Indie OC rp blog. Private and highly selective, queue heavy, slow to moderate activity. Sci-fi based, multi-verse, multi-ship. Penned by Saturn (she/her) 30+, heavy/mature themes present, minors do not enter.
Frequent themes discussed: PTSD, survivor's guilt, chronic pain, nature as therapy, body image issues, becoming who you are.
Given some of the people I write with are pretty spot on when it comes to Logan and some of his quirks and things that are good to know but not as easy to see, I figured I'd explain some of the more uncommon red flags for him, things that can easily be missed or overlooked.
These are serious situations, not just every day things, though they can bleed into every day should he be coming up on an episode or stint where he just can't shake shit off.
While Logan can be described as a man of few words or someone who is rather calculated with the ones he does speak, when he goes silent is when he aught to be checked in on. He was silent the most during recovery in the hospital, when he was holding everything back from those around him. When he felt like he had no right to ask for help through the rebuilding of his world. His niece and nephew were the first people to notice this and try to help him from receding into himself. When he's silent, he's either in mental anguish, physical pain, or lapsing into memories and wanting them to be real again, where he will mildly dissociate from the life he has now.
Silence, for him, is an ever present threat, a very real marker of his total trauma. After he woke up in the hospital from his coma, after he had to hear that nobody was with him, stuck in the neck brace for his own protection, stuck with the horrific pain that meds just couldn't touch, and being told that he was out of a job even though he desperately still wanted to serve his country because it's all he's ever known, silence was his only companion through it all. For better or worse. Silence is never ending grief, pain, and in a way, an odd comfort even if it makes him feel so unbearably lonely. But silence is also one of the bigger tells of his pain, any kind of pain.
The days where he has full body flares, he will not communicate with people. He doesn't want anyone to see him that way, not when he cries at the barest movement, not when he has to have his cane to get up and go to the bathroom, if he even can get up through the day. He won't eat, he won't drink, he'll often times just sleep and dream, or have nightmares and wake up crying and fall into the cycle all over again while he waits out the endless hours. If he can get up and have some sort of movement, he'll use his cane, and he'll be quieter than normal. He won't engage much in conversation, he just endures it to try and be strong when he feels like he's breaking to pieces.
Drinking is a big red flag. Not one or two drinks for social situations, but drinking in excess, especially when he's alone, which is relatively rare but dangerous. Some of the meds he takes shouldn't be mixed with alcohol, but there are times where he seeks it out as a sleep aid. To make the pain and nightmares white out, to make everything blurry and unsteady. When Logan is drunk, he's an affectionate drunk, and he is typically more slow and easily tired out when he drinks, so when he does this, it is with high intent to just drink until he passes out. When he drinks, he finds he doesn't have nightmares, or at least they are nowhere near as potent as they are when he's not, and this is a dangerous thing for him to fall back on when he is triggered. Because that is when it happens, if he's overwhelmed by the PTSD, when he goes out and gets a case of beer or whatever his drink of choice is at the time, goes home, and flops on the couch with it and limited amounts of food or an obscene amount of sweets, and drinks. This is also when he will blatantly ignore texts or calls, or ghost people he would never normally do that to, which is a tell in and of itself.
He has been caught doing this by his military friends before, and they really helped get him back out of it or at least let him drink with careful supervision and rationing, and food, plenty of food and water to dull it all out. His dad has caught him doing it once and it led to a rather emotional moment between the two that they keep to themselves. Logan doesn't want his mom seeing him like that, only his friends, his dad and his sisters have ever caught him during one of those instances and he's grateful for it.
One of the following mornings that he woke up from a drinking binge, he was on the couch holding his grandfather's encased flag to his chest. He's never spoken about that to anyone before and he never intends to. To him, it just shows how broken he is.
[ ϟ ]—– There is a sense of wonder through it all, tangling through the haze that is ever-building desire, and senses register and utterly languidly process the sight and the taste of him.
The workings are almost in tandem with their kisses now, and there is a flare of utterly smug satisfaction, at having that desperation voiced to him, breathed against his lips. Mouth curls faintly, the ghost of an approving smile, before the need to taste and savor more disrupts the curve of it.
' You will have me, all of me.'
As if to both punctuate and reassure the workings of his fingers move with deliberate, deep thrusts, the slickness of them spread over sensitive skin, turning the trap of ringed muscles gleaming and pliant. There is not deliberate chasing of the sensitive spot he knows is there, only a pleasuring glide and spreading, circling the walls clamping down around the digits.
The bite at the plump flesh of his lip has the grin return, faintly and briefly, and the revenge is a deep, savoring kiss, tongue curling around the other, thoroughly tasting him. There are waves of awe mingling through the flares of want; at the beauty, and the sounds, and the surrender that is received, and the god savors every fragment of it, mouthing at skin, throat and collarbone.
And the plea receives a salacious, fierce retort, another kiss taken. Experience guides the god's hands, knowing there would be no saving if he caused pain or discomfort, and a third finger joins the others, thumb stroking firmly over the rimmed flesh to soothe more.
Such assurance is murmured on that throaty voice that has since embedded itself within the confines of his mind for months. Logan manages to hear it perfectly replicated in the confines of his dreams even, and to hear it now, sets him aflame. Combined with the adjustment of Thor's ministrations, how he dives deeper and stretches subtly ever more, Logan allows a whimper to escape, clutching to the god in his arms for support through the waves of desire crashing through him. It's been such a long time since anyone has given him such attentions as this that he is unaccustomed to the length it takes to stretch, to ensure no pain or discomfort.
Somewhere there is a pleasing feeling about Thor's diligence, hidden, however, in a wash of impatience. Ever still, Logan focuses on relaxing his body against the mattress, to relinquish himself to Thor's hold and his influence, the exuberance of their scent beginning to fill the bubble surrounding them, embed itself in the sheets and the pillows. At least it will be a nice lullaby to dreams afterward.
He moans unabashedly into the god's mouth, allowing him to swallow the sound as their tongues dance so eloquently together it felt normal, felt easy. Feeling those lips trail over his skin is a treat that eyes roll back in his head for, the excellence of delicacy and savoring this beginning. All he's ever wanted is in his arms, is holding him, is inside, all around him. And it's a heady mixture of such want he leaks for it, barely holding himself back with the added digit.
Dear boy. Logan could almost ignore the mention of patience in favor of a pout of his lower lip in response to the words. "How unfair of you to call me that so beautifully." Anything with boy at the end, within reason, has Logan on his best, or worst, behavior, give or take the situation at hand. Lips take Thor's in a few desperate kisses only to trail down his jaw, to linger at his ear. "Careful calling me that again, if I'm to last for you." A whisper, shaky and sensual as he licks and suckles the earlobe for his own revenge.
Hearing his smile has become her favorite thing -- well, a close second to seeing it, anyway. Liza can’t remember the last time a person has made her feel this… light, and the crush she’s got on Logan deepens further when she hears him humming and obviously moving through his house. She breathes another quiet laugh as she imagines him hurrying to his kitchen to check his fridge. But it’s the affectionate way he responds to her request to drive safely, the way he calls her babe without thinking, that steals her breath, makes her heart flutter and her smile widen. “Good. See you soon.”
Once the call is disconnected, she sets her phone on the counter and stares at it for several long seconds. “Jesus Christ, I’ve got it so bad.” Liza whispers to nothing in particular, sharing secrets with the cookie dough because she knows it won’t snitch on her. Not that she wouldn’t object to Logan knowing about her feelings, but then anxiety crawls through her, making her worry she’d ruin their friendship, that he just likes things the way they are. But the way he called her babe, the sweetness she’d heard in his voice has her wondering if she even has anything to be anxious about when it comes to Logan.
She’s just taking the dough from the fridge to start laying out another batch while one bakes when she hears tires in the gravel drive, but it wasn’t the usual sound of his truck… wait. Liza hurries to the foyer, heart in her throat as she peeks through one of the skinny windows by the front door, catching sight of Logan strolling up the walkway to the porch -- he drives a motorcycle too?! Liza huffs quietly, attraction stirring as she turns quickly away from the window so she doesn’t get caught snooping. His knock sends her heart racing, and she takes a deep breath before pulling the door open and smiling up at him. “Hey… that was quick. Come in.” She says, reaching for his hand without hesitation and gently tugging him inside, closing the door behind. Liza opens her mouth to say something, comment on the helmet hair and the bike, but she’s interrupted by her timer going off in the kitchen.
“Ah -- cookies. Gotta check these, but you know the deal, make yourself at home. There’s space in the fridge for the milk…” Liza says, hurrying back into the kitchen to turn off the timer that was yelling at her. “I hope the drive wasn’t bad -- I didn’t realize you have a motorcycle, too.” She speaks loud enough that she knows her voice will carry, but not so loud that she feels like she’s yelling as she tugs the oven door open carefully to check the batch of cookies in the oven. Perfect, she thinks with a smile, pulling out the cookie sheet and setting it on the stovetop before she turns to look at Logan, peeling off her strawberry-covered oven mitt and setting it aside with a small smile. “There may be some that are cool enough, but help me with this first.” Liza says, moving back over to where she had been scooping dough onto a waiting cookie sheet, gesturing for Logan to join her.
Logan can't help the smile soon overtaking his face as she guides him into the house by his hand in hers. The sensation sends a warmth spreading through him, going directly to his cheeks in a pink bloom as butterflies gently flutter in his belly. When she lets go, it's almost like he feels a part of him leave with her, but he says nothing after it. Setting his helmet on the nearby table in the entryway, he toes off his boots and sheds his jacket, hanging it on the stand by the door before padding into the kitchen. "There wasn't that much traffic out tonight." Shocking, given the week ahead, the patterns typically hold. But maybe this one was proving to be a bit of a slower one for those in the little town. Not that he was complaining by any means, because it meant he got here faster.
But he watches her briefly as she wanders to the oven to pull out the latest batch of cookies, and his eyes linger probably too long on her form, catching every movement and staring. Only when she turns does he snap out of it, putting the milk in the fridge and then grabbing the little insulated bag he'd come with to the counter where she's recruited him for scooping.
"It smells wonderful in here." He's already got a severe hankering for as many cookies as he can reasonably eat, but as he stands beside her, he smirks. "Behold: my secret dough scooping weapon." With a flourish, he presents an ice cream scoop. "This way, they're all more uniform and it's less messy. Observe." He teases with a smile as he takes the scoop and easily gathers up enough dough within to then pop it on the cookie sheet with a gentle snick of the mechanism flicked with his thumb. "I should hope you're aware, at least a quarter of these cookies will be gone tonight." He says with a serious tone of his voice but a little bit of a mock grin he's trying to stifle for the gag itself. "You're feeding a black hole, here." When it came to sweets, it was painfully obvious when he simply couldn't stop, and cookies are one of his ultimate favorites.
my bigme color ereader is here, i can finally dive back into my kobo ecosystem on a reliable device and have another spot to read my library books aside from my kindle!
One thing I’ve noticed that I want to address, is the way people feel so guilty and feel the need to apologize for being slow at getting to replies or not getting to them at all. And, trust me, I’ve been there (and still catch myself there tbh, i just had this realization a few moments ago and had to share lmao); people feel obligated to others, rather than prioritizing their own well-being. As though we’re somehow responsible for the well-being of everyone else. I see it so much! ♥ And I totally sympathize and understand. But I just want you to know, from what I’ve observed, the vast majority of us feel so obligated to others, and yet most of us (at least the people who respect others free time oh dang yep i’m throwin’ shade) couldn’t care less about others dropping threads, or having a billion drafts, or getting distracted with other things!
We put so much pressure on ourselves for not being machines that can keep up with everything 24/7—which, I mean, would be pretty amazing lmaaaao—but the point is it’s okay to get distracted, and be disorganized, and jump from one idea and plot and thread to the next! It’s okay! ♥ We don’t have to put so much pressure on ourselves! To the point that we torture ourselves with obligation and guilt and forget to check in on our own energy levels. Because I can almost guarantee that most people are too worried about their own feelings of obligation, than the thing we’re stressing ourselves over!
I see people apologizing for caring for themselves, and taking breaks when they need it, and not being ‘fast enough’, and so many other things that the people who truly respect our health and happiness and free time probably aren’t even thinking about. So, if that fits your description, and you still struggle with putting way too much pressure on your own shoulders, and you feel as though you have to care for everyone else before you care for yourself, then this post is for you ♥ And ngl for myself as well, bc I often find myself feeling obligated and responsible for others, even when I’m drained of energy too lolol.
But here it is—not that you even need it—but in case you feel that you do:
You have permission to slack off ♥ You have permission to take breaks! You have permission to drop threads without warning, or to have a billion drafts pile up! You have permission to take care of yourself first, and to be as disorganized and cluttered and lazy as you want! You have permission to be human! And more importantly—you have permission to be yourself! ♥ Your friends and everyone else who truly loves you and respects you wouldn’t want it any other way! You don’t have to feel guilty or obligated for respecting your own energy and needs and if someone tries to make you feel that way, that’s a huge red flag for me tbh ♥ But yes! Please have fun! Please be yourself! Please listen to your own emotions! Because your true friends will always stick by you—not for your writing or your organizational skills or your superhuman ability to have 0 drafts at all times—but for who you are as a person ♥
Truthfully, she did not believe that she would bond with a dragon. Her best hopes for the Threshing was to stay out of the way, and avoid attracting any unwanted attention from some of their more unfriendly cadets. But, only a few minutes after she reluctantly bid farewell to Logan, she feels an inexplicable pull, encouraging her southwards through the woodland to a clearing in the trees.
A gorgeous green dragon is standing there, head tilted to one side, as they examine her with bright, golden eyes. Oh. A deep sense of contentment settles within her, and not a sliver of fear; it is the calmest, most confident she has felt ever since she was forced to walk the parapet. Now, everything makes sense.
Hello, child. Come fly with me.
And Kiara didn't need to be told twice. Excitement pumps through her veins as she scrambles up the dragon's scales, her hands and feet finding purpose as though she has done this all her life. Flying is intoxicating, and laughter bubbles free easily as the dragon introduces herself as Verdisia, and she clings on tightly as she puts her through her paces with sharp turns and sudden dives. But her joy vanishes quickly, when another unfamiliar, deep voice urgently cuts through into her mind.
Logan would be lying if he wasn't looking over his shoulder just a couple times during Threshing. There were a few other cadets who had it out for him, his superiority intimidated them. Even as he watches one of them slink away deep into the valley, Logan refrains from following, from snuffing out the threat. He is not so easily bent.
You're restraint shows competence.
Looking to the voice, where it could have originated had it not vibrated within his skull, he's met with the sight of a copper swordtail slowly emerging from the shadows of dense woods, where his gleam otherwise was concealed. Logan could've easily been it's dinner had he not looked any closer.
Your golden shimmer rivals mine. A loud exhale of breath through powerful nostrils ruffles the foliage around Logan with a dangerous warmth. Such presentations may be tactful. Come. The dragon bends and allows Logan an ease to climb up his front leg, soon finding the seat thereafter, taking flight not a moment later. Diaval, he'd said in introduction once they'd gained the eye of a fair few dragons in the denser areas, a good distraction they could be down the line for the war efforts. Bait, more like Logan thought, and was equally chided by Diaval's mind for strategy.
Such thoughts clouded his mind, the elation of flight adding to a momentary lapse in alertness. How he was catapulted off Diaval's back is a mystery, the world gone black from the impact and the pain his body suddenly succumbed to. He couldn't even scream, it rendered him mute. Coming to on the ground, lush green covered in blood, he can't move. Watching that cadet come over to him, blade raised, only to be impaled from behind by Diaval's tail and forcibly thrown clear across the valley. The piercing roars of two dragons now fighting over him make the world ring in his ears as he lay there, feeling his energy seep and spill out into the wet soil beneath him.
Only briefly as he slowly blinks back the blackness, he spots a shadow descending, and he has not the faintest idea to defend himself. Diaval has been screaming at him to stay awake, to keep blinking, to move something, if he could. So Logan had started tapping his fingers on the ground, even though that was getting harder and harder to do. Little did he know the offending dragon now lay in a heap on the grass, a green dragon moving towards Diaval and they nuzzled softly.
But all Logan could see was Kiara, a halo of gold obscuring the scene before him.
new movie trailer dropped with my boy in it this morning so maybe that will help lift my mood
added some urls to savior to try and curate my space
i'm gonna finish this damn book today, i have like 50 or so pages left even tho the last 100 have felt like 300 why do the last bits of books feel like they take foreverrrrr?
either way, i consumed some media yesterday that unbeknownst to me triggered me and made me very disturbed so we'll see what i end up getting up to today, writing is low on the totem pole unfortunately.
NSFW PROMPTS BUT IT’S JUST RANDOM SHIT I’VE SEEN ON THE DASH LATELY ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
[ CAR ] for our muses to have car sex while it rains
[ THRONE ] for one muse to sit on the other’s face
[ CAPTIVE ] our muses stuck inside due to a storm so they fuck instead
[ SIT ] one muse rides the other while they’re bound to a chair
[ LISTEN ] one muse is blinded folded while they other has their way with them
[ DEPRIVE ] one muse is blind folded and has ear plugs/headphones on for sexy time
[ SWITCH ] the muse who is usually dominate is forced to let the other take charge
[ INTENSE ] our muses have sex to comfort one or both of them after ~trauma~
[ HIGH ] our muses have sex after going through something thrilling
[ INTERROGATE ] one muse teases the other until they open up about emotions or information they have been suppressing, only rewarded with stimulation for every truth and vulnerability they offer
Liza can’t help the breathy giggle when he smirks and says hm like he didn’t hear her -- even though with the way he’s leaning closer, she’s pretty sure he’s just teasing. Something devious shines in his eyes, and she can feel desire slowly crawling through her, a hunger for him more than the grapes, but she enjoys playing along like this. Especially when he says he’s not immune to her. “You enjoyed me teasing you so much you want me to do it again?” She asks, her pulse racing just from the way Logan’s gaze dragged over her body, goosebumps prickling along her skin.
Humming quietly, she drags her nails lightly along his forearm before holding his wrist again. “If you insist… I’m happy to oblige.” Her voice is breathy, cheeks still pink as she leans in to take the grape from his fingers again. Except this time, she closes her lips purposefully around his index finger. This time, she’s much slower to pull away, feeling brazen as she holds his gaze, a needy hum escaping just as she slips her lips from his finger. Liza’s eyes shine with a playful desire, brow quirking slightly as though she were silently asking how’s that for a tease? “Delicious. I don’t think I’ll be able to eat grapes the same after this, though.” She whispers, her heart still rushing in her ears.
Golden brows raise at her question, as if he's silently saying, and...? The smirk still holds residence on his features to keep it all silly and lighthearted despite he's trying to keep the deep desire for her in check. He won't push anything given his current state, even if he wants to. Badly. But he will not put her in that awkward position if he can help it.
But that frays, especially when she teases his forearm with that sensual scrape of her nails, lighting every inch of him on fire. Surely she can see the goosebumps she's raised.
The way her voice gets that breathy touch to it sends him into orbit and he's entranced. Only he struggles to control himself when she oh so deliberately tortures him, but he did ask for it. Didn't he? He can't remember now. With a mighty inhale to come to terms with this self inflicted hell, Logan exhales afterwards. "Neither will I, baby." And then he leans down on his elbow, chin propped in a palm, gazing at her with more than a wanting blush on his face. "Who gave my baby the right to be so tempting?" If he had it his way, well...he's daydreaming already, staring hungrily despite his silly words and affectionate manner, not really pouting, but on the verge.
The softness in the request did nothing to save it. If anything, it made the whole thing more tempting, because there was discipline beneath the words now, desire forced into something deliberate, longing presented carefully instead of spilled at his feet in a mess. Two fingers remained beneath his chin, keeping him lifted, keeping him exactly where he had been placed, while his gaze dropped to that mouth and stayed there with enough intent to turn attention into pressure. Kiss me. Use me. Let me touch. Bold little offerings for someone who had not yet earned the right to reach. ( Greedy thing. Already trying to turn devotion into currency, as if wanting beautifully made him less in need of instruction. Adorable mistake. ) His mouth shifted with cruel satisfaction, because the answer had been given well, and still not well enough.
‘You want to touch me?’
His thumb pressed across the lower lip beneath it, firm and unhurried, less a caress than a reminder of who decided how close was close enough. ( The hand behind Logan’s back became his next point of focus, and Lucien’s fingers closed around the wrist there with quiet possession, claiming the posture already offered and making its meaning unmistakable. ) He leaned nearer, close enough for warmth to become its own aggravation, close enough for want to start making foolish arguments, and withheld the kiss for one last, deliberate second. There was pleasure in that too, in the delay, in refusing to let a pretty request become a shortcut. Touch would be earned. Access would be earned. Even the privilege of indulgence would arrive only when he decided the lesson had taken root.
‘Then learn the difference between wanting and being permitted.’
The kiss came hard, bruising, deliberate enough to make tenderness feel like a rumour for another night. He took that mouth with controlled hunger, with command, with the kind of force that made reward feel indistinguishable from warning.( Fingers tightened around the wrist behind the back to keep the offered posture intact, turning stillness into part of the lesson rather than a pretty decoration. ) He did not offer gentleness. Gentleness could come later, if it was deserved, if the evening allowed it, if patience proved more than a word. For now, the kiss was ownership in motion, granted because Lucien chose to grant it, ended because he chose that too.
‘No.’
The word arrived against that mouth before any pursuit could be attempted, calm, absolute, final enough to cut through whatever heat he had chosen to leave behind. One hand remained at the wrist, the other still held the chin, keeping attention anchored where it belonged. Desire was easy. Desire was everywhere. ( The satisfaction lay in withholding enough to make every nerve remember who held the power, in turning absence into instruction. He would not reward eager hands simply because the request had been lovely. He would not pretend wanting him was proof of obedience. ) That would be indulgent, and indulgence without earning it was how people became terribly smug. His gaze travelled over what he had arranged with open satisfaction, appreciative and exacting in equal measure. Lovely. Dangerous. Trainable, if handled with the right mixture of cruelty and care.
‘You touch when I decide you have behaved well enough to deserve the privilege. Again, pet. Ask for permission. Make it clear you understand that wanting me does not entitle you to a single inch.’
"Do you not get pretty words often?" He's genuinely curious if he's the first one to ask without asking blatantly. When he gets nervous or is unsure, he tends to be more on the poetic spectrum of communication. An odd comfort in this world. There is but a moment where he wonders if speaking like this is also not allowed in the current moment, but he can't care too long. Doesn't have the energy, not when Lucien's gaze, dipped lower, transfixes the veteran in his clutches. Logan goes still, focused entirely on Lucien's unwavering gaze on his lips. It takes everything in him not to wet them with his tongue, but he refrains for whatever reason. As if he's hypnotized by the need to do good, to be approved of.
To be allowed.
"Yes." A mere whisper, not even a full theory of a spoken word, at the other's question of him. Only as the other infringes even more into this sensual space does Logan feel the grip on his wrist, the implication of the silent gesture clear to him. Maintain. This is how he'll be presented from now on, or at least so he thinks, should they play more like this in the future. The image in and of itself makes him swallow anticipation, much like the growing warmth emanating off Lucien's body. So so close, but ever still so out of reach. He tries not to sway on his feet.
The next statement growled out by Lucien is nearly unheard, the anticipation of the kiss fully formed within him just as it is given. The moan that falls from his lips into the other's mouth is without restraint or control, he couldn't hold it back even if he'd tried. All the will in his body goes to remaining upright, strong and rooted to the spot. He will not sway into the man's body, he will not let his knees buckle from the intensity of the kiss boiling him alive. He will feel the full force of this kiss and remember it for all he's worth, telling him immediately where his place is from now on. Only when they part, he's already forcing himself to not give chase, biting his lower lip to make himself go still, catching his breath and drowning in Lucien already, so easily. The demand settles with ease, and hoping he can do right by it, he doesn't lean but yearns already. Body responds with a throbbing and deep breaths to quell the desire pooling and embedding.
Pet. That alone will lead to his undoing, it does something deep in his belly he was otherwise unaware of before now. Spoken on that lilting voice, he's all but helpless against it. Listening entirely to all he's told to do, to say, to confirm. It comes easily.
"Please, may I touch you?" Addressing the first obstacle to his affections, to his sudden compulsion, struggling to be held back but yet still, remains. "I can't touch you no matter how much I want you. You alone allow it, and only after I've proven my worth first. When I want you, I come to you like this, waiting for permission."
