#v: Turning of the Century

[diaryofawallfly]

❛ ... you look like you could use a hand with that. ❜ (bearer of marks verse)

"With...? Ah...," he looked down at the latté in his hand; caramel ribbon crunch with an extra shot of espresso, almond milk, and additional caramel syrup.

Then he looked at his other hand, dragging a tarp with a not-yet-corpse in tow.

"Ah."

He looked back at the man. He didn't... seem perturbed at his finding: a stranger kidnapping an individual in the middle of the night. Maybe that was worse. Well, he'd soon find out.

"Actually, if you don't mind? Could you hold my coffee while I wrap this up?"

[fashionsfromhistory]

Bodice Ornament & Hair Comb

René Lalique

1903-1904

The Art Nouveau style caused a dramatic shift in jewellery design, reaching a peak around 1900 when it triumphed at the Paris International Exhibition.

Its followers created sinuous, organic pieces whose undercurrents of eroticism and death were a world away from the floral motifs of earlier generations. Art Nouveau jewellers like René Lalique also distanced themselves from conventional precious stones and put greater emphasis on the subtle effects of materials such as glass, horn and enamel.

René Lalique, 'the admitted king of Paris fashions', chose his materials for aesthetic effect and artistic refinement, not for mere preciousness or brilliance. Credited with introducing horn into the jewellery repertoire, he dazzled the public with a collection of ornamental combs made of horn. They were moulded and sculpted in the shape of flowers, waves and butterflies.

Victoria & Albert Museum (M.116A-1966 & M.116A-1966)

[lazylittledragon]

discussion: would gale accept only getting a few decades with his partner because he’s a squishy human OR would he go the lich route a la barry bluejeans

[enlitment]

You've heard of Snakes on a Plane, now get ready for Voltaire on a Train

[darkeangel]

Some inked Gundams.

1: RX-79 [G]

2: RX-87NT-1 ALEX

3: Hy-Gogg

4: Crossbone X1

5: V-Dash Hexa

6: Dragon Gundam

7: Gundam X

8: Kapool

9: Red Frame Astray

10: Atlas Gundam

[resplendentoutfit]

Going for a Stroll in the late 19th century and Turning the Corner into the 20th Century.

Day dress • 1897 • V&A, London

Below:

Left: 1892-1894 Right: 1910

Day dress • 1897 • V&A, London

Blue and purple day dress • c. 1910-1912 • Italian • Pitti Palace: Museum of Costume and Fashion

[lurking-latinist]

OK, so, clearly Davie is behaving like an idiot this week. He’s trying to “protect” Catriona by one-sidedly setting the terms of their relationship. He should not do that.

I do think it is being intentionally presented as him making the wrong decision, at least by RLS if not by older!Davie the in-universe narrator. We can see that Catriona is in fact thinking and doing things that he just isn’t noticing or responding to. And—spoiler that first-time readers may find reassuring—they do communicate later and it does make things better when they do.

We’ve seen that Davie doesn’t always communicate well in emotionally-charged situations (see: mending his friendship with Alan by means of “what if I literally lie down and die here”) and I think this is another example of that. But I do think it *is* legitimately a difficult situation. Part of the reason he doesn’t want to talk to her about it is because he’s afraid that even saying “this situation looks kind of exploitative” could itself be exploitative. And, within the social norms in which they live, that might be kind of true. If he says “you know, this situation looks kind of sexually charged” to a woman in this situation, in the 1750s, she really might feel pressured to either leave (when she has no money) or marry him (even if she doesn’t really want to). So I do think he is genuinely trying not to put pressure on her, in this awkward situation that those social norms really do not account for in the first place.

What he is failing to consider, but what I think the narrative is revealing anyway, is that Catriona has independently noticed that the situation is potentially sexually charged.

Which isn’t great, but I honestly don't think we’re meant to think he’s right to ignore that.

[v-thinks-on]

“Through here!” Holmes hissed, pushing the door the rest of the way open and drawing me into a close chamber.

It was in truth not such a small room, but shelves packed with musty books crowded the walls so as to make it appear tighter. The remaining space was dominated by an antique bureau, worn down by what looked to be more than age, the fine wood scratched and stained.

The footsteps which led us there abruptly fell silent as though cornered, but I saw no one in the study apart from ourselves. However, open on the desk, as though someone had been interrupted in the middle of a page, was an old journal, and Holmes swiftly descended upon it.

“What’s this?” He murmured, hovering over the page and taking care not to disturb it. “This entry is dated to December 31st, 1799: ‘My lot is naught but madness. Madness which compelled me to return to this accursed place and madness which keeps me here, as though imprisoned in the home where I would be master. Another man might call my fear of this place mad, but I feel those burning eyes following me, hungering for my flesh, and the horrible whispers which reach into my very soul. It is always there, waiting for the slightest lapse, lurking around every bend.’”

To be continued...

[flockrest]

eavesdropping, are we? / accepting / @gloryseized ( Link )

     "Where did you hear this from."

     The fledgling stills, blinking in unabashed nonplus, as though he had thrown out a complete non sequitur and not a perfectly reasonable question. The implications seem to seize Tulin by the wing a moment later, though; he suddenly ducks his head down, shying away from the boundary he's crossed with twiddling wingtips and averted eyes. Even so, he treads on its edges. "From you, Master Revali."

     From him. Cheeky. He's never breathed a word of those thoughts, adjacent or otherwise, to anyone or anything that would be alive enough to actively divulge them. Tulin wouldn't have any way of knowing about the knight he asks after, if not for the journal that had been returned to Revali in his first few days of roost-ridden recuperation — safekept in his absence, he surmises, by Teba. The boy's father.

     ...It shouldn't rankle him this much. A century of presumed death and a fledgling too curious for his own good — or Revali's. All but confirmed when Tulin blurts, seemingly spurred by his silence, "Sorry! I'm sorry, I didn't— I didn't know you'd still be here."

     He chuffs, not quite laughing nor scoffing. His feathers are no less ruffled for it, but therein lies the crux of everything. Nobody, really, was expecting their Champions to "be here". To come back. Perhaps this was only to be expected.

     Revali doesn't owe anyone his honesty. He hadn't back then — and certainly doesn't now, when he still finds, at times, the beginnings of far bygone names forming on his tongue or strange waves of wistfulness for an existence better left behind washing over him.

     "It wasn't difficult to dislike him," he allows, after a long stretch of folding everything back into himself.

     Tulin perks up, Windlines beneath his wings once more.

     "Speaking with him was often more trouble than it was worth."

     The fledgling nods sagely. He says, with the air of someone simply repeating something he hasn't quite digested yet, "'It's like talking to a stone.'"

     Revali smothers the sound swelling in his chest before it can pass his throat. Yes, he'd written something to that effect, hadn't he? That Tulin would recall such a line, supposedly verbatim — made all the better by the fact he hasn't made the connection yet, between this knight he naively slights and the one he's enthused at length over.

     And why would he? Or any Rito, for that matter. The blasted aches in his wings flare as his thoughts stray towards them, reminding him: a century has passed for all of them. Link, from what he's garnered in the Hylian's recent visits, is no longer even a knight. With the way he fits so perfectly into a space he’s either carved for himself or the others have made for him here, sometime in his journey before defeating Calamity Ganon…to the flock — to this flock — he is no more nor less than just Link. Champion descendant, apparently ( and isn’t that ludicrous in an entirely different sense ), but that's about the furthest they dare to reach. Sometimes, Revali wants to guide those wings to the truth.

     ( Sometimes, he wants to break this rhythm Link has created with his people, if only to have someone flounder for fragments with him. )

     "He was much like Link," Revali says, head turning away and tipping back to gaze at the skies, at nothing and everything.

     He doesn't have to see him to know that Tulin's leaned in with widened eyes, his own head tilted to the side. "Like Link? Really?"

     He doesn't repeat himself. The fledgling — as his equally tiny peers seem to like doing — always makes something of his silence, anyway.

     "Link’s lots better though, right? Master Revali?"

     He does laugh, then: a brief huff of something that might be amused. "Well, he's not any worse."

[diaryofawallfly]

continued from x with @lantern-lost

"All-night shops are a marvel, aren't they?" he set about tucking the body back under a fold in the tarp. It was lost on him how he could go about his business like this and not have anyone care. He chalked it up to the American city. They couldn't possibly-- hopefully-- all be like this, right?

"I got it from... It was a couple blocks down and next to the petrol station," he looks off in the direction, perplexed, "Now that you mention it, I don't really remember it... but the coffee is wonderful. I recommend it."

He stood up and pulled a cloth from his suit jacket to wipe his hands, though dried stains remained. He also took the moment of having free hands to remove his jacket and throw it over his shoulder. He seemed rather lithe to be hauling a body.

"Thank you," he said with a soft smile and took back his coffee, "A stranger's kindness is rare nowadays. I very much appreciate it."

He offered his hand.

"Renfield. And you are?"

[amillixnvoicesarch]

❛  Stay  close  to  me.  ❜ - ( Pulitzer ) @historiavn​

        She can’t remember the LAST TIME she’s heard him say those words to her. If she’s being honest, the Katherine can’t remember if she’s ever heard him say them, but she likes to think so anyway. Not that it matters anyway, or well...it does, but maybe not as much as whatever is going on right now. 

    “Why?” She asks, finally, voice quiet, “What’s wrong?”

[waywardsalt]

drawing is difficult for me and writing is something i’m considerably better at sooooo…

written list of ideas i have for a humanoid design for bellum bc i think im finally zeroing in on something after a few uhhh years of brainstorming

(if you read this and have like. some ideas you want to share or some possible [constructive] criticisms go ahead and share them if you want)

Not actually properly humanoid; he can take on a fully human look but it isn’t his default and requires a bit more energy

Therefore, he usually lacks ears (they’re just. holes), finger or toe nails, a navel, an adam’s apple, or basically any kind of human detail that could be easily overlooked at first glance (maybe leaning into a bit uncanny?). He does have these traits when he actually puts the effort in to pass as human

The traits shared between his usual humanoid form and the more explicitly human form are: an eyepatch over his left eye (he doesn’t have a left eye or eye socket in either form. it’s like one-eyed willy in goonies), yellow hair (actually the same color as link’s), a lack of a nose (effectively like it’s been torn off, just leaving the nostril lines/openings), and a lot of large scars pretty much everywhere (some are just normal looking scars, like one across his face that looks like items from a wound that cost him his nose, while others vaguely resemble the markings on his body when he’s in demon/normal form), so either way he’s going to draw attention

In his usual form (more obviously nonhuman) his left eye is his usual black and orange eye, and he has sharp teeth, but he can switch those to appear more human if he’d like

He’s below the average height and appears to be only slightly muscular, logically more built for flexibility or with the build of a dancer, but his demonic strength remains, though his speed and flexibility is limited by the form he takes

His hair is a mess and mostly short, and if he’s in the more demonic-leaning human form, it’s usually got streaks of black (black is in there in some way, how it appears is still a wip) in all of the yellow

Clothing can vary but most commonly he chooses something loose and casual, he doesn’t particularly value his clothes and doesn’t really have anything to hide and so pick stuff that won’t drag him down or get snagged in a fight, flimsy loose clothes are good

Other times he’ll wear boots and gauntlets and gloves in a more serious context, usually opting for designs and materials similar to what he gives his phantoms, he doesn’t fully lean into the phantom-style of armor or fighting unless he needs to focus on defense, however

In either of his human forms, he’s still capable of fighting (and in his more demonic form he can use his tentacles, the come from his back), and doesn’t so much as have a fighting style as he generally just kills with whatever seems most convenient or entertaining at the time, ranging from creating a weapon for himself to use to just bashing a guy’s skull in with his bare hands

He’s very violent but can talk just fine and can be just about eloquent if he wants but usually leans into being more chaotic and acting the part of a brutal ruffian if the job can be completed using force, so a lot of the time he doesn’t even bother with looking explicitly human most of the time

He greatly prefers his demonic form and uses the human form for specific reasons, and can’t actually use it if he’s too weak

[labyrinthwalker]

i had to call the health insurance marketplace for something earlier, and i somehow wound up looking at census data for my state while i was on the phone, and now i have Questions but i don't know how to research them other than going to harass a librarian about it

[tenth-sentence]

"V for Vendetta" - Alan Moore and David Lloyd

[mingos]

.

[inkedells]

pairing: old!logan x f!reader

Logan is sick and tired of you treating him like he's fragile. He'll ignore his relentless pain to show you what it's like to be taken apart, rough and slow, then fast and agonizing.

wc: 3.5k of pure smut

warnings: heavy smut, lap sitting, fingering, oral (f!receiving and m!receiving), dirty talk, facials, p in v, ruined orgasms, snowballing, kind of angsty, the claws come out, logan is angry with you, kinda toxic, definitely mean, but still kind of sweet, pwp basically, blood, but it's not bloodplay, it's just logan not caring if he's hurt, if i missed any let me know.

Logan comes home and throws himself back on that torn-up leather sofa, thumb flicking his lighter while the other holds a cigar. It’s less of a distraction from the ache in his bones, and more of a device to push you away. Because if you think he’s tired or angry or hurting, you won’t ask him to fuck you.

It’s not like he doesn’t want you. Of course he does. It’s the sympathy in your eyes when he gets tired from just a couple of minutes of thrusting that he hates. The whispered, “It’s okay. baby, I can ride you.” The gentle touches across his body and his neck and his face and his beard. It all reeks of pity. And if you were to sit him down one day and ask him why he hates being taken care of, he wouldn’t have an answer. He would push the voice in his head down into the void that all the strength he had left fell in, the voice shrinking until it’s nothing as it screams, because I’ve never been taken care of, and I would’ve loved it back when being taken care of wasn’t my only choice.

But it’s fine. You wouldn’t ever ask him that question because he knows for a fact that you don’t know. If you did, you wouldn’t be climbing onto his lap quietly, hands rubbing his sides as you press kisses to his neck.

“I missed you, Logan,” You whisper. Your hips aren’t moving; He knows he sat here like this to avoid fucking you, but he almost wishes you were seeking exactly that. Sex, as embarrassing as it would be for him, is better than your sick love. He doesn’t think you love in the way lovers do. It’s the kind of love meant for sick puppies, or the lonely old woman sitting on the bus with all her belongings in plastic bags.

He turns his head to take a drag of his cigar. Silence.

You hold his face, forcing him to look at you as you kiss him. Slow, chaste, no tongue. He feels scrutinized by your touches, and something nervous seats itself deep in his belly.

“How was your day?” You ask, your gaze snapping between his eyes.

Logan closes them. “I’m tired,” He says flatly.

“I know. It’s okay.”

There it is again. Pity.

He scoffs. It’s quiet. Barely there. He didn’t mean to. He watches your face fall the smallest bit. A year ago, he wouldn’t have noticed, and if he would’ve, he would blurt out an apology. Now, he does notice, but he secretly wants to watch it fall even further if it means you’ll realize how much you’ve been hurting him.

You swallow, your thumb rubbing his cheekbone. “I found an American poetry anthology in the basement today. 20th Century. My favorite poem was in it.”

He mumbles, “In a Station of the Metro. T.S. Elliot.” Remembering the poem you told him about months ago sounds too much like sorry. He wishes he’d pretended to forget.

“Ezra Pound,” You correct. Your smile tells him he’s forgiven for an apology he never offered. “If you can recite it I’ll be impressed.”

“I’m not reciting a goddamn poem.” He sounds sarcastic, and it relieves you, but then you kiss him and he’s wound tight again.

You sigh as you pull back. “What’s bothering you, baby?”

“Nothing’s bothering—”

“What’s bothering you?” You interject.

He shakes his head, clenching his jaw. He makes the decision to sacrifice his dignity for the sake of stopping this conversation. You never could resist an orgasm, especially one caused by him. “Enough of that.”

“What?”

But he’s putting out his cigar and lifting you off his lap with a suppressed grunt, then pushing you down on the couch.

“Logan,” You protest.

He continues undoing the drawstring of your pajamas, with a kind of slippery urgency that tells you he's trying to shut you up more than he's trying to satiate his own desire.

You sit up straight, swatting his hand away. “Stop.”

He withdraws immediately, breathing hard through his nose as he looks down at the floor. He was wrong, before, about you not knowing. You definitely know, because you don’t place a loving hand on his thigh and you don’t kiss his shoulder. He’s grateful.

Instead, you observe his profile, then the quiet tremor in his hand. The impossible stillness of the rest of him. He tends to do that when his nerves are on fire. Thinks being a statue is what people who aren’t in chronic pain do.

“Don’t do that,” He mumbles, feeling your eyes on him. “I don’t need you feeling sorry, or whatever—whatever the fuck else goes through your head when you’re around me.”

You say nothing. That’s the most he’s said about his feelings in a while. He knows it, so he forces himself to say nothing, too. It doesn’t last long.

“I’m not dying.” His voice cracks a little at the end and he fights the urge to squeeze his eyes shut.

“I know.” The words come out in a tumble, as if you’re rushing to participate in his lie.

“Then stop looking at me like I’m dying.”

“Okay.” Tears prickle your eyes but you blink them away.

“Okay,” He repeats.

You take a deep breath. “But it’s okay to be cared for, Logan.”

He laughs incredulously, and suddenly his volume is rising and his voice is firm. “Would you just—Would you just quit being my fuckin’ mommy? Would you?”

He only lets your silence marinate for a second before he rushes in to kiss you, ignoring the cramps in his muscles as he tugs your neck forward roughly. You squeak against his mouth, fighting his impossible grip on you, but you give up with a shaky exhale through your nose when your efforts prove useless.

“I can take care of you, too,” He grits out. It would sound sweet if it weren’t for the frustration in his tone. He pushes you onto the couch the same way he did moments before as he opens your legs by your knees and settles between them. He sucks a dark mark onto your neck, his fingers digging bruises in your ribs.

“I know you can,” You reassure him. You can see where this is going. “And I love when you do.” You gasp when he pulls your shirt up over the curve of your breasts.

“No. You don’t.” He pinches one of your nipples and sucks the other into his mouth for a brief second. “It’s okay. I’ll show you so you don’t forget again. You won’t want to get ruined any other way.”

“Logan,” You sigh.

He hums against the soft skin just underneath your breast as his hands ravage your body. He begins to unsheathe the adamantium claws in one of his hands so he can rip your top open. It’s slow and excruciating, so he closes his eyes, but the pain is over too soon and his suspicions are confirmed when he opens his eyes to see them stuck halfway.

You don’t expect him to lean back and individually tug each blade free. There’s blood, and now it’s dripping onto your belly, and he mumbles something that sounds like an apology as he wipes the dots of red away with his thumb.

But the hazel in his eyes is alive again. You hope it’s you that did that. Hope it’s not the pain or the sight of his own blood. You want to ask him, just to make sure. You don’t like hurting, right? You just really like me—

He slices through your shirt, careful not to graze your skin, and you try to ignore the fact that he’s never that cautious with himself, but you can’t.

“Logan, you’re bleeding.” Your voice is unstable.

“It’ll heal,” He says quickly, passively. He wipes his burning palm on his wifebeater.

“But that takes a long time now.”

He meets your eyes, his movements frozen. He’s angry and you’re not stupid. You’re pitying him again. He needs you to stop fucking pitying him. When he speaks, his voice is deep and rough and slow, and you would be scared if he wasn’t your Logan. “Are you done?”

You don’t know what to say, so you just close your eyes and nod. You hear his claws retract faster than when they came out, and almost simultaneously, he’s shoving that same hand under your waistband as two of his calloused fingers push themselves into your cunt.

You arch toward him involuntarily, a ragged moan falling from your lips as he tugs your pajamas off your legs and spits on your pussy to ease the slide of his fingers.

Each groan he pulls from your throat is a step toward dispelling the doubt from your body. Doubt of his capabilities, of his strength, of his devotion to you.

“Beg me to fuck you,” He demands, fingering you roughly.

Your mind is cloudy at this point, from sadness or arousal or both, but you give him what he wants. “Fuck me,” You whisper, your eyelids about to flutter shut as you shed a tear.

But then you catch Logan smiling.

He grabs your jaw with his free hand, and you look at him immediately. “You’re gonna let me use it, right? Get myself off?” You lazily trace his features with your gaze—His nose, his wrinkles, his beard—because you know if it were your fingers instead he’d mistake it for tenderness and get mad again.

You nod, but it’s weak with how hazy everything is.

“Good girl.” 

“Please,” You sigh, “I need you inside of me. I need to—I need it.”

“I know. I know what you’re feeling before you feel it.” He lets the pad of his thumb draw quick circles on your clit. “What? Thought I couldn’t hear you playing with yourself in the shower? If I can hear your heartbeat when I walk through the door, what makes you think I wouldn’t have heard you whining my name?”

“Logan,” You sigh, your hips lifting off the couch, coaxing his fingers deeper for as long as possible before he’s shoving you back down with the heel of his palm.

“I’m gonna play with you now. I’ll fuck you after, don’t worry your pretty head about it.”

“What do you mean, play with me?” You breathe, fighting to keep your eyes open as he finds your g-spot.

He grins dirtily, in a way that makes your head spin and your thighs clench around his hand. You’re barely processing his words as he bends down to mumble in your ear, “Right when you’re about to make a mess on my fingers, I’m gonna stop. Then I’m gonna go down on you. And I’m gonna lick your pretty pussy, maybe even fuck you with my tongue if you’re good. And guess what? Guess what I’m gonna do when you’re this close?”

“You’re gonna stop,” You whine.

“I’m gonna stop,” He nods, and it’s mocking, but it’s gentle, and he’s fucking killing you with the way he’s talking right now. “But I’m not mean. I’ll give you a break. You can calm down when my dick is in your mouth, okay?”

“Okay,” You breathe, your hips unabashedly grinding on his fingers. But you want to reassure him he is mean, and you especially want to tell him how much you love it. “Logan, I’m gonna—”

He withdraws his fingers from you so fast it almost burns. You clench around nothing, your lower half spasming as your orgasm barely approaches before falling away again. Only a hint of pleasure is able to make it through the cracks, and you cling onto it, hoping if you focus hard enough, the wave will come back. It doesn’t. You should regret warning Logan that you were about to finish, but all you feel is comfort now that he’s finally proud of you again.

Another tear streams down the side of your face, landing in your hair. Logan’s watching you as he pets your thigh, his lips parted when he leans down over you. He kisses your wet cheek softly, his beard rough on your skin. It’s unlike him to offer you affection this gracefully during sex. It’s always shaky limbs and suppressed groans and dirty kisses. Both of you know it. 

He moves down your body, until his face is hovering over your cunt. He doesn’t have his reading glasses on, so he has to pull his head back and squint as he spreads your folds with his thumbs, studying what you look like. He licks a stripe over you. A second, longer one, before he zeroes in on your clit. You can do nothing except lay there and take it as your hips twitch from overstimulation under his firm hands.

“Oh my god,” You whisper, your fingers twisting in his hair. “F-Fuck.”

He moans at that, pressed right up against you, the sound deep and delicious and vibrating. “Feel good?” He asks teasingly with a nip to your inner thigh.

“What do—What the fuck do you think?”

He breathes a laugh. It’s short and airy, not frustrated like before, and a warmth ignites itself in the back of your mind. It’s overpowering even the feeling of his mouth licking and sucking your most sensitive area; It’s the relief that he’s still hiding the Logan you fell in love with somewhere in there.

You wind your fingers in his hair and scratch his scalp. You try to do it lovingly, although it comes across as sexual and Logan’s breath hitches in pleasure against your pussy instead. So as you suppress a gasp from the pure skill of his tongue, you show your affection differently—you hold the wounded hand he has resting face-up beside your hip. The cuts embedded there are easy to avoid as your thumb rubs the lines of his palm, because even though you can’t see his hand, the puffiness surrounding each slash on his skin are your cues.

He doesn’t move his hand away, but his tongue falters for a fraction of a second before slowing down.

The kind of love you’re pressing into Logan’s skin with each gentle stroke is unrecognizable to him. It’s not the pitiful love he’s so used to. He thinks it might be the opposite. Admiration. Reverence.

“I’m so empty,” You whisper, bringing your hands to grope Logan’s biceps. They’re sweaty and hard and flexing under your touch, and you wonder if he would let you ride them one day.

When your climax starts to creep up on you, it’s thanks to the image of Logan forcing you to lick your arousal clean off his bicep. Indulgently swirling your tongue along his pronounced veins, savoring the taste of his sweat mixed with yourself. He’d probably say somthing like, fuckin’ filthy. Getting yourself off on my arm. Who does that? Are you that obsessed with me?

Logan feels you squeezing his tongue, harder than all the other times before, so he withdraws at the last moment, ruining your orgasm once again.

 You convulse silently, your breath coming out stuttered with your twitching jaw. As if he can read your mind, he unbuckles his belt and removes his pants and boxers. But he doesn’t strip himself of his wifebeater, stained with blood.

It’s the hottest thing in the world.

You blink, and suddenly Logan is hovering above you with his cock over your face. He rubs his leaking tip on your cheeks first, then your lips, and when you open your mouth to take him, he moves his cock away and nudges your jaw shut with his free hand, shaking his head.

“Not yet.”

A whine lodges itself in your throat as Logan spreads his pre-come over the plush of your lips. It escapes only when he lets go of his cock in favor of massaging his wetness across your lips and on your tongue with his thumb. His hard cock is bobbing above you, almost tantalizingly, the occasional drip of arousal landing itself somewhere near your eyes, then your hair, then your mouth, and you watch Logan’s brow furrow as you try to lick whatever you can.

His resolve snaps. A calloused hand squeezes at your cheeks until your jaw falls open. His cock is in your mouth before you can process it, thick and heavy and wet. So. Incredibly. Wet. You start to wonder how it’s even possible that he’s this hard at his age, but you know he wouldn’t want you to be wondering that, so you happily push the thought away.

You suck your cheeks in, swirling your tongue around his tip as you bob your head to meet the subtle, almost imperceivable thrust of his hips. You’re taking it well, you know you are. So you keep taking it, until Logan can no longer successfully suppress his moans and his hips are jerking out of rhythm.

He moves back until his cock slips out of your mouth. “I don’t wanna come like this. Wanna fuck you.”

“Yeah, yes. Fuck me. Please.”

He stands up and turns you on your front, your knees pressing into the soft couch cushions with your ass in the air.

“Logan,” You plead as you feel his tip pressing at your entrance.

“I’ve got you,” He says quietly, pushing in until half of his cock is comfortably squeezed by your cunt. Both your breathing is loud and labored, and there’s a specific kind of intimacy in knowing you’re both feeling this identical need. Overwhelming and hot and unquenchable by anything other than each other.

His first thrust is shallow, but it ruins you all the same. With how thick he is, it should feel like an intrusion, and it does. But all you can think about is how perfectly he fits inside of you, filling you extraordinarily with only a few inches.

“Fuck,” Logan breathes. “Look at that.” He traces around your entrance with his thumb. “Stretching so wide to take me.”

You moan, pressing your cheek against the sofa as you rock with his thrusts. He still hasn’t pressed all the way in yet, and you’re growing impatient. “Come on,” You urge, pushing yourself back to force more of his cock into you.

You expect him to chastise you for being so greedy, but he listens to you instead with a slow, full thrust. His tip nudges your cervix with how deep he is, and a ragged moan escapes you. “Yes,” You whine, “Oh god, yes.”

Logan’s breaths are coming out heavy through his nose, quick and occasionally intertwined with a grunt. His thrusts are getting quicker, and it’s starting to burn, but you welcome every sensation he has to offer you. He pulls out, spits on his cock, then shoves himself back inside, and this time you’re both unabashedly moaning the minute you’re joined again. 

His fingers dig in the plush of your ass as he observes himself disappearing into you. It hurts, but you love it. He knows you do, so he spanks you quickly before gripping you and rutting against you again.

“I love when you fuck me,” You whisper, feeling ashamed as soon as the confession leave you. “When you properly fuck me.”

He slows for a moment so he can watch his cock glisten with how wet you are. “I know.” He picks back up his punishing pace.

Your eyes begin to water, from pain or pleasure, you can’t tell. “I love you.”

“I know,” He repeats, this time breathier. His hips stutter. You can tell he’s close.

“I want it on my face,” You tell him quickly, his impending orgasm giving you no time to worry about being too forward.

He pulls out again, letting you turn onto your back as he shifts up your body. He jerks himself furiously, but you swat his hand away and take it upon yourself to stroke him.

“Come for me,” You tell him honestly, softly. His eyes squeeze shut and his lips part around a trembling exhale.

He groans as his release coats your face in long stripes. Some of it even lands in your hair, but you don’t care. Your own fingers work your clit as you stick your tongue out and taste him. Logan bends down to kiss you, chest heaving and hands shaky, and you rub yourself faster as you swap his release between the two of you with a hum. He pulls back to let you swallow, then he kisses your cheeks with his rough beard, uncaring about the mess on your face.

You don’t know you’re coming until it’s over and you’re breathless, and it’s almost excruciating with how much he’s ruined you, but you’re so exhausted you can’t find it in yourself to dwell on it a second longer.

You wrap your arms around his neck and tug him down for another kiss because you can hardly remember the one he just gave you.

“I’m sorry I had been treating you all wrong,” You say carefully.

“It doesn’t matter anymore.” His voice is rough.

You nod, your lips brushing his as you smooth sweaty strands of hair away from his forehead. These touches are hard for him. Any variation of your chaste affection is a reminder that he’s not really Logan anymore.

But the shame in it is gone. Replaced by the reassurance that he can still surround you with safety and firm hands and blatant desire;

And for a moment, he’s his old self again.

A/N: it's been so long since i've written anything, but logan has been consuming my brain for weeks so i had to get this out. i hope it's true to his character. <3 also, my asks are open, so feel free to request anything you want to read about.