#hides-behind-teeth

[tacticiankate]

chibis of my exalted party (minus one, cause they kept changing their character lol)

in order: shimmers-among-silk (full moon lunar), hides-behind-teeth (changing moon lunar), drifting ash veil (night caste fireball sorcerer solar), hope-tearing tyrant (fire aspect dragonblooded)

[latibvles]

fix the unfixable.

a bit late but for the next prompt “injured” i was, ahem, enabled into some POW Camp angst by somebody *cough* @thoughpoppiesblow *cough* so here’s that: post-Münster featuring June, Viv, & Lena through Lena’s eyes. No one said i had to go in order of occurrence for these so we are skipping around because it’s fun. General warning for the mistreatment of POWs & discussion of character death, although we don’t get especially detailed about it! Better safe than sorry.

—

“This is bullshit.”

“June.”

“What?! S’not like they can understand me. This is all fucking bullshit.”

Lena’s mouth feels like it’s been stuffed full of cotton: not just because of the lack of solace she can provide, but also because the last spot where they had water was the transit camp. Then they’d been subjected to more of a train, more walking — screamed at when they falter in a language Lena vows to never, ever learn.

And Viv was taking it like a champ the whole time — indifferent in the face of their screaming, chin jut out in silent defiance and refusing help from either her or June up and until she stumbled getting off the train and June had pretty much tossed her body over her own, screaming ‘She fell! She fucking fell!’ in the face of red-faced screaming guards and barking, feral dogs.

Lena stood there, feeling stupid and helpless in all the ways that actually mattered.

They pointed guns in their faces and for a moment Lena thought she would be doing the rest of this journey alone. 

Now they’re half-carrying her, because it doesn’t take a genius to know that whatever’s up with Viv’s ankle isn’t going to be pretty if they ever get the chance to look at it — and the tumble off the platform certainly didn’t help. Viv’s head is both bloody and bowed in unshakable concentration as she tries to keep the weight off it.

Okay, so June’s right, this is bullshit. It’s cold, they’re all bruised and battered and cut to hell, Lena’s fairly certain they’re the only ones that made it out of their fort alive, and the one person she’s known to stand tall no matter the circumstances can’t even use both legs right now. Sudden movements mean getting shot though, so as much as she wants to scream — she doesn’t. She just tightens her grip on Viv, and prays to whatever God might be listening that she and June can make a half-decent pair of human crutches.

Lena hates it; she hates that there’s nothing she can do to fix this.

That’s her job, isn’t it? Fixing things — the electrical problems in their plane, engine troubles, keeping them in the air so the pilot could get them home. Well they were on the ground, now, birds with clipped wings and boulders tied to their ankles. Any attempt to escape would be pointless. And even if they tried, it wasn’t like they’d make it very far, tired and hungry like this, behind enemy lines. What would more likely occur would be they’d get recaptured by some German farmer and be tossed right back into this POW carousel.

The last person who’d tried to run had been shot, his body tossed carelessly onto the train car, and all Lena could think was that leaving his body on the side of the road would’ve been kinder. That’s probably why they chose to toss it onboard.

Lena was never the superstitious type. She didn’t bring any good luck charms on a mission or say any prayers. She complied with the crew’s tradition of smacking the top of the doorframe where they hung Viv’s old PT shirt, the Pallas Athena acting as a flag and a “good luck charm” according to Inez. She’d never believed that either.

But it had to be some type of karmic thing. You go up while your two anchors have to sit the mission out, in a fort that isn’t yours ‘cause yours is too banged up to see the sky right now. Maybe it was God striking their plane down, or guiding the rocket that took out one of their engines.

She couldn’t fix the unfixable — she wasn’t Josie or Willie. Lena could only ever fix the things she could see, and there was no solution here beyond a bullet to the head, maybe.

Viv winces as she stumbles in her attempt to keep off her bad foot, a sharp and quiet sound, and Lena’s jaw clenches.

“Could always get on my back, Captain.” She murmurs.

“M’fine.” On the opposing side, June scoffs.

“You hit your head or something? She’s too heavy.” Lena’s brows furrow, and her lips tug into a frown.

“I could try.”

“They’d shoot you first for sudden movements.”

“And if they do?”

“Don’t you start playing fucking hero too,” June hisses, but there’s a crack to her voice that nearly kills Lena. Birds with clipped wings, or wounded dogs? Some bodies never make it out of the plane and the ones that do don’t always hit the ground.

And they knew that, distantly, and personally, but now they knew that fact intimately.

“Guys, really, it’s fine. Just a slip.” Viv’s voice is still scratchy and hoarse from days without use — solitary confinement will do that to a person. Lena feels guilt settling in her own aching, tired bones, and looking across to June, the sentiment seems to be shared.

“Sorry Cap,” Lena sighs out quietly, and June mumbles a similar, garbled apology. But that's not even the half of it. She wants to splutter a million apologies for a million different things — I'm sorry we had to bail, and I'm sorry I can't carry you, and I'm arguing in your ear, and you'd probably want anyone but me with you right now, and—

Viv shakes her head, and although she smiles, it barely reaches her eyes.

“S’like being back in the air,” she insists. “When you all start arguing about something stupid over the comms…” She trails off, and the silence between the three of them is so loud in that moment that it almost pushes Lena to tears. They're wounded in every way a person could be, and for Lena, that fact alone is humiliating. “That’s a no-go on the piggyback ride though. Save your strength.”

Ahead of them, one of the officers shouts what Lena can only assume is something akin to Shut up, Bomber Bitch all encompassed in one word in German.

Lena cranes her head up to try and see over a few of the heads and get a gauge of where they’re walking to. If it’s another train or car, she might just lose her mind.

Metal wire, wood posts, fences miles high and towers looming over them and touching the slate gray sky. Before Lena can even try to make out what the signs say, the gates are being pushed open, and the rattling is only overpowered by a long, low siren that sends a chill up her back and has Viv lifting her head once more — just barely.

That’s when the shouting starts all at once — loud and low, names and what Lena assumes are nicknames being hurled at them and the group they’re walking with. She can barely make sense of the numbers and names being shouted at her. Johns and Joes and Smiths. She doesn’t recognize any voices sticking out amongst the din, even if she can pick out a few of the sentences.

“Shit, more broads?”

“They don’t got their own camp?”

“Hey blondie, what group you ladies with?!”

Lena looks at June, who’s jaw looks so clenched her teeth might crack, and she wonders if the trembling comes from her own legs trying not to give out or if it’s from the effort not to say something that’ll get them in more trouble the moment they make it down this endless corridor. She contorts her own arm, just for a moment, to pat at June’s where they’re looped around Viv.

“Lena!” For a moment, she’s convinced she’s hearing things. Certainly not her, there’s gotta be another— “Red! Cuh-mahn O’Flannigan, over here!”

She’d recognize that accent anywhere, and even if she didn’t, there was only one group of guys who’d had the misfortune of giving her an itemized list of god awful “nicknames.” Her head whips this way and that until she finds them — and it takes everything in her not to let out a strangled cry of relief at the sight of Crank right by the fence. Harrie Morgan’s practically climbing on top of him, wild-eyed and hollering so nonsensically Lena can hardly understand her.

“Lena! Juney! Holy shit— that you Cap?”

Between them, Viv lets out a noise that sounds like something between a laugh and a sob.

“Though ya got lost! Inez, c’mere!” Lena waves her free arm dismissively, a promise of we’ll come to you posed on her tongue — but that’s not exactly what comes out as Viv begins to feel heavier and heavier on their shoulders.

“Gonna need some extra hands! We got precious cargo over here!”

[whatudottu]

Ever since making my human Shockwave design, both my original one and this one, I've been thinking of what arm he would have because even if you have access to a cannon arm as a human it's logical to have a functional arm prosthetic maybe idk-

An extra ever since after reading @nukeli 's SG Shockwave fic I've also been thinking of human Shockwave having a donor arm like what happens in the oneshot, it being mismatched because though demand is high supply is very very low and replacement body parts don't last-

[plaquerat]

Writing Terzomega feeding/weight gain fic idgaf anymore man I need it

[hummusandcoriander]

Me seeing the "John and Aaron give in to their simmering passion" spoiler in TV Choice this morning - I bet they shag in a barn.

Me seeing the spoiler pictures

[diverbots]

I like to think Mantra insists on brushing her teeth because she saw Genji do it one time, wanted to know why he did that, and he told her something silly that she took too seriously and now she insists she must brush her teeth or bad things happen

😭😭😭 Genji unknowingly getting Mantra to become superstitious cause of an off handed comment that if you don’t brush your teeth Santa Claus will send you a bad present for Christmas or something, lmao.

[because-its-eurovision]

Hey! I read your tags about your smile on that tooth gap post and I just wanna say: Don't ever stop smiling again! 😁 Our smiles are the most adorable thing we have to show the world ✨✨ so don't hide yours whatever people say. I'm glad you started smiling in pics :D

thank you so much for reaching out, this was a lovely message 🥺💖

[lanternlightss]

hi uh. doodle dump be upon ye

[lunarscaled]

❛❛ I think snapbacks suit you. as much as you try to hide from people up under the brim , it's attractive on you. ❜❜

-> He says it too casually for their taste---as in, he says it easy, like their attempts to sequester as much of themselves out of people's view and pretend they don't exist are not a protection from a bygone period where they felt the need to be scarce, but instead a charming little habit that he notices and keeps for himself. They wonder if this is part of that existence of his which gives and gives and gives to make others feel wanted and calm, but do they feel calm? Not by a long shot---not by a mile and more, not when he casts them a glance just long enough to know they're paying attention before looking away to remove the pressure to react, and though they still do. They feel it in a heat on the back of their neck that spreads forwards into their cheeks, the flush creeping around their pearly scales, their eyes a little wider than normal that give away their unguarded response ( maybe he couldn't even see it under the flat rim. maybe he could, but wouldn't say anything. but neither of those things prevent it from being: a stinging red color to their cheeks like it was salacious to be perceived at all. ) They feel a rickety heartbeat in their chest the same as when Mel battered them into trying on outfits for his own personal fashion show, buttoning them up along their spine in something gauzy and white with little crystals seen in, the train so long they didn't know how anyone could hold it. And the ginger elf clapped, invigorated from head to toe at the sight, It's perfect, Lyric! You look just like a princess!

-> They didn't necessarily want to be perceived as a princess of all things, generally considered helpless and very spoiled, but they do think of how Saint patiently complimented their eyes. And they think of how they're trying hard to learn to take compliments without refuting them in some way. And most importantly, through the hazy and embarrassed flush of their upper cheeks, they think of how Saint doesn't lie for nothing. ( but they pull the brim of the hat down more, like it's going to salvage something. )

"It's just a hat, it can't affect how I look that much..."

[hyperionshipping]

Despite everything Tricks seeing the Captain would be throwing himself on the ground shaking him. Just "CAPTAIN? MY CAPTAIN?" as Jack takes his big huge breath and Tricks is peering at him with eyes that Jack can tell are happy to see him despite everything.

And so Jack would catch his breath and the same minute after go 'Oh I always wanted to wake up with you in my arms~. This is even better." as Tricks glares for a moment and then hugs him and goes "OH Captain! I didn't think you made it at..." and the Doctor is standing to the side arms crossed.

And then Tricks lets the Captain fall on his back as he goes "DUMBASS. How'd you even hold onto her while we flew??? Did you aquire superhuman strength?"

[taniushka12]

i know its ridiculous of me to say this in this site but i think people here should be more aggressive (AND definitely more nuanced)

[spiteriisen]

tag drop ; avelin levasseur.

( guess i'm a coward ; a songbird who won't risk flight. ✧ ic. ) avelin levasseur. ( pretty as mist refracting light ; but sometimes i look like i'm barely alive. ✧ visage. ) avelin levasseur. ( i am a sinner with a perfect smile ; you took to the rhythm of a no-good liar. ✧ isms. ) avelin levasseur. ( heart like a ghost town at sundown ; a beautiful disguise-- a beautiful lie. ✧ aesthetic. ) avelin levasseur. ( you hide behind your metaphors ; & pray that no one sees. ✧ lore. ) avelin levasseur.

( i'm gonna keep it false with you chief ; i'm gonna lie to you. ✧ crack. ) avelin levasseur. ( i want to dance on the horizon line ; but there is something i am caged behind. ✧ game shenanigans. ) avelin levasseur.

connections ;

( oh brilliant scholar you've learned to see through my act ; tell me i'm wrong-- take off my mask. ✧ avelin & ankita. ) passionfell. ( hidden in the dark-- mockingbird & mouse ; when words fail the shadows we cast tell our stories. ✧ avelin & lilstele. ) deityleft. ( simple tales are only told to children ; sink your teeth into choice & learn to savor the taste. ✧ avelin & alwin. ) risingretribution.

[myiliterallyhavenolifegoals]

I love the dramatic, triumphant reveal that wolverine and deadpool survived the time ripper, mainly because i'm 1000% sure wade heard paradox monologuing™️ and was like "nonono hold on we have to wait for the Right Moment" and logan, who is 7 different kinds of exhausted at this point, was like "....yeah ok lol"

which leads to 2 grown ass men hiding behind a corner just waiting to ruin this british man's afternoon? logan really went from “i'll kill u with my teeth” to “yea sure i'll commit to your stupid bit” in like 2 days, honestly what a lad

[fairy-angel222]

𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐆𝐞𝐭𝐨 ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

The latter opening his phone to a video of Gojo fucking you, one of his close friends and roommate, from behind. The camera capturing your tear filled eyes as you cried. “S-Satoruu— nnh, please.. please don’t show Suguru.” He couldn’t see you like this, especially when it was for his best friend. The one whose charms you promised him you wouldn’t fall for.

Gojo ignored you completely, and you let out a broken whimper when you took that as your answer. The camera now panning down to the recoil of your ass as Gojo hammered into you, using his hand to spread your cheeks before zooming in on the way your pussy stretched to take his thick cock.

“That’sss it. Look at that filthy fuckin’ cunt. So wet n noisy f’me. Pussy’s creamin’ all over my cock, shitt.” He groaned, palm landing meanly onto your ass as his pace sped. “Suguru’s gonna love this. He’s a lil pervert f’you baby.”

You mewled loudly, head fuzzy as you babbled out words of embarrassment. Attempting to hide your face in his sheets.

Geto was furious, his jaw clenching along with his fist as he watched Gojo taint his precious girl. That was supposed to be his job. Watching as Gojo’s hand twisted roughly in your hair to pull you up to his chest. Your eyes rolling back with the arch of your back as you let dumbed down cries consume your shaking frame.

Geto hated it. But he couldn’t stop watching. Beginning to stroke roughly at his cock to the sight of Gojo molding you around his cock. A loud groan vibrating in his chest when you started begging the white haired man to cum in you.

Gojo angled the phone to show your whiny face while forcing you to keep contact with your reflection. Teary eyes and drool filled lips staring back at you with a choked cry. A smirk on his face when he tilted it down to the lewd bouncing of your tits. "Bet Sugu’s gonna jerk off to this when he sees it baby.”

“Wonder if he likes hearing you beg for me to breed your cunt full. You think he likes it baby?” He faux cooed, lips ghosting over your ear with heavy breaths. The man putting himself in the frame to chuckle darkly before grinning. A shiver raking down your spine at the feeling of his teeth on your skin.

You could only whine with a hiccup as you blinked up at the camera. Your head spinning as you tried to looked away with a moan. You didn’t want Suguru to see you like this.

Gojo grip on your hair tightened, tugging harshly as you whimpered. “I’m fucking talking to you ya know, you were doing so well baby. Just had to screw it up, didn’t you?” Gojo scoffed, shoving your head into the bed below with his hand behind your neck. The mean snapping of his hips rocking you back and forth each time his cock kissed your cervix.

Gojo sighed, the camera now picking up his tensed abs as they glistened with sweat. His pelvis meeting your flesh faster than Geto could keep up with. “Your little slut needs a lesson or two on obedience Suguru.” He smiled lazily, “Guess someone’s gotta teach her huh.”

The video ended. And Geto was quick to press replay.

He groaned, still fisting his cock to the image of your face contorting into one of pure pleasure as you looked at the camera through your lashes.

Cursing himself as he reached into your bedside drawer to grab his favorite out of your panties. Pretty pink one with part lace and a bow in the middle. Using it to imagine that it was you bouncing on his cock, your tight cunt gripping him snug as you made a sticky mess on his thighs.

His pace quickened, breathing getting heavy as he panted. Ragged breaths falling past parted lips until he felt his cock twitch. Spilling thick spurts onto his clothed lap like the pervert Gojo said he was.

[apple-os]

the pawsonality disorder made me do it

[ohcaptains]

knuckle velvet

synopsis. he walks you home, then lets himself in.

pairing. logan howlett x f!reader. tags. [18+] dubious consent, vaginal penetration, female receiving oral sex, spitting. honey don't feed it, it'll come back type beat.

Some deep part of Canada, where everything was white. Snowstorms that swarmed through the sky, and the only warmth you could find came from the bottom of a bottle.

The wood floor of the sticky bar you worked in was soaked from frost covered boots – haphazardly scraped across the welcome mat, owners preoccupied with getting their first drink than keeping the place tidy.

You existed there, behind the bar that patrons lent against, like a metal cage with leering onlookers. They paid in drinks, but you took the money home as tips, your warmth stoked in a fireplace.

How you’d ended up there in that forgotten part of the world, you didn’t know.

Perhaps you’d followed a narrow path, one strung out with thorns and rubbish, but the money was okay.

When it got slow, and there wasn’t much else to do, your boss let you read a bit, too, while you sipped on your endless supply of Coca-Cola.

At the end of your shift, your teeth were fuzzy from all the sugar. 

An easy existence, but some nights, the patrons got too friendly.

They were fresh off their trucks, looking for some place warm to bury for the night, but you weren’t offering.

So, you’d peer at them, watch them make a fool of themselves as they spewed putrid words in your general direction – alcohol and lack of sleep causing the floor to sway from beneath their feet.

It was always the new boys who would try it.

Risk it all for a chance between your thighs, unaware of the hound sitting at the end of the bar, nursing a whiskey and a vendetta.

The first time he fought for you, the air had changed. Gone cloudy with the chance of a brawl – that sixth sense that all bartenders have switching on.

“Lady said no, ain’t she?” he bellowed from across the bar.

The voice thick with smoke and alcohol, you recognised him as the guy who’d been drinking whiskey all night, but he was as sober as a nun. No stumble to his step, or slur to his cadence, either.

He was built like an oak tree. You noticed when you served him. Slid him his drink and gazed at the sheer bulk of him. At the weathered, handsome age to his face, to the spray of grey in his brown hair.

His thick arms were snugly buried under a button up shirt, and you didn’t see, but rather imagined, the way his muscular legs were stuffed into jeans, and the way his size 12’s rested against the hardwood.

His eyes though, were hiding something. Milky brown concealing his curiosity – easily done with the hard panes of his face.

You imagined letting him take you home, and you thought about being friendly, before a whisper in the back of your cranium told you to back off.

Perhaps safer.

You didn’t know where this man had come from, let alone where he’d been. So, you continued to serve him drinks, and tried to ignore the quiet hum of his presence, until the hum turned to a crash.

The patron was scorned. He paused, and turned to the end of the bar, where the brown eyed stranger was waiting. “What’s it to you?” he slurred.

But the man with the whiskey wasn’t looking to him. He sipped his drink, and said, “she said no. You don’t remember your manners?”

The bar adorned an eerie quiet. Nerves sat low in your belly, heart picking up speed.   “This guy serious?” he asked you.

You went to say something, but he was already throwing words at the stranger.

“She yours or something?” “It matter?” “Can’t blame a guy for trying.” The stranger scoffed, and brought his drink to his lips, “whatever bub.”

“We got a problem?” the man uttered, stalking towards him, but his friend took him by the arm and whispered something in his ear, forcing him to deflate.

You wondered what he’d uttered. Whether there were rumours about the guy – a reputation you didn’t know about.

Brown eyes didn’t bat an eye when the man and his buddy slid out the door, cold filling the room before the door slammed shut.

The bar exhaled.

People went back to their business, and you thought about it, you really did. Thought about leaving him alone. Going back to your measly existence. Your home – the pit for all of your things.

But it didn’t win over in the end.

You topped up his drink. He took it, and glanced at you, brown eyes ringed with mystery.

“That happen often?” he uttered, voice a gruff grunt.

You put the bottle down, and looked away, thinking back to last week when you nearly fought a guy for staring for too long. You glanced back to him. “Sometimes.” “Your boss is an asshole for letting you work here alone.” “That so?” you laughed, shocked at his candour. He nodded and downed his drink, eyeing you from over the rim.

Finished, he put the glass down on the bar, and shrugged his jacket on. He got up to leave, and you felt a chasm begin to open up in your chest.

You went to say something. Anything, to make him stay. But he paused and looked over his shoulder.

His jaw was clenched when he tentatively offered, “be safe.”

When you locked up, he was waiting for you. 

It didn’t scare you. Really, it should, but when you left the bar and saw him standing there, toking on a cigar in the cold, all it did was make you pause. He stood there, gazing at you, eyes clouded by smoke. 

“You waiting for me?” you uttered, making it real, even if the light drift of snow was giving the world a dream like quality. 

He shrugged. “Just waiting.” 

You nodded, and put the bar keys in your bag, ignoring the chasm get wider. If he was going to rob the place, he’d have to get through layers of receipts and tissues to get in. But you knew the bar wasn’t what he was after. Something about his posture, the luring look in his brown eyes — curious, like he was trying to figure something out. 

You began to walk past him, but when he didn’t follow, you paused. You peered over your shoulder, and he was still looking at you. 

Taking you in. “Well,” you started, hitching your bag up your arm, “you gonna walk me home, or what?” 

He followed you in comfortable silence.

Just you, the night, and the crunch of dirt under his boots. His cigar smoke drifted by, and it wafted through your subconscious, followed by pine, and crisp scent of the snow.

He sounded like the noise of the woods — ever present in these parts. A comfort, if one had adapted to its unpredictability. When you got to your familiar walkway, you opened the gate, but he didn’t follow you through.

Instead, he stood by the entrance, watching you unlock your door like he’d just dropped you off from a date. it was when you were halfway through that he spoke up. “You work every night?”

“Yeah,” you started quickly, looking to him. “Apart from Wednesday and Sunday.” He considered you, then gave you a sharp nod, and turned to leave.

That’s how you ended up with a wolf at your door.

Every night, he was the last one left, then he silently walked you home.

Some nights, you’d find him leaning against the entrance, and he’d quietly peel away from the door and follow you. At first, he simply walked closely behind, a looming shadow, until he began walking beside you.

Then one night, you let him in.

Made him a cup of coffee to fight off all the liquor he consumed, and he sat at your kitchen table, and drank every drop.

Watched you in the low, fluorescent lighting, and you did the same. Curiously studied him. He looked different in your home. In your kitchen. Looked a little softer around the edges, even if he couldn’t relax completely.

It went like that for a while. It was on one of these nights that he gave you his name, followed by a shitty cup of coffee. Sometimes two. Maybe a biscuit, or a piece of cake. Leftovers turned into home cooked meals. Sat at the kitchen table and watched him eat. Roast beef. Mashed potatoes. Lasagna. Sipped at your cup of tea as he slopped up his pasta, using the back of his hand to wipe the sauce off his mouth.

You left him finishing off his plate to get ready for bed, and it was when you were sorting your hair out, that he came into your bedroom and began taking his boots off.

You stood at your mirror and watched him place them near your door.

Then he reached up and began unbuttoning his shirt.

One by one, you watched his thick fingers reach the bottom. He took it off, revealing a white tank off and broad chest, and hung the shirt up on your door frame.

Jeans next.

Popped the button and shucked them to his feet -- threw them with his boots and dragged himself towards your bed.  

You went to say something. Anything.

But he looked so exhausted as he crashed onto your frilly bed, that all you could manage was, “You lock the door?”

Logan nodded. His eyes were already closed, and he was hugging the pillow when he uttered, “you coming to bed, or what?”

You let him stay the night.

Maybe it was raining, maybe he was too tired – it didn’t matter. All that mattered, was that he was warm, and sometimes, when you woke and felt the terrifying ache of being alive, he’d be there to quiet the pain.

Hush you with the soft swell of his lips and wandering hands.

You’d come with a hushed whisper, hot and sticky over his calloused fingers -- drowsy from how high he took you. Then he’d kiss you, fix your clothes, and go back to sleep.

Always the middle of the night. When it was dark and quiet out, and it felt as if you were the last people alive.

His skilled hands bringing you to the brink, a soft kiss, then back to bed.

You would wait for it. Watch him nurse his whiskey at the end of the bar, the night dragging with every drink you poured. Then, he watched you lock up.

Waited at the door for you, so you could walk home together, wordlessly taking the familiar trail.

He’d eat, you’d watch, then leave for your room.

Once, you woke to his head between your thighs. The night was quiet, room dark – slither of moonlight from your window cutting a line through your bodies.

You were slick with sweat, and as you flexed your taunt muscles, they fizzled and singed. Hot heat pushed low in your belly, rooted between your thighs.

Logan hummed, and you reached down and grabbed a fistful of his hair, whimpering his name to grab his attention.

He had palm fulls of you. Fists of your thighs, soft of your belly, leaving marks with his desire – desperation. The first thing he did was apologise. Muttered a hoarse, m’sorry, into your soaking cunt, but continued tasting you.

You used his hair as leverage, and hitched your hips up an inch, causing his nose to bump into your sensitive clit, and you hissed, as if in pain, but the sound trailed off into something similar to his name, and Logan grunted, moving your hips further up so he could twist a thick finger inside.

You took all he gave.

Moaned into the pillow beside you as you rocked your hips against his face, soaking his nose and mouth. Said shit you didn’t mean, but meant all the same, and Logan got off on it.

This mysterious man who had taken over your life, grunted your name like it belonged to him. Made you come on his thick beard and puffy lips, then made you taste yourself as he kissed you.

You hugged his sweat slick frame to you, fingers scratching his scalp, mindlessly grinding against his clothed cock. You were content to just kiss him, until he dragged his fingers between your thighs again.

You startled, gasping into his hot mouth, but Logan hummed, near smiling against your lips.

“’think there’s another in there for me,” he drawled.

When he fucked you, there was so much of him that you went blind with it. Eyes half lidded, delirious as he pushed inside, making himself fit. Stuffing you full, then pulling out, just to feel it all over again.

Again and again. You moaned his name into his soaked, scarred chest. Felt yourself leave your body, so hot, so wet, that it was all sensation. Just the slap of his hips against yours, the feel of his hands on your tits, in your mouth, telling you to open wide.

He spat, and when he missed, he smeared the mess off of your chin and rubbed it into your cunt.

Made you come, then filled you with his own. Leant back, and watched it drip out of you. You were so consumed by him, that you didn’t have enough energy to feel self-conscious.

No, when he had his wild eyes on you, you reached between your thighs and stuffed it back inside.

The next evening, and he was back at the bar, waiting for you to bring him his whiskey. When you placed it in front of him, those wild eyes were on you again.

Waiting. Always waiting.

Waiting to play out your usual routine.

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