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.
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As they head back towards the door, she carefully keeps her expression soft, neutral - hiding the inordinate amount of relief that was coursing through her. Naturally, she feels responsible for Logan's safety...but, also, she's grown more than a little attached to him during his stay in the hospital. Some patients she bonds with more than others, yet this time seems different, stronger.
"Alright. I'll just see you get settled back into your room then," she suggests the compromise, a hint of a smile playing on her lips as she glances down at their joint hands. She's careful with the amount of her power she sends into him, not wishing to arouse suspision, but there's still a small trickle of warmth - just enough to alleviate some of his pain, and to aid in the healing process. When they're back on to the floor of the ward, it's with reluctance that she gently squeezes their joint hands and then pulls her arm free. "Is there anything I can get you?" she offers, as they approach his room.
The compromise is good, cause he knows she aught to go home and get some rest. He couldn't imagine working as a nurse or doctor, he simply didn't have the stamina for such long hours. But then again, what did that say about a man used to hunting humans on missions days or even weeks long out in the harsh wilderness? He smirks imperceptibly to himself with a shake of his head at where his thoughts had wandered and soon enough, or too soon, she lets go of his hand with a soft squeeze once they emerge from the stairwell.
He misses it instantly, and the sudden warmth that seems to cut itself off when she lets go. He knows he's just tired, surely he's imagining that warmth, but it had become a bit of a comfort of late to experience whenever Kiara was near. When she asks him if he wants anything while they meander back to his room, he can't think of anything off the bat. "Do you read? What's your favorite book?" He'd been introduced to reading since recovery had him staying here for an extended period of time, and he was in need of a new read. He knows it's unorthodox, but maybe he could find it on his kindle or through the library.
@vallorouslly bared their pretty throat :
[ LAVENDER ] sender lays their head in receiver's lap and closes their eyes.
‘Come here, sunshine.’
Aftercare was important, even if Lucien refused to make a speech about it. The room was warm, curtains drawn, restraints already tossed aside with very little ceremony and a glass of water placed within reach because Logan had a habit of forgetting he possessed a body after a session. ( Sweet thing. Completely gone when he wanted to be, and somehow surprised when Lucien noticed. ) Typical, really. Give him a bit of intensity and suddenly common sense wandered off to find someone less dramatic. The scent of lavender oil lingered on his hands, soothing enough, though he’d never say that aloud unless tortured and even then he’d lie for sport.
‘There you go.’
Logan’s head settled in his lap and Lucien looked down at him with quiet amusement, fingers sliding into his hair almost automatically. It wasn’t often he allowed someone to fold into him so easily, but Logan had worked his way into that rare little category of exceptions through sheer persistence and a truly ridiculous amount of affection.( Huh. Look at him. Peaceful for once. Wonders never bloody ceased. ) Eyes closed, breathing slowing, all that sunny nonsense finally dimming into something softer. His thumb brushed near Logan’s temple, slow and careful, checking him over without making the whole thing obvious enough to be accused of fussing.
‘Water in a minute, love. Don’t argue with me, you’ll lose.’
The words were light, though there was little room for debate in them. Aftercare wasn’t optional, especially after Logan had trusted him with that much of himself. Lucien had never been careless with trust once it was placed properly in his hands, however much his mouth tried to convince the world otherwise. ( Purlease. He had standards. If he was going to be tender, he could at least be stylish about it. ) A blanket was drawn over Logan’s shoulders, tucked enough to keep him warm without making the whole thing feel like some dreary little hospital routine. Fingers returned to Logan’s hair as if they had merely paused, smoothing through it with the same steady rhythm.
‘You did well.’
Praise was given without fuss, because Logan needed to hear it and Lucien was not so stubborn that he would withhold something that mattered. Well. Not always. He had his moments.( There was something satisfying about it, though Lucien would rather choke than make it sound precious. ) Blue eyes remained lowered, watching the shift of Logan’s breathing, the faint colour in his face, the way he seemed content to stay exactly where he was. He liked knowing Logan could come back to him like this, trusting him enough to be the hands afterwards alongside the voice during.
‘Very well, actually. Annoyingly so. Keep behaving and I’ll become impossible to live with.’
A faint grin followed as his fingers moved lazily through Logan’s hair again, warmth settling into the space between them. The session had taken plenty out of him, that much was obvious, and Logan being quiet was always a sign worth paying attention to.( Good. About time the little menace let someone else do the work. ) Usually he filled space with light, jokes, touch, anything to keep the world from noticing where he hurt. Now he was simply there, head in Lucien’s lap, eyes closed, letting himself be looked after without turning it into a performance. Lucien leaned back, one hand still in his hair while the other reached for the water.
‘Sip.’
A pause.
‘That was an order, before you try making it cute.’
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Her touch is gentle, and she is careful not to jostle his injury as she examines his hand. The wound is still oozing slightly, but the skin is pink and healthy, and she's confident there is not yet any sign of infection. "It is nice to meet you, Logan," she glances up from his palm to offer him a friendly smile. "Although I'm sorry about the circumstances of our meeting."
She moves away for a moment, opening cupboards and drawers to gather supplies with the rapid efficiency of one entirely familiar and at ease with her surroundings: although she was new to this practice, each doctor's office was very similar to each others. "You're lucky, I don't think you're going to need stitches. I'm going to clean the wound and bandage it again, you'll need to keep it clean and dry for a couple of days," she explains, as she pours a generous amount of antiseptic liquid onto a cotton pad.
"Sorry, this might sting a little," she warns, as she begins to swipe the cotton pad over the wound. But, as her fingertips touch his skin, she allows just enough of her healing powers to flow through into him to dull the pain.
She'll be easy to watch over time, she'll be easy to keep track of in all honesty for this contract. Eyes wander lazily over her motions through the room, how at ease she is and how familiar. It must feel good, having that comfort with what you do with your life. Not like his, where he has to adapt to each contract depending on what he's hunting. Witches, though, well, they weren't as common as other beings were. Vampires were easy, relatively speaking, werewolves not too bad either. But he hasn't hunted a witch in a long time.
Not saying he can't do it, but he can definitely hone in a craft for it. She'll give him ample practice. As long as he can stay objective.
"It's nice to meet you too. Always good to meet the new doctor in town." Which he meant, really, the cycle was always intimidating to adapt to a new caregiver, but he's so used to hospitals it's really second nature for him, in an odd manner of speaking. He shrugs at her comment of wishing it were under different circumstances and waves her away with his uninjured hand. "Nah, it's fine. At least I'm not the dumbass losing fingers to fireworks, right?"
Listening to her verdict of what she wants him to do, he pays attention to her gentle care, using the tools at her disposal. So Kiara doesn't seem to lean wholly on her magic, a new kind of tactic for a healing witch. Not uncommon but a bit more unconventional, at least. "I've got a high pain tolerance." He murmurs, eyes dropping from her face to his hand held in her own, the cotton swab dipping into his torn flesh and alighting a sting that abates too quickly that he knows it's not his body doing it. Using magic and tools in tandem, easy to spot. "What made you want to become a doctor?" Something genuine thrown in there, glancing up at her.
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.
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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!
