occasional non-sequiturs, even after Honic Washington's (apparent) departure.

Here, we see new discontent in the moderator ranks- some apparent failure by Brazil86, and its severe consequences with TwoMarshall.

Here, we see two moderators (TwoRatner and TwoMarshall) with similar brother-related situations. Did TwoRatner switch accounts? Was this related to the alleged security breaches in the wiki?

Despite being active in the forums and wiki at large before this, Gaycowboyrats is now conspicuously absent except for the reference by FunderStun, who wants to remove Gaycowboyrats from his position of influence and "free" the fandom.

Has the Dungeons and Daddies wiki been subject to some kind of administrator security breach and subsequent overthrow, resulting in a schism?

Life seems to be giving this wiki a lot of grapefruit.

And when life gives you grapefuit, you make grapefruit pellets to shoot your friends.

Chorus:

A statement from Zil Street.

Interim attempts at community engagement by the administrators.

Stay tuned for part 3 tomorrow with the thrilling conclusion of the wiki split saga!

[simply-ivanka]

Trump’s Best Lies Weren’t Trump’s

By Holman W. Jenkins, Jr.

May 8, 2024

In an act of editorial cowardice, the Economist devotes a leading editorial plus an entire special section to the problem of disinformation yet never mentions the Steele dossier and Hunter Biden laptop lie.

Its package is timely for all the reasons I’ve written about: Disinformation is likely to flow in even greater abundance to influence the 2024 vote. But it also botches the most important insight. The anonymous AI-generated disinformation on the web that preoccupies the magazine’s editors is trivial in effect next to official disinformation from government sources circulated by mainstream media.

The Economist details a surreptitious Russian plot to blame America for dengue fever in Africa. It ignores a story of open disinformation of gobsmacking continuing influence, which has half of America watching as the other half (and most of our political class) lie about what happened after 2016. If the magazine thinks these voters aren’t drawing conclusions that will shape the 2024 outcome, it needs its medication adjusted.

Let’s step back: Political causes may be good or bad, but few or nonexistent are those campaigns or campaigners who have been unwilling to lie in their causes.

Eisenhower lied about the U-2 program in one of the best causes ever, keeping a check on Soviet ICBM development.

Sam Harris, the popular podcaster and neuroscientist, exhibited his essential adulthood when he recognized and approved the laptop lie because of the importance he attached to defeating Trump.

Knowing when you lied and why you lied is psychologically healthy. Do I think Leon Panetta, the longtime respected congressman and Obama CIA chief, is of healthy mind? Yes. He and colleagues saw that it would help Joe Biden to associate Hunter’s laptop with Russia and left unspoken between them that it was a lie.

The Economist, in contrast, gives us a blaring, billboard-like exhibition of the psychological disorder known as splitting. See if you recognize the pattern:

Splitting means claims and assertions hostile to Mr. Trump should be repeated and emphasized; any that aren’t should be suppressed.

The Steele dossier should be trumpeted until it stops being useful for discrediting Mr. Trump and starts to discredit his enemies—in which case it should never be mentioned again.

If a statement is true and favorable to Mr. Trump, the only motive for voicing it is pro-Trumpism. (This will create problems for weather reporters if Mr. Trump says it’s raining and it’s actually raining.)

Russian meddling can’t both have happened and have been trivial—because the first part sounds anti-Trump but the second doesn’t. This is unacceptable to the splitting mind.

I know it would be unthinkable at this late date for our media and political elites to come clean. It would amount to abdicating the election to Mr. Trump.

Telling the truth, unfortunately, needed to start long ago before it could change the moment we’ve reached today.

And yet the perverse consequences ought to be beating us over the head. As David Brooks of the New York Times tweeted after Mr. Trump won 11 million more votes in 2020 than he did in 2016: “Our job in the media is to capture reality so that when reality voices itself, like last night, people aren’t surprised. Pretty massive failure.”

In 2015 Donald Trump was a noisy celebrity ranting about illegal immigration. Nine years later, he and his legions have an epic narrative to tell themselves, true in many particulars, about the U.S. government and media thwarting them with lies and fabricated evidence.

Most of all, in bold letters, our current fix should recall the wisdom of the media’s former motto: “Without fear or favor.” Or as Walter Lippmann put it a century ago, “In his professional activity it is no business of [the reporter’s] to care whose ox is gored.”

We tell the truth and let the chips fall because we don’t know where the chips will finally land even if we think we do. Moreover, once we allow ourselves to start lying to the public for its own good, inevitably our reasons for doing so become more corrupt and self-seeking over time. Whatever his demerits, the press now paints Mr. Trump in impossibly lurid colors to justify its past behavior. Witness also the “Trump bump” in paid subscriptions and TV ratings. Lying about Mr. Trump works commercially for media owners even as it benefits Mr. Trump too. In fact, nothing has been more profitable, even salvational, for many mainstream media companies than MAGA.

But the ultimate exploiter is Joe Biden, cynically using Mr. Trump’s antichrist image as a lever to shove his unwanted self down his own party’s throat despite age and poor polls.

If Mr. Trump now wins—he would only have to draw a middling hand in November—the recriminations against Mr. Biden deservedly will be scalding and eviscerating. The blame game might wreck the Democratic Party for a generation.

[galsinspace]

Day 6 on ADHD meds. I woke up when my alarm rang, had breakfast while listening to some music, cleaned while listening to a podcast, and it's only now noon.

All unthinkable as little as a week ago.

Idk how to even explain this insane change to my friends. That inner paralysis I've lived with all my life. That block. That curse. A little over a week ago it took me 3 hours to put new sheets on my bed. Now I just do things.

This is a new life. Before it barely felt like a livable life, and suddenly it does.

[fallenrocket]

Can any other ADHD/AuDHD folks relate to this?

Okay, so when I'm at home, auditory stimulation is my natural state. Whenever I'm cleaning, cooking, doing laundry, etc., I'm constantly listening to music or podcasts. When I get ready in the morning, I watch YouTube on my phone (usually celebrity interviews or favorite YouTubers.) The only way I can get myself to vacuum the stuff the Roomba can't reach is by playing my absolute favorite, most hyperfixating songs in my headphones.

And yet sometimes, I'll go through these periods of like 1-3 days where I don't listen to any of that. I'll do the same chores/routines, but either in total silence or occasionally talking to myself. The idea of putting on a podcast or music feels unthinkable. Does anybody else get this?

[cyarskj1899]

I remember watching the Steve wilkos show and the hardest to watch episodes were the ones that dealt with child abuse and molestation

he was a former cop after all so seeing child abusers being exposed to the public isn’t uncommon for him

only difference is that it’s on a talk show and these predators are mostly arrested and locked up once the disturbing truth is revealed through lie detector tests

I mentioned this program to remind everyone especially dj Akademics and Drake and those who support them this important statement: molestation is not a joke and forget you for thinking otherwise

I wished dj academics and drakes would make light of the guests who learned about someone who they loved had done something unthinkable as molestation to children let alone their own children, make light of their shock, their reaction , their tears, their cries , their screams, their rage, and watch what happens

they really make me mad like the fury inside of me is inconsolable

This is who @Complex named the #1 Hip Hop media platform in 2024 ….

This is who they want A-list celebrities to sit down with for interviews ….

A man with a pending [r]ape case in the courts is sitting in his funky ass basement making jokes about Kendrick, when he was a CHILD being [s]exually assaulted by a family member (he wasn’t).

This is what “Hip Hop Journalism” has come down to …………….

And you wonder why the only trustworthy and credible reporter regarding hip hop news is not a black man/woman running a blog or podcast but a white woman with a short bob haircut.

Shame on you fake , posting for clicks and likes, disgraceful and inaccurate black journalist who are not like us (us= real black journalists who post the real truth )

Hey complex magazine, any buyers remorse about this?

Somebody needs to throw a chair at both of them

[kingofmyborrowedheart]

Hi! I wanted to say i love your podcast. I had a question; i dont know if you want to answer it here or in the podcast but. Wat do you think, 'so scarlett it was maroon' means?

Thanks again for the podcast, xxxx

Thanks for listening anon and sending this in! ❤️

To me the lyric “so scarlet it was maroon” is representative of a couple things: 1. how bright and passionate Taylor felt this relationship was and how it burned out quickly and 2. how it was frequently changing.

We know that Taylor uses colors to demonstrate her emotions. In the prologue for Red she wrote: “These are moments of newfound hope, extreme joy, intense passion, wishful thinking, and in some cases, the unthinkable letdown. And in my mind, every one of these memories looks the same to me. I see all of these moments in bright, burning, red.” Since Maroon is a shade of red, the connection to the album and title track is clear, though this song looks at the relationship in a more compact and reflective way than most of the songs on Red. The color scarlet is the brightest one mentioned in the lyrics and ties back to the original prologue with the relationship being vibrant and intense. The relationship was so bright and intense that it couldn’t last and it burning out was almost inevitable.

Throughout the chorus the colors switch between different shades of red, with all of them being darker than scarlet. The mention of colors related to more physical features “The mark they saw on my collarbone” and “the lips/I used to call home” are darker, deeper and almost bruise like shades of red. The exception to this is “how the blood rushed into my cheeks,” which is a brighter shade, closer to scarlet and harkens back to the start of the relationship and the first moments of connection. The rust lyric stands out in particular since it indicates that the relationship between her and her partner reached a stage where there was no communication resulting in the relationship and the color changing completely, from red to orange.

The different shades of red indicate how there were slight changes in the relationship with some more noticeable than others until it eventually became something different. In the chorus, the colors turns from brighter to darker, reflective of the ups and downs in the relationship, and that change is encapsulated in the lyric “so scarlet it was maroon.”