#The doll doesn't even have the chest cavity yet

[puppetmaster13u]

Day 10

Au belongs to @phoenixcatch7

(Which btw my mutual I have discovered something perfect for vibes for the dolls. Spirit Warriors from Spelljammers in DnD, I would watch the video by Dungeon Dad on Youtube, they're great)

[rqnarok]

worst!logan losing his last bit of self-control. 

smut, mdni! fem!reader. worst!wolverine. unprotected p in v. size kink. 

logan howlett is a decent neighbor, you think. sometimes he might smell like alcohol when you meet him, but still, he’s moderate, respectful, and minds his own business. always got something yet nothing going on. the only thing is, he’s hot. hot and older. way older than you with those wrinkles and greying stubble on his face.

wade told you he doesn’t have a girlfriend nor has he ever once brought back a girl to their shared space, let alone even mentioned one. you thought that this little crush on him would go away like any other—it does not. so then you begin dropping hints that you find him attractive, by wearing your tightest piece of clothing, brushing your ass against him in the laundry room, and even leaving one of your pink cottoned panties to mix in with his clothes. 

the same logan howlett never takes the bait. 

you begin to suspect that perhaps he simply doesn't think you're attractive, or worse, that he thinks you're a creep. doesn’t take long for you to stuff your girl crush into your chest cavity.

it was when you were cradling your laundry basket back to your room when you caught a glimpse of logan trying to open the locks to his apartment, back from his morning run. 

you pad closer to ask him if he needs any clothes washed. logan’s back is still turned from you while he searches for the right lock. 

“need any clothes washed, logan? i’m starting a load up for the day.” you question all while eyeing the movement of back muscle underneath his sweat-soaked shirt.

he finally turns to you and starts to respond, “uh- don’t think so—” before he stops his sentence midway when he sees what you’re wearing. 

“‘s that mine?” his voice sounds hoarse in your ear. 

oh, yeah. it’s his customized t-shirt that is long enough to cover your shorts. the t-shirt wade and blind al got him for his birthday as a half-fuckin’ joke. the one that has his name in bold at the back of it. you notice he’s staring lowly at the fabric—waiting for your answer.

you look downwards, “o-oh, yeah. sorry. i was doing laundry and found this in the hamper. my clothes are already in the wash. hope that’s… okay?” 

you sound docile and small as though a deer caught in the headlights. christ. what were you thinking, wearing your neighbor’s shirt without his permission. the same neighbor that may think you’re a weirdo. you try to hide your humiliation by shifting—playing with the hem of his t-shirt.

within three big steps, he’s on you. the sound he makes is somewhere between a growl and a snarl, almost animal-like.  how or when you both ended up on the floor of his living room is unknown to you. you're on your knees, rubbing your cheek against the carpet as his gaze burns between your legs. only left in his shirt. your shorts and panties are scattered all over the place. when you move your hips backwards, you're silently pleading with him to do something—anything.

he gives the flesh of your bottom a heavy slap that has your hole clenching around nothing, “be good now, doll.” is all you hear before the sting leaves a burning red mark. he calms you down by placing his palm over the back of your his shirt.

you hear a noise behind you before you feel the head of his tip onto your folds—making you release a high-pitched whine into the air. logan, too, groans at the contact, kneading the fat of your hips before he presses forward painfully slow. you whimper into your own palm, another hand reaching back to touch him, feeling warm all over. your pussy pulses trying to fit his large girth inside your heat.

“i know, bunny. ‘m almost there. thaaaa’s it.” you’re crying with relief when you feel logan’s balls meet your skin—a sign that he’s all the way in.

logan lets out an animalistic sound seeing you speared open on his cock, his name across your back, and you babbling stuff like “so b-big, logan…” 

he pulls back just to sink in again, slowly. logan sets a pace that has you trying to buck your hips back to meet his hips. he lays a large palm in the middle of your back, just under the word ‘logan’, keeping you pinned down on the carpet.  giving you no choice but to take what he gives you.

“f-fuck. such a pretty fuckin girl. gonna give ya’ what you deserve, yeah?” it manages to get hotter when he bends his right leg to slide in deeper, reaching your sweet spot. “rite’ there, logan…!” you slur mindlessly. 

he only chuckles at the act before taking both of your smaller wrists into one of his hands—pressing them tightly at your back—forcing you into an arch.

“needed this real bad, huh, sweet’art? don’t ya' worry. always gonna be here from now on. no need to fucking wear those tiny tops t’get my attention again.” 

“mhm!” you reply without a second thought. too oblivious to the fact that you’ve been drooling all over the carpet and to the fact that you’ve been caught. logan gives a deep relief sigh at how compliant you’ve become just from his thick cock.

your high comes hard and fast leaving you sobbing out phrases of please and logan. logan is not far behind—burying himself deeper as he can—and comes inside with a profound ‘oh fuck.’

he trails kisses on your face until he reaches your lips. logan pulls himself out with an obscene sound and watches his cum stream down your thighs. leaving small traces on the floor that he knows he’ll have to clean later before his roommate yells in his ear. 

logan pats your back affectionately and pulls you until you’re lying soundly on his chest, “don’t think y’re gonna do any laundry today, dolly.”

[quecksilvereyes]

dialogue prompt: stay right there. i'll be over in a minute. i'll help. narnia character: susan is on the brain susan it shall be

thank you for the prompt!!! this ended up as a Peter & Susan piece because of course. inevitably it does.

prompt from this post! feel free to pick one and send me a narnia character! I'll write you a little ficlet.

_

Your eldest stands by the stove, shaking hands and split lip, his brows furrowed. His teeth dug into the inside of his cheek, his back straight, he stares at the kettle.

It's whistling. The steam rushes through the spout like some angry thing trapped in a locked box, and the gas-fed flames underneath lick at the metal. "Peter", you say, and rest your fingers against your temple. "Peter, please."

Peter does not move. Peter, blue-eyed and blond and strung like piano wire, licks his lips. They are swollen, still, and raw as his knuckles are. Your ears ring. Your mouth sits, weary and smeared, somewhere in the pit of your stomach.

"Peter", you say. "Darling."

Darling doesn't blink. Darling gnaws at his cheek. Darling's hands twitch. Darling doesn't breathe.

"Oh, Peter." Susan's voice has been, since they've returned, as smooth as honey. As sharp as allium. Her hair is pinned up, still, wrapped around the rollers she has taken to sleeping with. In her hand, she holds the silk scarf the Professor must have gifted her, buttercup-yellow and finer than anything you've ever owned.

There is still that gap between her front teeth, and she has not yet grown into her eyes. Big and pale, and paired with that rose-petal mouth, she looks more like a doll now than she did when she was born.

She's the only one who was born screaming, flushed purple and clinging to you with all the strength of a thing that is not prepared for change. The bruises would not fade for two weeks, and sometimes in the mornings when the skies are grey and the rain pelts heavy against the windows, they ache still.

"Stay right there. I'll be there in a minute", says Susan, who is so still now, a porcelaine coated thing painted with the most delicate of brushes. She wraps her scarf around her shoulders and her hand around her brother's neck.

Darling inhales, a whistling as a boiling kettle. There's something wet in the cavity of his chest, and when your daughter lays her palm in between his shoulder blades, the piano wire snaps.

"I'll help", says Susan, and kills the gas. She removes the lid from the kettle. Her hands are perfectly steady. Her breath comes perfectly even, and when your eldest buries his wretched face in the crook of her neck, she holds him until he shakes no longer.

Helen, what did the country give back to you?