#who can forbid me after all
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raspbel-art · 10 months ago
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Once again, but with a close-up 😘
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chitinleg · 2 years ago
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"Mister Bashir, what a pleasure it is to finally meet you."
Julian, why in god's name would you invite him to play the villain?
#my art#ds9#julian bashir#elim garak#star trek deep space nine#garashir#image desc in alt text#pencil#ok so on the outset it may look to some viewers as though julian invited garak to play the villain to get dommed by the scary lizard#this is not the case. not in my heart#in my heart julian felt a burst of something funny when Garak asked him ''what if you'd killed me''#and he responded ''what makes you think i wasn't trying'' and garaks face blooms into a sudden understanding and respect. ooh.#That's that heady shit. catching garak off guard. ooooh. that's that High Quality Endorphins Happening. but. gotta pack that up for later#(he will not unpack that later) because garak also just threatened to kill 5 of his friends who are STILL IN DANGER. NO TIME FOR THIS.#so after everything. and MONTHS after OMB. he invites garak to something like a playful rematch. sort of.#after all theres only so long that garak can stomach being a sidekick u know? he needs to be able to do his own machinations.#so they make a character for him thats a villain. a little more cerebral than falcon. a little more ambiguous in his motivations.#now there's also. a secret game at play here (there are always games. doctor) and its actually between garak and his own self#you see garak Also wants bashir to defeat his character. he also wants to be shocked. challenged. a little dismantled even (state forbid!)#and because garak wants that for himself? hes going to fight tooth and fucking nail to make sure it doesn't happen.#that Gayle clip from ''COMPANY IS COMING'' but its garak yelling ''WE CAN'T LET THEM KNOW WE [WANT]!!!''#and its a horrible idea for both of them but. oh so so exciting#you understand.#these rituals arent intricate so much as they are transparent but all encompassing. a fish doesnt know its swimming in water until its out#you understand? you understand.#thank you to anyone who found the time to read these tags i hope you enjoyed yourself and/or found what you were looking for#also garak is dressed so boring bc hes hiding himself u know how it is
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uncanny-tranny · 10 months ago
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Hi! would you by any chance have tips on how to get a binder when your parents refuse to buy you one? ☹️
That's definitely a sensitive and complex answer, and while I might not know of the best option for your unique situation, there are some ways you can go about this.
If it's a foregone conclusion that you cannot convince them of this, what I used to do is DIY my binder. The ways I primarily did this were:
Option One: Wearing a camisole that was one size smaller than I actually was (so, wearing a small instead of a medium, for instance), then folding it up over my chest. As a disclaimer, this may only work well if you are smaller in the chest
Option Two: Layering two sports bras in my size over each other. Some of the DIY tips I found before I got a traditional binder advised to wear one sports bra in your size, then wear another sports bra backwards in a size smaller. I would advise against this for potential safety reasons, but also because (at least personally), it can be ineffective and a waste of resources.
Some people have also had friends or other family members order their binder for them, but this can be risky, depending on your situation. While I don't know the ins and outs of your specific circumstances, risk management is important to me, so I would recommend this if it is a risk that is acceptable to make.
I understand what it's like to not have access to this resource, so what I will do is advise you against:
Binding with ace bandages (I did this before (multiple times, in fact, because of dysphoria), and believe me, not only did it hurt like hell, but it constricted my body so heavily that I may have done long-term harm)
Wearing a DIY binder (or any kind, for that matter) for longer than your body can handle
Doing DIY in such a way that even mimics binding with ace bandages. This means that your binder shouldn't constrict your ribs, breathing, or range of movement
Here are some general good practices that you should use to guide you for any type of binding, whether traditional or DIY:
When you start binding, only do so in very short sessions to begin with. While binding shouldn't outright hurt, it can be a weird transition while your body is getting used to that new sensation
Minimize heavy lifting or exercise while binding. If it is unavoidable, drink plenty of water and take plenty of breaks
Stretch after binding
Don't bind while sick or have inflammation in your lungs or chest
If you DIY, treat your binder like it is a traditional binder. Don't make the mistake of assuming you don't need to listen to your body because you aren't using a "traditional" binding method
Ultimately, listen to your body. If it is telling you that it needs a break, honour that. Your body isn't punishing you, it is trying to keep you (and it) safe, even if it doesn't feel like it
In the end, this isn't perfect. Sometimes, parents do come around, even in their own ways, even if little by little, they come around. When I first came out officially around 2016, I was convinced that my transition would be completely forbade by my family; I concealed a lot of it in the worst instances of this. However, now, I think most of my family has come through their own journey with the understanding of the reality of what and who I am. I tell you this, anon, because I want you to know that this, too , shall pass. You can make it. I know this might be devastating to you, and believe me, I know what that's like. But it won't be forever. These bridges aren't burnt forever, and I hope you can find your happiness and contentment wherever it may be.
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yuridovewing · 5 months ago
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i understand the frustration with “i made this gay pairing cis x trans so they can still have biological babies” with no thought to other methods and how ppl assume thats the case when it comes to mothpool aus where mothwing is also the mother of the three, but also…. idk i kinda dont give a shit if someone wants to do that and i dont really think its inherently transphobic as long as its handled with care and respect.
what really concerns me about this debate is how some people are adamant that you cannot portray trans people having biological children in media or youre being disrespectful. and im gonna say as a nonbinary person who doesnt want children for themself- thats kinda fucking weird? like i understand that for some people, theyre trans themselves and theyre speaking from a place of dysphoria, and i absolutely get that, which is why i think the topic should be handled with nuance and diversity in trans characters, but like…. guys. pregnant trans men exist irl. trans women get people pregnant irl. trans ppl’s ability and right to parent and have biological children are being debated irl. we get denied the opportunity to adopt as well.
in a climate like this, are we SURE we want the stance on rewrites and headcanons in the silly cat books to be “if you portray trans characters having children, especially with a gay couple, youre a transphobic freak no matter what!” does it really matter? especially if its being done by a trans person handling the topic with nuance who has a lot of trans characters with varying perspectives?
obviously yes, remember that thats not the only way certain gay couples can have kids, remember that not every trans person is fully comfortable with it and keep that in mind, remember that surrogacy and adoption are also perfectly valid ways to give fan babies- but remember that there are OPTIONS. not that you need to condemn the idea of transgender parents in the first place unless they fit the very specific criteria of “proper transgender representation” and anything that dares deviate from that is proof the op is a transphobic monster (bonus points if theyre a trans creator bc i mostly see trans people getting shit for this and it kinda pisses me off. although idm if cis people do it either as long as theyre handling it with respect)
#and this isnt getting into how trans mothwing outside of mothpool is a really good way to read her character#sorry. remembered the shit bonefall got despite being trans as well and got annoyed#that especially annoys me bc hes got plenty of surrogacies but the second hed touch a trans pregnancy#‘’no you cant do that!!! you freak!!! obviously you only see trans people as a loophole for gays to have babies!!!’’#also my gf and i were talking and obviously take this with a grain of salt bc this is our experience#but…. i think a lot of the ppl saying this……. havent really talked to trans women?#dude some of the ones i know LOVE the idea of getting people pregnant#did you know trans women have sex? did you know trans people in general have sex?? did you know trans people irl wanna start families?#did you know that? did you? or do you black out at the idea of a trans woman being anything but strictly pure and nonsexual#and OBVIOUSLY this is not every trans woman. some do have dysphoria around the idea#but im genuinely starting to wonder how these people act around irl transgender parents#whether they had kids before or after coming out#bc ngl. the attitude that thinking about this makes you a transphobic pervert?#directed at trans people making content for themselves?#im starting to think you all just dont want us to reproduce. if we reproduce we arent ‘’good’’ trans people#because a ‘���real’’ man wouldnt carry a child. a ‘’real’’ woman would carry the child. and god forbid the gays even THINK about reproducing#and being around children!#if we have children then we’re doing things that might make cishets look at us and declare we’re not perfect#we’ve proved we’re not just identical to cis ppl!! (and therefore deserving of respect!)#idk. i think this was mostly a case of tumblr going ‘’oh someone said no to this so lets push this to an unhealthy extreme!!’’#and i cant help but notice nobody really brings up nonbinary parents at all in this discussion#not that we have it ‘’better’’ or anything for that but yknow. are we supposed to swear it off?#is the idea of us having kids inconcievable? or worse…. does it mean we ‘’picked a side?’’#so its not even worth getting mad at a pregnant nb person bc ‘’well thats a woman so who cares’’b#HMMMMM.#ohhhh i bet they also get mad if you make transfem pregnancy possible too. no winning#idk really think about it when you go ‘’you can NEVER EVER portray a trans person starting a family. bc REAL trans people would never.’’#ohhh you probably get mad when trans ppl dont get surgery for one reason or another dontcha#whether we want to or its not in the cards for us for whatever reason like cost and such#(while also getting mad if we do bc we cannot win in this no matter what)
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jorvikzelda · 4 months ago
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mothers be normal about trans people challenge (impossible)
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zareleonis · 1 year ago
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the claim that neuvillette and furina are like "father and daughter" is a laughably incorrect bastardization of both the characters and their relationship that is born from a refusal to acknowledge that furina is neuvillette's equal. i think such claims do nothing but belittle and infantilize furina and force a deep and nuanced relationship into the most bland and narrow box imaginable.
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mizumuu · 1 month ago
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>Laughs Out Loud
I thought that piece was just about people focusing too hard on labelling Mizuki instead of letting them be themselves like they ask, not that it was transphobia ._ .
its ok to have ur own interpretation of that piece but its very clear to me that that wasnt ame's intention
#also i dont think its bad At All for ppl to 'focus too hard on labeling mizuki' is it bad that trans ppl are celebrating rep#if u find it annoying maybe distance urself from the fandom honestly. its So Ok i did it too after the debacle with the facts acc lol.#its so normal and common for queer ppl to be A little annoying about queer characters dude theres been so little rep for such a long time#ppl just end up feeling overprotective over the character bc they dont see their experiences reflected in media as often#its just so sucky to me to scold ppl over being happy and expressing their queerness#what is focusing too hard anyways? the argument just reeks of how cishets get annoyed at anyone openly queer for 'shoving it in their face'#and ame liking a post calling mizuki a he + her response to the backlash makes me think her threshold for 'too much' is way lower than mine#talking#mizuki5#asks#work with me here why do you think ame has to 'forbid herself from thinking about mizukis identity'#edit also how do labels stop mizuki from being herself like yeah labels can be limiting but as far as we know mizuki is a femenine tgirl#i dont think she'd find it limiting shes just scared atm to be openly trans around ppl she cares about in fear of being treated differently#in fact i think itd be super sweet if we eventually got an event where mizuki connects with other trans ppl and finds a sense of solidarity#with ppl who mirror her own experiences with gender#niigo going to a pride parade.. mfy finding strength in knowing theres other ppl out there that defy their family to be themselves..#i think knd would know the least abt queer ppl bc shes been so Composingbrain but eager to understand to make songs that can save ppl..#like how her dad told her she needs to be more worldly to make good songs#ena i think would know what the average person knows but sososo glad to see mizuki happy and comfy
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lilgynt · 4 months ago
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as a man thing i genuinely hate men and want them dead
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teacup-captor · 5 months ago
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So you know those people who make sad and/or snarky comments about their exes? Like "I don't need them, I'm so much happier now anyway" and "I miss them so much they meant so much to me" type of things
I have to focus so hsrd to not say stuff like that about Sherlock & Co. sometimes 😭😭😭
#Like I. Miss it so so much#And I wanna listen so bad#But it would never be the same I just couldn't#And it's like when u've been in a bad relationship without realizing#And then you get out and you notice all the little things?#I can't help but think abt all the ways this show has been ableist and racist since the start#And I'm like looking at myself after all this#I don't go anxiously thinking I'm misogynistic anymore bc now I'm actually engaging with content that isn't ashamed to put women in the#spotlight OFTEN#And I feel a lot better in general because I don't have any servers to anxiously check in on anymore#I can have a conversation now without having to fear ppl using words like “delulu” or whatever#Like I only hear “delusional” used incorrectly from youtubers rn#Which is so nice. I can be actually delusional in peace#And I'm not around white people who use AAVE like it's a competitive sport anymore 😭#I'm listening to a podcast that actually cares about it's viewers#Like I don't have to mentally prepare for the awful sounds#BECAUSE THERE ARE NONE#Like sorry not sorry but you don't need to give me 1000 headaches to portray that there was an explosion#Joel “I care about my autistic listeners” Emery and his team adding the most obnoxious beeps ever as often as possible#Joel “I care about my listeners” Emery and the lackluster fucking content warnings#You can warn me about the word “bugger” but not about graphic descriptions of animal harm?#Joel “I care about my autistic listeners” Emery telling his character to mask (it's ok though bc the character was being rude)#God forbid someone's disability makes them inconsiderate sometimes?#No but it's okay because “they talked about it” off screen#or. Off recording?#Whatevr
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wittyworm · 5 months ago
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Leviticus chapter 20 shook me to my core i have to pause this shit and go to bed.
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sshoryuken · 10 months ago
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The list of characters that Scott can and probably will make worse is growing so fucking fast and I fear for my life
(just me rambling about silly stuff in the tags because I'm happy and having fun)
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marklikely · 2 years ago
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you guys know that phenomenon where dudes will be like "women aren't funny" but its just bc when a woman makes a joke they don't get it and take her seriously and just think she's like an idiot? like a woman will say smth silly as a joke and they'll just be like "smh you can't be serious you're so stupid" bc theyd rather think a woman is stupid than think that she's just saying it to be funny.
i feel like thats what happens in the reviews every time a woman tries to direct a campy b movie right now.
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vulpinesaint · 2 years ago
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i appreciate how fierce you are in your slander against blood libel the game. costing peace of mind to lead this battle, defending jewish and trans people along the way. you're doing amazing <3
anon i love you for real. this is very sweet, thank you 🖤 happy to delete stupid transphobic shit from my inbox for at least the sake of making sure my blog is a safe space for my trans and jewish mutuals if they didn't know that already. i'm carrying such an indescribable amount of anger over this so if you see me devolve into incoherent violence in the next few days just try and be niceys to me for a little bit haha <3
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ghostfaceinamerato · 21 days ago
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So I'll preface this saying I do not judge people in 24/7 dynamics, it's your life, your relationship, your kink, this is just me rambling about my own
I am absolutely baffled I spent most of the first decade of my adult life craving and chasing a 24/7 dynamic as a sub
Like... i remember reading some post somewhere as a very young adult some lady wrote about her kinky relationship and about how "I have a dom, not a boyfriend" and proceeding to just describe a totally normal boyfriend who in any other context would just come across as controlling
And i wanted that?
Like idk if it's just the ~trauma~ of my ex controlling my life so thoroughly in every way I did not want whoever refusing to engage in kink at all with me
Or me being more aware of my own wants and needs
But like the idea of someone even suggesting that type of dynamic to me now makes me absolutely violent and as unattracted to them as humanly possible
I love the idea of temporarily giving up control, maybe having established rules outside of the bedroom to help with my autism/anxiety and make it more fun than just "hey you have to remember to x, y or z" i like collars and i love all of the kinks i participate in
But i just can't get over how... frankly repulsed I am at 24/7 dynamics at this point?
Like there's nothing wrong with it, and im thinking this has to be a trauma thing because if everyone involved truly consented to the situation what should it matter to me that someone pretends to be a slave or pet or whatever 24/7? I've been heavily involved in kink for a decade now, i KNOW it's not inherently abuse, but my body and mind are reacting to it like it is and it's really spoiling a LOT of kink stuff for me at this point, like I'll be ready a kinky scene and super into it and then somewhere it's established this is a full time dynamic and it's like there's a big pit in my stomach im somehow falling into
Can't it be enough for me to decide i don't like something brain? Why do we have to become repulsed about them
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inkskinned · 5 months ago
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the thing about some men is that they want you to remember, at all times, that you are underneath them. that with one word or look or "joke", you will stay beneath them. that even "exceptions" to the rule are not true exceptions - the commonly cited statistic that one in eight men believe they could win against serena williams.
women's gymnastics is often not seen as real gymnastics. whatever the fuck non-euclidian horrors rhythmic gymnasts are capable of, it's often tamped down as being not a sport. some of the most dominant athletes in the world are women. nobody watches women's soccer. despite years of dancing and being built like a fucking brick, men always assume they're faster and stronger than i am. you wouldn't like what happens when they are incorrect. once while drunk at a guy's house i won a held-plank challenge by a solid minute. the party was over after that - he became exceedingly violent.
what i mean is that you can be perfect, and they still think you're ... lacking, somehow. i hope you understand i'm trying to express a neutral statement when i say: taylor swift was the possibly the most patriarchy-palatable, straight-down-the-line woman we could churn out. she is white, conventionally attractive, usually pretty mild in personality. say what you will about her (and you should, she's a billionaire, she can handle it), but a few things seem to be true about her: 1. she can write a damn catchy song, and 2. the eras tour truly was a massive commercial success and was also genuinely an impressive feat of human athleticism and performance.
i don't know if she deserves the title of "woman of the year," i'm not debating that in this post. what i am saying is that she was named Woman of The Year, and then an untalented man got onstage at the golden globes and made fun of her for attending her boyfriend's football games. what i am saying is that this woman altered local economies - and her dating life is still being made into a "harmless" punchline. the camera panned, greedy, over to her downing a full glass of champagne. congratulations taylor! you are woman of the year! but you are a woman. even her.
fuck, man. write better material.
a guy gets onstage at a college graduation and despite the fact like half the crowd is made up of women, he spends a significant proportion of it warning these people - who spent possibly hundreds of thousands of dollars on their education - that they were lied to. that the "real" meaning of femininity is motherhood. that they shouldn't rest on the laurels of that education-they-paid-for but instead throw it away to kneel at a man's heel. imagine that. sweating in your godawful polyester gown (that you also had to pay for!), fresh out of 4 years of pushing yourself ever-harder: and some guy you've never met - who knows nothing about you - he reminds you this "win" is a pyrrhic one at best. you really shouldn't consider yourself that extraordinary. you're still a woman, even after years of study.
god forbid you are not a pretty woman, but if you are pretty, you must be dumb. god forbid you are not ablebodied or white or cis or straight or good at swallowing. you must be beneath a man, or else they are not a man. the equation for masculinity seems to just be: that which is not a woman or womanly (god forbid). anything "feminine" is thereby anathema. to engage in "feminine" things such as therapy, getting a hug from a friend, or crying - it is giving up ones manhood. therefore women need to be put in their place to ensure that masculinity is protected.
this is something i have struggled to explain to terfs - they are not doing the work of feminism, but rather the patriarchy. by asserting that women and men must be (on some secret level) oppositional and in conflict, they also assume that being a woman is akin to being another species. but bigotry does not stem from observational truths or clarity - that is what makes it bigotry. there was nothing in my childhood that made me fundamentally different from my brother. we are treated differently nonetheless. to assert there is some biological drive that enforces my gender role is to assert that women have a gendered role. men do not see women as equal to them not because of biological reality - but instead because the core tenant of the patriarchy is that women aren't full, realized people.
we are told from a very young age to excuse misbehavior as a single man's choice - not all men. it is not all men, just that one guy. all women are gold-digging bitches who belong in the kitchen - but if a man is mean, bigoted, or violent to you, it's just that particular guy, and that means nothing about men-as-a-whole. it is only one guy who got mad when you gently rejected him. it is only one guy who warns her this trophy is heavy, are you sure you can hold it? it is only one guy who smashes her face into the cake. it is only one guy talking into a mic about hating our bodily autonomy.
i have just found that they often wait until the moment we actually seem to be upstaging them. you sit in a meeting where you're presenting your own findings and he says get me a coffee? or you run to the end of the marathon and are about to finish first and he pushes your kids out in front of you. you win the chess game and they make some comment akin to well, you're ugly away. we can be the billionaire and get the dream life and finally fucking do it and yet! still! they have this strange, visceral urge to say well actually, if you think you're so great -
it's not one just one guy. it's one in eight.
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joelsgoldrush · 1 month ago
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“crawl home to her” | 7.5k
old man!logan x f!reader
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SUMMARY: Will he be able to control himself once he's near you? In this moment, he feels more animal than human. Creeping, on the verge of crawling, back to you. OR Like a sinner seeking absolution, he finds his way back to you after every absence, as if you're the only salvation he's ever known.
WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni smut 18+ cursing. drinking. dirty talk. some fluff. comfort. feelings. self-deprecation. miscommunication. sort of established relationship. age gap (reader's in her late 20s). petnames. religious imagery. logan's POV. chauffeur!logan. dom!logan. reader wears logan's dog tags and clothes. pussy pronouns. phone sex. oral sex (f and m receiving). 69. fingering. masturbation (he jerks off in the limo). one (1) single spank. sort of rough sex. unprotected p in v. creampie.
A/N: i wrote this as a part 2 of this story, but still, it can be read as a standalone (i'd recommend that you also read the first part as well 👀 you'll understand their relationship better). hope you like this one! <3
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Logan is tired. Bone-deep, soul-crushingly tired.
He takes a slow, deliberate drag from his cigar, letting the smoke curl inside his chest, teasing his lungs. Doesn’t even bother to crack the window open—why would he?—before exhaling, the haze lingering inside the limo like a fog.
One quick glance at his phone screen just to make sure his vision isn’t screwing him over—no older notifications. A pang of disillusionment settles in his being.
Not only is he fighting to keep his eyes open, exhausted from driving the same family around for the past few days while they enjoy their quality time, but he’s also bored out of his mind. 
Where the hell are you?
He adjusts his glasses, pushing them higher up on the bridge of his nose, preventing them from sliding down to his lap. When his phone buzzes, he jolts, nearly hitting his head on the roof of the limo due to his excitement.
His poor heart gallops as he fumbles with the screen, unlocking it with the same urgency as a man starved for contact.
But it’s not you. It’s one of his passengers.
We’re getting out in half an hour, the message reads. By we, she means herself, her husband, and their two kids.
Logan can’t bring himself to type an actual reply, so he leaves her on read. She knows he’s not going anywhere, parked outside the arcade as if he’s rooted in place with no way out.
Family after family enters that hell on earth, kids of all ages bouncing on their heels, voices shrill with enthusiasm. He watches, half-heartedly, as parents get dragged by their little ones, who negotiate how much money they are allowed to spend tonight.
He almost feels bad for those parents. Almost. He hopes that at least they know how to say ‘No’.
All in all, he’s got another thirty minutes of solitude ahead. The radio has long since ceased to entertain him. He’s been parked here for two hours, and his mind is starting to drift. He could stretch his legs, walk around, or maybe grab a drink—but damn it.
He wants to talk to you.
You’d said he could call you after dropping the family off. That was three hours ago. The last message he received from you was still stuck in his head, replaying over and over like a lifeline. Logan knows you must be busy, probably taking care of Charles and—
Okay, he’ll get back to that later. 
You: Just got out of the shower. Call me in five?
Right now, he could die a happy man. Were he a dog, his tail would be wagging furiously, anticipation already building for the simple joy of hearing you.
Logan: Got it.
The next five minutes feel like an eternity. He finishes his cigar, flicking the stub beneath the seat without giving it a second thought. For now, he doesn’t care about being a messy fucker. He’ll deal with the mess some other time.
Priorities.
A quick spritz of some cheap air freshener he picked up from a gas station fills the car, masking the distinctive scent of smoke. God forbid the kids start whining about how ‘weird’ it smells in the limo.
With a grimace, he sprays a little more—floral, of all scents? It feels insulting.
How kind of him to still be this considerate.
His thumb hovers over your contact, and he presses the call button with an agility he hasn’t had in years (thanks to you).
One, two, three rings, and then—
“Logan,” you say softly, your voice a little breathless, like you’ve been hurrying all over the place.
He stops grinding his jaw, the tension in his shoulders easing. He unclenches his fists, fingers uncurling one by one, as if letting go of some invisible burden.
Outside the vehicle, people stop dying, babies stop being born, and the world itself pauses just for him to listen to you.
You can’t see him, but he smiles either way. “Hey, baby.”
“Gosh, I’m so sorry. I lost track of time talking to Charles. We had dinner, and then I just—I felt so gross, you know? From cooking and all that. Took a shower, and it got pretty late.”
You end with a sigh, and he imagines you rubbing a hand over your face. “Please tell me you weren’t sleeping when I texted you.”
“Not even close. Still waiting for them.”
“They’re really taking their time, huh?”
“You wouldn’t believe it,” he murmurs, his fingers drumming a soft rhythm on the steering wheel. “How was your day?”
“Great! I’m already in bed.”
“My bed.”
You laugh, that sweet sound making his heart stutter. “Well, yeah. Where else do you want me to sleep if I’m at your place? On the floor?”
If someone had told Logan a year ago that he’d let someone live in his space, let alone take care of Charles, he’d have scoffed. "Pathetic," he’d have said, rolling his eyes with that familiar growl in his throat. Pretty sure he’d also puffed his chest while saying so.
Because Logan Howlett wasn’t one for accepting help. He’s been on his own since the earth was still cooling down.
But for you? He made exceptions. Plenty of them. And if it weren’t for your altruism, he wouldn’t have accepted this job—a job that pays well enough to cover Charles’ meds and put food on the table. He needs this rich family’s money.
“You’ve got a girlfriend now?” Charles had asked, when Logan explained he’d be staying with you while he went away for a few days.
“Big word you’re using there,” Logan had replied, placing two pills into Charles’ palm. The old man gave him a death stare. “Don’t play dumb. It’s not like you don’t know the drill.”
Mumbling something incoherent before swallowing the pills, Charles had taken slow sips of water between each one, sinking back into the mattress with a weary sigh. “If she’s not your girlfriend, then what is she?”
“A friend.”
“That’s nice. Is that what they’re calling it now?”
He shakes that memory away, forcing his mind back to the call. “Try not to be so kind to him. What if he falls in love with you?” he inquires, a mocking tone weaving through his words. 
And that’s when you drop the bombshell. “You mean like you did?” 
You laugh, but Logan… doesn’t. He can’t do it. He makes sure he’s breathing on command: in and out, in and out, in and out. 
The mention of love unsettles him. He doesn’t feel safe anymore, doesn’t know what game you’re playing. Where’s the rulebook?
Is he—could he be—falling in love with you? Is that what you’re implying? And if so, do you feel the same?
In the long run, you mumble: “It was a joke.” Only then do his lungs fill with fresh air, untainted by the weight of his unease. But he can’t let it pass, the fact you sound disappointed. Defeated.
He promised himself he’d never hurt you. Though he doesn’t intend to, it feels as if he’s just stabbed you in the back, twisting the knife further into your frame—unwillingly.
“Remember the—” he pauses a moment, throwing his head back in frustration, silently cursing himself. “The pills. You’ve been giving them to him, right?”
“Yes, Logan.”
“Please, remember it’s only—”
“Logan,” you try again, cutting through the wave of his spiraling thoughts. He can picture you behind closed lids, looking at him through your lashes, your hand resting gently on his chest. “I have it under control, okay? He’s doing alright. I swear I’m taking good care of him.”
“I don’t doubt that, honey.” Casting a glance at the rearview mirror, he feels an unexpected sense of longing for your presence there, like a ghost haunting his every move, confined to the limits of his brain. “Can’t help but worry. That’s all.”
A soft hum reverberates through the line. He hears the rustle of sheets, the sound of you tossing around in his bed, and his pulse quickens at the thought.
“You said you’re sleepin’ on my bed.”
“Good memory you have.”
“You wearin’ my clothes as well?”
 Thick silence, the kind he relishes.
“Yeah,” you finally reply, shifting the phone from side to side. You take a deep breath, and add: “I forgot to bring mine.”
He hates how you easily find a way to get him riled up despite being miles away. It must be the power of words.
“I don’t believe you.” He knows he shouldn’t, hates himself for doing it, but one of his hands palms the half-hard bulge in his black slacks, suppressing a low groan. “Think you did it on purpose.”
A rush of heat, sharp and urgent, washes over him. Is he really about to do this? Get himself off in the very car he uses for work? Twisted, incredibly sick of him, he thinks.
Still, he craves more. “Tell me what you’re wearing.”
You laugh at his demanding tone, fanning the flames of his desperation. “When did you turn into a horny teenager?”
“Always been, baby,” Logan purrs, undoing the button of his pants, followed by the fly. His eyes flick upwards for just a moment—no cars, no one in sight. He’s presumably alone. It’s all the confirmation he needs to say: “C’mon. Tell your old man what clothes you stole from him.”
He’s never done this before—phone sex. He’s heard about it, sure, but never imagined he’d fall so hard for the idea. The thrill of it sinks into him, electrifying.
What are you doing? Is your lip caught between your teeth? Do your eyes wander down your own body? Maybe your fingers are already skimming over your skin.
“It’s just a random shirt,” you murmur. “Plain, white.”
“What else?”
“There’s nothing else.”
Logan’s breath hitches as his hand moves to his cock, spotting the damp patch on his briefs where the tip has already started to leak. The moment he slides the elastic down past his balls, he fists his shaft in a slow stroke, going from the base to the head. “No panties? And you expect me t’believe this wasn’t planned?”
Your muffled whimper is like molten lava spilling into his ear, bringing him to full hardness. More shuffling follows on your end, driving him wild with the anticipation. “Why do you do this to me if you’re not here?”
“‘Cause I want you touchin’ yourself just like I’m doin’.” He thumbs the head, hips jerking involuntarily at the sensation. He aches to feel your mouth there instead. “Bet that pussy’s been cryin’ out for me, huh? Must’ve got used to me fillin’ her every other night.”
Your breathing grows more uneven, small gasps filtering through the speaker. “I need you here with me. This is—ugh—not enough.”
“What’s not enough, sweetheart?”
There’s a pause as the sound of your phone shifts again, and then he hears it clearly—the wet, needy sound of your fingers working between your legs, filling the silence with the loud squelching of your cunt. “My fingers,” you blurt out, more distant than before, like you’re merging with the bed, dissolving with every touch.
Logan spits roughly into his palm, the slickness of his saliva easing the drag of his calloused hand along his length, good enough to make the movement more satisfying.
He moans aloud, eyes shut tight, your name slipping from his lips, a whispered prayer, as if saying it could somehow summon you to his side. “I spoil you too much,” he rasps, wedging his phone between his ear and shoulder, using every resource available to him, anything to feel something real. “Seems like you’ve forgotten how to make yourself come.”
Your moans follow his, the breathy sounds a clear sign of how close you are, hanging on the edge, your release just a heartbeat away. But it’s not enough, and you need him. He wonders if you can feel his thoughts from miles away, because— “Want your cock so bad, Lo. I m-miss you.”
He has to stop jerking himself to hold off his orgasm, stomping his foot against the pedals. “Fuck, darlin’. You keep sayin’ those things and I swear I’ll be back with you by morning.”
His sole focus now is you—getting you to come. Driven by his growing frenzy, it’s the only coherent thought that claws through the haze in his mind. “Keep talking, please,” you plead, fingers still lost in the heat of your body. “Tell me what you’ll do to me when you see me.”
Logan picks up the rhythm again, his movements faltering as his chest heaves, ragged breaths spilling out while his hand works faster. “Gonna fuck you slow and deep, just how you like it. Face to face, so you can kiss me as much as you want, ‘cause I know my girl loves that, am I right?”
My girl. He’ll regret that one the second the high fades and clarity sets in.
Word after word falls from his lips without thought, uncontrollable, as though he’s surrendered to the storm of desire raging in his being—a storm in which your name is the eye of it all.
You are everywhere, and you take up all the empty spaces he thought were impossible to fill, sinking into the depths of his unconsciousness.
Not a single part of him is left untouched by you, by the power of your presence in his life, consuming him in ways he never imagined.
Your airy mewls ripple through the line, feeding his ravenousness, adding to the tightening knot of pleasure coiling low in his abdomen. His muscles strain, thighs tensing. Each stroke of his hand prolongs this sweet torture. 
“Come for me, princess. You’d make me so h-happy if you came right now.”
And you do, because it’s not just his touch anymore—it’s his voice, and the way he commands you without force. How you’ve become accustomed to him, nodding along to each instruction he mutters.
Beneath your fingers, your swollen clit pulses, and though he can’t see it, he imagines it perfectly, having spent enough time worshiping it.
He knows, even from a distance, what your body must be doing. Your back arching off the bed, thighs quivering and clenching tight around your own hand. Those perfect legs of yours trembling as you reach your so-desired climax.
Loud and unrestrained, you moan, and for a moment, he wants to be with you so badly that he ponders if the theory of traveling across time and space sounds that far-fetched after all.
Logan doesn't need much after that for the thread to snap at long last, his groans dying on his lips as he stares in awe at the spurts of his seed landing wherever his eyes fall: a bit on the top of his pants, on his hand, his briefs. His cock twitches in his grip as he continues stroking himself through the aftershocks, gulping when it becomes too much to handle.
So phone sex is off the list now. Great.
“Miss you, too,” he mumbles once he’s caught his breath, tossing his glasses onto the passenger seat. His forehead feels damp to the touch, and he contemplates when was the last time he came this hard.
The elephant in the room hasn’t been addressed yet. He knows you expect him to say more, something deeper and rawer, but that’s all he can force himself to spit out.
Sometimes, he forgets that you can’t read him all the time. Although you know him better than anyone else, there are certain thoughts and memories locked tightly inside him, things you'd never discover on your own. Secrets he admits he should share with you, but he’s at a loss for how. Words aren’t doable when he needs them the most.
Maybe it's a matter of age—you’re a natural at voicing your feelings.
At some point, you ask: “When did you say you were returning?”
One thing’s clear: he can’t afford to lose you. He’d be an idiot if he let that happen.
“In five days, I think.” Were he with you, he'd hold you in his arms, kissing your lips. God, how he misses kissing you. All of you. “I’ll keep you updated.”
“It’s okay,” you respond, and in his mind, a blank canvas fills with the familiar image of you lying on your side, curling into a ball the way you always do. “I should go to sleep. Talk to you tomorrow.”
“Sure.” Thank you for everything. “Get some rest.” Are you still in love with me? “Bye.” I’m coming back. You know how I feel about you, do you?
So much left unsaid, words he lacks the strength to speak. That, along with his come-stained clothes. And, of course, the limousine now perfumed like a flower shop.
Exhaustion clings to him again.
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His luck has never been this good.
The next afternoon, one of the couple’s kids falls ill. Must be something he ate, the woman tells Logan, her voice light, though he can hear the shuffle of urgency behind her words.
Her husband packs their bags in the background, the muted thuds of luggage hitting the floor. You know how children are. Their hands are always filthy!
What she doesn’t realize is that Logan, in fact, doesn’t know how children are, because how could he?
He’s holed up in the hotel across the street, his only responsibility being to wait on their call, ready to drive whenever they needed him. Needless to say, his accommodations are nothing like theirs. Not that he minds it—he’s not one for luxury, has never needed it.
Truth be told, he’s no stranger to beds that groan if you shift slightly, clogged toilets that spit back water like they’re alive.
Joy rushes through him when he hears the news. He’s coming back earlier than expected, a thrill building in his chest. Twelve days he’s been away, his greed growing with each second in that desolate hotel room.
Now, the beating of his heart quickens, a faint thrumming as he stares out the window. He debates whether to let you know about his early return or keep it as a surprise. Would it be better if he just showed up?
How would you feel, knowing that, by the time the lights are out, he’ll be yours again?
He knows he should feel sorry for the poor kid, but all he can muster is a look of concern that barely reaches his eyes. Each time they pull into a gas station, he listens to the hurried slap of footsteps as the boy rushes for the bathroom to empty his insides.
He watches in the rearview as the kid’s father shakes his head, clicking his tongue with disapproval. “Do you have kids?” he asks, his voice forced into a casual tone, like he’s trying to break the silence that’s settled between them. 
Logan’s only response is to turn up the radio, some pop song he’s never heard spilling from the speakers. The lyrics are a blur of nonsense to him, but it’s enough to drown out the man’s words and the boy’s misery.
Some things never change.
As the sun dips below the horizon, he’s finally free, no longer at anyone’s beck and call. He contemplates the possibility of getting a speeding ticket, weighing his options. It hardly matters. The pull to see you, to feel you, is stronger than anything else.
Even though he tries to think of another time in his life when he felt such a raw need, no memory comes close.
When he does pull up to his place, he does it quietly. Parking the limo, he doesn’t honk, doesn’t announce himself. Fumbling with the keys ever so lightly so as not to wake you up, fitting them into the lock.
His wrist twists, and the door gives way with a soft creak.
Anxiety ripples through him as he steps inside. The smell of freshly cooked food hits him, but it only tightens the knot in his stomach, reminding him of how long it’s been since he last ate.
Later, he tells himself. After. Once he’s sated his true hunger—the kind of hunger that can only be satisfied by sinking his fingers into something real, fleshy, malleable. 
Hunger—yes, it’s animalistic, feral even. Will he be able to control himself once he’s near you? In moments like this, he feels more animal than human. Creeping, on the verge of crawling, back to you.
His feet take him to his bedroom, knowing the path to it very well. Fingers hovering over the knob, he takes a deep breath.
It’s already late, past midnight, yet energy courses through his veins as though he’s just woken from a long, ethereal dream.
He finds you asleep, your body wrapped snugly in the sheets, clutching a pillow close to your chest. Your cheek is pressed into it, breathing soft and steady, lulling him in. Kneeling on the edge of the bed, he kicks off his shoes, then slips in beside you, mirroring your position. 
A lamp sits on his nightstand, one that isn’t his, and he figures you must have brought it from your apartment. There has to be a symbolism for that.
It’s incredible how his entire world can fit into such a narrow bed.
The smart thing would be to let you sleep, to simply watch you for a moment longer. But he can’t help himself.
His thumb lingers near your face before gently cupping your cheek, and the very first contact with your skin sends a shudder through him, the warmth of your skin grounding him. He trails his fingers down to your chin, holding it with just enough pressure to remind himself that he’s here.
Leaning in, he presses his lips softly against your forehead, your typical perfume wrapping around him like a welcome.
Welcome home, Logan.
For the first time, he feels that someone’s been counting down the minutes until his return. He’d always believed a person like him didn’t deserve this. That he just wasn’t built for it.
Countless years had he spent convincing himself he’d never be the kind of man who could inspire love. His life had already been written long ago—predetermined by some cruel hand in the sky.
Destiny, fate, call it what you want—once the cards are laid out, there’s no escaping them. Or so he used to think.
You had taken that pen into your own hands, rewriting his future. You, of all people, had changed his life. No matter what the future held for the two of you, he’d always be grateful. Grateful that you’d seen the dim spark in him that others had chosen to ignore.
Thoughtlessly, his fingers continue their gentle strokes along your cheek, your hair. You stir beside him, shifting in your sleep. Your eyes flutter open, close again, and then open once more, blinking in confusion.
“Logan?” you croak, voice still groggy and thick with sleep, coming to your senses. Before he can respond, you throw yourself on top of him, smothering his face with kisses. “Why—how—”
“Sweetheart,” he says, attempting to hide his grin, but failing when your kisses shift to his neck, your nose nuzzling against his skin. A laugh slips out, warmth flooding his chest.
“You didn’t tell me you were coming home early!”
Home. Had he heard right? Had you used that word knowingly?
Peering into your eyes, he catches his reflection in your pupils, tiredness etched into his features. “Wanted it to be a surprise.”
“You could’ve told me,” you reply, fingers threading through his greying locks, massaging his scalp. You place a tender kiss on the tip of his nose. “I would’ve waited up for you at least.”
“Well, I’m here now,” he whispers back, gaze drifting to your lips, and you close the space between you, his sigh mingling with yours as one hand cradles the small of your back, fisting the fabric of his shirt. His other hand tilts your head, inviting your tongues to greet each other in an unhurried dance.
You move languidly on top of him, and he notices, breaking the kiss and pulling back. “You’re gonna fall asleep on me, are you?”
The way your lashes flutter in response should be illegal. “I could use a human-size pillow.”
“I should shower first.”
“No.”
“Baby, I smell like gas.”
“So?”
A smirk tugs at his lips at your insistence, and he gently lays you back against the mattress. Drawn to your charm once again, he licks into your mouth, mentally scolding himself when he gets carried away, letting the kiss linger longer than intended.
“I’ll be quick,” he promises, pulling the sheets over your body. Resigned, you simply nod, settling on your side.
Ten minutes later, you’re dozing off, teetering on the edge of unconsciousness when he slips into bed, wrapping himself around you from behind. One arm drapes over your waist, the other cushions your head, and there’s not a patch of skin between you left untouched.
Fatigue begins to delve deeper into his bones the longer he stays curled around you, but before the weight of sleep takes him, and the silence steals his chance, he huffs: “I missed you.” His beard grazes your skin in a soft, unintentional caress.
You pull his wrist to your lips, pressing a short-lived kiss to the inside of it. “Missed you, too.”
How the roles have reversed.
In the quietness of this starless night, you leave him no other choice but to believe you.
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3:34 a.m. Still hostage to the lack of light outside. The world remains submerged in the gentle tides of sleep, undulating between dreams, except for him.
Logan wakes up at 3:34 a.m. because he’s rock hard, and being flushed against your back wasn’t helping him with his situation at all. If anything, it only heightened it.
He sits at the edge of the bed, his mind running in circles, debating whether he should jump to his feet and head to the bathroom for another shower—this time, a cold one. Returning to sleep, at least in this moment, is not a viable option.
His gaze drifts to the moonlight spilling through the window, casting its pale glow across the room. Is this your doing? The question lingers, unshakable, in his thoughts. It remains as just that: a question.
When you quietly rest your chin on his shoulder, he stifles a sigh, biting the inside of his cheek. Your voice breaks through the quiet.
“What’s wrong? Can’t sleep?” Wrapping your arms around him from behind, you circle his frame, in an effort to persuade him to sink back into the mattress.
“It’s nothing,” he says, pulse accelerating. Please, don’t look down. “I’ll be back in a second.”
“But what is—”
He doesn’t get to hear the rest of your sentence. You do look down, finding the outline of his hardened cock straining against his briefs, stealing your full attention.
“Wow.”
“Go back to sleep.”
“And leave you like this?” One hand creeps toward his waistband, your breath warm against his ear. “Wouldn’t miss this for anything in the world.”
Your nails trace a path through the coarse hair at his navel, and Logan tenses. His legs feel like jelly as you cup his balls, fondling them gently between your fingers.
Behind him, your low chuckle stirs something primal in him, making his blood thrum hot beneath his skin. He should be the one doing this to you, not the other way around.
“Darlin’, I don’t—” He’s cut off by his own guttural groan when you fist his length, pumping him in rhythm with his uneven breaths. “I don’t need this.”
“Seems like you do,” you whisper, momentarily halting your ministrations to place your palm in front of his face, hoping he takes the hint. You kiss his stubble, pausing just short of his mouth. “I want to take care of you. Always do.”
Your palm hovers before him, inviting. Grabbing your wrist, he licks it, coating it in his spit and guiding you back down to him. Together, your hands glide along his length, and his gaze locks onto yours, the intensity of it making his neck tense.
You beam with delight under his stare. That red organ caged within his ribs—a blood-pumping machine of passion—surges back to life as he sees you.
He had won the battle. He had triumphed over his past; had lived enough lives, endured enough years, to arrive at this moment.
This had to be the purpose of his existence: to share this part of his stay on earth with you.
“You’re so hard,” you say, twisting your wrist at the tip of his cock, reveling in every buck of his hips, each movement a reflection of his exaltation. “Guess you did miss me.”
With a quiet growl, he reaches behind, nudging your thighs apart until they find your mound, cupping you through your underwear. “I’m not the only one who’s been missin’ someone.” He pulls the fabric aside, sliding his fingers through your wet folds. His nostrils flare as he feels how ready you are. “Why am I not surprised?”
Your breath hitches, and you press yourself closer against him, your tits against his back, mouth teasing at his neck. “That’s what happens when you’re gone.” Another kiss on his nape. “You could take me with you next time.”
“Can’t do that,” he answers, teasing your entrance. “No work would get done.”
His movements cease to a stop. Yours do too. Turning his head just enough to glance over his shoulder, he scrutinizes your expression, pride swelling in his chest as he takes in your affected state.
“You’re not goin’ back to sleep, are you?”
There’s the shake of your head. A single word escapes your lips, imbued with pure fervor: “Please.”
He captures your mouth in an ardent kiss, tugging at your shirt (which is, in fact, his) to undress you, his wandering hands roaming beneath it.
As his mouth meets your neck, something cold brushes against his lips, drawing his gaze down to what’s hanging from your neck.
His dog tags. The ones he had given you before leaving for that job, as his way of telling you I’m coming back without having to say it aloud. And you, as always, understood; had even promised to keep them safe, though he hadn’t expected you to actually wear them.
Now, with your shirt discarded, they lay against your bare skin, his name resting in the valley between your breasts.
“You like ‘em?” His fingers grip the chain and give it a gentle tug, drawing you closer so he can breathe over your lips, his breath mingling with yours. “Like knowing you’re mine? You get off on it?”
You nod in agreement. Of course, you do. Though emotionally constipated and not the most expressive, Logan is a lover who knows how to awaken desire—a good lover, indeed. A decent one.
Which is why he agrees to any idea that crosses your mind, like the one you just whispered in his ear.
He may be older than you, but he’s always been more on the traditional side. You, on the other hand, are continually searching for new ways to innovate.
The round globes of your ass jiggle over his face as he spreads you apart, entrenched by how your skin moves above him, your glistening hole clenching around nothing, as if your body itself is calling to him.
With his head propped against the headboard, he watches you take him deeper, your saliva dripping down the wiry hairs of his cock. The slick heat of your tongue traces over his slit, back and forth, driving him to the edge.
When he hears you gag, it stirs something inside him—a deep need to return the favor, to match your devotion.
At the end of the day, he’s a man on a mission, and right now, that mission is you.
Right there, with his nose and mouth buried in you, he wonders why he hadn't thought of this sooner. If he could choose a natural end like any other man, he'd wish for it to be by suffocation—your body his last breath.
Logan inhales deeply, like a man starved, working two of his fingers inside your throbbing center, his tongue flicking relentlessly over your clit, punching moan after moan out of you. Each thrust of his fingers, each stroke of his tongue, sends waves of pleasure coursing through you.
His beard, streaked with gray, leaves a trail of fire wherever your hips meet his face, pushing back against him. Every so often, you pull off his cock just to ramble, panting, about how good he's making you feel.
From where he lies, you’re a sight to behold, nothing short of divine. “Just what I needed, doll. You taste so fuckin’ sweet,” he blurts out, your frantic cries pouring into his ears as he sucks the swollen bud between his lips. “Can’t believe you let me do this to you. You love makin’ your old man happy, don’t you?”
He used to think he'd burn in hell for indulging in the desire to know you like this—raw, ungraceful.
His judgment must be fucked up, because now, all he sees in you is heaven incarnate. You must be the closest thing to it he’ll ever find.
“Shit, I…” you trail off, gasping as he replaces his fingers with his tongue, drinking from your arousal and tasting every bit of you. “I thought about you every day.”
“Bet you did, just like that night I called you. You know how I felt when you told me you were wearing my clothes?” His hand comes down with a firm slap on your right asscheek, drawing a whine from you as your movements falter. “Can smell you all over these sheets. Makes me wonder how many times you made yourself come while I was away.”
You slip the tip of his cock back in your mouth, your hands and lips working in sync. His nose brushes against the plush skin of your thighs before his teeth graze your flesh, biting down just enough to leave a sting. His fingers curl inside you, hitting that perfect spot again and again, and you moan around him, your throat vibrating against his length.
He makes you come like this, knuckles deep inside you while his thumb circles your clit. Overwhelmed by pleasure, you let go of his dick, and it hits Logan’s stomach with a wet pop. His strong arms tug you closer to his face, eyes falling closed as you ride the wave of your orgasm against his mouth, palms pressed flat on his chest.
For a brief moment, he can’t breathe, can’t feel anything but you, your scent, your taste filling his senses.
Later, he rolls you onto your back and climbs on top of you, uncertain of how much time he has spent lapping at your wetness. His hard length glides along your folds, and he lines himself up without pushing in, looking right into your eyes. 
“Remember what I told you that night over the phone?” he asks, his breath coming in quick bursts, and you nod, head lolling back as he pinches your lower lip between his fingers. “Repeat it.”
“Logan—”
“You say it, and I’ll make it happen.”
Perplexity clouds your features. “You said you’d fuck me slow and deep, just h-how I like it. Face to face, because—”. The words escape you, a sob tearing through your throat as he eases the first few inches of himself inside you, your walls instinctively making space to wrap around him.
He’s home.
“Go on. What else did I say?” he teases, relishing in it. He’s guilty as sin. “Or were you too lost in thought touchin’ yourself?”
“F-face to face,” you slur, nails digging into his scarred back, and he keeps plunging his length into your interior to the hilt. Your lips part slightly, craving the kiss that only he can give you. “You said you’d do it face to face so I could kiss you whenever I wanted.”
He hums, low in his throat, as he gives the first thrust of the night, taking great pleasure in your expression: open-mouthed, eyes scrunched, and a slight crease forming between your brows.
Smoothing his thumb over your forehead, he tsks, pausing his movements. “None of that, princess. Look at me, c’mon.”
You obey, forcing your eyes open, and in that instant, he swears he can feel every tremor coursing through you. “Logan,” you coo, your voice aching as you stretch your neck toward his mouth.
The way you say his name—seductively, charged with a fascination that riles him up—manages to ignite a fire only you can kindle. It’s all the invitation he needs.
“I know. Too much, huh?” His tone drips with condescension, teasing in a way that feels almost cruel. He can’t help it, though: it’s in very his nature. “Need to hear you say it. Need you to tell me how much you want this.”
Like everything else in your world, your patience begins to wither, hips instinctively bucking beneath him, seeking even the slightest bit of friction. But he still withholds the kiss you long for, dangling it just out of reach.
“Please,” you beg, voice breaking as you plead. “Fuck me, baby. Missed you so much while you were away. Please, please, please—”
Logan enjoys hearing you beg. He won’t pretend otherwise. There's a satisfaction in knowing he holds this power over you, that he's the only one who can unravel you this way, your body splayed open beneath him.
The thought of others who may have once been in his place, making you fall apart just like this, sets his blood on edge.
Jealousy, sharp and corrosive, crawls up his spine, and it spurs him on, guiding the tempo of his thrusts.
He wonders if he’s ever fucked you this fiercely before, with a passion that pulses from every part of him. You’re given no space for thought, no moment to catch your breath—just his unforgiving pace and the sounds spilling from your lips.
He has a way of breaking you down, turning you into a trembling, whimpering mess beneath him, and you surrender willingly, craving each second of it.
So fuckin’ tight. Can y’hear her? How badly she needs me?
Sex had never felt like this before. He’d grown accustomed to quick, meaningless fucks in poorly lit bars, fleeting encounters that left him questioning if this was all there was. If this wasn’t the best he’d ever know. 
For a while, he’d tried to solve that emptiness, searching in nameless lovers and hollow hearts for the very thing he feared most: love.
And yet, he wanted it, yearned it, guarding his desire like a secret he barely admitted to himself. Until one day, you stumbled into his life, and all the strength he thought he had wasn’t enough to push you away.
He presses deep into the back of your thighs, bringing your chests so close they're nearly brushing. Claiming your mouth in a maddening kiss, all teeth and tongue, leaving no space for softness. As he nibbles at your bottom lip, he feels you tighten around him, your cunt pulling him under, clouding his thoughts.
“Close?” he murmurs, hips snapping against you with an utterly obscene rhythm that drowns out the world, better than any song ever made. “Such a good girl. Gonna come, sweetheart? Let me see how gorgeous you look when you fall apart, making a mess just for me.”
The constant, steady drag of his cock doesn’t seem to get old for you. He’s leaving his mark within you, inside you, carving a space for himself. His tip keeps hitting all the right spots, prompting you to tilt your pelvis to meet him halfway, telling him there, yes, there. More, please.
His hand slides down, rubbing your clit with his fingers. Doesn’t need any extra help when doing so, your arousal providing all the slickness he needs. He feels like a runner on the final stretch, the finish line within reach, so close he can almost touch it, savoring the euphoria and bliss of crossing it.
The way you sing his name never loses its allure, despite all the times he’s heard it spill from your lips. Especially at this moment, with him buried deep inside you, every thrust a promise to make you feel good.
You shamelessly come while he keeps driving into you, vigorous and untamed—like a caged animal unleashed, tasting freedom for the very first time.
Ankles digging into his lower back, a trail of persistent kisses along his beard. You want him inside, that much he can tell.  It’s not like he ever finishes anywhere else, but the reminder doesn’t bother him. It only serves as a reassurance: that you still want this, want him. You haven’t changed your mind.
He sinks his teeth into your neck the instant he feels his orgasm tearing through him, hips stilling and sagging as a string of grunts abandons his being, dampening your skin even more.  He loves to fill you up, it consumes him entirely.
Such an intimate, visceral act, and then he gets to see his seed trickling down your thighs. He realizes that he doesn’t need much to be happy.
You keep kissing him, his neck, his face. It may seem absurd to say that every kiss feels like the first, yet it’s true.
Even after he’s traced all the contours of your mouth and committed every detail of your body to memory, he can’t help but feel that same thrill of excitement he experienced months ago when he dared to push beyond the boundaries he had set for himself.
Staring at each other, naked, all the love in the world seems to fill these four walls. The compassion and tenderness in your gaze remain unchanged. You’re a dream come true.
It can’t end like this. He can’t allow you to drift back into sleep without saying what needs to be said. Something has to happen, something only he can conjure.
“I think…” He hesitates. Starting with I think carries an air of uncertainty. “I don’t—”
“Logan,” you interrupt, your hand finding his. “I know.”
Yes, you do. You always seem to know everything, but that can’t be enough. He can’t lean on your unspoken understanding of his feelings.
“You still deserve to hear it.”
“It’s not necessary.”
“It is.”
More silence. The moon is the solitary spectator of his upcoming declaration. 
“You were right,” he begins, drawing your intertwined hands closer to his face, pressing a soft kiss on the back of yours. His voice drops to a murmur. It’s not just his body that feels completely exposed anymore; something deeper within him stands bare. “I’m in love with you.”
You scrutinize him as if he’s revealing the secret to eternal life. Again, you kiss his cheek, cupping it gently with your palm.
“It won’t get any better than this. There are no more layers to peel away, okay?” He offers explanations you never even asked for in the first place. “This is what I am.” Much to his dismay, you overlook his choice of words: what instead of who.
He glances away, his gaze landing on the dog tags resting against your skin. The same old guilt threatens to engulf him, as it does each time without fail, and that seems to be your cue to lower yourself to his eye level, eyebrows raised.
“I’m not with you because I’m waiting for you to change. I like you just as you are, Logan. And I want all of you, both the good and bad stuff.” A gentle smile breaks across your face as you stretch your arm to retrieve his glasses from the nightstand. Placing them on your nose, your eyes twinkle with contentment. “Do they look good on me?”
“You don’t need them yet.”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t pull them off.”
“Come here,” he mutters, sighing when you nuzzle his chest, cradling your head between his hands. He ponders what to say, what to do next, but no clear idea sounds promising.
And so it gives you the chance to speak up: “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”
I hope I don’t, he thinks to himself as he brushes your hair away from your face, fingers caressing your temples. I hope I never do.
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dividers by: @/cafekitsune thank you!!! <3
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