#the tag cracks me up every time i see

[fluffypotatey]

one of the funniest tags to me when reading tgm fics is the fact that some writers feel the need to clarify that Sarah Kazansky is the sister of Iceman instead of his wife because yeah sure the film implied that the woman who opened to door to his house was his wife but never explicitly stated it so….can IceMav fans truly be faulted for saying she’s his sister?????

the world may never know

[fountainpenguin]

Dimmsdale Rich Families Analysis

Misc. musings that haunt me daily...

I love Dimmsdale's rich families... You've got the Dimmadomes who are all about real estate, fancy buildings, hosting city events, and (Thanks to Dale) they got into tech and shipping.

Contrast that with the "old-fashioned pencil and paper" vibes of the Leadlys, plus the Buxaplentys running the trains... It's a triangle of supporting each other's businesses (and thus, the rich get richer).

This post written under the assumption we're treating these episodes as canon, though I cherrypick "Country Clubbed" in my worldbuilding and I use Dimmsdale's founding year from Season 3 over the one given in Season 9.

General Background

Several flashback episodes imply the FOP world exists in a timeline where the English settled at least part of the west coast in 1665 (as opposed to the Spanish).

- Presumably, this is one of the unique things a universe-hopper like Jimmy Neutron would identify this world by. - On that note, people are heavily implied to "stand differently" in the FOP world, which is why visitors from other dimensions react with surprise when they see their bodies (and fall over before they get their footing):

Just some fun "alt reality" vibes. Enjoy your visit; sea legs required.

Notably, this is also a universe where trains existed on the west long before they existed in ours, but we'll get to that.

Today I'm discussing the Dimmadomes, Leadlys, and Buxaplentys, but for anyone who's interested in learning more about rich families, Season 9's "Country Clubbed" namedrops a bunch.

Dimmadome Family

We know the Dimmadomes for their impact in the modern world- they're always innovating, hopping from one thing to the next. Dale does seem to have consistency in the businesses he owns (though I am DYING to question what his plans are for that indoor amusement park).

Doug doesn't seem able to commit to anything for long, though we know he's very proud of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome. He hosts many events throughout the series, from music shows to wrestling to demolition derbies.

Dimmsdale was founded in 1665, named after Dale Dimm (following him throwing Alden Bitterroot the witch down a well). It's possible Dale Dimm is an ancestor of the Dimmadomes, given what we know about:

- Dimmadomes having their hand in things (including the founding of Dimmadelphia). - One Dimmadome ancestor using the surname Dimm ("Lost and Founder's Day"). - Dale Dimm's very tall, barefoot figure is a hilarious ancestor choice for Doug "tall hat" and Dale "boot obsessed" descendants when you think about it.

While it's heavily implied Dale was born into generational wealth, we can't confirm whether that was (or wasn't) true for Doug. It's possible his family helped him get his start, but he seems to have kicked off his own success story by mining for gold (Presumably at a young age given that was back in 1953 and the main FOP series kicks off in 2001).

I like to think Doug (prior Dale's birth) changed his family's surname to Dimmadome to move away from the negative connotation of Dimm and commit himself fully to his big and shiny brand image.

Doug's a pretty interesting character! He's not afraid to get involved in his projects and work hard personally, as opposed to outsourcing- a trait he and his son Dale seem to share.

Doug also seems pained to surrender a check to Timmy in "Odd Ball" (even asking for a minute to say good-bye to his money), which isn't far off from Dale's attitude towards stocks.

He was even down to move to Alaska to follow the Ballhogs basketball team. He loves throwing all his chips on the table and doesn't back out easily. He also goes all-in with promotional outfits, like the parka above or his chicken costume in "Chicken Poofs."

That said, he might have some "sunk cost fallacy" views towards some of the stuff he buys. While the basketball team cheered they'd won the game by a close shave, Doug's first remark was that now he'd have to figure out what to do with all the stuff he bought in prep for their move to Alaska. He immediately started eating the Blubber Nuggets he would no longer be able to sell.

In "Chicken Poofs," when Doug sees the town inside his restaurant's chicken-dunking cages, his first thought isn't "Oh my gosh, I have to save these people." It's "These people stole my chickens- I'm ruined!" However (at Timmy's advice), he comes back from the loss of his chickens by selling the eggs they left behind. He wasn't about to go home empty-handed.

I'm obsessed with Doug's chicken-dipping machinery having labels so the thing one step up from Deep Fry is The Sun, and the step up from Sun is Lava. When would he ever need a dial that goes that high?

A "waste not, want not" attitude is fascinating in contrast to Dale being so incredibly wasteful, he brought two single-use helicopters on his trip to the park in "Stanky Danky." Is Dale rebelling against Doug's "We have to make the most of everything" parenting style? I think that plays really well into my vision of Dale being the first born into excessive wealth, while Doug possibly worked his way up after striking gold in 1953. Dale is wasteful, Doug more practical.

Doug is also over-the-top ridiculous and would sooner work around his love for tall hats than stop wearing them.

He owns a boot-shaped phone and a laptop with an armadillo logo, apparently. I'm not sure what they were going for with the armadillo - it's probably just random or meant to represent high security - but I looked it up and in Mayan folklore, armadillos are perceived as cunning critters that outwit people and dodge consequences thanks to their shells, which... Yeah, I think that sums the Dimmadomes up pretty well. Fun fact, but armadillos are one of the only things Fairy magic can't affect ("Teacher's Pet") because magic bounces off their shells. My Anti-Fairy biology incorporates pink fairy armadillo biology because we know Anti-Fairies are also immune to most Fairy magic. Just kind of a "Hm" implication, especially since "Crock Talk"' here and "Teacher's Pet" are both Season 7 episodes. I guess the other horrifying option is that Doug eats armadillos the way you eat apples, but...

I'm also of the opinion that Doug torched things in the Learnatorium, given what we know about the Learnatorium's interior ("Totally Spaced Out") and this scene of Doug "destroying childhood memories" in "Odd, Odd West"

In fact, it's not even a reach to say Doug takes pride in destroying people's cherished childhood memories. He seems to "look down on wasteful, childish things" and seems to value anything that is more useful in performing a task or turning a profit. Again, that's big "Everything must be useful and we can't waste space" energy (and presumably reflects on his offscreen parenting).

Where my fanworks are concerned, I love the idea that Doug paid for personal tutors to help Dale adjust to society and/or some basic schooling. Say... maybe an elementary teacher to start with? I don't think it would be unreasonable to theorize Crocker was involved with that, at least at first, as it helps justify the money he would've needed to expand the Crocker cave in the early days. -> We know from S4's "Genie Meanie Miney Mo" that Mr. Birkenbake states he can't afford a garage because he "doesn't make Crocker money," implying resentment... which is pretty interesting when you consider that Crocker also doesn't have his own place because he moved back in with his mom after university, and not even to his old room (Instead to a room above the garage). -> We know from S6's "Wishology Pt. 2" that Crocker stole the money intended for "the school's new science wing" and used that to pay for some of his tech, like his rocket. Both these episodes come well after S2's "Nectar of the Odds," so it's interesting to consider Crocker getting money earlier to support his tech pursuits in Seasons 2 and 3.

Dale seems to feel strongly about his dad- If it's not love, it's obsession and Grade-A Daddy Issues. His tent is shaped like his dad's head - despite Doug not being present at the event as far as we know - and even his house features statues of his dad.

Considering the nervous, over-the-top, aggressively money-chasing person Dale turned out to be, it's no surprise we can see a lot of Dale in Doug. While Vicky did a number on Dale's psyche, there's definitely some Doug influence in his behavior too.

Fun Fact: The Dimmadome gives off Roman Colosseum vibes, so it's fitting that one of the ancestors we saw in "Lost and Founder's Day" is an ancient Roman!

I would also be remiss not to look at the Dimmadome fortune, glance at the sheer number of businesses Doug is constantly opening... and question if there's some money laundering going on there. Seems kinda sus, ngl...

I'm just saying, Doug with a ton of "disposable income" (gold) because he ended up with a lot of it very quickly seems like a "great" way to get into gambling. Shout-out to the Dimmadomes and their obsessions that hint at addictive personalities. Actually, that makes Dev's game addiction so much darker and now I'm horrified. He could get into trouble so easily...

Also, in "Engine Blocked," Doug literally tries to pay Vicky with a bunch of [I assume fake] money with his face on it, so that's questionable...

One last interesting note is that the Dimmadrones (called such in "Stanky Danky" when chasing Cosmo, Wanda, and Hazel) are clearly based on the early model of Amazon delivery drones.

I think the obvious assumption is that Dale* built them for Dimmazon, but repurposed a few of them for Dev's caretaking (as opposed to them being built for Dev in the first place).

* It's possible the robots were built by a team, but knowing Dale programmed the statues in "Lost and Founder's Day" & Dale's seeming preference to do things himself rather than outsourcing, I'm going with the "Dale built them" theory.

This repurposing might be backed up by Dev referring to the ones that hang out with him as au pairs - a phrase meaning "caretaker" - and even claiming his au pairs are Au Pair #1 and Au Pair #2. While that might just be convenient shorthand since those are the two he interacts with, maybe those are a different type of Dimmadrone that was designed (or tweaked) specifically for Dev's care.

In a previous post, I discussed my headcanon of Dev having hypoglycemia and referenced the au pairs having the ability to "alert on him," or at least use both visuals and noise to signal him, as in this screenshot from "28 Puddings Later" showcasing a glowing exclamation point:

We also know Dev has specific food needs (Lactose intolerance), that he's very picky with his food (Even a treat like cupcakes that you would expect a 9-year-old to enjoy regardless), and that the au pairs are capable of food preparation (since Dev tells Hazel in "A New Dev-elopment" they can make sushi).

The au pairs are probably the most advanced, expensive, time-consuming models (compared to the ones that simply need to be mass produced for package pick-up and put-down).

I do like the thought that - for all his faults I didn't touch on here - Dale does care enough about Dev that he took the time to design two robots that could look after Dev in his absence... and specifically, took the time to think of what a child actually needs.

Dale probably thinks "I spent 7 years struggling... I would've loved the comfort of knowing my base needs like food were taken care of."

In my hypoglycemia post, I said the au pairs seem to know what hugs are and can recognize when Dev wants comfort. That implies Dale put a lot of thought into the design of the au pair and its ability to assess Dev's needs. Dale's not oblivious to what a child needs, like safety, appropriate food, and physical affection... He just lets the au pairs handle Dev.

Dale definitely gives the impression of someone who's making a genuine effort to parent, considering he missed out on healthy role models for at least 7 years of his life (Not to mention Doug is a wild character and probably fell short of being an excellent parent himself).

Along with designing the au pairs to look after him, Dale involves Dev in his projects, greets Dev, and answers his questions, and that's so interesting when you compare him with people like:

- Remy's parents (after the shipwreck in "Fairy Fairy Quite Contrary"'s closing scene) opting to count their surviving money and open a luxury hotel while still dressed in rags, forcing Remy to forage for his and their survival - Vicky and Tootie's parents opting to stay with perceived cannibals rather than disobey Vicky ("Timmy's 2D House of Horror"); they consistently let Vicky run the show and beg her forgiveness when they upset her. You could 100% make an argument that Vicky is Tootie's actual caregiver. - The "Fairy Idol" alt version of Bucky (Chester's dad) who lost his house and went off to party instead of securing food or shelter for his son. Also, Regular Bucky canonically feeds Chester animals he stole from the zoo or aquarium ("Who's Your Daddy?") and I think we should talk about that. - A.J.'s parents are fantastic in many ways, but there's something incredibly dark about the way they don't like A.J. going outside where there are germs ("Who's Your Daddy?"), they have a laser set up in front of their house to vaporize visitors ("The Big Scoop"), and A.J. seems to believe they dislike Chester (given his long silence after Chester asks why A.J.'s parents' security system got more aggressive after finding out he was Chester). - Later-season neglectful Timmy's parents (though I acknowledge I don't love that flanderized aspect of their character unless viewed from the 'got burned out after 50 extra years of parenting' lens, personally). - Clark and Connie who walked out on their daughter having an anxiety attack (and sent Chloe into a dissociative episode 3 times in the first episode they appeared). - A distracted adult Timmy ("Channel Chasers") leaving his kids with a robot Vicky babysitter despite the sight of weapons and his children begging.

Dale IS an antagonist and a neglectful parent. This post is not meant to take away from that or excuse it, but I think it's interesting that within the bounds of FOP characterization... He is pretty consistently in line with how parents in this show behave, and he does have many positives alongside his flaws. I totally understand why child protective services have not taken Dev from him.

Disclaimer: All characters are morally gray and this list is for amusing discussion purposes. I'm not calling these characters "bad parents" so much as highlighting interesting behaviors for consideration.

FOP's characterization leans into adults being foolish and neglectful - Dimmsdale is named after the idea that the adults are dim, after all - and I think it's worth evaluating all the FOP parents within that framework.

Related Dimmadome Posts:

- This post where I had the thought that Doug might have ADHD/OCD comorbidity (Hilariously, something I'd already decided to do with Dale and Dev...)

- This post comparing Doug and Dale body language

Leadly Family

S9's "Dog Gone" is a bonkers episode, and I love it so much. Notably, it's the episode that confirms Leadly is personally rich- Not just Pencil Nexus as a company, which has multiple branches in other states and can afford a jet.

In fact, Leadly is so rich, he offers to buy Sparky from the Turners for 17 million dollars, just because Sparky gave him the Heimlich maneuver and Leadly thought it was neat.

My personal headcanon for Leadly is that he's somewhat aware of magical beings and is actively seeking them.

The Leadly mansion is pencil-themed, of course.

The Dimmadomes and Buxaplentys are both confirmed to have generational wealth. We have no proof one way or the other for Leadly. It's likely his is too, but it's not impossible he founded Pencil Nexus and committed to its branding because he's proud of what he does.

Leadly doesn't have many appearances, but we know some very important things about him:

- He's convinced he's being haunted by a hot tub ghost, reason being that Cosmo likes to use his hot tub at night (whether Leadly's in it or not). Sparky also claims that he had an accident on Leadly's lawn (Crashing his car), but that Leadly blamed the hot tub ghost.

- He's super buff.

- His company is literally the only thing keeping a [presumably magical] forest from overtaking Dimmsdale, considering that when Pencil Nexus reduces their tree chopping in "The Boss of Me," the forest overtakes the city within a couple hours.

Did some godkid out there just wish for renewable trees and now Dimmsdale is cursed and suffering??

Leadly just flexes like this and has massive muscles, but his aren't as big as the people affected by the Everleadys.

The episode makes it explicitly clear that people's massive muscles are magic and aren't going away (Hence the lawsuits and decision to remove Everleady pencils from the world), but Leadly's muscles do fade when he stops flexing. His are natural.

Despite the jokes that he flies the company jet around to goof off, it's not unreasonable to think he's out there personally chopping trees and I respect him for it.

Y'know, I did wonder how on earth selling pencils made him rich enough that he can afford to spontaneously buy things for 17 million dollars (and keep a pet snow leopard that he apparently rides, considering it was tame enough for Timmy's Dad to ride it home from work and he parked it outside his house and it just stayed there).

Did he fight the snow leopard? Did he raise it? I'm afraid of him.

Conclusion: Ed Leadly has a monopoly on an infinitely replenishing wood source. His company can never take a break or the city will be overtaken by magic plants. Big "curse of Midas" vibes.

I can't stop thinking about how in "T.U.F.F. Puppy," it's implied that Petropolis exists in the same general location as Dimmsdale... Los Angeles county:

- Los Angeles' population in the 2010 census was 3,792,621. Dimmsdale's hillside letters parallel the Hollywood sign. - 91502 is the Burbank area code, where the Nickelodeon studio is - Jorgen claims in "Meet the OddParents" that the power he has to do that was vested in him by both Fairy World and Whittier, California. This seems to match the city borders seen in "Fairy Idol" while he's zooming in on Chester to assign Norm as his godparent.

This implies parallel universe vibes, though in my lore, I have all four Hartman shows blended into one continuity.

See my 2019 post, "A T.U.F.F. Timeline" or the shorter "How Hartman Shows Co-Exist" post if you want details on that

Here's the thing... In "T.U.F.F.," it's implied the forest near the city has been allowed to spread and evolve. Its bizarre flora and fauna certainly give a "non-natural evolution" vibe, so it's not implausible magic could be at play.

It's made very clear in "T.U.F.F. Puppy" that this show is still set on Earth, yet "Flower Power" refers to the Petropolis Rainforest. That implies this forest exists around the city. In fact, we know it's separate from the Amazon, which is referenced in "To Bee or Not to Bee").

Interestingly, the episode "Til Doom Do Us Part" depicts Petropolis being overrun by brightly colored flowers once weddings are mass canceled-

- which implies the florists are keeping the creep of nature back from Petropolis.

I feel like this is especially cursed in my lore where "T.U.F.F." exists in a post-FOP future... Leadly, your woods!! Oh no, he can't hear us... He's been gone for 2,000 years...

Shout-out to Pencil Nexus keeping Dimmsdale safe, one pencil at a time. And shout-out to Leadly's unique body language of gripping the sides of his coat, because he does it a lot and it makes me smile every time. He is just some background guy with a pencil-themed gimmick, but he has a special body language quirk and I love it.

Related Leadly Things:

- If you haven't watched S9's "Dog Gone," I recommend it. It's silly. There are some late-series episodes that give secondhand embarrassment vibes, but for some reason "Dog Gone"'s bizarre energy is so charming to me.

- Leadly appeared in these one-shots of mine, if you're interested in my portrayal of him hunting down magical creatures (and just generally being entitled and getting in the way): "Opportunity" & "Trying Too Hard"

Buxaplenty Family

The Buxaplentys have been running the railroads ever since Dimmsdale's early days, with Orville Buxaplenty the first to do so. Timmy's distant grandfather (Ebeneezer) mocks trains by claiming they're "just a fad" and there's no future in them- Thus, he chooses not to involve himself with trains and leaves Orville to do so alone.

This establishes the Buxaplenty wealth as being generational through these trains. Presumably, Dimmsdale has a large train station, as this seems to be where the Buxaplentys have set up shop.

If the Dimmadomes have businesses spanning Los Angeles to Dimmadelphia, it's very likely the trains play a key role. Assuming we take the 1665 founding date of Dimmsdale as canon ("Which Witch is Which?"), the trains may have been essential at moving resources from Dimmsdale to later found Dimmadelphia. -> See also, respawning magic woods (?) Rich people crossover of the centuries??

Notably, their family takes some heavy hits in "Country Clubbed" when Mr. Buxaplenty is forced to watch the destruction of the club, his mansion, yacht, and limo in quick succession.

The surname Buxaplenty is clearly a play on the phrase "bucks aplenty" (and I want to shout-out a 'fic I read many years ago - but unfortunately do not remember - that had a whole thing about Remy's surname actually being Buxley and everyone just calling them Buxaplentys in a derogatory way, because that's hilarious).

A neat detail about Remy is that in the Spanish version of Fairly OddParents, his surname is Cajallena, which (to my understanding) translates as "full cash register."

In my lore, I made Cajallena the maiden name of Remy's mom.

I did some poking around. Apparently, Remy is based on comic/cartoon character Richie Rich, popular from the 60s to the 90s or so (and who still shows up in modern reboots of things today).

I'm not familiar with this series, but both are blond, the only child in their family, and wear big red bows. After brief research, I get the impression Richie was at least a little associated with trains... even owning a toy trainset that costs 1 million dollars (and paying 8 million to buy the factory that makes a part of his set that broke).

I want to highlight this comparison:

From the Hanna-Barbera cartoon, I believe, and it looks like Richie owned other gold vehicles like a boat as well.

As for Remy himself, I believe I read a few years ago that he's designed around the concept of "green-eyed envy," so he has literal green eyes. I think envious is a very good way to describe his character, considering that his immediate reaction to learning Timmy has fairies was "If he has fairies, he could wish himself richer than me; I wish his fairies were gone."

This is a minor detail, but I rewatched some Remy scenes (especially the lunch scene in "Remy Rides Again" and the breakfast scene in "Stupid Cupid") because I could've sworn Remy said at some point that he likes caviar. That might be true - I didn't find it in my hasty rewatch - but I definitely laughed when I checked and saw that instead of eating caviar for lunch like I'd remembered, he ate steak. Kid knows what he wants.

We also know Remy enjoys Crimson Chin and Crash Nebula. Specifically, we know that he's a fan of Cleft the Boy Chin Wonder, but that when Remy ventures inside the comic world, he made the character more relatable to him by making Cleft rich... in addition to minor costume changes, such as slapping the Buxaplenty logo on him in place of Cleft's usual C.

Remy sees something in Cleft that connects with him, but that extra "I want Cleft to feel like me" bit is interesting. Admiring Cleft isn't enough. He needs to be "I am Cleft's secret identity. I, Remy Buxaplenty, have this alt life." The Crimson Chin can't seem to tell the difference between Timmy and Remy as Cleft - unsurprising since he's a comic character playing his role - but Remy saving the Chin from falling is one of the only acts of kindness we see him engage in. That implies Remy does value the Chin and/or feeling like a hero in some way... or if nothing else, he values the praise the Chin gives him.

As parents, the Buxaplentys are pretty interesting. Even by "dim FOP parents" standards, they're exceptionally bad at being loving - or even effective - parents.

- Remy's dad is so awkward, he's not even sure how to address Remy when we see them in "Fairy Fairy Quite Contrary." It's his wife that suggests he try "Son." Also, Remy's parents time themselves so they spend no more than 2 minutes per day with him, which they tell him openly.

- Remy's dad calls him "Liam" later, which isn't close to his name... but Remy's grateful to be acknowledged anyway, which has interesting implications. Remy takes anything he can get; putting up with what little scraps they offer to avoid the risk of turning them off the idea of reaching out to him.

- At the end of the episode, Timmy wishes Remy could spend more time with his parents. We can assume Cosmo and Wanda didn't want to hurt the Buxaplentys on purpose - especially given what we know (from episodes like "Boys In a Band" & "Go Young, West Man") about Da Rules preventing godkids from harming others directly.

So that begs the question... Was shipwrecking the Buxaplentys the only option to get them to pay attention to their son? That's kinda dark... Angela will turn down a book pitch to care for sick Hazel, but "Remy gets sick and a parent tends to him" was seemingly not on the table. Which does make sense in-universe- After all, there are plenty of butlers and staff who wait on Remy.

Remy even tells us that his parents stopped paying attention to him after about 3 seconds despite being stranded with him on a desert island, which is pretty bad... but it gets worse when you realize Remy was stranded between Seasons 2 and 5.

When he returns in "Remy Rides Again," he asks Timmy to "guess where he's been," and informs him he "just got back from an uncharted island."

Combining that with Remy's claim that his parents only paid attention to him for 3 seconds - and looking at the scenes of Remy foraging for food while he wears rags and his parents get involved with business despite being stranded - That's..... just awful.

That's a long time for Remy to be without the comforts of home or the comforts of Juandissimo while struggling to survive (and keep his parents alive along with him). Depending on where you personally place Timmy's time freeze, it can get way worse.

And Remy was just happy he had time with his parents... Happy to forage for food... Happy to get a headpat... and for what? They don't deserve you, kid.

For all his greediness and schemes, he is pretty grateful for what little he has. In addition to looking forward to spending time with his parents, when Remy is venting to Timmy at the end of "Remy Rides Again," not once does he mention "And I didn't have my nice things." He says "I didn't have my fairy, Juandissimo, to comfort me."

Remy's parents don't even take care of themselves, let alone pay attention to his needs. They chose not to leave the deserted island - and apparently took their sweet time calling for clothes to be delivered - and Remy seems to be the one in charge of food.

Also, the implication here is that Juandissimo gave some part of his physical form up so Remy could eat, which is horrifying?? Did that happen multiple times, considering these scenes take place immediately after the shipwreck and later after Remy's mom opens her luxury resort, so definitely different days? Did... did Remy reach the point where he was struggling to find food - or the more awful option, struggling to find food for himself because he was giving it to his parents first - and Juandissimo said "F that" ??? ... help.

On top of all this, the official canon is that Juandissimo couldn't hold a job after being separated from Remy because he was so hung up on Remy's situation (and his own shame that he failed), he couldn't stop crying, so he bounced from job to job.

It's the thing I love most about Juandissimo, because when he's introduced in FFQC, he's a huge lapdog for Da Rules, even going off about how not following them would lead to madness. But we learn one very, very important thing about Juandissimo in "Remy Rides Again"... which is that Juandissimo openly broke Da Rules to return Remy's memories.

He's very clear about this: "I decided to help you no matter what Da Rules say, so I gave you back your memories." Because he loved him... and he knew Remy's situation wouldn't get any better if he sat and did nothing. The godparenting program and Jorgen weren't going to help, so Juandissimo - who LOVES Da Rules - broke them.

We know Juandissimo returned those memories while Remy was on the island. That suggests Remy's parents had no intention to return to Dimmsdale... and presumably, they also didn't care Remy was missing school.

We know Remy got real clothes again at some point on the island, and we can assume he had food and a bed because his mom opened a luxury resort, but there's more a child needs... Schooling, medical care, social interaction with peers... everything about that situation just screams neglect. Serious neglect. "We literally do not care" levels of neglect.

Even when Remy's parents do return to Dimmsdale and care about his schooling again, they send him to a military school full of older kids and adults. And that seems at least a little reasonable on the surface - After all, Remy's been a brat, so of course they'd send him to a school for ne'er-do-wells - but that begs the question...

... What has he ever done to upset his parents?

Remy's envy leads him to be rude, sure. And he's presumably committing some kind of fraud or deception crimes in the background due to the implication in "The Big Bash" that he bribes people with checks, but puts stops on them later so they don't go through. These are things that happened when he was doing magical stuff away from home.

But all signs point to him being extremely respectful towards his parents even when they're very dismissive of him... even when he's been placed in terrible, scary situations like being shipwrecked on an uncharted island, not knowing if they'll survive. Remy is polite, does what he's told, never talks back, and volunteers to find food.

It's almost worse that his dad acknowledged Remy finding food was a good idea and still didn't lend a hand in that. The Buxaplentys are such concerning people, and that's just my recap of things that happened in Season 2 and Season 5.

According to Season 9's "Country Clubbed," Remy's dad hits "classless saps" with his limo on purpose every month - which sounds horrible even without the next part - and he does that so he has an excuse to invite them to the Fancy Schmancy Country Club and he and his friends can mock them (under the guise of allowing them access to the club in exchange for them not suing). He heavily implies he'd like to hit Timmy later since he didn't get him while hitting his parents.

That's really messed up... WHAT is going on in the Buxaplenty parents' heads?

The only slightly relieving thing from that statement is that presumably, they don't run over Remy because we can assume Remy isn't a "classless sap," but I don't think "choosing not to run your son over because he shares your wealth" is a real point in their favor.

I make no claims that Dale is a fantastic parent, but the weird thing is... I don't think Dale is outside the range of how other subpar parents in the FOP universe act. Except the Buxaplentys- They're pretty much the lowest of the low.

There are so many concerning things going on in the Dimmadome house, like terrible safety rails, and Dale does cut his son off, dehumanize him, and make him feel unwanted. This is all true.

But at least Dale knows Dev's name and calls him that. It's very possible he's aware of Dev's lactose intolerance (seeing as Dev had to get his allergy card from somewhere). At least Dale provided the au pairs to look after Dev and gave them the ability to cook and recognize when he wants a hug. Even if Dale doesn't go out of his way to hug Dev, he seems to like him enough that he's happy to clap a hand to his shoulder and talk to him. At least he seems interested in talking to him and hearing about his day.

Dale even tries to get Dev outside, but didn't snap at Dev when Dev lay down to play his game instead in "Stanky Danky." That was their father-son thing, though it would've been easy to leave Dev at home.

Dale arguably took charge of Dev's care during that event, seeing as the au pairs don't hover around Dev. idk if Dale made his 9-year-old walk home himself across a very busy road while he chased after Danky, but that's not the point.

The implication is that Dev tags along on Dale's walks to Signal Hill - and has done so many times - because Dev knows Dale's calls drop up there. It's implied Dev plays on that hill when his dad is on a call because Dev knows the grass makes you itchy if you roll down it. He'd probably played there recently since that was the first place to come to mind during the treasure hunt with Hazel, and he remembered the itchiness of the grass.

Dale even makes donations to Dev's school, which is more than the Buxaplentys ever did (See also, Remy likely missing school while shipwrecked).

Remy could die and his parents probably wouldn't spend a cent on his funeral... or get his name right in a eulogy without a lot of note-checking and effort. In fact, it wouldn't shock me if they hid his death so no one found out, because a dead son would be bad press.

Actually... It's very sad to imagine them putting more effort into hiding Remy's death than into caring for his life.

Shout-out to Chapter 10 of the 'fic "Buy Me Love" by DeliverUsFromEvie where Remy addresses two mansion employees by name, but they're confused to find out their boss has a kid and that said kid has been in the house this whole time. I think about it constantly. hey. what on earth.

This 'fic has one of the most brutal interpretations of Remy I've ever seen, and Evie has this and several other awesome works, so consider checking them out!

All of this said, there's something else that's interesting here, so let's talk "Turner Back Time."

I can't stop thinking about how when Timmy wished his ancestor (Ebeneezer) had decided to work with trains rather than dismissing them, that led to a timeline where the following things happened:

- Timmy's Dad still married his beloved Timmy's Mom (lol). Yeah, you're not prying him away from the love of his life for anything.

- Dimmsdale fell to ruin because Timmy's Dad wouldn't play the Rich People game right (Supporting the city's growth) and instead opted to drive trains off the tracks and crash them through buildings.

- The Turners lived in a mansion, but Timmy's bedroom is exactly the same, presumably because in the timeline where his family's rich, he needed a safe space untouched by his parents' branding.

- Despite Timmy's effort to become miserable, Dad kept showering him with affection and toys, so Timmy didn't qualify for fairies until he was tied to railroad tracks with a train hurtling towards him.

- The first thing Timmy did in his attempt to become miserable enough to qualify for fairies was decide not to eat... Same energy as when he felt guilty and refused to sleep in Season 1 ("Dream Goat").

There is something here about Timmy's Dad ignoring the train system, but being attentive to his son, while the Buxaplentys ignore their son, but Dimmsdale isn't in ruins.

I'll say 1 and only 1 positive thing about the Buxaplentys: At least their trains are on the tracks instead of careening through hospital walls. Honestly, the bar is so low, it is below the floor.

Timmy's Dad became a greedy person in that timeline, but he still chose to marry someone of lower social status, have a son, and be kind to his son- He's happy to greet him, encourages him to enjoy their wealth, and gifts Timmy lots of nice things. In that timeline, it's the Turners who have generational wealth. Dad was raised by generations of Turners and he still makes time for Timmy. Come on, Buxaplentys... Is it THAT hard to speak to your son like you're happy he exists?

Closing Thoughts

The Buxaplentys are definitely an old money family while the Dimmadomes and Ed Leadly give off new money energy (to me).

Neither Doug nor Ed was seen at the Fancy Schmancy Country Club in S9's "Country Clubbed." All the people who were there have names that play on wealth. They also dress in a much more "upper class" way than Leadly with his flashy yellow suit or Doug with his Southern/Western theme.

The Dimmadomes represent business-related wealth and big company vibes, and I'd call them eccentric. Compare Doug's precariously perched cliffside estate (S3's "Engine Blocked") to Remy's telescope-

I really hope he decorates that hat for the holidays

The energy I get from this is "Doug doing whatever he wants just because he can"... which is also the impression I get from the "Crock Talk" scene that shows his hat stretching through the limo roof. Doug does business things and hosts events, but keeps to himself unless he's doing business things.

Comparatively, Leadly is all-in on his pencil branding, and the Buxaplentys flaunt their wealth in everyday life. As in, they buy the most expensive version of anything they want and like to showcase their wealth.

But while Doug and Dale have "Do what I want" energy, the Buxaplentys seem more restricted by social expectation.

That is, the Buxaplentys dress very nice and dine with fancy people- even their 11-year-old wears a tux, bowtie, and cummerbund. Buxaplentys are very "Flaunt wealth & do what people expect of us." They don't go out of their way to do "silly, eccentric" things like putting a hat on their mansion, but they sure will buy golden, diamond-studded things.

Well, that wraps up my analysis on Dimmsdale's wealthy families, who each intrigue and frighten me in their own unique ways... whether that be money laundering, holding back a magical forest, or being absolutely awful parents.

Thanks for reading!

[luck-of-the-drawings]

OOH YEAH BABY! PARTY TIME BABY! MUSIC! DRINKS! SOCIAL PRESSURE & A PSYCHEDELIC BREAK DOWN! WELCOME TO VAMPIRE SOCIETY MOTHERFUCKER! ARE YOU SCARED? DO YOU UNDERSTAND YET? ITS OKAY IF NOT. FIRE DISSOLVED IT! ITS ALL GONE NOW. HAVE FUN!

[eternally-tired-cryptid]

So like Erik and Charles are a complex and beautiful tale of complicated love when you find yourself as leaders of a community that is divided and hurt

[yellowhollyhock]

return to the underground is so funny because everything Donny says or does Raph and Leo are like 'that's him our baby brother, precious little genius, watch watch he's gonna do something cool, we are so proud. do you need anything Don Don'

And Mikey's like 'this is the worst plan you've ever had. I hate you.'

He really was not happy about going back underground XD

[spider-man-2o99]

hehee.i unnersand it all now.

[threehousing]

storm ily please rant about thropes nonsensical worldbuilding and how they fucked up the noble hierarchy by having too many dukes <3

shyd. shyd.

IT MAKES NO FUCKING SENSE AND I'M SO MAD. LISTEN. LISTEN.

So, in the irl historical uses of the european terms (since Fire Emblem uses European terms, that's what I'm referring to), there's a hierachy to noble titles which tends to be pretty similar across the board. The words differ slightly depending on the language, (some of which have the same root somewhere, which is neat) so like, marquis (french) and margrave (anglification of German markgraf) are different terms for similar positions.

So, using the terms fe does, USUALLY IT'S LIKE (and this is a simplification. I'm not an expert asfgk):

sovereign (I'm disregarding the differing positions of king vs emperor vs archduke here, bc its not relevent for 3 houses. obvs they're different irl, but it is irrelevant here)

(sovereign heir)

Duke

Marquis/Margrave - usually used for a noble with land on a border, so worth extra distinguishment. That's especially true of 'margrave' from what I can tell, but 'marquis' did originate from the same use (medieval latin "marca", meaning "borderland/frontier") i like language. ANYWAY.

Count

Viscount

Baron

Lord (as in 'of the Manor')

Now. NOW. There can obviously be multiple people in the same rank, barring sovereign and heir, but. Thropes did this funny thing where they were like: what if we added new nobles not mentioned at all in 3 Houses, with very promient titles that would imply they are high ranking.

Faerghus? So you got Duke Fraldarius - tracks, the Fraldariuses are the Blaiddyd's right hands - and Margrave Gautier - also tracks - implying the Gautiers and Fraldariuses are basicially the highest ranking noble families in Faerghus, apart from the royal family. Makes sense.

But what if we added a new Duke? said Koei Tecmo, Just to fuck with Storm, specifically?

So KT dropped not just one duke - IFAN - who up until now was never mentioned, which. A duke is pretty fucking important. Important enough to BE LABELLED ON THE PRE-EXISTING MAP, I'D SAY. Anyway. But not satisfied with this, they ALSO said hey. Why not just put a marquis in Faerghus? For funsies. A marquis. A title of different linguistic origin to margrave, but the same status? Margrave, as in, the established Margrave Gautier? Whatever, we worked out a fun linguistic thing with the Empire, which I actually love, but it's the principal of the thing.

So there I am, screaming into my pillow, trying desperately to make some semblence of sense out of these goddamn retcons, which is, we all know, a hopeless endeavour. But it bugs me. It bugs me SO MUCH.

NOT TO MENTION, they seemed to have made "Duke" Ifan's territory so, incredibly tiny. Like. A duke you say??? Sure.

They also added just. So many viscounts. So many counts. SO MANY. DEMOTE SOME OF THEM. Seven whole viscounts - four new ones - and five counts - two new ones - while there are only two barons. Demote some of these fuckers for the love of god. The political power balance is all outta whack.

Adrestia and Leicester were also not spared this. Leicester was gifted just. Too many viscounts (WHERE are the lesser lords? in the basement??). And while Adrestia has the most reasonable balance of barons there are still so. many. viscounts. Like who the fuck are the von Fenjas? von Fenja the fuck up.

I'm not even gonna talk about how it makes NO SENSE for Arundel to only be a "Lord" - he's the regent??? Obvs this is a Three Houses thing, not a Thropes thing, but are they telling me he didn't get a fancy title to go with that fancy land and fancy crown. intsys I'm gonna need 3 pages double sided of your thought process there. I know I know, they didn't think it through that thoroughly bc it doesn't actually matter, but what about me? will someone please think of me, left out in the rain, behaving very exceedly not neurotypical about this game??? 😔

[ceruleanfuckup]

I had a 13 hour shift today and was panicking because I was late to something after my shift, so I ran a lot and fucked up my knee pretty bad but honestly it was very worth it

[sydmarch]

oh you know :3

[cielospeaks]

actually idk. waiting to see for 100 percent sure but probably fuck this game and its lack of understanding of basic fucking concepts.

man i hate how f e handles the annas sometimes. like yea its a running joke ha ha they all are sisters named anna who are related thats fine enough or it would be if the h eroes version wasnt such a colossal dipshit tool, or how like. the 13/14/ect versions can literally be married to someone. like theres a difference in seeing someone and being like “oh thats so and so’s spouse” and “thats the npc who helps me sometimes”. and like yea maybe for a lot of people its not a big deal but theyre still different people. honestly. props to 17 for making their anna really distinguishable as in a lil bean, or even 16 having theirs have a different hair length and color. like now i should be excited/happy/hyped abt anna getting a cute variant but now after looking at the shitty ass meet the heroes thing i feel like its just going to be npc anna even tho that makes no sense as the theme is clearly supposed to be the robinsexuals, but itll be that bc this fucking games writers have no idea how to do literally fucking anything

[fortunatefool]

Not to date myself but sometimes in the middle of a crisis u get to hear Pursuit of Happiness (Nightmare) by Kid Cudi featuring MGMT and Ratatat, Steve Aoki Remix and feel joy for the first time in a week and a half

[gojonanami]

tags: crack, fluff, implications of cheating (no cheating dw), satoru being his needy jealous self, suggestive at the end, based off a TikTok

“Are you cheating on me?”

Satoru couldn’t believe his eyes — he wondered if even his six eyes were betraying him the first time he saw, but no, once he saw it a second time, he knew it was true.

You were ogling other men’s shirtless pictures!

He could see you zoom in on some shitty Instagram model’s abs, and he couldn’t believe it. You had insisted on having a mirror hung up on the closet door, stating it would be easier for you to get ready in the mornings, and he had readily agreed — and he knew it would be useful in bed too—

But he didn’t know it would be useful in this way.

The last two nights he saw you zoomed in abs through the reflection in the mirror as you sat scrolling through your phone on your shared bed.

And right after, you had come over to kiss him — which he wasn’t complaining about, but when you had his body to look at, why did you need anyone else’s?

You look up from your phone to see your husband pouting, his arms crossed, “what are you talking about, Toru?”

“Don’t you ‘Toru’ me!” And you have to stop yourself from rolling your eyes, and stifle the small smile on your lips from your husband’s dramatics, “I saw you staring at shirtless men’s pictures for the last two nights and I need the name of the homewrecker so I can go hollow purple him,”

You can’t help but snort, “well you won’t have to go far,” and he furrows his brow, “it’s you, you idiot,”

“Eh? What do you mean it’s me?” And you flip your phone around, the picture of the affronting abs, only for you to zoom out to see his own picture, from the day you both had spent at the beach recently, but…why do you need a picture? I’m right here!”

He takes off his shirt with one hand in two seconds flat, and you can’t help but laugh then, reaching for him, and pulling him in close.

“I know, but sometimes I like to appreciate what I have, and I can’t just ask you to strip every time I want to look—“ and he tilts his head, “I know you’d do it, doesn’t mean I’m gonna ask,”

“But the real me is so much better,” he grumbles, and you laugh again.

“Are you jealous of a picture of yourself, Toru?” And he’s pouting again, and this time you’re kissing it away, before pushing him onto the bed, his eyes blinking up at you, as he grunts softly when you sit on his abs, “well how about I show you how much I prefer your real life abs?”

And his pout is quickly replaced with a grin, his large palms resting on your hips, “Can you handle it?”

You grind slowly against his stomach, making him groan softly, a wicked grin on your lips, “you know I can. The real question is can you?”

And after that long night, Satoru wouldn’t stop sending you picture of his abs for a long while anywhere he was (much to his students’ displeasure).

[folaireamh]

broooo i got up because i thought i wanted to doodle a funny comic but i hate my art and i'm tired i'm going back to sleep

[joelsgoldrush]

“you can use my skin to bury secrets in” | 6.8k

old man!logan x f!reader

SUMMARY: Saliva floods his mouth as you rise to your feet, looking down at him from above. Gracefully angelic, and yet— “I know what I’m asking for,” you continue, your voice descending to a low murmur that scratches pleasantly against some dark and remote corner of his brain. Then you lower yourself onto his lap, your thighs bracketing his waist. You repeat your question: “Can I help you?” OR Logan had always known your generosity would get him in trouble. WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni smut 18+ cursing. drinking. pining. mentions of alcohol. dirty talk. age gap (reader's in her late 20s). logan’s POV. angst/self-deprecation (he just needs a little loving). religious imagery. feelings. petnames. chauffeur!logan. oral sex (m receiving, tiny bit of f receiving). sort of dom!logan. doggy style. unprotected p in v. creampie. A/N: i could say i'm sorry for this, but i'm not. love love love this old man (#needthat). heavily inspired by the song "i know" by fiona apple. @lubdubology my partner in crime who keeps putting up with me, tysm!!! hope you all enjoy it <3

The line between being a good and bad person is thin. So thin, in fact, that Logan finds himself stepping back and forth across it constantly.

Rescuing a kitten from a tree? Good.

Punching a guy at a bar because he didn’t feel like being acknowledged? Bad.

Saving countless lives from mass destruction? Good—heroic, even.

But killing others to do it? Bad—condemnable, scum of the earth.

Where does that leave him? Which side has laid claim to his soul? He’s long accepted he’ll never see the pearly gates.

When the day comes that his body can no longer take it, and he only grows wearier, he’s pretty sure there’s a special place in hell with his name on it, etched in some grave awaiting to be filled.

Maybe Satan’s already counting down the days until he shows up at his door, who knows?

Yet, the more time passes by, the less afraid he is of what lies beneath the surface. He’s learned to coexist with the darkness, with the kind of pain and loneliness that would crush most men.

He doesn’t know how, but he survives it—the agony, the memories, the solitude that hits him from time to time.

And still, he doesn't lose himself entirely. He’s tempted, of course, to linger in the past—it’s always easier to drown there.

If he could go back, he knows he wouldn’t be alone in choosing that path. Some days, it feels like the only option.

But there’s no you in his past.

Logan inhales sharply when your tongue teases his slit, lapping at the precum pooling there. You hum at the taste, your hand resting on his bare thigh, fingers pressing into his skin. Your other hand lazily strokes the length of him, working the inches your mouth can’t take.

It’s clear you’re enjoying this. He can tell from the way your lashes flutter each time he thrusts a little deeper into your slick warmth. A win-win situation.

Letting a girl like you do this to him? That’s bad. Very bad. Red flags all around.

He meets you when he least expects it.

It’s a night like any other. He’s been driving for God knows how long. His joints ache from being in the same position for hours, and a part of his left knee he didn’t even know could hurt begins to throb.

It takes everything in him not to call it quits for the night, not to turn around and head home like a coward.

When exactly his life fell into this monotonous cycle, he’s not entirely sure, but it happened somewhere along the way. Now, it’s all the same: taking care of Charles during the day, catching an hour or two of sleep, then gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity, driving through endless stretches of road, resisting any attempts at small talk from the passengers he chauffeurs around.

They all try—every single one of them. They think if they can crack his harsh and bitter exterior, he’ll open up, reveal something, anything to make their eyes go wide.

But why? Why do they insist on breaking through his shell? What do they hope to discover?

No one really cares what’s going on in his mind. They just want to feel good about themselves—like they’ve been kind, amiable, empaths intending to fill some empty and obscure corner of their own lives.

Logan refuses to be the person who grants them that satisfaction.

You slip into the backseat of his limo, closing the door with a soft click. The night clings to you, the scent of the bar still lingering on your clothes. The music is loud enough for him to hear from outside, and he sees the people lined up at the door, willing to cause a fight if it means securing a good time.

There's a slight frown tugging at your features, your lips pulled downward, though your voice is still polite when you blurt out your address.

Five minutes into the drive and you haven’t said a word. Internally, he’s savoring the silence, so happy he could jump on one foot.

This kind of peace is rare. He’d grown unaccustomed to it. The tension in his shoulders eases as the city lights blur past.

But, all good things come to an end, because—

“How’s your night going?” you ask, fiddling with the seatbelt to have something between your fingers. Logan glances at you through the mirror, his eyes catching yours just for a moment, long enough to see the faint, apologetic smile you offer him. He allows himself a heartbeat more to take you in before focusing back on the road.

You click your tongue, a soft sound of disapproval ringing in his ears. “Well, thank you.”

He lets out a quiet huff, grinding his teeth together. “I’d prefer if we stayed like we were before,” he mutters, his voice rough and gravelly. His attention flickers between the passing cars and the occasional glimpses of you that startle him every time he searches for the mirror. Cars. You. Cars. You. You. You. “Y’know, not talking.”

“But that’s no fun at all,” you retort, sliding more to your left, nearly positioning yourself in the middle of the backseat. It gives him a better view of you—whether intentional or not, he can’t say.

The lipstick on your lips is still flawless. A sparkly necklace glints just above the neckline of your dress, and matching earrings dangle from your ears. Wrapped in a leather jacket, you look effortlessly alluring.

This entire sequence is enough to confirm that by no means is he going to heaven. Straight to hell, he thinks, allowing his gaze to trace over each detail of your frame. Straight to hell.

You don’t give up. “Your aura is off.”

That prompts a crooked smirk from him, a shake of his head as he mumbles under his breath: “M’sorry, my what’s off?”

“Your aura,” you clarify, motioning toward him with a light jingle from the many bracelets adorning your wrist. “It’s the energy that surrounds you.”

Logan snorts, amused for a brief second. “Well, you weren’t exactly a beacon of life when you got in either.”

You chuckle softly, leaning back against the seat and looking out the window. “I’m much better now.” A pause before you continue, your tone shifting, losing strength. “My date stood me up. Last-minute cancellation.”

It’s not anger, nor is it disappointment, that laces your words. You seem more resigned than anything else. He’d have expected you to sound at least a bit more conflicted.

“I should’ve seen it coming. He’d been asking to move it forward for a while.”

Does he look like the type of driver who doubles as a therapist? He wishes he could understand why you're telling him all this.

“That sucks,” he still responds, because even though he hasn’t gone out with a woman in what feels like centuries, he understands that sensation all too well. “First time meeting him?”

Listen up, everyone—he’s genuinely engaging in conversation with another soul. This doesn’t happen often.

He hears you hum, eyes still trained on the outside world. You sigh, crossing your arms over your torso. “Would you mind rolling your window up? I’m kind of freezing here.”

“I’d mind that very much,” he says, his voice carrying its usual gruff edge. He fights the urge to grin, but then you unbuckle your seatbelt, leaning in closer to him. Your body is wedged between his seat and the passenger’s, and he perceives your stare boring into his side profile. “Put your seatbelt back on.” 

“You’re fucking with me.” Your finger taps his shoulder once, twice. “First, I get all dolled up for an idiot who bails on me, and now you have the nerve to make fun of me? Give me a break.”

Your eyes stay on him, a smile plastered on your face, anticipating any possible answer.

Crack, crack, crack—you intend to break through his shell, watching him from the front row, waiting for the moment it gives way.

Before you can say more, he cuts you off. “Seatbelt.”

It’s a command, an instruction, and you comply without hesitation.

Warmth pools and stirs low in his gut as he notes how quickly you obey him. 

Would you still look at him like that if you knew the blood he’s scrubbed off his hands? The flesh that his claws have shredded? The names of the lives he’s taken?

Would your warm gaze turn cold, filled with dread instead of curiosity?

Maybe this is hell. Are you the Devil in disguise, tempting him to cross a line he won’t be able to come back from?

A few minutes later, he pulls up to your building. A really nice one, he notes. You announce you live on the sixth floor. He doesn’t need to know that, does he? Why would you tell him that? Why give that piece of information to a complete stranger?

You linger in the backseat, as though you’re expecting him to turn and look at you. And he does, though not for the reason you might expect. “You got everything?”

Eager and full of life, you nod, clutching your purse to your chest. You avert your gaze to read his ID tag, the one that contains his personal details. “James?”

“Glad you can read,” he utters, pulling out a small bottle of liquor from under the seat. He drains it all in one go, savoring the fleeting burn as it slides down his throat, which is enough to keep him going. “C’mon, kid. I already charged you.”

“You drink while you drive?”

“Keeps me entertained,” he says dryly. It’s the only thing he knows how to do. Raising the empty bottle in your direction, he arches a brow. “Goodnight, darlin’. Leave me a good review on your way out.”

You roll your eyes at him, silent as you exit the vehicle, closing the door behind you. While fumbling for your keys, four words escape your mouth. Casual yet devastating, they ruin him: “I’ll see you around.” 

For a couple of days, you don’t bother him again. Bother—notice the implication of the verb in question.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t think of you after that drive. Each time his phone buzzes, a small, restless part of him hopes it’s you, asking for his services, wanting him to be the one you seek out.

And it happens. The best things seem to occur when the moon hangs high and bright.

You: Hi.

He stares at the message, recognition washing over him. He knows it’s you; he can see the other texts you exchanged that night he took you home.

You: Are you working tonight?

You’ve got to be kidding him.

Logan: Why are you texting me?

He types the words with frustration, his thumb hovering over the screen longer than usual. 

You: Why are you answering me?

Oh, you’re smart. 

Logan: Take my advice. Talk to a guy your own age.

You: Damn. Already jumping to conclusions. I was just going to ask you if you wanted to have a drink with me.

Logan: I’m busy.

You: Well, what time do you get off?

Logan: I work all night.

You: Can’t even make a quick stop? I swear it won’t take you more than twenty minutes.

An impulse to throw his phone out the window surges within him, but he manages to restrain himself.

Then, as if on cue, the device vibrates again—of course, it’s you.

You: The drinks are on me. Let me know if you change your mind.

Do you think he’s going to let you pay for him? Absolutely not. 

What surprises him more than the message is how easily he remembers your address. It appears to be ingrained in his mind.

He cancels his next trip, scheduled for ten minutes from now, his new destination being your building.

Once he pulls up, he does what feels most natural: he honks. Multiple times. Maybe he’s lucky and you’ll tell him to fuck off.

But you don’t. You’re laughing as you make your way over to the limo, sliding into the backseat in the same way you did a week ago. Your plan had succeeded—you had him exactly where you wanted.

Far from hiding it, you make it evident, obvious. Your heartbeat thrums in the air, and Logan can hear it loud and clear, like the bass in one of those funky songs he likes.

There’s no room for mistakes. He won’t deny it. Even if the feeling is mutual, he can’t shake the idea that he’s doing something wrong.

In his eyes, you’re the forbidden fruit—irresistible, the ultimate temptation known to humankind, camouflaged in the fur of a pretty woman.

You, his paradise on earth, could only lead to one thing: a longing for a chance with you, which he should never be granted in the first place.

He’s diving headfirst into disgrace, and the more he realizes it, the worse it feels. If he were to be scolded like a child, maybe he’d feel relieved, but he’s no kid. He’s a grown-ass man who should be able to resist.

Yet, self-restraint is like sand slipping through his fingers—never lasting long enough.

“You came.” Astonishment. Uncertainty. Amusement. Blinking your eyes at him, you sit very upright, and you don't even bother fastening your seatbelt. “Honestly? I thought you were going to block me.”

I can’t, he thinks. I wouldn’t be able to. I’m not that strong.

“What happened this time? Another failed date?” he inquires, still not starting the car. A look of perplexity appears on your features, puzzled about why he’s not moving. “Ain’t you forgetting something?” He tugs on his own seatbelt for emphasis, the fabric snapping back into place against his coat.

Once again, you follow his lead. “I don’t need to get stood up to want to see you,” you say, placing your hand on his shoulder for balance—or so he tells himself. It takes him all his willpower not to collapse right then and there. “Besides, I’m not bad company. I’ve been told I can be pretty funny.” 

“I see…” he trails off, catching your gaze through the rearview mirror, not shocked in the slightest to find you waiting for him to look back. “Where to?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you should. You invited me.”

How easy it is to make your chest rumble with laughter, the genuine sound bubbling up, pure and unrestrained. He feels like some amateur comedian who has just realized his real passion is to cause this type of response in others.

Except, it’s not just anyone’s laughter he insists on provoking—it’s yours, and yours alone.

An unsettling sensation envelops him the second you retrieve your hand, not before squeezing his shoulder in a friendly manner. “There’s a bar I go to with my friends sometimes,” you suggest after a beat, shoving your phone in the pocket of your jacket. “We could try that one.”

The moment he steps inside, regret washes over him. Why is everyone here under forty? He feels ancient, like fucking Fred Flintstone.

A fossil out of place, meant to dwell in the shadows, not in a scene like this.

When he freezes in the middle of the bar, your fingers intertwine with his, tugging him along, and he follows after you like a lost puppy. The only thing he’s missing is the leash.

You’re met with his quirked eyebrows as you peer into his eyes over your shoulder, a toothy grin threatening to shake the floor beneath his feet. “You know, people usually sit down before they start getting shit-faced.”

“I’m not getting drunk tonight.” Logan exhales a deep breath, trying to hide his discomfort, his eyes scanning the room. “And neither are you,” he practically yells in your ear trying to make himself heard above the pounding music and incessant chatter. He wonders if you even hear him at all.

The two of you eventually settle at the counter, drinking in silence. Logan half-expects one of your comments to pierce through the quiet, but you delight in proving him wrong.

Instead, your head sways gently to the rhythm of the song playing in the background, and you take a trial sip of your beer.

He’s acutely aware of the stares from the rest of the patrons. He can pretend to be oblivious, but the weight of several pairs of eyes burning holes into the back of his neck doesn’t go unnoticed.

Being watched has never been his favorite pastime, and somehow, it feels even more uncomfortable with you by his side.

He knows what those looks imply, can nearly taste the hidden implications behind each fleeting glance.

What’s a girl like you doing with a man like him? A question that makes no sense.

Does he have money? A well-endowed reputation? Did he recently inherit any properties?

Are you truly that desperate for human contact?

Is your bed so cold that you decide to go for the first guy who can string ten words together?

Logan doubts whether this whole experiment is part of the community service you must be doing. Maybe he should look up your name online to see if any criminal records come to the surface.

Now that he takes a moment to ponder it, you certainly fit the mold of the criminal type. The kind who gets what she wants when she wants it, leaving a trail of intrigue on her wake.

His fingers circle the glass so tightly he fears it might shatter into a million shards. You notice his tension, nudging his arm with yours, aiming to meet his eyes.

When you do (because, as he said, criminals have their own ways), you smile, and he internalizes that gesture as something familiar, something he feels he’s grown used to. Something rankled in his memory.

It’s as if he’s known you for a lifetime.

“Thank you for coming,” you say softly, and he may be going down the path of hallucinations,  but your attention remains a little too long on his lips. Then, just as quickly, it flickers back to the rest of his face, and you lean back to drink from your beer once more.

Straight to hell, he thinks, tasting the remnants of whiskey on his tongue, for ever daring to believe himself worthy of even a moment of your precious time.

You’re probably the first person to have his full, undivided attention. And that’s… well, that’s saying something.

Most days, you’re pretty talkative, a steady stream of conversation, your words pouring out in an endless flow.

You tell him about your family, your career, that pet of yours that died when you were six years old. You mention a friend you no longer speak to, and the events that led to the downfall of your friendship.

There’s also that dish from your all-time favorite restaurant, the one you buy at least once a week because it never fails to comfort you.

Nonstop, you talk and talk, and Logan doesn’t mind one bit. Soon, he finds himself becoming an active listener—asking follow-up questions, chuckling at your jokes, even when they’re not funny at all.

He sincerely cares about what you have to say.

This whole situation with you is beyond his comprehension. Before he realizes it, you start wanting to spend more time with him.

Sometimes, you ride along in the passenger seat while he drives aimlessly through the city.

Sometimes, you invite him over, cook a meal, and he always takes the leftovers with him, as if a part of you goes with him when he leaves.

Sometimes, you come over to his place, and the roles reverse—you’re the one with the mic, asking the questions, fully aware that you’re treading on holy ground. 

Logan’s got a sign on his forehead that reads ‘Stop: do not enter.’ It’s rough around the edges, hardened by the years, all capital letters in stark blank ink. But in the end, you just take the sign and set it aside.

He never goes into too much detail. Not because he doesn’t trust you—it’s just that there’s too much to unpack, and you don’t need to know all of it. You’ll be better off not carrying the garbage he does.

Yet, you’ve got him by the throat, encouraging him to cough up disjoined pieces of his life, bits of his day, his thoughts, his feelings. It sounds stupid to him, but you make him feel alive. 

You never judge him, never flinch when he brings up stories from his past. As he sits at your table one afternoon, you look at his hands, his claws fully extended, and you don’t shy away. You rub the pad of your thumb across the rough skin of his knuckles, right where the adamantium tears through his flesh.

You don’t care that he’s a mutant, that he’s killed people. You don’t try to deny who he is or what he’s done. Oddly enough, you just wish to be by his side, staring off into the void with him. 

“But why?” he asks, partly flattered, partly frustrated. This could be compared to learning a new sport from scratch—he can’t figure you out, can’t understand why you haven’t run the other way yet.

He likes your company, though he’s always bracing himself for the inevitable day you find a better hobby and leave.

Your reasoning defies logic, and he’s afraid that at any moment, you’ll grasp the gravity of your choices.

Almost as if you could feel the turmoil brewing in his mind, you simply say: “You’re nice to be around.”

Nice. Nice. Nice. He’d cackle if he were alone. That word reverberates through him. When was the last time someone called him nice?

Bad-tempered, sure.

A pain in the ass? Definitely.

But nice? Not a term people employed to describe him.

It’s a quality reserved for you, with your endless charisma and kind heart, but not for a man of his kind.

He’s nothing more than a chauffeur, a driver, someone who does and says what’s necessary to survive. Does that make him nice? 

When he tells you he’s probably going to hell, you don’t try to make him feel better. Anyone else in your position might try to soothe him, to offer some hollow reassurance.

Your intention isn’t to change him, for him to pretend to be something he’s not. “Then I’ll meet you there,” you mutter, your shiny eyes searing into his. Under the table, your hand finds his, tender fingers grazing over his knuckles, and for once, he doesn’t pull away.

Could it be that an afterlife catching fire doesn’t sound so bad after all?

As much as he likes to admit how easily you can shift his mood, today is not one of those days.

He’s had a nightmare—nothing new, but this one had been… different. The empty bottle on the nightstand hadn’t been of any help; it never does when they visit him in his sleep.

The ghosts of those who used to be his friends, his family, tiptoe around his dreams in the form of shadows.

Blood. Screams. Shouts of his name. He can’t save them all. Walking through the wreckage, he dodges the bodies of those he couldn’t protect, the knot in his throat tightening with every step, not allowing him to breathe.

Wherever he turns, there’s death, destruction. Sadness. Did he save them all?

It’s always the same routine. He wakes up, screaming, chest aching from the effort. His lungs burn, and he has to remind himself that the limbs attached to him are his own and not the remnants of an immobile corpse.

Sweat clings to his skin, pooling at his temples and nape. He wipes it away with the back of his hand, rubbing at the soreness in his neck.

His phone rings somewhere in the distance, pulling him from his dizzy state. He scrambles to his feet, accepting the call just before it hits voicemail.

It's you. Despite it being late, he swears he feels the gentle kiss of the sun over his brow. Your sweet voice chases away the lingering shadows of his dreams, replacing the bitter taste in his mouth with something real—a reason to get up, to start moving.

He holds onto every second of the brief call, replaying those thirty seconds in his head as he steps into the shower. When the cold water shocks his system, it pulls him fully back to consciousness. He has to get ready.

Even though you insist on getting a taxi, he refuses. He doesn’t mind the drive. His gas tank does, his wallet maybe, but Logan? He just doesn’t.

At the end of the day, he’s protective by nature, and who knows what kind of men are roaming the streets at night?

God forbid they’re anything like him—eager to prompt a smile from you, trying too hard to impress you. He arrives at the conclusion that he’d rather lose fuel and money if it means orbiting around you for longer.

You make him feel better, and tonight, he needs it more than ever. He needs you.

(Now he’s driving. He honks five times when he pulls up to your building. You get on the limo, giggling as you say: “My neighbors must hate you.” He grins. You kiss him on the cheek. Subtle. Not the first time. Still, it doesn’t get old. He feels the faint residue of lip gloss on his skin. He doesn’t wipe it off.)

Not in the mood to cook, you declare as you step into his place. The mouth-watering aroma of the Chinese food you bought fills the air, but when he reaches for the bags, you insist that he sit and relax.

Sure, he can take a seat. But to expect him to relax with you around, playing this intricate game? That’s simply impossible. You’re asking for too much. He’s a player at heart, drawn to the thrill of the chase, and he will play along.

What seems inconceivable is the expectation that he can act as if nothing is happening between these four walls.

His attempts to focus on you are futile, as his mind betrays him tonight. All he hears spilling from your lips is pure and plain gibberish. Your very presence is no longer enough to anchor him.

Already immune to your charm, Logan eats his noodles, occasionally nodding when your voice rises at the end of a sentence, indicating a question.

But he nearly chokes on his drink the moment he registers your serious expression, having never witnessed you like this before.

“Are you even here?” you ask, shoving your food aside with a swift motion of your wrist.

What should he answer? What is it that you want to hear? Of course! I’m here, listening to you. It’s a delightful night. Should I start by telling you about my most recent nightmare? Quite the entertainment!

There’s a shake of his head as he lowers his gaze, escaping your concerned expression. “M’sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m not trying to make you feel guilty.” You tug your chair forward, claiming a piece of his personal space. You know he doesn’t mind. “Want to talk about it? Did something happen?”

“My brain is just… off today.”

“Many thoughts at the same time.” Not a question. Have you completely figured him out?

“Yeah.”

He remains still, dragging his plastic fork across the now-cold steamed veggies, which have lost their appeal.

How amusing—your knees bump against his, drawing his attention. “Can I help you?” It’s new, the breathy tone you’re using, a whisper of agitation weaving through your calm demeanor. 

“Can you erase my memory?” he shoots back, attempting to smirk through the wave of memories that flash behind his eyelids. When he looks into your eyes, the siren in his head blares.

Your pupils are dilated, blown wide, chest rising and falling rapidly. Sweaty palms that you wipe on your jeans. Tongue darting out to lick your lips. Your heartbeat accelerates, drumming wildly like the fluttering of a hummingbird’s wings.

He hasn’t been with a woman in ages, but he knows how they react when they see something they like—or, in this case, someone.

“Logan.” His name rolls off your tongue once more, tinged with an unmistakable need. The thought of checking his temperature dances through his mind, but the heaviness in his limbs roots him in place. He feels feverish. “I want to help you.”

Oh, no. No, no, no, no—

“What—what are you on, sweetheart?” Get up. Find your keys. Drive her home. “You don’t even know what you’re sayin’.”

Saliva floods his mouth as you rise to your feet, looking down at him from above. Gracefully angelic, and yet— “I know what I’m asking for,” you continue, your voice descending to a low murmur that scratches pleasantly against some dark and remote corner of his head. Then you lower yourself onto his lap, your thighs bracketing his waist. You repeat your question: “Can I help you?”

He’s no longer in control of his actions. His right hand crawls up your knee, palming the fabric of your pants. It’s numbing: a lapful of you, your rich smell, your quickened pulse.

Tempting. So fucking tempted to take you right now, just like this, without the need for words. Your bodies can communicate in a language of their own, one that transcends spoken phrases. 

I want you, he lets you know through the way he gropes your breasts over your shirt, squeezing them together. He’s always been good with his hands. But what the hell am I supposed to do with a sweet thing like you?

His patience teeters on the edge of a precipice. “Tell me what you want.”

“I asked you first.”

“You’re gonna pretend you don’t know the answer?” He thrusts into the air, grinding against your clothed core, and you close your eyes. He’s rock hard beneath you, the bulge in his jeans shockingly obscene, bordering on grotesque. “We both know what I want, but I’m no telepath, baby. Need you to speak up.”

Twisting the locks of hair at his nape, you press your lips to his neck. “I want to make you forget, to focus on this moment. I want you to live in the present, Logan.” A bite on his earlobe sends shivers down his spine, and he grips your hips with a primal growl. “I can do whatever you want. Just tell me. Tell me, and I’ll do it, please.”

Please? He’s spiraling. Please? That’s it—he’s doing it. He’ll grant you your plea, which aligns perfectly with his own desires.

Once his back meets the mattress in his room, you get to work. With delicate precision, you pull down his pants, sliding his boxers off until only his thick thighs and the crown of short curls adorning his cock remain in sight. Your fingers tremble slightly before you wrap them loosely around his length, and it springs to life in your grasp.

Your gaze pierces into his, mirroring the intensity of his own. But something holds you back, prompting you to reach for his hand.

At that moment, it all clicks into place. Logan urges your head down onto him, and he’s welcomed by the slick warmth you provide.

Indeed, he’s very much alive.

“That’s it. That’s—fuck. There you go.” 

His fingers dig into the mattress, clutching the cotton sheets, stopping himself from thrusting into your mouth. It’s not that he doesn’t want to—God, he does—but tonight, he’s on his best behavior.

He wipes the trail of drool from your chin, smearing it gently across your cheek, his thumb lingering as he watches your nostrils flare with a strained, muffled gasp.

Bringing his thumb to his mouth, he tastes the wetness on it the same way you’re sucking him: greedily, without any trace of mercy.

This proves I’m going to hell, he thinks, enraptured by the sight of his cock disappearing between your parted lips. Straight to hell.

You draw him back to the present, nuzzling your face against his thigh, your humid breath teasing his thick shaft, pulling him from a deep reverie. Your glossy eyes roam, exploring until they find his, and you gift him an authentic smile. Wrecked and blissed out, it’s as if the lights are on, but no one’s truly home.

He would’ve never guessed how much you reveled in sucking cock, radiating enthusiasm with each of your movements.

“Am I doing it okay?” you wonder aloud, hovering over the tip, swirling your tongue around the velvety head. He’s no fool, and neither are you; deep down, you know you’re doing more than just okay. Actually, you’re giving him the best blowjob of his long, long life.

Each panting, airy praise he huffs fuels your eagerness, making you even more receptive to his desires as the words slip past his lips.

“Fuckin’ amazing, honey. Got me so hard, y’see?” His tone is heavily charged with carnality, gripping himself and smacking the tip against your mouth, the wet sound echoing like music to his ears.

He pulses against your tongue, and you seize the opportunity to trace the thin veins scattered along his length. Gulping, with his gaze fixed on you, Logan notices how you’re still wearing your clothes, wiggling your hips against the mattress, rubbing your thighs together to get something in return. “Are you wet?”

Humming against him, you suck in shaky breath. 

“Words.”

“I’m—I’m wet,” you rasp, voice hoarse. You try to guide him into your mouth and fail miserably, because his grip only tightens, stroking himself instead. “Logan,” you keen, stretching your neck in a silent plea, “don’t be mean.”

“Not mean. Just enjoyin’ myself,” he replies, pulling the foreskin back to expose the head, arching his eyebrows. His fingers curl around your chin, drawing your face nearer to his girth, fascinated by how your eyes flutter shut the more you surrender to the pleasure. “C’mon. Be polite.”

Blame him for it—he believes he’ll never get tired of this game.

“Please.” You whisper, returning to your begging while tenderly rolling his balls, staring at him through your lashes. And then you say it again: “Please.”

Your gaze burns a hole through his crumpled heart. He lets you have it, eager to give whatever you may ask him for. You dive back into it, engulfing his length and bobbing your head up and down with fervor. Hushed whines escape your lips, savoring another bead of his precum.

Logan almost loses it as you hollow your cheeks, instinctively cradling the back of your head. “Easy, baby. M’not going anywhere. Take your time.”

Whenever he feels himself approaching that long-awaited release, he forces his mind to conjure thoughts that will stall his impending orgasm.

The water stains from flooding on the walls.

The supermarket list.

The rising price of gas.

The—

“Fuck. Slow down,” he groans, utterly captivated by the way you point your tongue to draw imaginary patterns along his cock, seemingly memorizing every detail. “Don’t go too hard on me, remember?”

You mumble something under your breath, and at first, he can’t quite make it out. “What is it?”

“I said I want you to fuck me.”

Under no circumstances is he surviving this night.

“Really, doll?” Logan seeks the reassurance he desperately needs, fearing that this is all a dream from which he’ll awaken the moment he properly touches you. “You sure you want this old man to fuck you?”

You’re a rambling mess, murmuring Yes, Logan, please, until he maneuvers you to lie on his chest, his glistening cock sliding against your clothes, leaving a trail of dark spots. A whimper dies on your tongue as you brush your lips together, your hot breath enveloping him. “Give me a kiss at least.”

Tilting your head up, he connects his mouth to yours, growling as he detects the dull, sour tang of what must be him. He sucks your bottom lip, hardly aware of what his hands are doing until he shifts your positions, pinning you down.

Logan tugs at your clothes, peeling them away with urgency, his fingers dancing over your nipples until you’re grinding against his thigh, quivering beneath him. With a nip at your damp skin, his eyes flutter open as he studies your expression, casting you a glance that seeks your permission.

A ripple of desire courses through him when you dutifully turn over beneath him, pressing your face further into the pillow. He runs his knuckles along the curve of your ass, his throat going dry as you follow after his touch, arching your body in response.

Unable to resist the temptation any longer, he licks a long, slow stripe up your wet folds, keeping his tongue flat against your clit for a brief moment. Your arms give out and you stumble forward, stuttering as you mewl his name, fully consumed by the feeling.

So he does it again, and again, and again, flicking the sensitive bud, even though you’re already beyond soaked. It’s a pleasure he indulges in simply because he can.

Straight to hell, he thinks, coating his length with your arousal, teasing your entrance while pushing in only the tip. That motion alone is enough to make him draw a trembling breath before he continues, gradually feeding you his cock, inch by inch.

Straight to hell, the voice in his head utters as he buries himself to the hilt deep within your body, his heavy balls resting against your ass.

Like an intruder in your territory, he’s free to do as he pleases, and you let him have his way with you.

If only this moment could stretch into infinity—he longs for time to relent and never draw to a close. 

What will happen after? Will you spend the night? Does he—

“L-Logan,” you mumble, having adjusted to his size. You rock back into him, impaling yourself even more on his cock. “Please, move.”

The pace he establishes is brutal. Your warm, inner walls exquisitely massage him, and the earth as he knows it stops spinning. Fire pools low in his abdomen, his hands holding you by the flesh of your hips to keep you anchored, each thrust driving you closer to the headboard with an intoxicating urgency. 

“You wanted it from the very start, didn’t you?” He doesn’t know if a response will ever come, but these kinds of thoughts are impossible to contain. He’s just a simple man, powerless against the allure of a tight cunt. “Just got in my car and knew it would end like this?”

You roll your eyes at him, silent as you exit the vehicle, closing the door behind you. While fumbling for your keys, four words escape your mouth. Casual yet devastating, they ruin him: “I’ll see you around.” 

His next thrust punches a whine out of your lungs. Even as you clench around him, stuffed and filled to the brim, you beg for him to fuck you harder. He would’ve laughed at you were he able to catch his breath.

With a more deliberate rhythm, he rolls his hips, jackhammering your most sensitive spot, pulling you closer as he wraps an arm around you. When his fingers find your clit, drawing slippery circles, a cry escapes you, and your body merges with the mattress under you.

Your release takes him by surprise, urging him to continue as you reach back, encouraging him to chase his own climax. He knows all too well the struggle of bringing you to this point without succumbing to his pleasure too soon. Your nails graze along his thigh, leaving delicate marks in their wake, and somehow, the passion and bliss he’s been nurturing ignites into a fiery crescendo.

Shortly after, he goes completely rigid inside you, pressing his forehead against your back as he bites down on your shoulder to muffle his groans. His hand squeezes your breast tightly, riding out his high, blood buzzing in his ears, continuing to spill into you. You spam around him, milking him until the last drop of his seed, his release painting your insides with his warmth.

Logan tucks you under his chin as his vision returns to clarity. You nose his jaw, your fingers softly tracing the contours of his beard. He pulls you closer into his chest, gliding his hands up and down your back.

Half a minute of dreadful silence, then: “Can I stay?”

Oh, yes—pillow talk. He’s not great at this either. Despite that, his eyes soften, snapping to your face.

Logan pauses for a moment. “Sure,” he retorts, dragging his fingers along your shoulder blades. He’s a one-word kind of guy. Just perfect.

Tell her you like her. Tell her you don’t want this to be a casual fling. Tell her it’s more than just sex for you.

Or maybe don’t. Get ahold of yourself, will you?

“Logan?” you ask, resting your palm against his heart.

“What is it?”

“I know.”

You do?

Try as he might, he can’t deny it. He might care about you more than he ever realized.

dividers by: @/cafekitsune thank you!!! <3

[wholoveseggs]

Homecoming

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}

{Daemon Targaryen x Reader} You haven't seen your husband since your passionate wedding night, leaving you to doubt his love. Now, three months later, you're round with child and missing him more than ever—until he suddenly returns.

♡♡ This is purely just to get all my daddy Daemon feelings out, I 100% believe he has a breeding kink. ♡♡

3.2k words - Warnings: smut, major breeding kink, slow sex, so so so much fluff, a little bit of angst and Daemon apologizing in bed...

@elijahstwink @starshipcookie @absolutemarveltrash @odairtrqsh @darkened-writer

@cheneyq @fallout-girl219 @nina6708 @evasmlp @sadmonke

@deamonloverrrr @urmomsgirlfriend1 @moonsleep

It was another quiet night, in a bed far too large for one. The wind was gently blowing through the curtains, bringing with it a cool breeze and the smell of the sea. It was late, and everyone was asleep, yet you laid awake, tossing and turning, unable to fall asleep.

You rolled over onto your side, the silk of the sheets sliding against your bare skin. These days, sleep evaded you, no matter how much you tried. If it wasn't your thoughts keeping you up, it was your changing body and the ever growing life inside of you.

Three months ago you had gotten married to the prince Daemon, a dream of many girls across the kingdom. But your marriage was hardly that. The day after the ceremony you woke up in an empty bed, and hadn't seen your husband since, leaving you to wonder if you had done something wrong.

He had left you no letter, no message. Nothing. Only the memory of your wedding night, the way he touched and kissed you, his sweet whispers of adoration as he made you his. On the loneliest days you would close your eyes and remember it all, his lips on yours, the way his fingers caressed you, the feel of him inside you.

You place your hand on the small bump of your stomach, a smile spreading across your lips. Although it had only been one night, he did his duty and you were pregnant. A piece of him was always with you.

But it wasn't enough.

You longed to see him again, to touch him and be held by him, to tell him of the life growing within you. You wanted so desperately to be with him, but instead you were left with the ghost of his love, a memory that wasn't enough to fill the hole in your heart.

You sighed, trying to push away those thoughts, and attempted to fall asleep, but every time you closed your eyes all you could see was his handsome face. You opened them again and sat up, staring into the darkness.

You could see the light of a torch through the cracks of the door, and the sound of footsteps. You knew exactly who it was, the guard outside your door. His shift was almost over, and soon a new one would be out there, watching over you. There was a muffled conversation, and the sound of someone walking away.

A few moments later the door cracked open, and the torch light poured into the room. Your eyes squinted at the sudden brightness, and as the person entered the room they shut the door.

You were about to give your guard a kindly lecture on waking you up when you noticed that it wasn't the guard who had walked in, but a hooded man. You opened your mouth to call for help, but before you could get a sound out he was at your bedside, his hand covering your mouth.

"Don't scream, my love, it's me." He whispered.

You blinked at the voice, your mind taking a second to process what was happening. Your eyes widened, and you reached for his hand. He took it away from your mouth and intertwined your fingers together, his other hand pulling down his hood.

"Daemon." You breathed, looking up at his face.

The torchlight casted a warm glow on his handsome features, highlighting his strong cheekbones and sharp jawline. His hair was longer than the last time you saw him, hanging past his shoulders, his eyes were dark and clever, looking you over with admiration.

You pulled him towards you, your lips crashing into his. He let out a sigh, a sound that sounded almost pained, and returned your kiss. Then you harshly pushed him away, hitting his chest.

"Where have you been?" You demanded.

"I had matters to attend to." He told you.

"Three months!" You cried. "Three months I waited for you, and you were doing what?"

He smiled and pulled off his cloak, his eyes raking over your form. He reached out to cup your cheek, his thumb gently stroking your skin.

You wanted to be angry with him, you really did, but the look he was giving you, like he was starved, melted away your resolve. You leaned into his touch and looked up at him through your lashes, a smile tugging at your lips.

"Asshole," You whispered.

"My love." He whispered back, leaning down and placing a kiss to your forehead.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him in for another heated kiss. You were angry, yes, but seeing him now made all of that fade away. Your ire could wait until the morning.

His lips were gentle and loving, and you were so happy that you had almost forgotten that he had been gone. He kneeled on the bed and pulled you close, his hands cupping your cheeks.

When he pulled away, you rested your forehead against his, smiling and breathing hard.

"I thought you left me," You admitted, your hands gripping his wrists, as though you could keep him there forever by holding on to him.

He hummed, his nose nuzzling against yours and you pressed yourself closer to him, trying to get as much contact as possible.

His large, warm hands moved down to the swell of your stomach. He placed his palms flat against the bump and leaned back, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"Did the maesters tell you?" You asked, placing your hands over his.

He nodded, his eyes lifting up to meet yours. "How are you feeling?" He asked, with such gentle kindness that it made your heart melt.

"Big." You answered, laughing slightly. "I can't wear any of my old clothes, and I have to have new ones made all the time. And the way the ladies look at me when I go out..."

He shook his head, a breathy laugh escaping him, his thumbs caressing your skin. It was true that you had changed since the wedding, your body swelling with his child. You were nervous about how he would react, but the softness in his eyes and the way he touched you told you otherwise.

"I wish I could have told you the news myself, it's a shame you had to hear it from some crusty old maester," you said.

"It is a wonderful thing to return home too," he smiled, leaning forward and pressing his lips against yours.

He kissed you deeply, his arms wrapping around your waist. You smiled into the kiss, your fingers weaving through his long, silver hair. You could feel his lips turn up against yours, and you both pulled away.

He looked at you for a moment, his eyes raking over your features, a smirk tugging at his lips. His hands trailed down your sides, sending a wave of heat through you.

"My prince," you said softly, your fingers brushing along his cheekbone. "We've already made a baby. You don't have to do this."

He laughed, and shook his head, a look in his eyes you couldn't decipher. "I forget just how innocent you are," he said, his hands trailing down to your thighs.

“Well, whose fault is that?” You teased, smiling up at your handsome husband.

You sucked in a breath as he leaned down, his lips trailing kisses along your neck, his teeth grazing over your skin.

"It's true, I've been away for too long, my lady wife has forgotten what it is I crave," he breathed against your skin, his lips finding yours once more.

Your hands slid down his shoulders and arms, feeling his muscles. He pulled back slightly and tugged off his shirt, letting it fall to the floor.

"You have gotten bigger as well," you said, running your hands across his chest, feeling the hard muscles.

He smirked, a cocky gleam in his eyes. "Oh?"

"It suits you," you said, a playful smile on your lips.

His hand came to rest on the side of your neck, his fingers caressing your jaw. His thumb brushed against your bottom lip and he leaned in, capturing your mouth with his.

"And you are more beautiful than the day we wed," he said, his voice husky.

"My prince flatters me." You breathed, a blush rising on your cheeks.

His eyes went to the ties on your nightdress, a row of pretty little bows that went down to the valley of your breasts. He tugged at one of the ribbons, the fabric becoming loose.

He pushed it aside and his hand moved up to caress your breast, his thumb rubbing your nipple, causing you to gasp.

"Still as sensitive." He said, a smirk on his lips.

He leaned down and took your other nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it, before gently biting down. You tugged hard on his hair, your legs kicking and squirming as he continued to play with you.

"Daemon," you moaned.

He hummed, the vibration causing a wave of pleasure to wash over you. He let go of your nipple, and his mouth moved lower, placing hot kisses along your skin, his hand pushing up your night dress.

"Perhaps a bit more sensitive." He commented, his hand brushing along your thigh.

He hooked a finger into the waistband of your small clothes and pulled them off. You were now naked, your body on full display for him, and he leaned back and admired his work. His hand on the swell of your belly, his thumb tracing over a stretch mark.

"Beautiful." He said, a sincerity in his voice that made your heart skip a beat.

You looked away, suddenly shy. You had only spent one night with him, and now he was here again. His touch, his words, they all still had an affect on you, making your stomach flutter and heart race.

He leaned down, and pressed a kiss to your bump, his hand resting on the side of it, his lips trailing lower. You smiled softly, and ran your fingers through his hair, the silver strands smooth between your fingers.

His hand came to rest on your thighs, gently coaxing your legs open. You watched as he positioned himself between them, his head almost disappearing behind your bump.

His eyes flickered up to yours, and his smirk was all too knowing, causing you to blush and turn away. He leaned forward, his tongue darting out and licking up your slit.

You gasped, your grip on his hair tightening. He did it again, this time focusing his attention on that sensitive little spot he introduced to you on your wedding night. He placed a soft kiss on it, his tongue circling it.

"Dae-ah," you moaned, trying to muffle the sound by pressing a hand over your mouth.

You didn't know if it was the fact that you were pregnant, or maybe that you missed him more than anything, but everything felt different, his touch more intense.

His hands gripped the backs of your thighs, holding you down as his tongue licked and circled you. His mouth moved down and his tongue slid into you, making you arch and cry out. He lapped at your arousal, his tongue going in and out, the sounds he made, the hums and sighs, driving you wild.

He groaned, a sound that vibrated through your entire body, and his tongue went up, swirling around that little spot again, his mouth closing over it.

You moaned his name, your thighs squeezing him, your whole body trembling as your release washed over you.

He placed a few more kisses to the inside of your thighs before rising up, his hair messy and face glistening with you. He wiped his face with his arm and leaned down, his lips capturing yours.

You could taste yourself on him, and you kissed him hard, your hand tangling into his hair, the other reaching down to the ties of his trousers. He helped you undo them, and kicked off his pants.

His hard length sprung free, and you wrapped a hand around it, causing him to let out a shaky moan. He pressed his forehead against yours, his hand cupping your cheek, and his eyes locking onto yours.

You slowly started to stroke him, and he let out another moan, his eyes fluttering closed, his breath hot against your skin.

"My love," he groaned, his hips thrusting into your hand.

You loved the effect you had on him, the control you had. To have the prince of dragonstone, the most dangerous man in the realm, at the palm of your hand, made your heart flutter.

His hand found yours, and he guided it away from his length, a whine leaving your throat. He chuckled and gave you a quick kiss before positioning himself between your legs.

He slowly pushed himself in, causing you both to moan. It hurt a little, just like the first time, but his hands were on your thighs, his thumb caressing your skin, and he slowly pulled out and pushed back in, letting you adjust.

"My love, I'm not going to break," you said.

He smirked and gave a shallow thrust, a gasp leaving you.

"I can't be too careful with what is mine." He said, leaning down and giving you a heated kiss.

He pulled away and rested his forehead against yours, his hand sliding up the length of your leg, coming to rest on your bump, his other hand planted next to your head, holding himself up.

He started to move, his length slowly sliding in and out, the pace slow and gentle. You could feel every inch of him, rubbing against that perfect spot. A soft moan left you, and you reached out, your hands on his chest, feeling the hand planes of muscle underneath his skin.

His thumb caressed your belly, his eyes never leaving your face, studying every detail, memorizing each feature. You felt so exposed under his gaze and turned away, your cheeks flushed.

He smiled, a soft, loving smile, and kissed you.

"How I've missed you, my beautiful wife," he said, his voice thick with emotion.

You looked up at him, seeing nothing but love in his eyes. It was the way he had looked at you at your wedding, the two of you standing there in the sept, whispering promises to each other. The world had disappeared around you, and in that moment you were the only people that existed.

He kissed you again, and began moving a little faster, the sound of his hips meeting yours filling the room. He groaned, his hand still gently stroking your bump.

"I can't believe such a perfect creature could bear my child," he said, his eyes trailing down to where his hand rested.

"Our child," you corrected, giving him a teasing smile.

He hummed, leaning back and wrapping his arms around your waist and helping you into a sitting position. He pulled you onto his lap, and you moaned at the way he was buried deeper inside you.

His lips left open mouth kisses on your shoulders, and his hands rested on your hips, guiding you. You braced yourself on his shoulders, his hands back on your bump as you moved. You knew he liked the feel of it, and he couldn't get enough.

Your name left his lips as you bounced in his lap, his hands cupping your ass, squeezing you. You moaned, your hands sliding into his hair, tugging at the silver locks. You were growing louder, your body humming, that feeling building within you.

"Not too loud, my love," he whispered. "I do not wish for the guards to hear,"

A moan, that was halfway to a laugh escaped you, and he cut it off with a deep kiss. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, as you kept moving, the feeling of your release building.

"For your lovely sounds are only for me," he continued, his voice in your ear.

You let out another shaky moan, his hands squeezing you. He was moving his hips to meet yours, and you could feel him shaking beneath you. His hands gripped your hips tighter, and pulled you harder, his voice soft yet commanding as he talked you closer to your peak.

Your hands gripped his arms and back, and when he said your name, a deep, low groan that sounded almost pained, you toppled over the edge, falling in a pool of ecstasy. All the pent up emotions and frustration that you had been holding in were released, and you let go of a final moan that you muffle in the crook of his neck.

He followed soon after, capturing your lips in a heated kiss and letting out a deep, satisfied moan. You clung to him, afraid that he might disappear if you didn't. His arms were wrapped around your middle, cradling you close to him, his lips pressed to your temple.

The two of you breathed in each other's air, a simple shared breath, your foreheads pressed together, your eyes closed. You could feel his lips on your sweat slicked skin, his fingertips still caressing your bump.

When you both had returned to your senses, he gently laid you back on the bed. He leaned down, the tip of his nose nuzzling against yours, and peppered your face with little kisses. You smiled and let your eyes flutter open, finding him staring at you, a sweet, lovestruck look in his eye.

He grabbed the blanket, and covered your naked form with it, tucking it around you, almost protectively. He crawled under with you,his head resting against your chest, his hand still protectively cradling the swell of your stomach.

You wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and ran your fingers through his hair, smiling. He looked up at you, his eyes sleepy, and he pressed a kiss to your bump.

"I hope it's a boy," you said, continuing to stroke his hair. "With the most handsome features, and a true warrior, like his father."

"Mm," he hummed, his eyes closing, and his arms wrapping around your waist. "I hope it is a girl, a daughter that looks just like her mother."

He was silent for a moment, and you wondered if he had fallen asleep, when his eyes suddenly opened.

"Or perhaps both," he said, his voice serious, a glimmer of something in his eyes.

"Twins?" You laughed. "I don't think I could handle two little dragons running about."

He chuckled, his fingers drawing lazy circles on your skin. "I will be here to help you," he said, his eyes meeting yours. "I am not going anywhere."

"You better not," you warned, poking his chest. "You've kept me waiting long enough."

He laughed again and caught your wrist, bringing your finger to his lips and placing a gentle kiss there. He slid his arms back around you, and pulled you close, your foreheads touching, your noses brushing.

You were content, your heart filled with so much love for him, and as his breathing evened out and his eyelids drooped, you knew he felt the same. You drifted off to sleep, dreaming of what was to come. Of a big family, a happy life, and many more nights just like this one. 

[kunazz]

WEEK ONE: GOJO SATORU — [blindfold]

tags: boypussy gojo, squirting, shaking, blindfolding, gojo calling reader “daddy”, top male reader

summary: gojo always wears a blindfold, but you prefer it when you see his tears soak through it.

a/n: why is this so BADDDD I promise it’s bc uni is giving me assignments and doing that on top of this is BONE CRACKING. may take a small break and slow down..

“oh god!— daddy fuck!” gojo practically screams as his nails scratch at your chest, the feeling of your fat cock stretching out his tight pussy was enough to make his eyes roll back, tears soaking the cloth of his blindfold. you think gojo looks so pretty like this, all broken and weeping, his pretty pussy clenching so hard on your cock as if he was begging to keep you there.

his clit is throbbing painfully, and if he wasn’t such a good boy he’d definitely be rubbing hard circles on the sensitive nub, allowing his pending orgasm to crash into him faster, he’s already came around three times, two of them causing him to squirt — gojo almost thought he’d pass out after that, but when he felt your wet cock moving inside him again, pressing against the soft walls of his pussy just nicely, he knew he had to be awake.

“daddy? that’s a new one” you said softly, hissing when you felt your cock drive deeper into gojo’s cunt, body trembling just a little. you’re no better than him, your orgasm was so close, and you’ve been holding it back for a while now, edging yourself to make sure gojo is getting the best experience — he always came first.

you gently run your hands over gojo’s torso, your fingers light touches contrasted the way your cock thrusted into his pussy, and it drove gojo crazy, he wasn’t expecting you to be so rough and gentle at the same time, it was mind breaking and almost too much to handle — but gojo always handled it, he always took everything like a good boy and you made sure he knew that.

“taking it so well baby..g’na cum inside you soon” you groaned, your fingers finally playing with gojo’s clit, and you took pleasure in watching his back arch and his eyes go wide, he looked beautiful like this, trembling and on the verge of screaming, you could tell he was about to cum, just from the way his body stilled and tensed.

and soon enough you felt it, the gush of fluid spraying on your abdomen once again, your cock inevitably slipping out of gojo’s pussy, rubbing between his folds as he squirted, your tip bumping his clit. gojo’s squeals felt like music to your ears, and the way his thighs trembled violently you couldn’t hold back from gripping them, fingers squeezing into the soft muscle hard enough to bruise. you liked that, making gojo so cock dumb that he’d feel the remnants of everything that occurred the next day, until he was fidgeting every time he sat down because his clit was so sensitive.

“fuck- oh fuck..can’t take it anymore..” gojo slurred, his eyes rolling back as his body twitched, he was so overstimulated, and as your cock slipped back inside him he couldn’t even protest, his hands just weakly resting on your lower abdomen, a signal to get you to go slow. you complied, your hips thrusting back into gojo slowly, groaning when you were finally encompassed by that warm, wet heat once more.

“that’s it baby, g’na fill you up now ‘kay?” you mumbled, your hands gripping at gojo’s hips so you could thrust into him faster, you’ve been holding off this orgasm for ages, and now it was coming closer, there was no way you could hold it back now. you were quick to press you lips against gojo’s, your tongue slipping into his mouth as your cock pulsed inside him, finally spilling your seed and cumming inside him. it was a bone crushing orgasm, better than heaven himself as your thrusts came to a slow stop, riding out your high and relishing in the warmth that gojo brought you.

“holy fuck, that was..” gojo huffed, running a hand through his sweaty hair as he finally removed the tear stained blindfold, his eyes wet with tears that were starting to dry up.

“amazing..that was amazing..” you muttered, a lazy smile creeping onto your face as you layed against gojo, there was something so nice about post sex, maybe it was the tiredness, but it was nice, as if your body was levitating.

you’re definitely gonna both be feeling this tomorrow.