#pat tries to write

[omies-odd-writing-spot]

Library mouse {Doom idea]

So this was SUPOSED to be an exercise for me to work on Valen's character finding someone in need of help but…

you have Valen finding a borrower, inspired by @horseyneigh2002 and @raventroll80 's borrowers in DOOM ideas.

will this be more then a one shot? likely not but it was cute and so fun to write a softer side of Valen. Cassidy is a little soft been, no matter what I yeet her as/in, please pat her gently and don't scare her.

Library mouse: [full story in link]

She did not trust the rain anymore. The small girl, a young woman, looked up at the window that used to be her favorite place. Somewhere the employees of the library did not know to look, and the very few that did know this place were a trusted few. Like the maintenance man that knew of her, and when he was doing the morning or nightly rounds would put a small treat for her there to enjoy in what used to be the warm morning and cozy warm evening light from the window.

The small window was almost boxed in with the tall book shelf, so the sun through the glass always warmed up the cubby no matter the season. Spring was the first warm spot away from a heating vent, the summer the excess heat bled out from the open top entrance over the bookcase. It was always a warm safe place to watch the fall rains, and toasty from the few sunny winter days. 

Cassidy pulled her legs up on the miniature couch the late maintenance man had made and gifted her family. If she pulled the blanket over her head and closed her eyes, she could almost pretend her family was in the other seats or at the table their size. That the sound of rain was real and not something unnatural.

It was not even the same warmth as before, but all the little blankets and lap covers still smelled like her family. Or she thought they did. 

Cassidy looked up, making the mistake of looking out the window and seeing the hellish storm, not keeping her eyes on the table. It twisted her stomach and she was not sure she could even sip her tea any more. The girl curled up in the soft padding of her spot, tucking the blanket around her, speaking to no one really. “Rain shouldn’t be orange…”

She felt sick, and sighed before getting up, rubbing her arms and started to fold and tie up the rest of the blankets and pillows in this area. The last of the things she had to gather up before sitting with her cantine of tea. Not able to pretend anymore that the world outside her library had ended. 

Her world inside the library seemed to have ended as well with the death of old Harold, the former maintenance man this last winter. Cassidy could not go to the locked entrance of the library anymore, not able to face what was left of her family’s once long term guardian and friend. 

The young woman thought of the stories from her grandfather and Harold, who might have well been another grandfather, in their youths. Those stories of how they became friends and traveled the bigger world outside of the city, kept Cassidy’s mind busy to get the things she wanted on top of the book shelf and slowly back to her home. There was a special data crystal at her home that she was keeping safe there and she wanted some of the extra pillows to give some extra padding. 

“I miss being a fairy,” Cassidy noted aloud a few hours later, standing in her home. The one that Harold had helped her make after the outside world ended. Sitting in one of the chairs he helped make in the practical field of clover inside the case. It was one of the semi clear areas that was inside the once extensive display case. 

Once it showed a fantasy world the library used to make up with votes. Some patches were growing clover that was almost as big as she was now, most had still healthy moss. Other areas were carefully corralled areas that had bark and rotten wood and her main source of protein, isopods. Cassidy had a little house she could use, with a hatch that led down to the underside of the display case where all the supplies that Harold had left her were safely placed for her. More things were outside of the case, mostly massive gallon sizes of water and juice bottles with the ‘faucets’ that the human made.

It should last a long, long time, Cassidy was barely through one of the water ones, even with watering the clover and moss. She was trying not to use the ones under the case as much as she could. 

Cassidy had gotten water moved up that morning, and was making a salad with fresh clover salad now, a little bit of oil and herbs left to her helped make it seem fancy. She had fresh tea and was sitting in the safety of the display case. Pretty much ready for the evening and night, and deciding if she wanted to sleep in the little house or down in the lower section of the display case. 

Being ‘inside’ was nice to keep the temperature even compared to the library on a whole when the temperature dropped and rose almost randomly. 

There were vibrations that came and when, as normal now. They were all far away and distant outside of the library. It was muffled more so thanks to the display case, almost like fireworks in the distance if she pretended again. Evening was turning to the now normal night, or what passed as night. 

A rusty orange tinted light still filtered through the few uncovered windows. What little power there was from the building generator was more than enough for the led fairy lines around certain paths in the library and in the display case she made home. As long as no bigger lights were turned on, the power might last her lifetime. 

Cassidy fiddled with the handless, pale cream cup that had her tea, thinking about that. Of what she would do tomorrow. Feeling sleepy from the chamomile she just sat at her little table and started to not think. 

Tap-tap. 

Cassidy startled, looking up and half expecting to see one of the monsters.

She blinked at the very, very tall human in armor looking back at her with confusion. He seemed so much bigger than any human she had met, or seen from a distance, broad in the shoulders and had heavy scarring on the exposed face. He had white, short hair on top of a mostly shaved head. His eyes startled her too, an odd thing to focus on, but Cassidy had never seen a human with black eyes.

One black and the other was silver and white?

Cassidy blinked again, before the tiny woman hesitantly waved a greeting.

The massive human blinked and he shifted, Cassidy noticed his armor. It had to be armor like the knights in the books she had read and been read too. A helmet was grasped in the metal hand of the strange human, his other exposed hand had tapped.

“…are you the little one on the message out front?” The deep voice of the human was low, trying not to let his gravel edge scare. Yet Cassidy could hear him even through the glass of the case.

“Message?” Cassidy echoed before remembering seeing that Harold had written many things in blank books as well as messages on the whiteboards around the library. Some to remind her to do things, encouragement, and in the entry hall where Harold had settled to sleep for the last time, a message asking any other survivors to be kind to the small one still living in the library. “Oh…yeah… I guess I am. Are you going to take everything? I don't have much.”

[eastonapologist]

wtf i actually wrote something again . anyways ghost john au <3

[james-p-sullivan]

i managed to write about 1.4 k words yesterday and i am over the moon about this

[llondonfog]

Prompt for 6 sentences:

Silver: It’s been a while since my last head pat from father. (Bloomquet home idle voice 1)

🎉SILVER'S SIX SENTENCE BIRTHDAY BASH🎉

His father's praise washes over him, fresh and clear like the high mountain air— Silver may not be an overtly prideful child, but the corners of his mouth quirk up with faint satisfaction.

And it had been praise well warranted too; the difficulty of the footwork his father had been practicing with him was not to be underestimated, and Lilia was beaming at his shoulder, prattling on about how the move had taken guardsmen three times his age weeks to learn properly.

"Perhaps that's your own memory that you're recalling, Father?"

(Never let it be said that Silver missed a gentle tease or two when it was just the two of them— he is his Father's son, after all.)

"Why, you cheeky little imp—"

His father's hand makes an aborted, familiar movement, and when Silver glances at him quizzically, concern half-rising to his tongue, he finds the fae looking up at him with infinite fondness in a manner that has Silver feeling as if he's missed out on something entirely.

His father reaches out and squeezes his upper arm, a playful tap between their lowered practice swords to dispel the odd moment.

"Come along, little one— there may still be cake leftover from Malleus' visit. Triumphs like these, no matter how small, must be celebrated, yes?"

[l0rd-0f-c0ws]

I frequently feel completely isolated no matter how much I talk to people. So that's fun

[valacre]

You’re dating Nightmare and have officially/unofficially become the “mother” of the castle, with Horror, Killer, Dust, and Cross all slowly falling into the habit of calling you “mom” or “mother”. Nightmare puts on a show of being angered by being called “dad”, but you know he’s secretly fond of it.

As the mother of the castle, you’re often tasked with keeping your unruly children in line. It’s easy with Cross and Horror, a bit more difficult with Dust when he’s having a bad episode, and almost near impossible with Killer, who seems to have made it his life’s work to antagonize Nightmare, or just generally cause a lot of chaos.

All the boys love you, though.

You’ll often cook together with Horror and gently pull his hand away when he’s tugging at his empty socket. You’ll sometimes stay awake together with Dust to help him get out of his mind, and even once he feels better, you’ll still hold him and stroke his skull to comfort him. Cross becomes dependent on you for emotional support, be it that he just wants you around, or he needs someone to talk to about his insecurities; he feels safe with you. Killer might not always make it clear that he appreciates that you often save him from ending up as a scatter of dust at the end of Nightmare’s sharpened tentacle, but whenever you gently use a handkerchief to wipe away the black ooze dripping from his sockets, you’ll see that Killer can’t quite help but lean into the gentle touch.

They’re all mama’s boys, and they’ll kill anyone who even dares to lay a hand on you.

[evadwrites]

dancing in new york, no shoes || 2222 words || written for @sapphicmicrofics

Pairing: Dorcas/Narcissa Prompt: Morning after [ April 9 ]  Also read on AO3

Dorcas Meadowes—a fiercely soft, beautiful mess Narcissa Black can’t help but love.

or,

Narcissa moves to New York, falls in love with Dorcas, finds family in Mary and Marlene, and then goes back to England to steal a baby, reconnect with her estranged sister, and break her cousin out of prison. 

In conclusion: The Dark Lord works hard, but Narcissa Black works harder. She is certainly more competent than Wizengamot, too.

—

They meet during one of Narcissa’s escapades from the suffocating atmosphere of a house-not-a-home.

Narcissa is a Black, Slytherin to her very core, so she’s nothing but resourceful; she sells Father’s daggers made of malachite and goblin steel and buys an international portkey. The seller in Borgin & Burkes offers her multiple options to choose from, speaks of destinations as if he is a travel agent—wonderful beaches, not a lot of tourists, a well-developed night life—as if Narcissa cares about something as silly as that.

She doesn’t; Narcissa’s main requirement is that the place allows her to breathe. She's so tired of suffocating daily. So, she picks the first item that draws her attention. It just happens to be a garish keychain with heart-shaped maroon sunglasses and a capital D—the grade she never received, the girl who was never hers.

She doesn’t bother asking where the portkey will lead her to, doesn’t waste her time packing a suitcase. Instead, she simply disappears.

Narcissa appears in the middle of Times Square. She turns around, and—bumps into Dorcas fucking Meadowes, of all people.

Because of course she does. Narcissa’s fucking luck .

.

Dorcas takes her to an apartment she shares with a bunch of people in downtown Brooklyn. She’s careful with Narcissa, as if talking to a hunted bird—afraid Narcissa will fly away if Dorcas spooks her. They don’t chat about anything of importance as Narcissa takes in the overwhelming noise of Muggle New York.

Soon enough, they get to Dorcas’ building—a four-story brownstone in a quieter neighborhood, surrounded by trees. There’s a school nearby, Narcissa thinks; she can hear children’s laughter, carried by the wind. A place untouched by war wrecked upon her home.

“There's a bunch of us,” Dorcas explains, and her hand trembles as she fishes her apartment keys out of her jacket pocket. Narcissa doesn’t bother to look down, but something flashes a slightly familiar shade of maroon in the corner of her eye right before Dorcas clutches the keys in her closed fist.

“Oh?” she prompts after the silence stretches between them. It's thick but easy to mold, like dough.  

“There's Mary and Marlene,” Dorcas stars, and Narcissa watches the corner of her lips twitch in a small smile. Narcissa tries not to wonder what name causes such a reaction, ignores the desperate tug of distinctly familiar something in her chest back from her days in hogwarts. “Alice and Frank rent an apartment a few blocks down from us. we come over often.”

And although she knows the answer, Narcissa still asks, “And Lily?”

Her voice breaks, and she doesn’t try to cover it, even as Dorcas shoots her a surprised glance. The urge to inquire about her never-meant-to-be is almost even primal, something she would be unable to stop, so she doesn’t waste her time trying.

A shadow flickers in Dorcas’ eyes. They’re so close that Narcissa can see amber speckles in the midst of dark brown. She had never seen them before.

“Sirius refused to leave, and so did James, and Lily—she wouldn’t leave him,” Dorcas whispers.

“Of course.” Narcissa laughs, humorless.

She can almost taste the question on the tip of Dorcas’ tongue—it’s ashes mixed with crushed raspberries, and Narcissa chokes on their particles. She knows she won’t be able to hold it in if Dorcas asks, and perhaps that’s why Dorcas doesn’t ask—brushes her curiosity under the imaginary rug, tucks it into the back pocket of her jeans; but she will remember to take it out right before laundry, Narcissa knows.

So, Dorcas doesn’t ask. Instead, she invites Narcissa into her home. And then, after a brief conversation with Mary and Marlene in the middle of a living room in hushed whispers, Dorcas invites her to stay.

“For how long?” Narcissa asks, and if her hands shake around her scorching-hot mug of tea with a chipped handle, nobody mentions it.

“For as long as you want.”

Narcissa doesn’t dare ask, Is forever alright with you?  

Instead, she smiles.

.

It is, in fact, alright with Dorcas.

The fourth bedroom is filled with cardboard boxes and lots of junk (according to Dorcas; Mary and Marlene insist all these things are necessary) and only has a bed frame, no mattress, so Narcissa spends the first few nights in Dorcas’s bed—because of course she does. That's just her luck.

Each morning, they wake up in a tangle of limbs and stolen sheets the color of Narcissa’s favorite burgundy. They’re a stark contrast against Narcissa’s too-pale and just the right fit to the pale-pink scars on her wrists, yet look perfet against the dark-brown shade of Dorcas’ too-soft skin. And Dorcas is like a cat in her affections, whether awake or asleep. Lazy and languid, gentle yet teasing.

It's months of soft-soft hands on Narcissa’s lower back whenever they’re cooking together, and Dorcas would like Narcissa to move out of the way. It’s months of going out to bars on Friday evenings, of Narcissa having to hold onto Dorcas’ hand when she’s too drunk, of Narcissa taking her heels off as soon as they turn the corner onto their street; months of of walking on grass and dancing barefoot with Dorcas under the streetlights (Dorcas keeps her shoes on, though; she was smart enough to wear Converse). It’s months of watching movies on the living room couch, with Dorcas’ feet in Narcissa’s lap, the two of them laughing like they’re closest friends, all while Mary and Marlene watch them with an identical twinkle in their eyes, as if they’re more entertaining than whatever is going on on TV.

It's months of secretive looks that are obvious to pretty much everyone, including them; months of lingering touches during dinner at Alice's and Frank's place; months of gentle love and healing and safety Narcissa knows she wouldn’t have had otherwise.

It's months of everything Dorcas simply is; it’s months of little things that make Narcissa fall in love with her, inevitably and irrevocably.

Dorcas is the softness under Narcissa’s fingertips; she is dancing in the refrigerator light during their attempts to cook a new recipe after getting inspired by yet another rewatch of a popular cooking show. Dorcas paints her lips scarlet when they go out on Fridays, pretends to be Narcissa’s girlfriend to ward the guys at the bar off, and mars Narcissa’s white shirts with her favorite burgundy every time she wears heels.

Dorcas Meadowes—a fiercely soft, beautiful mess Narcissa Black can’t help but love.

Where Dorcas is softness, her humor completely different from Narcissa’s, Marlene’s is a perfect match. She is a mirror image of who Narcissa could’ve been if only she was raised more freely. Marlene is bite and bark, yet in her smile there’s the warmth of the sun, and she shines her light upon Narcissa almost even eagerly. They have the same cynicism towards certain things that Dorcas and Mary are more hopeful about.

(“No, we cannot get a cat—because it’s a baby. ‘Cas, Mary, I swear, a cat is a baby. Today you’re offering we get a cat, tomorrow it will be a dog, and the day after—a baby.”)  

And Mary—she is almost even motherly towards Narcissa. Mary covers her and Dorcas with a blanket when they doze off on the living room couch, brews coffee every time Narcissa is hungover on Saturday mornings, and makes sure to soak Narcissa’s white shirts as soon as possible to try and get the burgundy off. Mary is the kind of person to take polaroid pictures of the four of them and pin them to the fridge with weirdly-shaped magnets.

So, before Narcissa knows it, she’s in love, and she thinks she has a family.

.

Narcissa appears in New York in early March, and it’s on the first day of November that the news that draw Narcissa back reaches them.

Because the Dark Lord is gone.

But so is Lily.

.

They get drunk, and they mourn, and when Narcissa sobs so hard she ends up throwing up, Dorcas rubs soothing circles on her back and holds her.

.

And then, at the end of the first week of November, Narcissa steals a baby.

Is that legal? No. Does she still do it? Absolutely yes.

It’s not even surprising that it was Marlene’s idea, after a few bottles too many of a cheap-ass screw-top rosé shared between her and Narcissa, and Narcissa knows Marlene didn’t actually mean that.

It was just wishful thinking on her part, after they’ve received the news Harry would be going to a family of less-than-trustworthy Muggles to keep him safe from the Dark Lord’s reach.

(“I wish we could raise him. All of us. Here. Because it’s safe here—we are safe here. Harry would be safe with us. I think—I think this is what Lily would’ve wanted,” Marlene said as she dozed off on Narcissa’s shoulder.)

And the thing is—Narcissa knows it’s what Lily would’ve wanted. Because Lily told her as much.

With startling clarity, Narcissa remembers the last time she saw Lily—two or three weeks before her reckless departure from England. It was the night Emmeline Vance was killed in an Order safe house raid, and Narcissa walked into the Leaky Cauldron to find Lily nursing a drink at the half-empty bar. It clearly wasn’t her first.

They talked the way they hadn’t done in years—since their sixth, Narcissa knows; she might have been counting days at some point, but not anymore. The conversation left Narcissa raw and split open, a wound covered with a thick layer of sea-salt, and Lily’s admission was etched into her skin with the intensity of self-inflicted scars:

(“God, Narcissa, I just wish we could all leave. Leave all of this behind. I don't want Harry growing up with the pressure—the knowledge that a powerful dark wizard tried to kill him when he couldn’t walk yet. I want him to be away from Dumbledore, but most of all—I just want him to be safe and happy, surrounded by people who love him.”)

So, Narcissa steals a baby. Because of course she does.

She also steals Sirius—plucks him out of Azkaban with practiced ease of their (thankfully) late mothers, because, come on . There’s absolutely no way he betrayed the Potters; if Wizengamot is stupid enough to think he did, well—that’s not really Narcissa’s problem, is it? And Sirius just insists on grabbing Remus, which makes perfect sense; Narcissa hopes that they will get their act together soon, before Marlene feels like playing matchmaker.

And, in an act of bravery Narcissa has only done twice before—her first kiss with Lily when they were fourteen and her purchase of a garish maroon-colored keychain with heart-shaped sunglasses and a capital D—Narcissa shows up at Andromeda’s place and fumbles through, “Hi, how are you, I stole a baby and broke our cousin out of prison—say hi to Sirius—oh, and would you and your family like to move to New York with us?”.  

And the thing is, Andromeda isn’t even surprised. She smiles at her as if Narcissa has been stealing babies since she was eleven, greets a very amused Sirius, and asks Remus to help her and Ted pack a few things.

.

The morning after Narcissa leaves New York, she knocks on the door of not-her-house-but-her-home with a sleeping Harry in her arms and four people lined up behind her: her sister, her sister’s husband, her cousin, and her cousin’s—Remus, who will most likely be her cousin’s boyfriend by the end of the week if Marlene has anything to say about it.  

She thinks of everything she can say to Dorcas to explain, but all the things she comes up with are absolutely ridiculous (case in point: “I grabbed them on my way out”, as if four people and a goddamn baby are a forgotten umbrella or a set of keys).

Dorcas has a spoon of peanut butter in her mouth when she opens the door, but as soon as her eyes land on the line-up behind Narcissa, her lips part, and the spoon clatters to the ground. It barely misses her feet.

“Hi,” Narcissa smiles like an idiot, because oh , she’s so far gone for Dorcas Meadowes that she’s not even ashamed to admit it anymore.

“Cissa,” Dorcas gasps, shakes her head fondly, as if she had known. “Of course you had some machiavellian plan all along. Marlene thought you were robbing a bank, but now I get to tell her you stole a whole baby. Delightful.”

From behind Narcissa, Sirius snorts rather loudly.

.

All of them end up living on the same street, and although Harry lives with Sirius and Remus, they all sort of raise him. He is safe and happy, surrounded by people who love. Narcissa has never been so happy about committing a literal crime.

And when Narcissa finally kisses Dorcas after weeks-months-years of waiting, it’s right outside their home as they get ready to head to Sirius' place for their weekly Sunday brunch. Narcissa’s lips meet hers, and Dorcas’ keys fall from where they were nestled in her right hand.

A garish maroon-colored keychain with heart-shaped sunglasses and a capital D hits the ground.

Dorcas Meadowes—Narcissa Black's meant to be.

[pettyprocrastination]

ngl but i think if a kid wrote a letter to santa about wanting an abusive family member out of the house he’d slyly send the letter down some little magical mail chute and itd end up in hell where krampus would read it and then show up to that house on christmas eve to give that kid a nice new bike and a teddy bear under their tree before dragging their peice of shit dad down to the underworld for eternal torture. 

[merethicera]

the dude whose content i tend to recommend as a better alternative to pat's unhinged rambling put out a new video in his 3 part skyrim series and he has bad stormcloak takes too

(i dont feel like being eloquent so im just gonna ramble in the tags)

[uncaaj]

Fanfic - The Brekkie After (Bluey)

READ ON AO3 NOW!

The morning light crept into Bandit’s vision and seared his eyeballs. All at once he became painfully aware of how bad he felt. Time for his own version of the “Checklist.”

Dry mouth? Check.

Throbbing headache? Check.

Back aching from sleeping on Stripe’s floor and not his comfy bed? Double check.

Time to lay back. The show’s not going on today. 

“Ugh…babe?” he croaked. “I did it again.”

His wife Chilli didn’t move from where she lay next to him. “Me too,” she sighed.

“Me three,” groaned Stripe from the couch.

Bandit shrugged. “Well, that’s not too bad, I suppose.”

At that moment, a chorus of moans erupted from all the adults splayed out in all corners of Stripe’s living room, the casualties of the kid-free get-together they had last night that went a little too long and a little too crazy.

“Biscuits,” Bandit hissed. “Spoke too soon.” They were all irresponsible and were paying for it now. If he didn’t interact with any kids today, it would be a blessing.

+++

BANDIT: *yawwwwwnnnn* This episode of Bandit is called “The Brekkie After."

+++

Bandit massaged his forehead with his fingertips as he eased himself upright. Bright light assaulted his eyes as if the sun was right in his face. “Why did we think this was a good idea?”

“Can someone get the shade?” said Stripe, his strong bark barely a grunt today.

“Got it,” said Bandit. He dragged his lead paws behind the couch to the patio door. Pulling the shade across the glass felt like heaving a heavy rock across a swamp. He sighed with the relief of a dimmer living room.

“My towel is still wet,” said Wendy, rolling off the other couch and flopping onto the floor.

Pat scrubbed board game pieces off his chest and held up a bank note to show everyone. “Still have the bet I won when I dared you to jump in the pool.” He then let his arm go limp on the side table, accidentally knocking an empty beer can onto the floor. “Oops.”

“Only because Bandit dared to get cheeky with me,” Wendy grumbled.

“Seems to happen a lot at Heeler get-togethers, eh? The pool, I mean,” said Bandit, before feeling the roof of his mouth and making a yucky face. “Feels like there’s slime in my mouth.”

“Nah, that’s from when you ate a whole jar of peanut butter faster than Pat,” said Chilli.

“Blegh!” said Pat. “That stuff’s only good in small amounts and on crackers.”

Bandit leaned back and felt his back crack satisfyingly. He saw Josh Border Collie shiver and wince, which meant he was awake too. “I suppose since I’m the only one up, I’ll go put the kettle on and get brekkie goin’.” He shot a smug look over his shoulder as he stepped gingerly out of the living room. “You lot just lay there and have a think about what you did.”

“You as well,” said Chilli, sending that look back at him. “I recall this party being your idea.”

Bandit gulped. “Yes, babe,” he said as he trudged to Stripe’s kitchen.

“Well, I might have a shower then,” said Josh, sitting up rapidly, and collapsing back down just as fast. “Ugh, room’s spinnin’. Never mind.”

“Get in line, Josh,” said Wendy, shooting him a death glare with all the energy she had left.

The sink water filling up Stripe’s electric kettle sounded like a churning waterfall to Bandit’s sensitive ears. His headache rumbled inside him with the ferocity of a rolling timpani as he shut off the tap and placed the kettle on its perch to come to a boil. He then carefully placed the stray wine glasses on the bar into the sink before peering back through the entryway to the goo-like adults who had barely moved. “Stripe, what should I make for brekkie?”

“Could you make hangover eggs?” Stripe asked. “Those always do the trick.”

“What? No!” Pat protested, scrunching his snout. “That’s disgusting.”

“This isn’t like college, Pat,” Stripe rebutted, “I got more in my fridge now than just tomato sauce and day-old dim sims.”

“Don’t matter. Bandit’ll still put anything he wants in there, even stuff that doesn’t go together. Remember when he put instant noodles and anchovies in it after the ‘99 Winter Social? Blegh!”

“Never stopped you from lickin’ your plate clean every time, did it?” Bandit quipped.

Pat stuttered and the whole room mustered as much laughter as they could in their hungover state.

Bandit’s headache lightened slightly and his tail twitched with pride. “I’ve ‘improved’ the recipe through the years so just lay back and let the chef make some magic, alright?”

“Righto,” Pat chuckled, not willing to argue anymore.

Bandit nodded and went to grab some ibuprofen from a cabinet he knew was far out of reach for Muffin and Socks. The kettle clicked, signaling the water was ready. Just in time, thought Bandit. “And take some ibuprofen,” he told Pat. “It’ll take your crank away.”

Pat rolled his eyes and looked at Chilli. “Bandit sure is somethin’, eh?”

Chilli smiled. “Yeah. The best.”

After tea and ibuprofen were dispersed around the room, everyone seemed to come out of zombie mode. Of course, Bandit knew this was merely a chisel to the hangover when they needed a jackhammer. The kids were coming back from his big brother Rad’s pad later, so onto that brekkie.

The Faceytime jingle played on the tablet on the counter. Speak of the devil, and he shall ring, especially when you’re preoccupied with searching through Stripe’s refrigerator. He ducked away from the fridge to tap the green call button then returned to rummaging his paws through the vegetable drawer.

“How goes it, little brother?” greeted Rad in his usual sunny manner.

Cradling a green pepper, spinach, mushrooms, and bacon in his arm, he shut the fridge and turned to the tablet. He nodded to his brother on screen and tried to smile as he set the stuff on the counter. He silently wished that he didn’t look like he hadn’t slept in days, but perhaps the blue and red heeler mix wouldn’t notice. He was a little absent-minded at times.

“Whoa, you look like you haven’t slept in days,” Rad laughed. 

Well, throw that out the window. “Perceptive this morning, are we?” said Bandit, rubbing his eyes.

“Did you and your mates do it again?”

“Yeah, we did. Hope the kids ran you ragged as well,” said Bandit with a playful sneer.

“Yeah, I bet. Nah, it’s all good. We gave ‘em enough games to ensure they slept through the night. In fact, Bluey’s the only one up right now. She went on a run with me.”

Bluey scampered into the frame and waved. “Sure did!”

Bandit gave a thumbs up. “Good on ya, kiddo!” Didn’t matter if he was hungover or not, a grin from his oldest pup made feel light as a feather every time.

“Are you alright, dad?” Bluey asked, moving in closer.

Bandit rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, we just got to bed late last night.”

“Everyone?”

“Yeah, everyone.”

Bluey raised an eyebrow. “That happens a lot at Heeler parties, doesn’t it?”

A cold sweat formed on Bandit’s back. He had forgotten he used that excuse once before. He’d better hop off before any more questions were asked.

Luckily, Rad was on top of it as he pet Bluey on the head. “Alright, I’ll take care of brekkie for the kids. You just make sure everyone else is right as rain, you hear?”

Bandit nodded. “Will do.”

“Bye, dad!”

“See ya, Bluey!” With that, they disappeared from the tablet.

“Was that Rad?” asked Stripe from the living room.

“Sure was,” said Bandit. “Bluey’s up so I better make this quick.” He got to work chopping the bacon into lardons and the pepper into a fine dice.

“Hey, mate,” said Pat, wandering in, mug in hand. “Top us off, could ya? Everything still tastes like peanut butter.”

Bandit smiled. “No worries.”

After his mug was refilled, Pat took a seat at the bar and sipped the warm liquid, swishing it around his mouth to rid every last speck of peanut butter. “If my kids ever find out what we grown-ups do when they’re not around, I couldn’t look ‘em in the eye again.”

“Bluey nearly did, I think,” Bandit gulped.

“Ha! Insightful nose, that one.”

“Did I ever tell you about what happened after Chilli and I were here for New Year’s?” Bandit asked. Pat shook his head and took another sip. “So in walks Bluey and Bingo, looking to play Whale Watching with us-”

“Hang on,” Chilli called, making her entrance. “You cook, I wanna tell him this story.”

Bandit winked at her. “Fine by me, babe. You tell it better anyhow.”

Josh tapped his foot as he sipped his tea, the warm drink putting him in better spirits. “Will we ever, doo doo-doo doo, be that funky again?” he hummed to himself.

“You’re going to get that silly song stuck in my head again,” Wendy barked playfully.

Josh shrugged. “You kiddin’? That was the best part of the night right there.”

“I didn’t sound too bad, did I?” asked Stripe.

“‘Course not!” came Bandit’s voice. “I’m just glad you sang with me at all!”

“Just like old times,” Stripe called back.

A content silence settled around the room, broken only by the distant sizzling of bacon and the release of its sweet, smoky aroma into the air. The quiet was welcome among them all, not only because of their still sensitive heads but because it was such a rarity in their households since they had kids. All those old times when they had not a care in the world were now left behind, having made way for the new times and the joy and responsibility they now shared.

Wendy piped up. “Yes, I suppose it was a good song…do you think we will ever be that funky again?”

Stripe stretched his neck, feeling it pop. “Nah.”

Josh shook his fluffy head. “Nope.”

“Not a chance!” Pat exclaimed.

Everyone laughed, wistful nostalgia echoing between them until they all settled again into their tired, hungover selves.

“That’s okay, though,” said Stripe. “I like how funky we are now.”

Wendy nodded and sat back. “Yes, I agree.”

“It’s certainly easier on me head, I’ll tell ya that for free,” said Josh.

“Brekkie’s on!” shouted Bandit.

Soon they were all congregated at the dining table, each adult provided with a generous egg scramble on a piece of toast. Tea was refilled and they all proceeded to tuck in.

Pat didn’t know what he was in for, but it was hot, it was here, and any brekkie he’d wait for back home would just be dry cereal. He picked up the toast and hesitantly took a bite. 

“What do ya reckon, Pat?” Bandit asked.

Pat swallowed and couldn’t help but wag his tail slightly. “I forgot you made ham and pineapple pizza a religious experience,” he said, licking his chops. “I will never doubt your abilities again.”

“Uss!” Bandit cheered, pumping his fist. “Still got it!”

“Good job, babe,” said Chilli, squeezing his hand.

“As long as I wake up to this,” said Josh through a mouthful, “Good friends and good food, I wouldn’t mind doing this again. Just not too funky next time, eh?”

Everyone nodded. “Agreed.”

[carmenlire]

tkem au where sinjae owns a coffeeshop and one day yeong becomes a regular. sinjae sees a cute guy with dangerous secrets and yeong sees a handsome barista who's a little surly but with an undeniable charm.

one day a tabloid reporter comes up to sinjae, just after yeong's left with his usual and asks what the captain's go-to order is. sinjae reacts in typical sinjae manner and it's only then that he decides that if the captain of the royal guard, the king's right hand man, wants to bring such nuisance to his life-- well then, he won't mind becoming a nuisance in yeong's.

cue sinjae finally stepping up what was brief perfunctory greetings into actual flirting. and oh, if sinjae was devastating when he was curt and focused on the job at hand, it's nothing to the way he smiles with a quip on his tongue, leaning in just enough as he hands yeong his coffee.

still. the day yeong decides to flirt back? sinjae actually has to check to make sure his heart's still beating. tae-eul laughs so hard there's a stitch in her side.

and so that's how sinjae's regulars are treated to the captain and their favorite barista falling into a courtship. it goes without saying that everyone in the neighborhood loves sinjae and finds the way the two of them dance around each other unbearably cute and exasperating. they are fiercely protective of sinjae, of course, and so no one leaks a word to those vile tabloids that like to hang around the handsome captain.

what should happen next? maybe sinjae's apartment is above the shop and yeong wanders down in his (sinjae's) sweatpants one morning, not realizing it was so late and everyone is treated to seeing the notoriously buttoned up captain in nothing but a ragged pair of sweatpants with SNU emblazoned down the leg.

or one evening as sinjae's alone and counting inventory, he hears the door jingle and doesn't even bother to look up as he calls out a bored "we're closed." he glances up just as his guest closes the door and starts walking towards him, looking utterly out of place in his quaint and quietly cheerful coffeeshop.

lee gon and kang sinjae take each other's measure over iced coffees and sinjae wanders upstairs several hours later with the rueful and somewhat disgruntled realization that he had just made friends with the most ridiculous man in the country and that taking yeong on meant allowing it to continue.

the thought makes him smile, too fond, but it's nothing to the look that steals over his face when he enters his bedroom to see his boyfriend passed out in his bed, having snuck in some time during the afternoon-- and sinjae doesn't want to know how yeong managed to break in what the hell he really needs to give yeong the copy of the key he had made several weeks ago-- after a brutal week long investigation on some confidential matter or another.

sinjae kisses yeong's forehead, tugs the blanket up higher, and heads to the bathroom to shower, all along thinking that had he known all those months ago that a single caramel macchiatto would set off such a chain of events in his life then, well-- he at least would've charged the captain extra.

[scary-senpai]

So in this chapter, it's Reigen putting on a (fake) seance for Garou's request. Like "exorcise," the word "seance" is giving my brain a disproportionate amount of trouble because I've seen it spelled more than one way. In particular, my brain really wants me to add an accent over the "e" in "seance" / "séance," probably in a desperate attempt to reassure me that all those hours on Duolingo will eventually amount to something.

Anyway, I went with the French spelling, and now as I proofread the dialogue I imagine Garou and Reigen speaking this word with a ridiculously overblown accent, and Garou is deliberately altering the pronunciation each time, little by little, until eventually the word "séance" comes to rhyme with "Beyoncé". He does this with such conviction and sincerity that everyone--Reigen, Mob, and Serizawa--eventually follows suit, because THIS GUY knows what he's talking about, obviously.

[imaginedisish]

Anything (Logan Howlett x fem!Reader)

A/N: Something is seriously wrong with me...I cannot stop writing for this man. Started this one last night after hearing him say "princess" in "The Wolverine" (2013). This is another nightmare fic, but I promise it's different! Heavily inspired by "anything" by Adrianne Lenker. Hope you guys enjoy!

Summary: Your summer affair with Logan is, in fact, not just a summer affair.

Warnings: 18+ SMUT!! MINORS DNI!!! Unprotected PIV (wrap it up!), (some?)fingering, cockwarming, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, nightmares, fem!reader/afab!reader, canon-typical violence, mutant!reader (unspecified abilities), feelings, angst, cursing, probably grammatical errors, I think that's it!

Word Count: 3,213 short for me

It started one summer night—under the stars. You had slipped out the window of your room in the mansion. You were sitting with your legs crossed, perched precariously on the old, shingled roof. You never got much sleep—you simply couldn’t—even though you knew the mansion was safe. Staying awake remained a solace, a comfort. It meant fewer nightmares; it meant you couldn’t be haunted by the hurt of your past.

Staring up at the stars beat staring up at your ceiling, and so you had made it a habit to crawl out of your window and sit on the roof. 

Until that one summer night, when Logan found you out there.

He shoved open his window and stuck his head outside. “What the fuck are you doing out here?” You smiled, turning your head to face him. You shrugged your shoulders, giggling at the concern on his face. He mocked you, shrugging his own shoulders in imitation. 

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t hide your smile and the way he made you laugh. You and Logan had been growing closer, spending more time together. He was looking out for you—constantly and protectively. It made you feel good knowing that someone cared so deeply. 

“Why don’t you come over here?” You called over to him, patting the spot next to you. He shook his head and ducked back inside. You quickly assumed he didn’t feel like being with you, your heart sinking down into your stomach. You wanted him to come out, to sit with you. Maybe you could’ve—

But then there he was, pushing the window as far open as it could possibly go, struggling to climb out. It wasn’t too much of a scuffle over to you, your rooms being right next to one another, but he made a big deal of the trek nonetheless. He huffed for dramatic effect as he sat down next to you. 

“This is so incredibly dangerous,” he had said, sarcasm heavy in his voice. 

You gasped. “Logan Howlett cares about safety?” You clasped your hand over your mouth for flare. “My safety?” 

He smiled, but there was something serious in his face. “I do, actually.” You tried not to notice as he inched closer to you, your shoulders brushing together. “What are you doing out here, princess?” He asked again. 

You smirked at the familiar nickname. “I don’t really like sleeping,” you muttered. 

Logan nodded. He understood better than anyone else. “I know…” He trailed off, looking up at the sky. “But why sit out here?”

“It’s quiet,” you whispered. “And it’s beautiful. Better than being in there, just sitting in bed.” 

He nodded again. “It is beautiful.” You turned your head back to Logan as he spoke. He wasn’t looking at the sky anymore. He was looking at you. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “Did you have a dream tonight?”

You shook your head from side to side. “Didn’t give myself the chance to yet, and I don’t plan on doing so.” You sighed, looking down at your legs, still crossed like a pretzel in front of you. “Wish we didn’t have to deal with this, you know?”  

Logan slowly brought his arm around your shoulder, as if he was waiting for you to shove him away. He had touched you before, but not quite like this. It was always in passing—always short and fleeting. But this? This was intentional. You leaned into his touch and let your head fall to his shoulder. “You don’t have to deal with it alone,” he offered, his lips faintly brushing at your temple. 

You tilted up to look at him, his face inches away from yours. He pulled you in closer, his breath fanning across your cheek. “You’re not alone,” he repeated. 

And then his lips were on yours. You kissed on the roof. You let him tug you into his window, into his bed. He tasted you that night. You spread your legs and let him inside. And then you slept. You slept without waking up in a cold sweat. You slept without reliving your past. And for the first time in a long time, so did he. 

And now it's become a habit. He opens his window for you, and you climb across the roof and inside. Every night. You haven’t slept alone since the beginning of the summer, and it’s August now. There’s no label on whatever it is you two are. But you know it’s serious—the way he asks every night if you can stay, even though he knows you’ve already made up your mind and that you aren’t going anywhere. 

But tonight is different. Logan was sent on a day trip with some of the students, while you were tasked with staying at the school to run through training exercises. It’s the end of the day now—10 PM. You’re exhausted as you let your back crash down on the mattress. 

Thanks to Logan, your body has become accustomed to sleeping. You can feel it calling you, feel your tiredness creeping in at the corner of your eyes. You try to fight the feeling, but it’s no use. Your eyes flutter open and closed, resisting until you can’t anymore, and you fall asleep. 

There’s a piercing ringing in your ears. Your chest is heaving violently. You’re strapped down to a chair, a needle inches away from your forearm. Maybe it’s Stryker. Maybe it’s some other mutant hunter or government agent ready to do their worst. You thrash around in the chair, yanking at the restraints to no avail.

You choke out a sob, throwing your head back in agony. Logan is all you can think about. What if he’s in danger? What if you never see him again? What if this is it?

Just as the needle breaks skin, the piercing ringing starts up again, and everything goes black. 

You force yourself to sit up, cold sweat drenching every inch and curve of your body. You look over to the clock on your nightstand: 12:37 AM. You had only been asleep for two hours. You shut your eyes, letting your head bump into the headboard behind you. You take deep, slow breaths, trying to lower your heart rate, silently reminding yourself that it was all just a dream. 

You’re not exactly sure what brought the nightmare on, but you know you aren’t going back to sleep. You crawl out of bed and into the darkness of your room, carefully walking to your window and shoving it as far open as it can possibly go. You climb out and sit on the still-hot roof to look at the stars. 

The twinkling balls of heat shine above you. It hits you then that even stars must die. They have all that energy, all that beauty, and then they burn out. You swallow at the thought, tears burning behind your sinuses. 

You don’t want to look over at Logan’s room—don’t want to see the window closed. The trip was to some aquarium down the shore in Jersey. You know he’s likely not home yet, and for the first time since all of this started, you’re worried about bothering him. You don’t want to force him to deal with your—

And then you finally see it. His window is open, the curtains billowing around inside. You let out a tight breath you didn’t know you were holding, your shoulders going slack at the thought of crawling into his bed. 

You scale the roof carefully, bending down as you climb inside his room. You get tangled up in the curtains, and you shove them aside to reveal Logan in his bed, eyes shut. You swallow harshly at the sight—his chest bare and his hair a mess. Sometimes you’ll stay up and watch him sleep, just to see this, just to know what he looks like when it's late and no one else is around. 

But then he’s twitching. He grunts, his chest heaving rapidly. You sprint across the room to his side, practically tripping over nothing in the rush of it all. He’s fisting the sheets, mumbling nonsense, violently turning left and right. You can see the pain in the tightness of his jaw, in the way his muscles flex. Your heart drops deep into the pit of your stomach. 

“Logan,” you call out, bringing a hand to his shoulder. You know he’s sensitive—know he can bring the claws out at any second—so you take care with your movements. “Logan,” you call again, louder this time. You grip his shoulder harder, shaking him, trying to force him out of the nightmare. 

You think you hear your name slip from his lips. “I’m right here,” you soothe, bringing your other hand to his abdomen, rubbing softly as you continue to shake his shoulder. He’s a sweating mess, his body cold and hot at the same time. You want to take his pain away, to make all of this better. “Come on,” you beg. “Wake up.”

And then he’s sitting up, his eyes open wide. You step back, giving him the space he needs as he comes to. His claws shoot out, ready to strike. He turns his head, his eyes frantically searching the room until he finds you. 

He quickly retracts his claws, and you watch as his shoulders relax. His chest still rises and falls rapidly with every breath he takes. 

“Logan,” you whisper, stepping closer to him again. “Are you—” 

He cuts you off, pawing at you, grabbing your sides, and pulling you into his bed. He’s on top of you in an instant, caging you in, his throat bobbing as he swallows harshly. 

“Can you stay?” It’s a ritual, the way he asks. He knows your answer—always does. But he asks anyway. You know he wants to hear it from your lips, wants to know that you want this, too. 

Your heart clenches in your chest. “Yes,” you sigh as one of his hands comes to rest underneath your shirt, climbing slowly up your stomach. “But Logan—”

He swallows your protests with a kiss, and you moan into his mouth. It’s hurried, rushed, like he’ll die if he can't have you right away. “Don’t wanna talk about it. Need you now. Talk after,” he mumbles against your lips, kissing you again before you can say a word. 

You understood—you needed him too. Needed to feel him inside you, under your skin, everywhere. 

His hand slinks up to your bare chest; you had forgotten you weren’t wearing a bra, just one of Logan’s old t-shirts and your panties. His touch is rough; needy. He squeezes your tits, his fingertips brushing your nipples, drawing tight circles. You moan his name, already squirming underneath him. 

Logan’s erection grinds against your core. He’s just wearing his boxers—nothing else—but it’s still too much. You need him bare before you, deep inside you. You lift your hips up to meet his, your arms wrapping around his back to pull him closer.

He takes the hint, his hand gliding back down your body to the hem of your panties. He reaches down farther, teasing your folds through the fabric. “Fuck, so fucking wet already,” he mumbles, slipping your panties to the side so that he can feel you. You shudder under his touch, his fingers spreading your slickness up to your clit. He strokes teasingly, the ache between your thighs growing with every flick and circle. 

It feels like heaven, but you need him closer. “Logan,” you whimper, fisting the sheets underneath you. “Want you, please.” It’s a desperate prayer and not just a request. 

Logan suddenly pulls his hand away and you whine at the loss of contact. “I know, sweetheart,” he soothes reassuringly, sitting up and pushing his boxers down. You’ll never get tired of the sight of his cock springing free against his stomach. His hands are back on your hips in an instant, squeezing lightly before hooking his fingers under the waistband of your panties and yanking them down. 

He's back on top of you, lowering down onto one forearm as his other hand pulls your shirt above your tits. “Wanna see you, pretty girl,” he groans, pressing a chaste kiss to your temple before his forehead meets yours.

His hand comes down to the base of his cock, guiding his tip to your entrance, to where you need him most. His chest heaves in time with yours, your nipples brushing against him. He stays there for a moment, not moving. His eyes search your face, as if to confirm you’re real—that you’re truly here with him. You can see the need in his eyes. It’s not lust anymore—not just about sex. It’s never been about that. 

It has always meant more. 

Logan suddenly thrusts into you, bottoming out down to the hilt, stretching you open. You can feel him throb inside you. He groans at your ear. “So goddamn tight.” He doesn’t pull back out, his hips still, his cock buried deep inside you. You need him to move, need to feel his cock rub against your walls. You try to grind down on him, but he doesn’t let you. His hand latches onto your hip, keeping you in place. 

“Lo,” you whine. 

“Love when you call me that, sweetheart,” he growls, his hips still stuck in place. “Just wanna feel you like this for a minute. Don’t move.” 

It’s all too much. You need more, need him to fuck into you. Logan frees his hold on your hip, his hand trailing down between your bodies. He finds your clit, drawing achingly slow circles there. It’s nowhere near enough, but the temporary relief feels so good. 

“Always want you this close,” he murmurs, his hips finally starting to move, slowly but surely. You arch your back at the feeling. “Feels so good, so fucking good.” 

He’s taking his time, committing how you feel around his cock to his memory. He’s filling you up, taking in every inch you have to give him. You’re still adjusting to his size, his cock working you open with every thrust. His fingertips swirl around your clit, adding more pressure to the sensitive bud. You’re already close, already putty in his hands. 

Your walls flutter around him, drawing him in, deeper and deeper. 

“Should’ve just brought you in here when I got home,” he husks between starving kisses. “Shouldn’t have waited.” 

You wrap your legs around his waist. “I’m here now,” you coo, your nails scratching at his back as he pounds into you, picking up his pace, his hips snapping into yours. 

“D-don’t know what I’d do without you,” he stutters, his voice suddenly shaky. He’s still fucking into you relentlessly, pumping in and out. “F-fucking need you all the time, princess.” His words and that nickname light a spark at the base of your spine. You can feel yourself melting, ready to come undone. 

“So close,” you choke out in between thrusts. 

You clamp down on him. “That’s it,” Logan whispers, his cock rutting into you, his fingers still circling your clit. He’s working you through it, taking care of you, making you feel good. “Come on my cock, pretty girl. Wanna feel it.” 

You can’t help but do as he says—that spark at the base of your spine spreading like wildfire. You’re moaning his name, walls squeezing around him, stars blurring your vision as your orgasm floods through you. But Logan isn’t slowing down, his cock pounding into you and his fingers stroking your clit long after you’ve finished. 

“Love feeling you come,” he mutters, biting your lip in between kisses. “Wanna feel you come again, princess.” 

You’re already beyond fucked out, overstimulated, and far too sensitive, but his words goad you along. “’S’so much, Lo,” you whimper, tripping over your sentence as he splits you apart, sinks into you, hitting your g-spot with every pump. 

“Know you can take it,” he praises, pressing a kiss just under your ear, then to your pulse point, and back up to your lips. “Know you can come again for me, can’t you?”

“Y-yes,” you stammer. “A-anything for you.” You mean it, and he knows you do.

“Fuck,” he curses, his thrusts growing sloppier as the words fall from your lips. “F-fucking beautiful, perfect.” 

You look to where you two are connected—where you become one—and watch as his cock disappears into you. It’s too much, the sight, the feeling of him fucking into you, rubbing your clit, chasing your orgasm. It’s all it takes to have you falling apart underneath him, coming on his cock again. 

After a few soothing strokes to your clit, his nails trail up your body, his fingertips exploring your bare skin. Logan curses under his breath, your name on his lips. You know he’s close behind—almost there. 

“Don’t pull out,” you whisper in his ear, his cock pulsing inside you. “Stay.” 

That’s all the permission he needs to fill you up, his hips stuttering as he comes. “F-fuck,” he groans, his hand slipping under your back to hike you up, to bury himself as deep as possible, to hold you flush against him as he finishes inside you. 

He pumps a few more times, riding out his orgasm, but he doesn’t pull out. He grabs your thigh and hoists your leg around his waist as he shifts you onto your side. You’re next to him now, your chests still pressed together.

“Lemme stay inside you,” he mumbles. 

You nod against him. “Okay.” You squeeze your leg around his waist, taking him deeper. 

The room is silent, your shared shallow breaths the only sound. The curtains dance in the breeze from the still-open window. Your eyes flutter shut, and Logan’s lips press a kiss to each of them. 

After a few moments, he breaks the silence. “Don’t ever wanna spend a night without you.”

Your eyes flutter back open, and you’re met with Logan’s soft, sleepy face. His hair is a mess. You can’t help but smile at the intimacy—the domesticity. “You don’t have to,” you say back. 

“I mean it,” his voice is steady, firm, the sleepiness replaced suddenly with something more serious. “Need you with me all the time.”

“I know,” you say. And then he’s drawing stars across your back. It makes you think of the night this all started. The night everything changed. “I’ll always stay. Always.” You blink and an unexpected tear slips down your cheek. You swallow harshly, unprepared for the vulnerability of the moment. 

Logan immediately notices and brings his thumb up to your cheek, brushing the tear away. “Just want you. Give anything to make you mine.” 

“I already am,” is all you can manage to say. “Don’t need anything.” 

“Gonna give it to you anyway.” He kisses the spot where he wiped the tear away. 

You start to drift off—his arms around you, his cock still buried inside you—the thought of a forever with Logan replaying in your mind. 

You think he’s asleep, but then you hear his soft husk at your ear. “I love you. Always will.”

“I love you, too.”

[sttoru]

‘and if i only could, i’d make a deal with god, and i’d get him to swap our places. .’ — kate bush

 𝝑𝑒 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒. gojo satoru x wife!reader. fluff to angst (no comfort). spoilers chapter 261. reader’s pregnant. major character death. mentions of blood, death. nicknames ‘pretty, sweets’. not proofread bcs i couldn't through the tears. i cried nine times writing this so.. good luck! wc: 3.6k

“he’s kicking again,” satoru chuckles excitedly. he’s been clinging onto you ever since you got back from your doctor’s appointment. your baby boy is growing up healthy and there don’t seem to be any complications.

you smile and rest back against the velvety pillows. you’re enjoying the affection you’re receiving, the kisses and nuzzles against your swollen tummy makes every bit of suffering worth it. your husband is going to be an amazing dad, that you can tell.

“hey, little guy—don’t give ya mommy a tough time,” satoru huffs and gently taps the side of your stomach that was last kicked by the unborn baby, “that’s my wife, y’know?” you giggle at the scene in front of you and close your eyes, relaxing your body.

a comfortable silence hangs in the room. satoru’s warm hands cupping and rubbing your round stomach add to the tranquil atmosphere. the weight of your husband’s head presses onto the front of your plump belly—ear pressed against the stretched skin as if expecting to hear your baby boy talk.

after a while, you open your eyes. you hear a sniff and then the usual silence follows. you look down at satoru settled between your legs, hugging your waist and resting his cheek on your tummy. he’s awfully quiet and you’re unable to see his eyes because of his bangs.

“toru, everything okay?” you carefully ask. your voice comforts him for the next couple seconds, before his muscles tense up once more. satoru tries his best to seem unaffected by the many thoughts scurrying through his head.

“mhm,” your husband nods and forces a small smile. though, he can’t keep the facade up any longer. the longer you’re pregnant, the more worried he gets about a certain something; something that’s been bothering him ever since.

it’s the reason why he doubted even having kids in the first place.

“i—well. i don’t know, sweets,” satoru sighs. a deep sigh that shatters the mask he’s had on for so long. his brows furrow and his eyes dart from one place to the other. his fingers stop their movements on your stomach. they curl around the material of your shirt instead; showing a clear sense of vulnerability.

satoru seems. . . afraid, yet also angry. perhaps at himself, perhaps at the world. you don’t utter a single word. if there’s anything you want, it’s for your husband to speak about his inner turmoil freely. you’re the only person who he can have such emotional conversations with—the only person he can be himself with.

the real gojo satoru.

not the strongest.

that’s why you’re not surprised when satoru opens his mouth to confess the inevitable to you. “i’m scared,” his voice cracks. it’s a faint change in tone, but it is noticeable to you. you’ve been his lover for long enough to notice every minuscule thing.

the white-haired man lets out another sigh. you brush his soft bangs out of his eyes and instantly notice the sudden weariness in them. normally, those beautiful blue eyes shine brightly, yet that light has now dimmed.

you pat his head and satoru immediately leans into your touch. you allow him to process his own emotions and words before speaking up.

“scared?” you ask quietly and carefully, giving your husband space to explain.

satoru nods. there are a thousand thoughts running through his mind. all those thoughts he’s tried to suppress since the day you’ve announced your pregnancy. maybe even before that—at the day of your wedding.

he’s sat down with you a few months into the marriage, to have the talk about kids. he seemed to be delighted to have children with you, however there have always been some dark and hidden thoughts lingering in the back of his mind.

the sorcerer has chosen to ignore them for the longest time. he’s been trying to convince himself that he has nothing to worry about. you’re going to be fantastic parents and your children are going to be extremely loved.

the day you surprised him with your pregnancy, was like a dream. satoru cried - which he rarely does - so it was an emotional night for both of you. neither of you could wait to meet your child—happy with whatever gender.

despite all of the optimism and enthusiasm, satoru’s struggles with his inner thoughts have not yet ended. he doesn’t want to bother you with it. you seem so content and he does not want to ruin that at all.

but even the strongest without limits has to reach a breaking point.

“yeah,” satoru speaks up, his voice hoarse. he kisses your belly button, hoping his child doesn’t pick up on his distress somehow. your husband closes his eyes as he places his forehead against your tummy, praying that the heavens above hear his pleas, “i don’t want our kid to inherit my cursed techniques. at all.”

your hand doesn’t stop stroking satoru’s hair. you don’t flinch at his words, nor do you immediately discard his worries. in all honestly, you’ve shared the same feelings before getting pregnant.

you know how satoru’s treated by the jujutsu society. it’s dehumanising how he’s seen as a weapon of some sorts. a weapon that could solve all problems—one that cannot rest until its duty is done.

you despise it. you’ve told satoru about your hatred for the toxic society, even going as far as asking him to move to a different country without telling anyone. you’re sick and tired. you can’t recall the amount of times that you’ve cried alone, in the bathroom, after you’ve seen the state your lover comes back home in.

the white-haired man always seems so tired. his eyes and head hurt because of them overusing his cursed techniques. there are even days where satoru doesn’t put his blindfold or sunglasses off at home.

and when you try to talk to him about it, satoru simply assures you that ‘he’ll be fine’. you believe him in the moment, but you don’t know for how long you’ll be able to keep that trust.

you’re letting him break, slowly yet surely, right in front of you. he’s working himself to his demise. it’s nothing out of the ordinary to not want the same for your child.

though, you’re sure that it’ll be fine even if your baby boy inherits satoru’s techniques. that’s because you two are going to protect him with all you have. no one is going to treat your child like a weapon—not while the both of you are still alive.

“i don’t want our child to take over the burden i carry,” satoru continues. his brows are furrowed and his lips are pressed into a thin line. he’s already thinking about all the possibilities that can follow with the birth of your son.

he can hide his child from the world, but wouldn’t that be too restrictive? he can keep an eye on him every second of the day, but wouldn’t that be overprotective?

you notice satoru’s internal state of panic increasing, so you quickly cup his face. you lean down and press a firm kiss against his lips, to which he instantly responds. his breath hitches and he sits up on the mattress, deepening the kiss as his hands hold you by the back of your head.

he needs this—you—more than anything else in the world. if it wasn’t for you, he’d have lost his sanity long ago.

you pull back after a good minute and pant. you chuckle as you notice the slight pout on satoru’s lips. he never seems satisfied with just one kiss, which is adorable. you coo and pepper his face with small pecks, “aww.”

it’s comforting to the sorcerer. he closes his eyes and his mouth forms a small smile. you’re doing an amazing job at calming him down. satoru’s muscles relax and he finds himself nestled between your legs soon enough.

you realise that he’s still somewhat afraid for the future of his child by the way he’s playing with your shirt. his head lays on your chest and his long fingers trace shapes on your exposed skin.

“i know, honey, i know,” you murmur against the top of his head. you massage satoru’s scalp gently, nearly making him purr because of how incredible that feels. you stare at the ceiling and continue your little talk.

“i’ve thought about all of it too,” your fingers find his undercut, playing with the little hairs. all you can hope for is that your partner stresses less about the outcome of your pregnancy.

if you can do one thing for him, it’d be that. reassuring him that you’ll both do your best for your child will surely put him at ease. your husband has enough to worry about anyway.

you want to share that burden. you don’t want him to carry the world on his shoulders alone—he’s got you for that now.

“but i think that our son will be fine. why? because he’s got you,” you smile and kiss satoru’s forehead. it’s his favorite type of kiss and it works wonders when you comfort him. his ocean eyes regain their sparkle, both because of your unconditional love and trust in his parenting skills, “our boy will grow up fine and protected because he’s got you as his amazing dad, yeah?”

satoru takes some time to let your words sink in. your trust in him is a beautiful thing. of course, he’ll protect his kid no matter what. both you and his kid will be safe for as long as he’s alive. you’re going to be a happy family—one that he’s always dreamed of having.

he isn’t going to raise his child to be the strongest. he isn’t going to raise his child as an heir to the throne. he isn’t going to raise his child as his legacy. he isn’t going to raise his child as a tool.

his son will have a normal childhood and he will guarantee that. satoru will give his kid what he didn’t have as a child himself;

unconditional love and support for whatever his son wishes to become.

satoru raises his head and leans in to kiss you, hugging you to himself. he adores you so much, you’re all he needs to feel like he can do anything and everything all at once.

carrying the world on his shoulders so you can live peacefully in it is all satoru does it for.

“heh, damn right. i’ll be the best husband and dad ever.”

. . .

but in the end, your dreams are just dreams, right?

an escape from reality, that’s all dreams really are. all those times you’ve sat together to pick the furniture you want to place in the nursery, to paint the room a baby blue, to buy clothes and toys, diapers and carriers, to giggle about the places you would love to visit as a family, to think about possible baby names, to joke about whether your son will say ‘dada’ or ‘mama’ first — all of it were naive, hopeful dreams.

perhaps you were too caught up in them to realise that reality will hit when least expected.

satoru and you have lived in your own bubble—your own little fantasy world where tragic fates does not exist. no one in this planet would suffer if life worked that way.

no one on this planet would have to pick up the phone and have their world shatter, their dream bubble pop. to have all hope lost in the span of a second.

grief is a scary thing. it’s devastating and it will consume you whole. you don’t realise that until you experience it firsthand. losing someone close to you will break you in half. it’s a punch to the gut.

especially if it’s your husband. someone you considered your partner—who’s promised you to be together forever. maybe those promises were also a part of your fantasy.

maybe they were also but a beautiful lie.

your footsteps feel heavy. you don’t have any energy left in you. every drop has been drained from you the moment you heard the news over the phone. your eyes and head hurt, both feeling like they’re going to burst. you don’t want to accept any of this.

the faces of the people around you are a blur. they’re all holding their head low, their hands gathered in front of them to show respect. no one speaks—all the room is filled with are your sobs. the loud cries you let out in hopes that they wake you up from this absolute nightmare.

you drag your feet to the examination table in the middle of the room. tears continue to blur your vision, though surely, you can confirm the outline of the body laying underneath the blanket.

how could you not recognise the person you thought you’d spend eternity with?

it’s unfair. it’s unfair. it’s unfair. it’s unfair. it’s unfair. it’s unfair. it’s unfair. it’s unfair. it’s unfair. it’s unfair. . .

“satoru.” your voice is barely audible. your hands are shaking and your face is stained with endless streams of tears. you stand at the side of the table and you instantly curl your fingers around the edge.

seeing that face from up close hits different. usually, it’d have your stomach fill with a feeling of delight, yet now all you feel when looking at it is unimaginable dread.

the blood on the corners of his mouth. the blanket that’s hiding whatever is left of him from below the waist. the dull eyes that once stared at you with hope and love. those dried lips that normally shone with a layer of gloss.

god, it’s awful. you don’t want this to be true. you’re still waiting to be woken up by your husband. so he can hold you close and hug you, whisper sweet nothings and reassure you that he’d never leave you alone in a savage world like this.

your shaky fingers reach out to his right hand. his skin feels cold and his hand doesn’t hold yours back. your breath hitches and you let out a long, devastating cry. it sounds like a scream for help as your body crumbles—falling to your knees whilst you tightly grip your lover’s limp hand.

“no, god no, please!” you cover your mouth with your free hand, nearly hyperventilating from pure pain. you feel like your heart is going to give up on you. it’s breaking into a million pieces, as does your future. you can’t live without him—you can't do it.

satoru is the sole reason you’ve held out for so long. you were each other’s support system. you can’t do any of this on your own. you can’t breathe properly—your body doesn’t let you.

not until you feel a hand on your back, rubbing it gently. you can guess that it’s shoko, but you’re too distraught to even pay attention to her. you lift yourself up by holding onto the edge of the table, your legs shaking. you sniffle and sob uncontrollably.

you reach out to touch satoru’s lifeless face, as gentle as you always do. you flinch when you feel just how cold his body is—the usual warmth that would comfort you gone, nowhere to be found. you don’t get a reaction from him when you touch his cheeks.

it only serves to remind you of the tragic events that unveiled. you’re still in denial, but the moment feels real. your brain is slowly yet surely processing the information. though, you don’t want it to. you want to live in a world where you grow old with your husband.

where your child is going to grow up with a father figure at home.

“satoru, come back to me.. to us, please,” you beg and beg, hoping he smiles and sits up, telling you that it’s just one of his silly pranks again. when none of that happens, you feel yourself become more hopeless. you hunch over him and cup his face. the same face that would light up whenever you’d touch it.

you hiccup and wail, unable to breathe. you rub his cheekbones with your thumbs, settling your forehead against his. your tears fall underneath his eyes and slide down his temples, making it seem like he’s crying with you.

you wait for satoru to respond, but he doesn’t. there’s an eerie silence on his part and you’re panicking. you need him to comfort you, but he isn’t there to do that anymore. you’re left alone, all alone.

“i can’t do this without you—we can’t do this without you,” you stammer between sobs. you can’t go through life, knowing satoru isn’t going to be there for you. he isn’t going to come home anymore. he isn’t going to cuddle you to sleep anymore. he isn’t going to experience what it’s like to have a family of his own. he isn't going to be able to hold his child and to play with him.

you blame life for being unfair—always taking away the people who don’t deserve it. satoru hasn’t done anything to deserve this. he just.. existed. his fate of becoming the strongest, decided at his birth, is what has lead to his death.

you continue to sob to yourself. you refuse to acknowledge anything or anyone else in the room. you’re solely focused on your husband. or rather, what’s left of him.

remembering how excited satoru was to spend the rest of his life with you and your future children pains you all the more. he’s been stripped from a normal life. you’ve tried your hardest to give him that said normal life, yet your hopeful dreams have gotten you nowhere.

you wipe your tears away for the first time in a while. your grief is making you delusional—disoriented to the point you try to make yourself feel better. you force a smile and hold tightly onto satoru’s limp hand, trying to speak through your quiet sniffles.

“o-our boy is gonna be born soon,” you chuckle bitterly and place satoru’s hand on your belly. it’s gotten bigger over the months and you’re already eight months along. he was so close to meeting your child—so close. yet his tragic destiny did not allow him to.

you hope he’s been happy with you for as long as he lived. you hope you’ve somewhat relieved him from his misery for as long as he lived. that burden he carried, the world he carried on his shoulders. . . it doesn’t seem to want to detach from him. even after death.

you press a deep kiss against his forehead. satoru’s favorite spot to be kissed at, you remember. you wish he feels it in the afterlife; wherever he may he. as long as he’s in a better place now, one that treats him well. this current world has been too cruel on him. it doesn’t deserve to home someone like your husband.

“i wish you were here to see your son. to see our baby grow up, you'd be so proud, honey,” you kiss satoru’s forehead again. it’s all you can do stop yourself from losing it completely. you know satoru would tell you to be strong, for his sake. for your unborn son.

“i’m going to tell him all about you, ‘kay? i'm going to tell him about how awesome his dad was,” your voice breaks for the nth time. you’re still in the first stage of grief, though you try to seem strong in case satoru is watching from somewhere.

that’s what he did when he was the one going through a tough time. he’d act brave and fine, putting on a mask to make you worry less, telling you all kinds of reassuring words while he was suffering internally.

now it’s your turn to safely send his soul off to the afterlife. to let satoru pass away in peace, with him knowing that you’re going to live on for him and for your child. it’s the least you can do at the moment.

you put on a brave face, staring into his lifeless eyes, smiling through the unbearable pain. you’re sure he’s still listening to you from somewhere. satoru’s always told you that your voice is soothing, so you do your best to calm his soul and reassure him that it’s fine for him to rest.

“i’ll do my best to raise him, yeah? so you.. you just rest.”

rest was a foreign word to the sorcerer. this world didn’t give him an ounce of peace. he’d either be overworked by his family or the jujutsu society, and if it isn’t work, his inherited techniques were slowly killing his brain and body.

you’re praying that satoru has none of that in the afterlife. you’re praying that he can live a normal life, eternally. so that when you join him one day, you both won’t have to suffer nor share the burden. you can live out your dreams without anyone interrupting.

not even fate.

“you deserve to rest. you really do,” you sigh.

soon enough, you feel yourself crumble again. you burst out in tears once you realise that he’s actually never coming back to you in this life. you bury your face in the crook of his neck and sob loudly, not holding back your emotions anymore. you just can’t—you can’t act brave when your second half has been taken away from you so suddenly.

you hope that you succeeded into sending him off without any worries. you can’t help but continue rambling to yourself, “i’m going to miss you s’much. oh, my baby.”

you lift your head back and stare into satoru’s eyes once more. did he think about you when he was on his deathbed? did he see his life flash before his eyes, including his many memories with you? did he see what could have been?

it’s unfair.

you give him one last bright smile and gently close his eyelids for him, hoping his lost soul saw your face before you did so. with one last kiss on his lips, you whisper your final words;

“please wait for me on the other side, my love.”

[queenie-the-court-jester]

yandere bunny hybrid x reader

A/n: the Intro was rushed because I got too excited to write the smut. Not proofread 🌺

Tw: noncon turns to dubcon, androgynous breeding kink, little dirty talk, he's a horny bastard. Mommy kink but it can be applied to any gender. Slapping body parts, he has a minor lactation kink. Mdni please!

★you met the little furball while you were out on a evening walk. It was the middle of winter and being cooped up inside the house all day was starting to get a little claustrophobic

★you didn't notice him at first since he blended in with the snow. Stopping mid-walk when you heard a weak little whine coming from behind you. Slowly turning around, you saw a pair of red eyes staring at you from beneath the snow

★approaching them slowly, you could finally see him more clearly. Milky white skin turning a light blue due to hypothermia. He didn't have the strength to run when you picked him up. Patting his head, you headed back home.

★giving him a warm bath and setting him next to the fireplace, you slowly nursed him back to health. He was very reluctant at first, but your touch was too comforting to pull away from. He hasn't felt this safe since he was just a baby bun! He stayed with you nearly the entire winter

★midway he starts to get himself familiar with your home, peeking under furniture and into rooms, he seemed to understand you when you'd ask him questions in English

"what's your name little fella?"

"cotton.."

★eventually you had to let him go back into the wild, just a month before spring arrived. He was reluctant but with enough convincing he finally left. Looking back at you from the forest edge, watching you wave goodbye with that beautiful smile he loves

❣️cotton who goes into heat early because he can't stop thinking of you. Burrying himself in his burrow, humping the air. Nothing is as soft as you and your bed. Nothing can make him feel as safe as your touch does

❣️he shoos any females who wish to mate away. Claiming he already has a mate. Oh he wished you'd come into the forest looking for him, to take care of him again as he fills your tight little hole up with his cum

❣️he spends most of his time shamelessly masturbating to the thought of you. His entire heat cycle has been on loop since he left, so finally gathering the balls he heads back to your cottage. Watching you from a distance, lazily stroking his already sensitive cock.

★just minding your business, you don't notice the certain bunny hybrid approaching slowly. You don't have much time to react before a familiar mop of white hair tackles you to the ground. Desperately humping your clothed sex as he whines and grunts.

"cotton!? What the hell are you doing!?"

"hah- nhg need.. mate.. pretty mate.. need to breed! Ohh!"

★you tried pushing him off, but when did he get so strong!? Pining your arms down and ripping your clothes off, wasting no time in lapping at your genitals. Eating you out like a starved man, sucking and nipping your inner thighs until he's sure you're nice and lubed up

★he carefully pressed the tip in, but he doesn't last long as he slowly sinks deeper into your gummy walls. Letting go of your arms and roughly grabbing your hips, which were sure to bruise later, brutally fucking your brains out. Slapping your chest and privates as he grinds his cock deeper

★he keeps going even after he's ripped multiple orgasms out of you. The pleasure slowly chipping off your resistance. Leaving you a blubbering moaning mess under the bunny. A pool of his cum under where your sexes kept meeting.

★it doesn't matter what gender you are, he's determined to breed you until you're swelling with his children. He couldn't wait to suck and bite your chest once it was swollen with milk!

"gonna be so pretty- mph! So pretty, all swollen 'n fat with my babies.. gonna be a good mate, right? G-gonna give me lots of 'em right? Oh ohhh! Cumming again! 'Yer squeezing all my cum out! Mommy!!"

★let's just say that you should get use to your new roommate husband, because now there's no way of getting rid of him. Ever.

[darnell-la]

perchance..dry humping with logan….pretty please with all the cherries on top

𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗜𝗡 '𝗘𝗠 𝗕𝗔𝗕𝗬

summary: Logan had just became apart of the x men. he’s always been known to flirt with whoever he could, but when y/n came around, he realized she was the only one he wanted to smell like.

warnings: up late, public humping, embarrassed, kissing, submission, dominance, dry orgasm, love confession, etc.

note: we kind of want to write a submissive!logan… tell us what y’all think.

follow our Instagram @ darnell.la so we can start posting random videos, photos, edits, and memes of the people we write about!

———

“Whatcha doin’ down here, bub? It’s like three in the mornin,” Logan made his way into the kitchen. Y/n had jumped from the man’s voice. She wasn’t expecting anyone down here. She wasn’t expecting him down here.

“God — I-I’m just listening to music,” y/n placed her phone down and took her headphones out. She was lying and somehow, Logan knew that. The way she slammed her phone — He couldn’t hold back his smirk.

“Are you sure that’s what you’re up to?” Logan asked as he sat next to y/n with his eyes on her phone. “Yes, I was-“ she tried to lie but she was cut off when Logan snatched her phone.

“Hey!” She yelled and whispered at the man, praying her phone was locked, but it wasn’t. Shit. “Let’s see what we have here,” Logan leaned back in his chair as he clicked the video he assumed she was just watching.

“Why are you watching us train?” Logan asked, already finding whatever she was doing boring. “You’re not even in the video,” he laughed, trying to figure out what it was that she was looking at until he noticed the video was cropped.

It was cropped to show him closer. The man skipped the video and noticed it was almost an hour long of him fighting.

The smirk that grew on his face, raised y/n’s heart rate. She was caught and she had nothing to back her up.

“Now, what made you do this, bub?” Logan slid her phone across the table for her to look at. “If I’m not mistaken, that looks like me — for an hour,” he pointed at himself fight training.

“I-I can't explain,” she said low, so embarrassed that she got caught. How could she get caught? She knew she should’ve stayed in her room.

“I don’t think there’s much to explain, princess. Seems you get off by watching me fight,” Logan was now hunching over, looking at her with his sweet and soft eyes.

She couldn’t look at him. She swore she would pass out if she did.

“You like watching me fight?” Logan asked y/n, a right hand softly touching her thigh. He’s been teasing her ever since he got here. Tonight was the first time he touched her. She was going inside on the inside.

“I know you do, you wanna know why?” He asked, hands getting higher until he stopped under her nightgown. His fingers were grazing her panties. Y/n looked up at the older boy, eyes shy.

“Because I can smell that pretty cunt leak,” his voice was sweet, yet dark. “And you’re always like that. It’s hard walking past you because you’re always so damn wet,” he tease as he rubbed on her clothes heat.

“Logan,” she whispered, not knowing if she wanted him to do this. They’re in the kitchen, so anyone could come down here and see how flustered she is from the way he’s talking and touching her.

“C’mere, bub,” Logan pulled away before patting his lap. Y/n was confused at first, but got the idea and did was she was told. She got up and went to sit, back facing him until he turned her around to sit, facing him.

As soon as she sat down, she felt how hard he was. It felt like actual metal, but she knew a human cock had no bone — So why is he this hard?

“You feel that, princess? Got me like this as soon as I walked in,” he said, making his cock throb through his pajamas. “I-I don’t know if we can do this,” y/n spoke. She’s never been a submissive kind, but he brought it out of her.

“Why not? I’ve liked you ever since I got here. Had to work weeks to make you nervous,” Logan’s hands traveled from her back, down to her ass to grip and pull at.

“We’re in the kitchen, Logan. A-And I don’t think the girls that you talk to will-“ she went to say but he cut her off quickly. “Ah uh — I don’t talk to anyone, bub. They talk to me,” he corrected her.

“I’ve been workin’ hard to impress you. No one else. Who gives a shit if they want me. I don’t want them,” Logan lifted his hand to cup her chin.

“Are you okay with that?” He asked, now using his hand that was on her ass to move her, making her grind on his clothes cock.

The whine that left her mouth, made Logan’s heart skip a beat. She sounds so beautiful.

“C’mon, baby, tell me — Tell me you’re okay with being my pretty girl,” he said, slowly moving his own hips. He kept asking her, wanting her to reply as her mind fogged up.

“O-Okay,” her head fell onto his shoulder. Logan lifted the girl's head back up only to lean in and suck on her neck. He wanted to make sure she knew he was going to claim her.

“Lo,” y/n moaned, now moving her own hips, feeling her cunt throb on him. She was getting hot and her stomach felt funny. Kind of when she masturbated but better.

She’s never grinned at someone, but this felt so good. This felt amazing.

“Always lookin’ so pretty, baby,” Logan said as his hands lifted her nightgown up so he could touch and feel her skin. “T-Thank you,” she stuttered as she looked into the man’s eyes.

Y/n was the first to lean in and taste Logan. He was sweet. He already knew she was sweet, but finding it out for himself was the best feeling.

Y/n’s hips began to speed up as her moans got a bit louder. Logan knew she was near. He couldn’t help but smirk on her lips. She was falling apart right on top of him.

“C-Cumming,” the word was barely heard from the low she was. Her moan was broken as she shook. She’s never had her cunt throb this hard before. She couldn’t stop it.

“Fuck, y/n,” he groaned under his breath as his hips bucked. He swear he wouldn’t cum in his pants. He’s not one of those, but tonight — he was different. Y/n felt wetness grow under him, and she knew it wasn’t her.

She was confused until she looked at the man in front of her. His breathing stuttered, his body twitched and his shaky arm was holding her back into him so she’d be closer to him.

“O-Oh my god, baby — Fuck,” the man caught his breath and calmed down from his high. In his mind, he thought she was emasculated, but when he looked at her needy eyes, he knew she still felt submissive.

“You’re so good, baby,” Logan gave her a peck. “I think I’m in love,” he joked, but they could both tell he wasn’t joking. “I know I am,” y/n said as her hands rested on his shoulders.

Logan felt relief before he smashed his lips on hers, making out with her roughly but softly at the same time. He eventually took her up to his room, not being able to hold back and tell her how he was going to move everything from her room into his.

He didn’t think he wanted her this bad, but after tonight — After she showed how much she liked him back, he needed to keep her around him at all costs. He was in love and she was too.