#but i just wanna know where these ages are coming from

[flowersforbucky]

where the lines overlap

logan howlett x reader (dofp!logan x mutant!reader)

word count: 8.7k

summary: no one gets under your skin quite as much as logan howlett - and he knows it, too. sex pollen trope.

warnings/tags: 18+ only mdni, smut, sex pollen so dub con, frenemies to lovers? they aren't enemies but logan and reader don't really get along, reader is a mutant with pyrokinesis, reader is afab, reader is described as being smaller than logan, no use of y/n, wet dream, fuck or die situation, oral, pet names (bub, princess), brief pain kink for logan, unprotected p in v, cream pie

author's note: takes place after the events of days of future past - so everyone's alive, charles is old af, and logan has a pretty streak of silver in his hair. not proofread super well so please ignore any errors.

There's certain things that you like to think about when you're pissed off. It’s a coping mechanism that you learned in therapy at the ripe age of eleven.

Go to your happy place or whatever.

For you, that's the mansion's courtyard after a fresh snowfall, and having the library all to yourself on a rainy day, and the comfort of your bedroom on one of the rare days that you aren’t teaching, or training, or on a mission.

At this point in your life, you’ve forgotten just about everything you were taught in that therapist's office. It's not like you had wanted to be there, but your parents had been worried and scared – and rightfully so. With the unexpected emergence of your pyrokinetic abilities came multiple accidental house fires born out of preteen angst.

So they did the only thing they knew to do at the time – stick you in therapy in hopes you would acquire some anger management techniques.

These days, you have a pretty good handle on your powers. With a lot of time and effort, you learned to control them – and not just control them, but yield them in a beneficial and productive way.

All of that progress comes dangerously close to going out the window anytime you're in close proximity to Logan Howlett.

Maybe all is an exaggeration – but no one else makes your fingertips burn hot with fire that threatens to break through the barrier of your skin quite like him. From his bossiness to his arrogance and attitude, you’ve clashed heads since the first day you met him.

Today is no different.

“Don’t use so much force.”

You curse as the tip of the blade impales the target a whopping three inches from the center. By far your worst throw yet, though this one isn’t entirely your fault.

You snap your head towards the unexpected but familiar voice, pulling your last dagger from the holster secured around your thigh before chucking it in his general direction. It flies past him, bouncing off the wall behind him.

You knew that it wouldn’t actually hit him. And if by some miracle it had, he’d heal in two seconds and then go right back to being a pain in your ass.

A good looking pain in your ass, admittedly. But a pain in your ass nonetheless.

He looks at you with an amused expression. “See? Too much force.”

“I didn’t know that having giant forks for hands made you an expert on throwing knives.”

He exhales a breathy laugh, staring at you for several seconds before turning to pick the dagger up from the ground. He then proceeds to collect the rest of the knives that you had previously thrown from the body of the practice target.

In heavy silence, he struts over to you with the daggers in hand. He turns to face a wooden target board, finding the balance point of the knife before sending it flying through the air.

Bullseye.

“A long time ago, when I first joined this team, Charles made me practice a non-power related method of self-defense, too.” He pauses, lining the second dagger up with the practice dummy. To no surprise, it’s another perfect throw.

“Wanna guess what I chose?”

You snatch the remaining knife out of his hand.

“How to annoy someone by sneaking up on them and giving them unsolicited advice while they are minding their own business?”

You position your feet once again, holding the knife up in preparation to take aim. Your eyes dart back and forth between the blade and the target ahead of you. You hesitate, feeling nervous under his gaze.

Logan moves from standing beside you, to standing behind you. Your breath catches in your throat as his large figure looms over you. If he were to took a step forward, his chest would brush against your back.

He uses the tip of his boot to nudge your heel forward half an inch, adjusting your stance. He takes your right hand in his, and you have to consciously remind yourself to breathe.

A wave of annoyance washes over you that he’s able to fluster you so easily. It makes you as pissed at yourself as it does him. He’s barely touching you – his hand dwarfing yours is the only point of physical contact, but you’d think that he were pinning you up against a wall with his body.

You tell yourself the sudden light-headedness and increased heartrate is because of the newfound closeness, and nothing more. You’re used to being around Logan – the two of you live together and work together. His general presence is nothing new. But the intimacy of your current predicament is.

And maybe the fact that notes of tobacco and bourbon are infiltrating your senses doesn’t help.

“As unsolicited as my advice may be,” he says lowly as he pulls your hand back slightly, “I give it because if there is ever a situation where someone's trying to hurt you, and you’re unable to light them on fire for some reason, I would really hope that you could at least impale them.”

He tightens his hold on your hand, and then snaps both of your wrists forward. Surprisingly, your brain registers to release your grip just in time. When the tip of the blade impales the center of the target perfectly, he drops your hand.

But he doesn’t move from behind you.

“Much better. Now come back upstairs. Charles needs to see all of us in his office.”

••••••

You and Logan are the last people to enter Charles’ office.

Storm, Scott, Jean, Marie, and Bobby have all found places to sit throughout the small room. Logan chooses to lean against the door that clicks shut behind him, while you exhale in relief at the sight of an empty chair on the opposite side of the room, next to Marie.

“Ah, how nice of you two to join us,” Charles greets. “I was starting to think that Logan got lost on his way to retrieve you.”

You force out a laugh, earning a side-eye from Marie as Charles launches back into whatever he had been in the middle of before you two interrupted.

“Everything okay?” Marie murmurs to you. “You looked a little sick when you walked in.”

“Oh, yeah,” you shrug her off without looking at her. You keep your eyes on Charles. “Yeah, I'm just tired. Been training all morning.”

What were you supposed to tell her? That you were thankful to be wearing a tactical suit so that Logan couldn’t see all of the goosebumps that bloomed across your skin when he was practically breathing down your neck less than five minutes ago? Or that the walk back up to Charles’ office was filled with a loaded silence in place of your usual bickering and banter?

Marie might be one of your closest friends, and you trust her, but Logan is something of a fatherly figure to her. There’s no way you’re letting her hear those words come from your mouth.

You try your hardest to focus on all of the information that Charles throws at you. You’re all to leave on a mission early tomorrow morning. When he explains where you’re going and why, chills run down your spine.

Alberta, Canada – more specifically, Alkali Lake. All of your friends seem to tense up at the mere mention of the place.

You dig your teeth into your lower lip, fighting the urge to sneak a glance to try to gauge Logan's reaction. You’ve never been to Alkali Lake before, and you’re far from excited about going – you can only imagine how he feels, given his history with the abandoned military base.

After no word of any activity surrounding the base for years, Charles had been made aware that the recent disappearance of a group of young adult humans had been traced back to Alkali Lake – to a modern day subsidiary of the group Weapon X.

The same group responsible for Logan’s skeleton being made from adamantium.

This, of course, is where all of you come in.

After a detailed rundown of the goals for tomorrow – the main one being safe extraction of the humans – Charles dismisses all of you to rest for the remainder of the day.

When everyone stands up, you finally risk glancing at Logan, but he’s already opening the door to Charles’ office and strutting away.

••••••

Thick stubble scratches your innermost thighs as sharp teeth and soft lips alternate between kissing and biting the sensitive flesh between your legs.

His face is covered in your slick from the three orgasms he’s already pulled from you with his tongue. He lays nestled between your legs, pinning you to the mattress beneath you. Your thighs rest across his shoulders, his hands splayed across your belly.

You're putty in his hands.

“I've gotta say, the sounds you make when you cum are way cuter than the sounds I'm used to hearing from you,” Logan muses against your cunt. His voice sends a vibration over your already overstimulated core.

You can only guess that the sounds he’s referring to are annoyed sighs and you telling him to shut the fuck up, but right now, you don't care enough to ask for any clarification.

“Yeah?” You yelp when his tongue flicks against your swollen clit. “Maybe if you spent less time pissing me off you’d get to—”

You're cut off by him plunging the tip of his index finger inside you. You writhe against him, your walls constricting around the digit.

“Less time pissing you off, more time letting you fuck my fingers and face. Got it.”

The slamming of a door somewhere outside of your room causes you to bolt upright in your bed.

You open your eyes to darkness except for the red glow of the numbers on your digital alarm clock that read 12:26 in the morning. Your heart feels as if it’s going to beat right out of your chest, and your skin is clammy with a thin layer of sweat. You throw your covers away from you in an attempt to cool yourself off.

“What the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck—”

You whisper the three words to yourself over and over again until your breathing resumes a normal pattern.

You’re alone, of course. In the comfort of your private room, where you had fallen asleep several hours ago. The difference between now and then is an uncomfortable pool of wetness between your legs, soaking your underwear.

You can’t even recall the last time you had such a vivid sex dream. It felt utterly lifelike – you reach down between your legs, trailing your fingers over the skin of your inner thighs where you had felt his beard tickle and tease you.

How the fuck are you supposed to look him in the eye tomorrow, when you’re having to work together to rescue humans from Alkali Lake? How are you supposed to come up with smart-ass remarks for his endless taunting and teasing when you’re going to be trying your hardest to not replay the images of his hazel eyes looking up at from between your thighs?

“Get a fucking grip,” you whisper hiss to yourself.

It’s Logan. The same Logan who acted like he was too good to say more than ten words to you the first half a year that you were with the team. The same Logan that tries to get you benched for the dumbest, smallest reasons he can think of. The same Logan that condescendingly calls you kid or princess every chance he gets because he knows it gets under your skin.

You need a glass of water. And some fresh air, and a cold shower—

You start by picking up the pair of sweatpants that you’d discarded before falling asleep a few hours ago. You step back into them, deciding to trek to the kitchen for some ice water. Your mouth feels as dry as cotton.

As you approach the end of the hallway that leads from the team member's bedrooms to the kitchen, you hear the soft shuffling of footsteps and see low lighting that spills from the refrigerator.

As soon as you step into the kitchen, you come to a halt. You recognize the large frame standing in front of the open fridge right away.

Of fucking course it would be him. And of fucking course he wouldn’t be wearing a shirt.

You clear your throat to announce your presence, not quite trusting your voice to speak. He looks at you over his shoulder, a bottle of beer pressed to his lips.

You walk over to the cabinet beside him, keeping your eyes off of him entirely as you get a glass.

“What's got you awake at this hour?” He closes the fridge, leaning back against the edge of the countertop. The only light in the room now comes from the small, dim bulb above the sink.

If he only fucking knew, you think. If he only knew that the real reason you are out of bed right now is because you’d just woken up from an extremely graphic, jarring dream of you riding his face.

You fill the cup up with cold water from the kitchen sink and take a large swig before once again turning to face him.

“Could ask you the same thing,” you answer with a vague gesture to his half-dressed form and beer bottle.

He takes in your appearance, too. His eyes trail from your exposed feet, to your baggy sweatpants, and up to your even baggier t-shirt before settling on your face. You feel particularly vulnerable under his gaze right now. You compare how you look to how he looks – with his stupid abs that look like God himself chiseled them from stone and his sweatpants that hang just a little too comfortably.

You sip on your water just to keep from biting your lip.

“Guess we were both thirsty,” he shrugs as he takes another sip of his beer.

“Guess so,” you hum, and because you don’t want to fall into an awkward silence and it’s the only thing you can think to add, you say, “Nervous about the mission?”

His expression darkens and posture tenses at your question. “I am,” he admits. “And if you knew as much as I do about that place, you’d be nervous, too.”

You huff. Your grip tightens around the glass in your hand at the mere insinuation that he knows your feelings. “Who says that I’m not?”

“If you’re going, you’re not nervous enough.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. You take a deep breath, knowing damn well the direction that this conversation is headed. You’d heard it all from him before – anything to keep you as far away from him as possible.

“Of course I’m going, Logan. Whether you think I’m good at it or not, it’s my job.”

“It’s not that I don’t think you’re good at your job. It’s about experience—”

You laugh, cutting him off. You can feel the telltale warmth of fire beginning to form beneath the tips of your fingers, your irritation threatening to bubble over.

“Experience?” you exclaim. “Do I need to remind you that I’ve been with this team for three years now? Just because I’m not two hundred years old like you doesn’t mean that I don’t have experience.”

“I’m very aware of how long you’ve been with this team, bub,” he says calmly, which makes you all the more heated.

“For three years you’ve spewed every bullshit reason you can think of to keep me on the sidelines,” you laugh. “I wish you’d fucking admit that you just don’t like me. It’d be a lot more respectable than acting like you’re worried about—”

Logan’s gaze drops to the glass in your hand, making you come to an abrupt pause. You follow his stare, realizing that you’ve managed to melt the glass where your fingertips grip the glass. Water begins to leak out from the holes, spilling onto your sweatpants and the floor below you.

There’s no visible flames emanating from your fingertips. Your anger hadn’t progressed to full on fire, just intense heat, but still. No one else makes you come as close to losing control as him.

No one. And he seems to know it, too. You can tell by the smug look on his face.

You dump what little liquid is left into the sink before chucking the distorted glass into the garbage.

You start to storm past him, to get away from him and go back to your room without another word, when he grabs you by the wrist. You look at him in bewilderment – this is the second time in the last twenty-four hours that he has held your hand in his.

“Didn’t know you were so hot and bothered over me,” he says with an amused smirk.

You rip your hand away from him, an exaggerated look of disgust on your face. Your recent dream pops into your head and you have to remind yourself that he’s not Jean or Charles – he can’t read your mind.

“You're lucky that you've got those handy healing powers,” you spit as you once again begin exiting the kitchen. “If I thought there was a chance of it actually shutting you up, I’d burn more than just Charles’ vintage glassware.”

You hear him say your name, but you’re already speed walking back to your room and playing your list of happy place thoughts on a loop in your head.

The soup that Storm makes when everyone at the school seems to get sick at the same time. One of your younger students picking you a flower. The smell of fresh laundry, the crisp pages of a new book.

Finally, your bedroom door clicks shut behind you.

You would have been better off just enduring the discomfort of a dry throat, you think. You don't know what's worse – not being able to sleep because you're rattled from a wet dream about him, or not being able to sleep because you've once again allowed him to get under your skin.

You crawl back under your covers, hoping that when you close your eyes, you don't see his face again.

••••••

Logan doesn’t make any more appearances in your dreams for the rest of the night, but that doesn’t stop him from being the first thing you think of when you open your eyes in the morning.

And as much as you hate to admit it to yourself, the only thing on your mind the entire flight from New York to Alberta.

From the tension that filled the air when he corrected your knife throwing technique yesterday morning to the warmth of his calloused hand when he grabbed you by the wrist in the kitchen last night, you're fighting a losing battle with no one but yourself.

As far as you can tell, he’s utterly unaffected. The fact that he chose to sit directly in front of you on the jet instead of any of the other empty seats says as much.

Not even ten minutes into the flight, you're staring at the tufts of his hair and his broad shoulders when you have to remind yourself that there's two telepaths occupying this jet with you. Though you trust both Charles and Jean to not read your mind without cause, the mere possibility of either one of them accidentally tuning into your thoughts and seeing a replay of your most recent dream or hearing you think about what it would be like to tug on those stupid fucking tufts of hair that resemble kitten ears is enough to mortify you.

You find yourself grateful that you brought a book and headphones with you to distract yourself for the duration of the trip.

An eerie feeling creeps into your bones as soon as you step onto the hanger of the jet. You can’t deny that the scenery surrounding the military base is beautiful – from the snowcapped mountains to the frost covered lake, it’s picturesque. But then your gaze settles on the large dam, and you remember what lies beneath.

“Can't say that I've missed this place,” Logan grunts, drawing your attention to him. His face is impassive other than his mouth being set in a hard, straight line as he stares out towards the water.

It's rare for Logan to elicit feelings outside of burning irritation (and maybe, possibly, sometimes arousal) from you – but right now, there’s a part of you that wishes the dynamic between the two of you were different.

As much as he infuriates you, you still care about him. You wish you could say that you didn’t, but the fact that you feel the urge to reach out and give his hand a reassuring squeeze makes that pretty hard to deny.

That urge dissipates as quickly as it comes over you. The bitter chill of the mountain wind and your teammates voices pull you back to reality. You awkwardly fiddle with one of the daggers strapped to your thigh instead.

“Jean and Scott, the two of you take the west side of the building,” Charles instructs when the group nears the discreet entrance. “Bobby and Rogue, clear the east wing. Storm and I will be keeping watch outside to make sure that no one tries to escape with the humans.”

“What about us?” you ask with a slight nod towards Logan. The fact that neither of you had been given instructions yet leaves it to be assumed that you’ll be paired up together.

You and Logan working as a pair was nothing out of the ordinary, and although that typically comes with a lot of annoyance, right now you can’t help but feel a little relieved by it.

Even if you are still irritated at him for his behavior and choice of words in the kitchen last night and even if you do think of him between your thighs every time you look at him for more than five seconds, he’s still more familiar with this place than anyone else here.

And no matter how much he makes you want to tear your hair out, there's never a time that you feel unsafe when he's near.

“You and Logan are to inspect the basement,” Charles answers. “I trust that you can refrain from melting any antique personal property until we are back at the mansion, my dear,” he adds with a knowing smirk.

“I was planning on paying you back for that,” you mumble.

“No,” Charles sighs. “You weren't. It was very expensive.”

Logan snorts, earning curious glances from everyone other than you and Charles. He does get a nasty side-eye from you – a silent promise to deliver on last night’s threat to find something to burn other than vintage glassware.

Your teammates split up into their respective groups upon entering the base, leaving you to follow Logan's lead towards the lower levels.

It’s unsettling just how silent it is. The only sounds are that of yours and Logan's boots against the ground. You'd be able to hear a pin drop from across the building.

And it's cold. The kind of cold that makes your bones ache. You instinctively flex your fingers, focusing on the warmth that radiates from the tips.

As the two of you make your way through the dark, seemingly endless basement, checking each room for signs of life, you can't help but think of Logan being here under much different circumstances.

You don't know the full extent of his time here – even he only remembers bits and pieces. But you know enough to know that this can’t be easy for him.

The fact that he's being uncharacteristically quiet only reaffirms that. He makes none of his typical taunts and jabs, only speaking when absolutely necessary.

You find yourself damn near wishing he’d make some snide comment about how you’re walking too loudly and how being partnered up with you feels like babysitting duty – if he did, maybe then you wouldn’t feel this annoying, persistent worry over his mental well-being.

“Logan,” you begin quietly as the two of you approach a large set of hospital style double doors at the end of a corridor. “I know being here can't be easy for you. I'm sorry that you have to be.”

He huffs a laugh under his breath, not meeting your eyes as he slowly pushes one of the doors open, peaking into the room before stepping inside and holding the door open for you.

“Just part of the job, bub,” he sighs. “I know what I signed up for.”

You enter, walking past him into the dark room. You shine your flashlight around the cramped space. Right away, you can tell that it’s vacant, as all of the other rooms you’ve checked have been. But it’s different – whereas most of the rooms have been completely empty, this one contains multiple twin sized beds. No frames, no pillows, just plain white sheets on each one.

“I know you do. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t hard.”

The door clicks shut behind him, and he shines his own flashlight around the room from right behind you.

“It’s okay, princess,” he snorts. “I’m a big boy. You don’t gotta pretend to be worried about me.”

Princess. Your fingertips tingle as soon as the pet name leaves his lips.

“I’m not pretend—”

The sudden, loud clicking of a deadbolt echoes through the room, silencing you. You and Logan stare at each other for a brief moment, startled and confused, before he turns around and pushes on the double doors to no avail.

He slams the full weight of his body against the metal, but it doesn't budge.

“What the fuck,” he growls in between repeated strikes against the doors.

“Logan and I are locked in a room in the basement,” you say as you click on the communication device in your left ear. “The door automatically locked after we came inside. We can’t get it open—”

You’re met with white noise.

“My fucking comm isn’t working.” Panic begins to set in as you yank the device out of your ear to inspect it. There’s a small green light indicating that it is on, but for whatever reason, it isn’t getting signal.

“Scott? Storm? Can anyone hear us?” Logan says as he messes with his own communication device. “Nothing,” he grunts after a moment of silence.

“Professor? Jean? If either of you are listening, now would be a great time to poke around in our brains and let us know.”

Nothing indeed.

“Okay,” Logan says as he backs away from the double doors. “Blast them.”

“Blast them?” You repeat, dumbfounded. “They’re industrial metal doors. They’re like two feet thick. These walls are made out of concrete.” You bang your first against the rock solid wall for emphasis. “What the fuck do you think fire is—”

“I don’t hear you suggesting anything!”

“How about not setting the room we are trapped in on fire? Only one of us has regenerative—”

A loud hissing noise sounds from above, causing you and Logan to both point your flashlights up towards the ceiling. You squint, trying to make sense of what you’re seeing. Large vents make up well over fifty percent of the ceiling, releasing what appears to be a fog like substance. It quickly transforms the air above you into one large, milky looking cloud.

“Charles! Storm! Scott – we need help. Quickly, we need help. I don’t know what’s going—”

You continue to shout into the communication device while Logan alternates between punching the door with his fists and throwing the full weight of his body against the metal, but all of your efforts are futile. The doors don’t budge, and you hear nothing but static from the comm.

You frantically glance around the room, looking for another escape route. There’s no other doors, and no windows. You’re completely enclosed by the four concrete walls and the impenetrable metal doors.

“Hold your breath!” Logan shouts as the fog descends upon the two of you, but it’s too late. The sickeningly sweet smelling mist encompasses you, making it impossible to see anything other than the thick silver vapor. It infiltrates your nostrils, causing you to gag. You cough, desperately trying to clear your airway of the substance.

It burns – your throat, your nostrils, your eyes and skin. Anywhere that it comes in contact with you feels like pins and needles.

You’re vaguely aware that Logan is somewhere to your left, asking if you’re okay in-between coughs and gags of his own. You can’t catch your breath well enough to answer him.

His hand clasps around the top of your arm. Your vision goes fuzzy and you collapse into him, light-headed from the profuse coughing.

“I think it’s dissipating,” Logan whispers in a strained voice, still supporting you so that you don’t fall to the floor. You risk cracking your eyes open the slightest bit, and realize that he’s right. There’s still a veil of mist surrounding you, but it’s no longer so opaque that you can’t see even two inches in front of your face.

You take deep breaths, making no effort to step away from him as you attempt to regain control of your breathing. Your lungs feel like they are on fire and your throat feels like you haven’t had any water in days.

“What the fuck was that?” Your voice comes out as a croak.

“Can you stand?” he asks you. You nod, reluctantly pulling away from his embrace.

As soon as he steps away from you to see if the doors are still locked, the momentary relief that you felt when the fog began to dissipate is replaced with renewed terror. The room, which was previously dark except for the light from your flashlights, suddenly glows a deep red color from the ceiling that now emits crimson fluorescence.

You open your mouth to call out for Charles or Jean again, when a throbbing sensation radiates throughout your gut. You clutch your hands over your abdomen, gasping at the sudden and awkward feeling.

Logan turns his attention away from the doors and back to you as soon as he notices how you’re hunched over. You stumble over to the bed that's closest to you, the world blurring around you in shades of red.

“Something is wrong,” you gasp out. You know you're stating the obvious – something has been wrong since the moment that the doors locked behind you.

He's next to you in two long strides, kneeling beside the bed and looking up at you in concern. The ache in your lower belly seems to worsen with his close proximity. Your skin feels feverish, making you want to peel your tactical suit off of your body.

“Tell me what you're feeling,” he demands. Other than obvious confusion and fear, he appears physically fine. You piece together that whatever that shit was, it’s effecting you much differently than it is him – undoubtedly due to his healing abilities.

You can't form a coherent sentence – all you can focus on is the way that the discomfort in your abdomen travels down to your groin, making you clench your thighs together. You have the inexplicable desire to reach out and pull him to you, as if having him as close as possible to you is the only solution for every uncomfortable thing happening to you.

“You gotta talk to me, bub. Tell me what’s going on,” he says when you don’t answer him. He puts a hand just above your knee and you have to hold back the whimper that threatens to break through your lips. He notices your pained expression and quickly withdraws his hand from your thigh.

“No!” you gasp, grabbing his hand in yours out of desperation to maintain some level of physical contact with him. “I – I don't know how to explain what’s happening. Just – I just need you to keep touching me. Please. Whatever that fog was, it’s making me feel like…”

You trail off, realizing that you must sound every bit as insane as you feel. You don’t know how to begin articulating what’s happening to you, because it makes no sense. When the silver mist first started to rain down from the ceiling, the last thing on your mind was Logan pinning you to one of these mattresses and railing you until you until you see stars. Now, you think that if he so much as stops holding your hand, you'll fucking die.

A look of clarity washes over Logan’s face – with a hint of something else that you can't quite pinpoint, too.

“I think I know what this is,” he murmurs. His stare is locked on one of the daggers strapped to your thigh. He squeezes your hand in his, though you don’t know if it’s to comfort you or himself.

“I’ve heard of this before. Didn’t know it actually exists. I came across it once when preparing a lesson on Alkali Lake—”

“What is it?” you implore.

His eyes finally flicker back up to yours. Images of last night’s dream flash through your mind again. Instead of his hand holding yours, you visualize his slender fingers pumping inside you. You stare at his lips, imaging the feeling of them sucking love bites into the meat of your inner thighs –

“It’s a chemical created for breeding experiments,” he answers after a pregnant pause. “They – Weapon X – wanted super mutants. Some of the subjects were… less than compliant. This made it so that they weren’t able to fight it.”

You let his words sink in. It’s not something you’ve ever heard of, but you don’t doubt that what he’s saying is true. How could you, with the way that your pussy is throbbing at the mere sound of his voice? Under normal circumstances, you might not read too far into that. But right now? On a mission, locked in a creepy basement, unable to get in contact with your teammates?

“Weren’t able to fight it,” you repeat slowly. “You're saying there’s only one way out of this.”

He doesn’t answer – just looks at you with sympathy. With pity.

“No,” you shake your head. You yank your hand from his grasp and move back across the mattress as the gravity of the situation hits you. To distance yourself from him feels like ripping air out of your own lungs, but the alternative is borderline unthinkable.

“I can’t – won’t ask that of you,” you declare. There’s a voice in the back of your mind that laughs at you, as if saying it’s cute that you think you have a choice. The pain and longing grow with each passing second, threatening to consume you from the inside out.

“You’re fine. It would be different if it was both of us. But you shouldn’t have to do this just because you're stuck here with me.”

“Have to? You make it sound like it would be a punishment for me,” he chuckles darkly. He finally rises from where he had been kneeling next to the bed. He stands beside the mattress, looming over you in the maroon lighting.

“Let’s not overcomplicate this, princess,” he murmurs. He grasps your face in his palm and tilts your head to look up at him. His touch is a balm – it feels like running a burn under a cold stream of water.

“I'm gonna take care of you, and then you can go right back to tolerating my existence.” He runs the calloused pad of his thumb over the swell of your bottom lip. Your eyes flutter shut, reveling in the sensation of the singular digit against your flesh.

“Besides, it’s not like you haven’t dreamed about this. Or were you moaning about someone else who just happens to have the same name as me last night?”

Your eyes shoot open at the revelation that not only had you said his name in your sleep, but he’d fucking heard you. And has the nerve to tease you about it at a time like this.

He's smirking down at you. His smugness irritates you often, but right now it’s enough to cause the tips of your fingers to burn hot. You jerk his hand away from your face, causing him to hiss when your fingers wrap around his wrist.

He chortles, his eyes rolling back in his head at the sensation. The reaction fills you with annoyance – of course he would have a fucking pain kink.

As much as it pisses you off, it also spurs you on. Blame the influence of the chemicals that you’re currently under, but the fact that he can so easily tolerate and even enjoy something that would have anyone else running in the opposite direction does something to you.

You’re past the point of finding it in you to care about consequences. You’re no longer thinking about how you’ll be able to look him in the eye when this is over, or how you’ll pretend like everything is perfectly normal when the two of you are back on the jet with your teammates.

Maybe you can fight this drug, or maybe he’s right and there’s no point in trying. Either way, you’ve decided that you're going to have him before you leave this room.

You drop his hand, bringing yours to the zipper at the neckline of your tactical suit. You slowly tug it downwards, gauging his expression as he watches you expose your chest and stomach.

For once, he’s all out of smart remarks.

A part of you feels a sense of satisfaction and wants to continue taking your time with undressing yourself, just to keep him looking at you like this – but every fiber of your being is screaming at you for more.

You waste no more time with shoving the restrictive Kevlar material down your arms, leaving you in only your bra from the waist up. Logan unfreezes at the sight, crawling onto the bed on his knees. You maneuver yourself so that you’re laying flat against the mattress, pulling him down with you.

He rips the fabric of your bra away from your breast, immediately attaching his mouth to your nipple. He rolls it between his tongue and teeth, causing you to arch your back into his touch. Your legs instinctively wrap around his hips, pinning yourself to the mattress with his body. You mewl at the feeling of your pebbled nipple in his warm mouth.

His other hand attempts to free the opposite breast, but the fabric is too tight and restrictive. He let’s out an annoyed growl, pulling back to unsheathe his claws and snip the material in between your tits, letting them spill free.

“Hey! I loved that bra—”

Your complaint dies in your throat when he slates his lips over yours.

There’s nothing slow or sensual about the way that he kisses you. He slips his tongue past your lips, moving his lips with fervency and urgency – like he needs this as badly as you do.

You buck your hips up into him, desperate for any amount of friction. He grinds down against you, his erection evident even through the thick material of both of your tactical suits.

He pulls back, breaking the kiss to unzip your suit the rest of the way down. He peels it down your thighs, only stopping to discard your boots. When you’re left in only your underwear, he looks at you with a satisfied smirk.

“So, what exactly was I doing in your dream to have you saying my name like that, huh?” he asks as he toys with the waistband of your panties.

You roll your eyes, your patience growing thinner as the ache in your belly grows stronger. He can tease you about that all he wants when you’re back in the safety of the mansion, when you’re no longer under the influence of potentially life threatening chemicals and capable of thinking of a proper comeback.

“Shut up and eat me out.”

His smirk only grows, but he doesn’t tease you any further. He tugs your panties down your legs, tossing them to the floor. He lowers himself onto his stomach, still fully dressed. Under less dire circumstances, you would’ve been eager to get him out of his clothes, too – but right now, your highest priority is feeling his mouth on you.

No wet dream could have prepared you for how euphoric it actually feels for his teeth to nip at the tender flesh of your inner thighs, or the way that his tongue draws lazy circles at your hole before his lips lock around your clit.

You writhe against him, chasing the release that you’ve been desperate for since the second the vapor first came in contact with your skin. He’s more than generous, expertly nursing at your swollen bud as he eases a slender finger inside your cunt.

One finger – that’s all it takes to feel your climax building, the coil in your lower belly tightening. You feel your walls pulse around the digit as your orgasm washes over you. You don’t even try to hold back your cries and praises of pleasure, letting him know how good he’s making you feel.

When he sits back, his lips and beard glisten with your slick in the red glow that encases you both. You push yourself into a sitting position and reach for the zipper of his suit, antsy to shed his clothing now that your physical discomfort had been quelled – at least for the time being.

He helps you, shrugging out of his vest and tugging his undershirt over his head. Your mouth goes dry at the sight of him. You’ve seen him shirtless before, but never shirtless for you. You want to dig your nails into the planes of his chest, and run your tongue along the protruding vein that disappears beyond the waistline of his pants –

You undo his belt buckle and pop open the button of his pants before hastily yanking both his pants and boxers down in one movement. His cock springs free, bobbing inches before your face. You start to adjust your position on the bed – to get on your knees and take him in your mouth – when a low chuckle causes you to pause and look up at him.

“Nuh-uh,” he tuts, earning a confused pout from you.

“You don’t want me to suck your dick?” You ask with raised brows.

“S’not about me right now, bub. I said I was gonna take care of you, and that’s what I’m gonna do. Now lay back down for me.”

You aren’t going to argue with that.

You return to your original position on the mattress, pulling him down with you. He hovers above you, using one arm to support himself on the bed. He takes his cock in his free hand, stroking his length a few times before nudging his head through your folds until he’s lubricated in your juices.

“Don’t you worry, though,” he murmurs against your lips. He teases his tip at your hole. “If you still wanna suck my dick when we get out of here, I'll let you.”

“Oh, you’re so thoughtfu—”

He sheaths himself inside you, turning the end of your retort into a gasp. He fills you entirely, stilling to allow both of you time to adjust to the sensation. The stretch is damn near blinding, making your eyes roll back into your skull. You glance down between your bodies, halfway expecting to see him jutting out of your stomach.

He fucks you similarly to how he kisses you – like this is saving him as much as it is you. It's rough, and fast, and messy – and you dread the moment that it’s over.

No one has ever filled you as completely and perfectly as him. You don’t think anyone else ever will, again.

Each drag of his cock along your walls has you clenching around him, each time his head rams against your cervix you can’t help but cry his name.

He snakes his hand in between you, reaching down to where his body collides with yours. His thumb massages over your sensitive clit.

You rake your nails down his back and he hisses in approval, snapping his hips into you at a brutal pace.

“Fuckin’ ruinin’ me for anyone else, princess,” he grunts before kissing you again.

You don't have time to overthink the sentiment before your second orgasm is washing over you. Logan cums as soon as he feels your pussy pulsating around him, fucking you until he's spilled every last drop of his warm seed deep inside you. When you're both finished, he stills inside you and rests his sweat-slicked forehead against yours as he catches his breath.

“You think it worked?” he grunts.

As if on cue, you hear the deadbolt unlock from the other side of the room. A second later, Storm’s voice sounds from your communication device that had fallen to the floor at some point.

“I don't feel like there’s a ticking time bomb inside my vagina anymore. So, I’d say yeah, it worked.”

He huffs a laugh, and then pulls out of you with a sigh.

“Logan,” you say, stopping him before he can pull away from you entirely. He stares down at you, waiting for you to continue.

You aren’t even sure what to say. Truthfully, you just weren’t ready for the moment to end and for things to go back to normal between the two of you.

“Thank you,” you spit out after a moment of loaded silence. “For… helping me,” you finish lamely.

“Don’t thank me, bub,” he chuckles. “It’s far from the worst thing that's happened to me in this place.”

••••••

You sleep the entire flight back to New York.

And as soon as you've showered and your head hits the pillow after returning home to the mansion, you sleep for another ten hours. Every time you wake up and think that you're finally well-rested, your body says otherwise and you're asleep again within minutes.

You wish you could say it’s a dreamless sleep, but that would be a lie. You see Logan’s face every time you close your eyes.

But it's different than the last dream you had of him. It isn’t images of his head between your thighs or his fingers slipping in and out of you.

It’s just.. him. His presence. The lingering feeling of his lips on yours, the light flavor of tobacco and menthol.

And the echo of the words he spoke as he teased you with the head of his cock and made you cum around his length.

“Don’t you worry, though. If you still wanna suck my dick when we get out of here, I’ll let you.”

“Fuckin’ ruinin’ me for anyone else, princess.”

When you wake, the ache between your thighs for him remains, despite the fact that the effects of the drugs had long since faded.

You know you shouldn’t read too far into words spoken while the two of you were locked in that room. But you can’t help but keep thinking that he wasn’t under the influence of chemical subjugation. Which leaves you questioning if he meant the things he said, or if he was just trying to lighten a scary, impossible situation for both of you.

You suppose there’s only one way to find out.

When you finally gather the courage the knock on his door, the sun has set and everyone has retired to their bedrooms for the evening.

You almost dash back into your own room during the few seconds that it takes him to open his door. He wears sweatpants, a plain black t-shirt, and a surprised expression.

“Hey, bub,” he greets you apprehensively. You don't normally make a habit of stopping by his room for late night chats. “Was starting to worry that you’d fallen into a coma.”

He opens his door wider, motioning with his head for you to come inside.

“Felt like it,” you give a small laugh. “Whatever was in that shit wore me out.” You take a seat on the edge of his bed, nervously wringing your hands together.

“You feeling better now?” he asks as he leans against his dresser, crossing his arms over his chest. Your eyes trail over the large muscles of his chest and shoulders. The memory of his body caging you to the twin sized mattress in the basement of the bunker flashes through your mind.

You nod, hoping that it’s convincing.

“All things considered,” you shrug. “I just wanted to check in with you. Has Charles… said anything?”

What you're actually trying to ask is if Charles interrogated him about where the two of you were during the mission, why no one was able to contact either of you, and why you have been so exhausted that you've done nothing but sleep for the last day, but you trust that he knows what you mean.

“He hasn’t said anything, but..” he trails off, eyes darting around the room to avoid your gaze. “It’s Charles. Safe to assume he knows and is just being decent by not saying anything.”

“Right,” you murmur.

If he doesn’t already know, it's only a matter of time before you slip up and imagine the feeling of his lips on yours or the sounds of his moans in the middle of a mission debriefing.

“And the humans..? They’re all okay?”

“They are,” he assures you with a soft smile. “They’re all receiving medical attention, and most have been reunited with their loved ones.”

You breathe a sigh of relief. “No thanks to us, I guess.”

“No,” he laughs. “I suppose not.”

He pushes himself off the dresser, walking the few feet to where you perch at the edge of the mattress. He sits down beside you, his thigh brushing against yours. He smells of Old Spice deodorant and spearmint toothpaste, and it makes you the room spin around you.

“But everyone’s okay. They’re safe. And you’re safe. That’s what matters.”

You nod, not trusting your voice to speak. He’s close enough that you can practically feel the heat from his body. You risk looking at his face, your gaze flickering between his eyes and his lips.

“Yeah,” you finally agree. “You’re right. Well, I’ll let you get some rest. I just wanted to check in with—”

You start to stand up, when he cups your jaw in his hand and pulls your face to his. He’s hesitant in a way that he wasn’t yesterday – he gives you the opportunity to pull away before he sweeps his tongue across your bottom lip, as if asking for permission.

When you don’t give any kind of indication that you want him to stop, he pulls you flush against him and slips his tongue past your lips. You bring your hand to the back of his neck, twining your fingers through his hair.

He takes his time with you. Whereas yesterday’s kisses were filled with urgency and desperation, todays is tender and sensual. Now, you’re allowed the luxury of taking your time.

He lays down against the mattress, pulling you with him. You straddle his stomach, your lips never once breaking contact. His hands grip the globes of your ass, his fingers digging into the meat through your pajama pants.

You grind against the hard planes of his abdomen, earning a throaty growl from him.

He breaks away, nipping at your bottom lip with his teeth.

“I said something I didn’t entirely mean yesterday,” he whispers, out of breath.

“What?” you ask, sitting upright and looking down at him. “You aren’t going to let me suck your dick?”

“No,” he chuckles. “God, no. I meant that. If you still want to, that is—”

“What is it, then?” you interrupt with a playful nudge to his chest.

“I said you could go back to tolerating my existence. But I hope you wanna do a little bit more than just tolerate me.”

You laugh under your breath, leaning down to press your lips to his once more.

“I could see myself doing a little bit more than just tolerating you.”

oooops i accidentally wrote another fic where logan overhears something that he wasn't supposed to 😅🫠 did not originally plan for that to happen hahaha

check out some of my other logan fics -

by the end of the night

dog tags drabble

[lanadelreyscokewhor3]

COOL FOR THE SUMMER- L. HOWLETT

pairing: older! dads best friend! logan x fem! reader

word count: 3.7k

summary: your dad urges you to come back home for the week he has all his college buddies back, and eagerly you agree because it means you get to see your crush, and your fathers best friend- logan howlett. little does anyone know your goal: to get logan to fall for you as hard as you've fallen for him

warnings: FINGERINGGG!, squirting, heavy praise kink, heavy size kink, innocence kink, daddy kink, manhandling, pet names, age gap (reader is 27, logan is mid/ late 40s), teasing, swearing, drugs and alcohol used, mentions of voyeurism

"i just wanna play with you too/ even if they judge, fuck it, i'll do the time, i just wanna have some fun with you/ got my mind on your body and your body on my mind/ got a taste for the cherry, i just need to take a bite/ don't tell your father, kiss one another-die for each other/ we're cool for the summer"- cool for the summer, demi lovato

It had been years since you had seen Logan Howlett.

And yet, when his eyes met yours- it was like he had never left.

The same gooey, sticky and sappy honey like feeling churned in your stomach when you saw him, making you feel all warm and giddy. You felt like ice cream melting under his heated gaze, just like the soft serve that was dripping down your fingers as you eyed him up from under your little heart shaped sunglasses.

It was hot today, the July heat showing you no mercy.

It had taken countless hours of whining, practically begging someone in the house to go with you to get ice cream.

It was fully packed this week, your dad doing his annual hosting with all his old college buddies- where they’d all drink beer and smoke by the firepit at night, and shoot darts during the day.

He had invited you home for the week too, to hang out with your mom and “keep her company” (whatever that meant), and she had left you for her bed and a bottle of wine.

You didn't blame her.

But it was 3pm, it was so hot you had your head in the freezer.

There was no ice cream to be found, even when you had pleaded with your dad for the keys to the car- and he had insisted there was some already at home.

What a little liar.

After countless pleads and begs, you had finally gotten his closest friend's attention- Logan.

You had always had a schoolgirl-like crush on the older man, it was deemed impossible not to. Everything about him was just so… manly.

Primal and hard edges, with a quick tongue and little tolerance for whining.

But somehow, you managed to play him like a fiddle. He caved, grumbling something about your brat like attitude, practically picking you up by your flimsy skirt and dragging you to his truck.

Now you were here, in the passenger side, sensually licking the dripping vanilla soft serve that trickled down the cone onto your fingers- eyes refusing to leave his body.

You perched your bare feet up on the dashboard, displaying your pink painted toenails skirt hiking up even higher on your thighs.

His grip tightened on the wheel, knuckles flexing as he stared at the road ahead, watching the pine air freshener swing side to side dangling from his mirror.

You knew he wanted you too. But he was too stern to cave into his urges, and you were determined this week to make him snap.

It had been years of this back and forth teasing, little touches and snide comments made whenever you came home to visit and he was around.

You weren't home very often, but when you knew he would show…

“You finally shut up now kid? Stop your whining n’ all that?” he grumbled and you giggled, hand slipping over to fiddle with loose change in his cup holders.

“Yeahhhh… thanks Lo. I really appreciate it. It’s just so hot ya know and I needed to keep my mouth occupied. S’boring.” you teased, licking your lips before taking another large lick of ice cream, savouring the cool, sweet treat on your tongue.

His apples adam bobbed, knuckles practically turning white.

He whipped into your driveway, nearly ramming into the dozens of other vehicles parked along the gravel, slamming on the breaks. It was enough to make you let out a little “oof” as he parked, turning the key in the ignition.

“You’re a spoiled princess. You know that?”

You raised an eyebrow, unbuckling your seatbelt to lean in closer to him, so close you could smell his cigars and sweat.

“Well I’m only home for so long, you know. And besides, I think you like that.”

His eyebrows furrowed, lines of annoyance creased across his forehead as he shook his head- as if he was trying to break free of some sort of trance.

You looked down, noticing a tent in his pants, and couldn't help but smirk before licking your ice cream again.

“Don't start with me kid. It won't end well for ya.” he warned, sticking a finger out to scold you, as if you were nothing more than a stupid child.

Slamming the truck door behind him, you watched from your seat as he stormed off into the house, and bolted to the nearest bathroom in the entry hall. 

-----------------------------

The first attempt got you somewhere with him.

He got all hot and bothered, refusing to even be in your proximity for the next few hours. It was later in the day, and yet the heat hadn't dwindled.

It was sticky and you were sweaty, groaning into your pillows as you fanned yourself. It was unbearable. The windows cracked open didnt help, and your dad rarely put the AC on.

But you had the perfect idea to break the dry spell.

You smiled mischievously, scampering over to your open window. You had the perfect view of the backyard, where your dad and his friends were lounging around outside, on the porch near the pool.

And there was Logan, with the perfect view of your window- and he was the only one turned towards you, as he cooked something on the grill, a cigar in his mouth- off in his own little world.

Bingo.

Your eyes zoomed in on your target, and as if he felt your gaze, his own flickered up to your window, gaze clashing with yours.

You licked your lips, slowly taking your (already sorta revealing) top off, leaving nothing to the imagination.

His eyes darkened, zoning in on you as if you were his prey, taking a long, sharp inhale of the cigar. He couldn't look away.

You let your hands trace your hardened nipples before fishing out a skimpy bikini from your dresser, tying it up in front of the exposed glass.

He shook his head, eyes fluttering closed as he flipped the food over to keep from burning, trying his best to appear focused on your dads conversation he would oddly be brought into some of the time.

Next was your shorts, then you tugged up the bottoms. Sending him a flirtatious little wave, you trotted down the stairs, snagging a clean, dry towel on your way to the pool.

You were desperate to get cool in the water- and to mainly- get Logan pent up again. It brought you such immense joy knowing his braided rope was uncurling, the pieces becoming thinner and weaker with each innocent smile and remark you sent his way.

Of course, no one else thought anything of it.

You were your dads good girl, charming and sweet and helpful.

But Logan knew. He always knew. He could sniff you out like a hound.

So when you walked out in your tiny little bathing suit, swinging your hips as you walked by him with not much more than a little glance, you knew he was about to lose his shit.

His fingers curled, tightening on the flipper as he looked over and noticed Bucky Barnes eying you up behind your fathers back, as if you were fresh meat.

Something like a growl escaped his lips, unknownst to you as you had already made your way over to the deep end, and dived in. A shirek left your lips as you splashed around in the cool water, basking in the sun as it started to slowly set behind the trees.

You looked over at Logan as he resumed his grilling, taking a slow sip of his beer, watching you as you treading over to the edge, resting your arms on the stone side, looking over at him with puppy dog eyes.

“Lo, could you pass me a beer?” you asked sweetly and he scoffed.

“No way kid.”

“Logan I’m twenty seven, I’m a big girl. Hand one over.”

He rolled his eyes and shook his head, ignoring your protests.

“Come get one yourself then princess.” he growled through clenched teeth, cigar close to sputtering out.

“That's too much work.”

“Well? You want one?”

You huffed, rolling your eyes right back at him. “Fine. Be like that.”

You paid him no mind as you swam over to the other side of the pool, perched over to give Bucky that same sweet, sickly look that drove him head over heels.

He had a nice view of your ass though, from this angle. He couldn't complain about that, even if you were talking to a man who wasn't him.

“Mr. Barnes? Could you pass me a beer please?” you asked gently, and it wasn't even two seconds later before he was rushing over to hand you one.

“Course sweetheart. Just dont spill in the pool, or your dad will have my head.” You giggled, turning your head over your shoulder to give Logan a wink.

“Thank you Mr. Barnes.”

“Honey, Bucky is just fine. None of that formal shit okay?”

You nodded obediently, coaxing out a Yes Bucky before taking a long swig of the amber liquid.

Bucky leaned back in his seat, trying to re- engage with the conversation, his eyes darting constantly to stare at your figure as you floated, taking small sips of the liquid.

They were then met with Logan's heavy gaze, pupils so blown out and black he was lucky the BBQ wasn't thrown at his head at this very moment. 

------------------------------------------------ You nodded your head along with the old dad rock as you took a puff of your joint, letting the warm, fuzzy feelings cloud your judgements as you sunk deeper into the lawn chair, watching the flames from the bonfire grow higher as your father tended to it.

You knew he wasn't pleased with you smoking- but what the hell was he going to do about it? You were an adult. It's not like he could tell you you weren't allowed, anyways.

You felt Logans gaze from across the fire, the flames licking his pupils as he stared you down, while you were blissfully in your own world.

Your little sundress had his eyes wandering places they shouldn't have, and it didn't help that when the sun went down, the slight chill had found its home on your breasts, hardened nipples poking out of the soft fabric.

The more hits you took, the looser you felt, and before you knew it- you were dancing and spinning around to

“I Was Made for Lovin You” by Kiss after you had begged them to put it on- joint dangling out of your mouth.

Logan couldn't help but chuckle as you spun and clapped each time the drums hit- giggling to yourself as you watched him carelessly.

“Does anyone want another drink? I’m gonna go n get one.” you slurred slightly, resting your hands on the back of Bucky's chair as you tallied the requests.

Time was blurring back and forth, so whoever hadn’t  requested one was getting one anyways. You stared off into the distance with a dazed look on your face, coming back to reality when Bucky had turned, placing his hand on yours.

“Hon? You all good?”

“On clouds. I’ll be back. Bye!” you waved, giggling uncontrollably as you skipped back to the house.

You weren't expecting company, not hearing Logans muttering about going with you to keep you out of trouble to the group, eliciting chuckles from his friends.

Shaking his head, he rolled his eyes as he jogged to catch up to you, slipping into the kitchen right after you. You were giggling to yourself about god knows what as he entered, your red, heavy eyes sliding up to meet him from where he stood.

You were bent over the counter, rocking your feet up and down, swaying yourself- no intention of grabbing any beer.

“Hi Lo.”

His eyebrows raised with amusement.

“Whatcha doin here?”

“Keeping you out of trouble. Someones a lightweight, if I’ve ever seen one.”

You rolled your eyes. “Am not.”

“Don't deny it. It's cute.” He bit his lip as he looked you up and down, eyes lingering on the swish of the flowy fabric against your soft, plush thighs, and your breasts that were taunting him.

“M’supposed to get beers. But I don't know who for.” you sighed, turning around to face him.

You were so innocent, so adorable it made his heart shatter into a million itty bitty pieces, and his dick hard as a rock.

“Is that so?”

“Mmm. I think Steve wanted one.” you nodded to yourself, feet padding on the hardwood as you walked over to a cupboard, opening in and frowning in confusion.

“Kay I don't see any beers.”

Logan couldn't help but laugh, walking up behind you to place his large hands on your hips, guiding you over to the fridge.

“Don't laugh at me!”

“M’not laughing honey. Just giving my princess some help, yeah?” The word my slipped out faster then he could catch it, and he was thankful you didn't.

He’d never hear the end of it.

You opened the fridge and let out a squeal as he picked you up with ease, as if you weighed absolutely nothing, letting you scout out the whole fridge- grabbing the cold beers on the top shelf.

“Steve, n Bucky, n Logan… who else?” you murmured, wrapping your arms around the bottles to try and carry them all.

“That's all honey. Good job.” he cooed, placing you back down on the ground, shutting the fridge doors behind you as you set the bottles down on the counter, before perching yourself up onto the granite.

You swung your legs, parting them slightly as you watched Logan watch you.

Intensely.

You bit your lip, feeling your panties dampen even more than they already were- which was saying a lot.

You had rubbed and squeezed your thighs together so much because of the older man in front of you, and you weren't even ashamed. Anyone would, in your position.

“What are you thinking about Lo?” you asked, nickname rolling sweetly off the tongue.

You were the only one who called him that. You were the only one who was allowed to call him that.

“Nothin you need to worry your sweet lil head about honey.”

You bit your lip, batting your eyelashes up at him as he dared to inch even closer. The gap was slowly closing between you two.

You smiled softly, spreading your legs, your dress draped over your thighs so he had a clear view of the wet patch on your lacey pink panties.

He audibly growled, clenching his knuckles at his sides so hard they turned bright white as he let out a breath.

“I’ve been really wet for you all day Lo. And I really need your help.”

He took a deep breath. Shut his eyes. He could not do this.

It broke every rule in the moral code book. Seeing and thinking of his best friends daughter like this- what the fuck was he thinking?

But he was in too deep now. He didn't think he could part from you, from that little wet patch.

He could smell you. Practically hear your little clit throbbing.

“You always need my help. Don't think you could do anything yourself- even if you tried princess.”

You cocked your head innocently, slipping your fingers down to your inner thighs.

“I did do things by myself- all by myself. I touched myself to the thought of you filling me up and keeping me full of your cum n…” you broke off, giggling like a schoolgirl.

“And I just couldn't do it as well as you could Lo. You’re so big n strong, and your hands are so much bigger than mine, I’m sure they’d feel amazing.”

“Fuck. FUCK baby you cant-” he panted, slamming his fist down on the countertop.

You didn't even flinch.

“You can't say that shit. I can't- fuck- your my best friends daughter for fucks sake. Fuck.” he swore, and yet he was even closer to you.

Filling the gap between your parted legs, breath mingling with yours.

“And you’re high and just-”

“M’not super high. Just really fuzzy.”

He snorted. “Yeah, I’m sure. It's so wrong baby, but fuck I can't stop thinking about you. About this tight lil body I could just use and fuck the shit out of.” he groaned, head falling as he took another deep breath, restraining himself.

His words made your clit pulse even harder, and you were desperate for release.

“It's okay Lo. I won't tell anyone. Pinky promise.” your fingers reached out to fiddle with his dog tags as he lifted his head, hungry eyes staring at your lips.

He licked his own.

“I’m just- jus hurts really bad and I need some help. Please. Please, please I’ll be so good, not a word. Just a little touch, anything- please Lo.” you begged, puppy dog eyes staring up at him.

And how could he deny you? You just begged so pretty, your bright little eyes wide and hazy with admiration as you looked at him, making him feel like the most handsome, wanted man in the world.

He was caving, and caving until he caved.

His lips crashed down onto yours, full of want and need, the sweetness of your lipgloss giving him the balance he needed to fuel his fire.

His hands harshly gripped your inner thighs, holding them open as you whined and moaned into his mouth, trying to wiggle from overstimulation. He kissed you until your lips were swollen, gloss smeared as he peppered kisses down your neck, digging his fingers even deeper into your flesh, hard enough to mark.

“Lo-”

“Yeah, you need my help baby? You gonna let daddy take care of you now? Such a big girl, tryin do everything on her own- but she just needs daddy to do everything for her, doesn't she?”

You nodded dumbly, going into a trance like state as he cooed down at you mockingly.

“Fuckin driving you around all day, watching you in that skimpy lil bikini… now you just want some touches to your pretty lil princess parts, don't you baby? You're such a greedy girl.”

You whimpered at his words, feeling his large fingers trace your inner thighs, teasing you as he inched closer to your cunt.

A moan escaped you, your head lolling back against the cupboard as the pad of his thumb brushed the wet patch on your undies.

“Please, please daddy I’ll be so good. Jus please.”

“Awh baby, you sound so pretty when you beg. You're such a fast learner, aren't you? Such a bright girl, but youre going all dumb now hmm? Gonna let daddy touch you all nice n sweet?”

You nodded frantically as he pressed his thumb down on your clenching hole, the fabric getting sucked in as he pressed.

Finally he pushed your thong to the side, air hissing through his clenched teeth as he saw just how wet you were for him.

You were practically dripping right on the counter. Your juices glistened in the pale kitchen light, and you gripped his wrist as his finger brushed through your folds before entering you, curling inside.

“Feel so good-”

He chuckled darkly, watching your little reactions as he worked his finger before adding another one, stretching you out.

Fuck you were tight.

He wondered how you'd fit his cock. He watched every little move, when you gripped his wrist harder, when your little pants and moans slipped out of your pretty parted lips.

“S’big.”

“Sweet girl, am I touching all those parts you couldn't reach yourself? Feels good?”

“S’good.” You were already cockdrunk and he hadn't even put his cock in you yet. Drool was practically pooling out the sides of your mouth as your eyes rolled back in your head as his coos and praises.

“Don't have very long angel, the guys are gonna wonder where we’ve been.”

You nodded, gasping as his thumb came up to rub gentle circles on your clit, making you quiver and shake.

“And we don't want that, now do we? Daddys friends all seeing you perched up on the counter for me, spreading your legs like the sweet lil girl you are.”

The idea of you guys getting caught somehow brought you even closer to your release, as his fingers quickend their pace. The wet sounds of squechling brought heta to your cheeks, and fuck he loved it.

He loved how flustered you got, under his thumb- how you completely gave yourself over to him, so he could take care of you.

“Daddy I’m gonna-”

“Go ahead baby. I’m right here, I gotcha sweet thing.” he cooed, and that was it for you.

You weren't sure if it was the weed or simply Logan Howlett finally appearing where you wanted him most, between your legs- but your release came hard and fast, knocking the wind out of you as your juices squirted all over his hairy arm, some drips landing on his white tank top.

His eyes widened in surprise, a moan leaving his lips at the sight of you, making a mess all over his fingers.

He was aching in his pants, cock leaking with precum- but he knew he couldnt fuck you now. Not now, not here, and not when you were this dazed.

Instead, he planted a kiss and a praise to your forehead, grabbing a rag to clean you up with, leading you upstairs to your room. As soon as your head hit the pillow, you were out like a light, body still shaking slightly in your sleep.

He smiled to himself softly, enjoying this quiet moment of peace as he watched you- so vulnerable and at peace yourself in your bed. Draping a blanket over you, he kissed your forehead again, not once but twice as a promise, brushing the strand of hair that fell over your face back behind your ear.

Knowing the boys would be wondering where the hell he had been, where you had been- he rushed to the bathroom, relieving himself as quick as possible before grabbing the beers and rushing back outside, lying outright through his teeth.

But for you, it was worth it.

[eringobragh420]

🖤 Pairing: Damian Priest x f!Reader 🖤 Summary: Damian’s fiancée receives a head injury during a match resulting in amnesia. (Part 5/5) 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 🛑 Warnings: Oral (m and f receiving), unprotected p in v, dirty talk, cum 18+ 🖤 Notes: Spanish translations at the end of the story. 🖤 Taglist: In the comments. If you’d like to be added, please click here!  🖤 MASTERLIST

DAY FIVE — CHRISTMAS DAY

You stretched—the kind of stretch one takes after a satisfying evening followed by much needed restful sleep—smile slowly creeping across your lips. Still half-asleep, you rolled over, attracted to warmth and comfort, and you felt a rather large hand slide from where it had been resting on your belly to your side as you moved into the new position. Your head rested on a firm bicep, and you smelled deodorant and the aroma of Damian, and you remembered what he’d done for you the night before, triggering your need to again be as close as possible to him.

“You gonna sleep all day, sweetheart?” Damian softly asked. You nodded, eyes closed, and Damian’s smile widened. His thumb caressed near the bottom of your ribs. “But it’s Christmas.”

He meant well, you knew that, but as you’d fallen asleep on Christmas Eve, after Damian had made you cum with his fingers, you’d considered the holiday. It didn’t mean much to you, if anything. You weren’t looking forward to spending time with family and friends because you couldn’t remember any of them, you felt no excitement to open presents or watch Damian open his because you didn’t know if any of them would bear any meaning for you. 

“Bah-humbug,” you rasped, pressing your face into Damian’s warm chest. His chuckle rumbled against you as his hand slowly slid from your side to your back. Now you most certainly did not want to get out of bed. Maybe you could convince him to use his fingers ag—

“Grumble, grumble, complain,” he growled, teasing you, and you smiled, nuzzling your forehead into a faded tattoo. “Come on.” He tenderly patted your back. “I think Santa came last night.”

“That makes two of us,” you mumbled.

One of your eyes popped open as Damian guffawed, untangling himself from you, rolling over, and he sat up, tossing his legs over the side of the bed. He’d donned a pair of red boxer briefs sprinkled with tiny Christmas trees on them before he’d fallen asleep last night, and you snickered as you watched him stand. The giggle died on your lips, though, when he stretched, every toned muscle rippling throughout his perfect body, tattoos dancing, and you thought again about asking, or at least implying, that the two of you stay in bed and make out, and oh, by the way, would you wanna—

“You were a very good girl this year, mi vida,” Damian said, pulling on a t-shirt and a pair of basketball shorts he’d hung over the back of a decorative chair the night before. He turned back to you and placed his fists on the bed beside you, the mattress sinking as he leaned closer to you. “I think you really wanna see what Santa brought you.”

Sighing, you tossed the covers aside and sat up yourself, realizing Damian wasn’t going to let you stay in bed any longer. Standing, you waited—watching closely—as Damian pulled his unruly hair into a high bun before he turned to you and extended his hand. You looked at his hand, imagining that middle finger pumping inside you and the thumb on your clit, and you had an inclination to just jump on his hand and see if his fingers landed inside you, but reason prevailed, and you were able to stop yourself just short of liftoff. Instead, you placed your tiny hand within his, his fingers wrapping around yours, and his smile was so sweet and happy and utterly contagious.

Damian led you downstairs to the living room, kissing the back of your hand before instructing you to take a seat on the plush couch. So many colorful and glittering gifts were under the tree, and you were relieved when Damian only grabbed a few—the rest of the gifts were for various family and friends. As nervous as you were to open the presents from Damian—what if the old you would have liked what he got you, but the new you didn’t?—you were even more nervous you might have to be present to distribute those gifts to people you didn’t know. Setting three boxes at your feet, he set the same amount at his, and you assumed the number had been agreed upon by the both of you before you’d gone shopping. Maybe you’d done it every year. 

“Is there a certain order …?” you asked. He handed you the biggest box first, and instructed you to open yours, then he would open one of his.

Taking a deep breath, you gently ripped at the impressively wrapped gift, glancing anxiously at Damian, and he tilted his head, smiling. He laid a long arm across the back of the couch, his hand heavy, yet gentle, on your shoulder, and his touch was both comforting and … knowing? You suddenly felt confused, but alert, like you were so close to remembering something important, but you couldn’t find it in your scattered brain. Choosing to ignore it, you removed the paper, and opened the box to find a Louis Vuitton tote. Eyes widening, you pulled the bag from the box, inspected it a moment front and back, and then looked back at Damian. 

“I love it,” you whispered, incredulous. 

Damian exhaled, eyes closing for the briefest moment, but he quickly recovered, shining that winning smile. “Good,” he replied, squeezing your shoulder. “You told me which one you wanted, but not which color …” 

“It’s perfect.”

Holding the bag to your chest like someone might steal it from you, you watched as Damian picked up one of his boxes, thankfully not asking you which one he should open first. He tore into the snowman wrapping paper like an ape, tossed the trash behind him, and the Nike logo on the box pretty much gave away what was inside. He pulled one shoe out, marveling at it, and gushed about how much he loved them and couldn’t believe you’d been able to locate them. You shrugged, having no answer, but his excitement was just as contagious as his smile, and you giggled as he fist pumped while putting the shoe back in the box.

Damian handed you the next gift—a pair of black heels from Jimmy Choo—which you also loved. Damian opened a rather fancy watch that he seemed overly excited about—like Randy from A Christmas Story when he got a Zeppelin—but you giggled at his childlike wonder. The last present he gave to you was much smaller than the rest, so you treated it more delicately than you had the others. This time, Damian opened his final gift as you opened yours, but he was paying far more attention to you and your reaction to what he’d gotten for you. The removal of the wrapping paper revealed a deep blue velvet box, and you suspected jewelry would be hidden within, and that gave you pause. You’d loved the other gifts, so you weren’t worried about loving this one just as much, but would you react the way Damian was hoping for? You lifted the lid, gasping at the gorgeous bracelet nestled amongst satin the same color as the box. You touched the single, tiny charm, smiling, and you weren’t sure what possessed you to do it, but you brought the golden bow and arrow—the tip of the arrow a sparkling diamond—to your lips. 

“Can I put it on you?” Damian asked, disrupting your love affair with your new piece of jewelry. You sniffed, eyes becoming misty as you nodded and handed the box to him. He set aside some sort of combat weapon you’d gotten for him and clasped the beautiful bracelet around your wrist before kissing your pulse point. 

“It’s … it’s really beautiful,” you stammered. You fingered the charm, watching the diamond sparkle.

You turned your hand this way and that, grinning as the light caught the bracelet at different angles. Your brows came together, wrist rotation slowing as you stared at the back of your left hand. Something was missing. Something important. “Aren’t we engaged?” you asked, looking at Damian.

His eyes lifted, wide with sudden worry. “Of course,” he said. Why would she suddenly be doubting they were engaged, he wondered, heart pounding. “You’ve got your dress, we have a venue and about three hundred people coming …” 

“Where’s my engagement ring?” you interrupted. Damian’s mouth clamped shut, pillowy lips rubbing together. “I can’t remember you or our relationship, but I’ve learned enough to know you’d never propose without a ring, and even if you did, I’d have one by now … right?” 

Damian smiled, nodding. “You’re right,” he said. “You have a ring. I’ll be right back.” He hopped over the back of the couch, and you giggled. You turned the bracelet over again to watch the little bow and arrow dangle and the tiny diamond catch the sun as it peeked through the curtains. When Damian returned, he was carrying a small, teal box, and anyone who had ever shopped for engagement rings knew the Tiffany’s teal. You gulped. “I didn’t want to bring it up so you wouldn’t feel obligated to wear it if you weren’t comfortable with it.”

He looked at you a moment, approaching you still seated on the couch, and your breath hitched as he descended to one knee. He opened the box, having never guessed in a million years he would get to present you with the engagement ring you’d adored so much a second time, and your eyes rounded at, not only the size of the diamond, but it was your favorite cut, your favorite metal, and your favorite person was offering it to you. Favorite person? Suddenly you couldn’t catch your breath. Something was there, right there in your fucking brain, and you almost had it. 

“Put it on me,” you whispered, words laced with desperation.

Damian’s brows furrowed, but he did as he was told—removing the ring from its velvety home, taking your hand in his, and he slid the diamond effortlessly into place where it hugged your finger, almost as if it had missed you. You smiled, touching it, remembering Damian stuttering through a proposal on the beach in Puerto Rico.

Wait.

The fight you’d had on the way back to the hotel about how fast he’d been driving.

Your eyes closed.

The fight only led to him pulling over and fucking the complaining out of you on the side of the road.

You sucked in a breath.

“Your tattoo is stupid.” 

“Your tattoo is stupider.” 

“Mine’s actually the best.” 

“Yeah, well, mine’s the prettiest.”

The wedding dress you’d chosen clung to your curves perfectly, the train sparkled, the veil tucked into your hair. Damian’s gonna love this … especially when he finds out I’m not wearing any panties.

Damian.

Damian.

Your eyes shot open, and Damian was there, watching you curiously. Your fiancé. Damian Priest. You remembered when and where you met, you remembered your first date and your first fuck and your first fight and your first Christmas, and fuck, you remembered everything! All of it! 

“Damian,” you whispered, grabbing at his hands, his arms, shoulders, until you came to the floor on your knees. Damian tried catching you, unsure of what was happening or how to react. You cupped his face. “Papi.”

Damian’s body twitched as he eyed you closely. His hands came up to your face next, your noses grazing. “Oh, my God,” he whispered, every bit on the verge of tears as you were. “Querida.” You nodded, because you knew what it meant, and you knew what it meant when he said it. His arms suddenly came tightly around your waist, nearly squeezing the life out of you, and you did the same to his neck. “Fuck, you know I can’t ever let you go now, right?” he asked, only half teasing. 

You sniffed, a single tear streaking down your cheek, nodding. Memories were still playing one after another, your brain taking each one and filing it in its appropriate cabinet, which were mostly labeled never fucking forgot any of this ever again. “Sounds good to me,” you said, and then you felt him tuck his face into your neck, his hot breath ghosting along your skin, and your nipples were suddenly small pebbles, and your heart skipped a beat or two and— 

Damian pushed you away with both hands on your face so his lips could claim yours. The kissing from the night before had been hot, but this kiss was a goddamn atomic bomb, because you remembered the love you had for this man, felt it to your core, and you were suddenly dizzy and just a little lightheaded. It was like falling in love with Damian Priest all over again, like being on a rollercoaster that was only corkscrews, like debuting to a thunderous pop on the main roster of the WWE.

Damian whispered your name, pausing the kiss only to declare, “I need you.” His hands slid teasingly from your cheeks to your neck, shoulders, arms, landing heavily on your hips. “If it’s not the right time—” 

“It is,” you interrupted, lifting your shirt over your head, dropping it dramatically beside the two of you—Damian’s eyes followed the garment with an arched eyebrow before he slid his gaze to your bare breasts, tilting his head, inhaling deeply. He removed his own shirt, your eyes examining him much the same way he’d done you, and you gasped when he suddenly stood, towering over you a hell of a lot more than he normally did. You grinned, reaching for the waistband of his shorts, but he had other plans. 

He grabbed one of your arms, hooking it around his neck, and he hoisted you gracefully off the floor and over his shoulder. He smacked your ass, the bottoms of your cheeks hanging out of the shorts you’d slept in, and you squealed, kicking your legs. “We are not having reunion sex on the floor in the living room,” he said, carrying you effortlessly up the stairs, even taking two at a time, as he made his way to the bedroom you shared. You hadn’t actually planned on fucking him on the floor—there was a comfortable couch nearby with cushions the width of a twin bed—but you let him manhandle you because it had been, what, five days since you’d been manhandled? The manual stimulation the night before hadn’t counted, not with how caring and slow and intentional Damian had been.

You were tossed on the bed, bouncing, snickering, and Damian stole several moments to watch you smile, to watch your tits jiggle, massaging a growing lump in his shorts. Your eyes became slits, focused on Damian’s big hand passing over his even bigger cock, witnessing it grow and strain, almost able to feel it stretching you and filling you and satisfying you like no man had ever done before. Dying to join in, you removed your shorts and panties, though you kept your legs mostly together even as you slipped a few fingers within your dampening folds, Damian only able to get a peek of the action. The fingers of Damian’s free hand grazed your knee, his thumb on the inside applying gentle pressure, and you spread your legs for him, biting your lip, cheeks heating up as he watched you touch yourself—one of his very favorite pastimes. 

“Can I taste you?” he rumbled, thumb caressing your skin, hand slipping within his shorts and briefs, eyes briefly closing when he wrapped his fingers around his cock, giving it a few satisfying strokes. He wasn’t sure why he asked, especially since you’d always told him it didn’t matter what you were doing—if he wanted a snack, you would always be more than happy to oblige. But what if now wasn’t the time for the … normal sex? What if you weren’t ready, and the awkwardness from the night prior happened again? He didn’t want you to think he’d simply been waiting for you to remember who you were and who he was simply so he could fuck you stupid. Would you ever think that? And why the hell was he overthinking so much? 

Your brows furrowed. “Of course,” you softly replied, sliding back on the mattress as Damian crawled forward. “And if I ever say no, take me back to the hospital because my brain is broken again.”

Damian chuckled, continuing to crawl up your body, pressing his full, perfect lips to yours. You wrapped your arms around his neck, but something felt different, off. Any other time, not only would he not have asked permission, his face would have been buried in your pussy before you even knew what was happening, not making a beeline for a makeout session.

Disconnecting your lips, you placed a hand on his cheek, and your eyes met. “Are you okay?” you whispered.

“Yeah, I just …” he trailed off, positive that any explanation he gave about his sudden apprehension would make no sense at all, or worse … give you the impression that he didn’t want to have sex at all.

You tilted his chin up, an action he’d done to you many times, and when his eyes met yours, you were punched in the gut by the turmoil—he was confused, hesitant, turned on, and utterly at the mercy of his own negative thoughts. Placing a hand on his warm, bare chest, over his heart, you found the organ beating so fast it was vibrating. Smiling softly, you pressed a tender kiss to Damian’s lips, but it did nothing to slow his heart rate, though you weren’t sure it would have under any other circumstances—you made his heart pound on the regular, he’d told you, and you remembered him telling you. Like you suddenly remembered everything your fiancé had done for you (and because of you—he still had a meeting with WWE about pushing the guy at the airport) up until this point. He’d cared for you, he’d been so patient and understanding, all the while no doubt worrying about whether or not you’d ever remember him. You couldn’t imagine the stress he must have been under. How much had he actually slept in the past five days?

Your smile grew as you kissed his cheeks, his eyes, forehead, nose, and you felt him relax. “I know what you need,” you whispered. You pressed on his chest, and after a moment, he understood and rolled onto his back. “You can taste me this way,” you said, hushed, sliding along the sheets and blankets until your head was facing his feet. “Because I think it’s only fair I get a taste of my own.” He wouldn’t have allowed you to do what you really wanted to do, which was to have him lay back and enjoy a long, slow, wet blowjob, and then you would swallow what would have to be a huge load—unless he’d found the time and desire to jerk off in the last five days. Maybe he did last night, after he made me cum and after I fell asleep?—which would be followed by a Christmas morning nap. Well, you supposed he might have agreed to you swallowing, as well as the nap, but certainly not the part where he was the only one receiving pleasure. Jesus, why were you overthinking this?

“You gonna sit on my face or not?” Damian wanted to know, instantly snapping you from your reverie. Giggling and blushing—blushing because, even though you’d been in this position hundreds of times, you still felt just a twinge of embarrassment, of insecurity, every time—you straddled your fiancé’s face, eyes fluttering as he kissed your thighs, the stubble from his beard causing your entire body to quake. And then his tongue was exactly where it belonged: licking along your bare folds before slipping between them, flattening, and you threw your head back as he did things to your pussy no one else had ever been able to do. He smacked your ass, not nearly as hard as he was known to, but you smirked and squeaked just the same, using one hand to untie his shorts, tug them loose and down, and you pulled his thick cock free from the Christmas tree briefs. You spit on the head, and Damian grunted, sucking and nibbling on your clit like it was his final meal as you spread your saliva along his shaft with a few quick strokes before engulfing the head in your hot mouth.

Damian kept one hand on the back of your head, merely encouraging, until you intentionally gagged yourself, forcing his dick as far down your throat as you could, coughing, spluttering, barely able to come up for air before he pushed your face back down again. As you fought for sweet oxygen, Damian’s other hand squeezed your ass, shoving his tongue into your gushing, pulsing hole. Your face hot, tears streaking your cheeks, your fiancé’s cock lodged in your neck, your hips still rolled, pressing down, riding Damian’s face much the same way he was doing yours. 

Suddenly he lifted your hips with one hand, the other grabbing a handful of your hair and yanking you off his dick. Strings of spit and precum and drool bridged your lips to Damian’s rigid cock, and you worked on disconnecting the mess and wiping at your face as he maneuvered you off him. “Ain’t no way I’m not cummin’ in that pussy,” he growled.

Before he could manhandle you once again into whatever position he desired, you spun around and straddled his hips, flattening your palms on his chest. He was a bit shocked, and rightly so, as up until this point, he’d been the dominant one in the relationship. And this wasn’t you being necessarily dominant—you were simply being proactive in making sure Damian did as little work as possible. He held onto your wrists as you raised your hips, rocking your clit along his head before slowly descending, allowing yourself only seconds to adjust to his size. Maybe a perk from all this would be your pussy having had an opportunity to tighten up without its daily pounding from a very proportionate six foot five Puerto Rican man. 

“Fuck,” Damian shouted, and you grinned, though you’d never know if your hypothesis had been correct or if he’d just really missed being inside you.

”Little gatita missed her Papi,” you purred, enunciating the Spanish words, biting your lip, eyes fluttering as you swiveled your hips to get every last bit of him inside you.

Damian pressed his head into the pillow, hips thrusting, lifting you as if you weighed nothing, somehow going deeper, kissing your cervix, and your nails dug into his pecs. “Come on, querida,” he said, and you knew he would never agree or admit to it, but it sure sounded a hell of a lot like begging. “Ride Papi.”

Transferring most of your weight to your hands on his chest, your hips bounced, jaw dropped, and you did exactly as you’d been instructed. Sweat was beading around your hairline at the back of your neck, your lungs were tight from your labored breathing, but you could feel that familiar, delicious ache deep in your cunt. You watched Damian with a small grin, biting your lip, as his blown pupils were laser focused on your pussy and the glistening trail it left behind every time you lifted your hips. His brows were knitted together, lips pursed, and you actually had to fight the laughter bubbling in your throat at how utterly determined he was not to cum. He wanted to impress you with his stamina and willpower, you knew that much, and you suspected he was probably savoring the moment, making it last as long as possible. Maybe next time, you thought. You’ve waited long enough. 

“You gonna gimme me that nut, Papi?” you panted.

His eyes rose to yours, and you were no longer in control of the fucking, your entire body jolting with each pump of Damian’s cock. “That what you want?” he grunted. 

“Fuck yeah,” you breathed, eyes closing, that ache getting stronger, spreading further. “It’s been too long. I need your cum inside me.” 

“Been too long,” he mocked breathlessly. “You’re gonna be so fuckin’ full …” 

“Give it to me, Papi,” you begged, cunt squeezing Damian’s pulsing cock as you gushed all over it. “I want all of it.”

Your fiancé made good on his promise—unloading so much inside your pussy that it started leaking out before he’d even pulled out. Hand on the back of your head, he pulled you down for a kiss, massaging his lips along yours in that delightful Damian way. “I love you so much,” he mumbled against your mouth. 

“I love you more,” you grinned, pulling away enough so you could look at each other comfortably. “It should take, what, five minutes for you to be ready for round two?” 

“Five minutes,” Damian chuckled, shaking his head, rolling his eyes. 

“Well, if it helps at all, I’m gonna go try on my heels.” You carefully raised yourself off Damian, his half-hard cock smacking his abdomen lewdly once your pussy released it, and you crawled out of bed. 

“Just naked? You’re just gonna try the heels on naked?” Damian asked after you. 

“Kind of,” you replied, glancing at him over your bare shoulder. “I’ll be wearing your cum.”

Damian’s eyes darkened. “It’s like that?”

You winked, continuing out of the bedroom, a millisecond passing before you heard Damian’s heavy footsteps following quickly behind.

** mi vida - my life ** Papi - daddy ** querida - beloved/term of endearment ** gatita - kitten

[skyscrapergods]

You probably have heard this a thousand times over but still, I adore your Skycraper God's au.

I particularly love what you did for Twilight and her ascension to God hood. For something that is more 'realistic' you gave her a destiny that feels far kinder than what she had in canon (or at least what they end up implying) and a better representation of her role as the princess of friendship. Idk I teared up a little bit when I read about her anyway your art and world building are real cool

I don't really consider skyscraper gods to be more realistic than Canon, just more fleshed out. More explored and concrete. I mean, Celestia is so massive she should have her own gravity. And anypony can supposedly become that through prayer?

Yeah. Not more realistic, simply more Explained.

Twilight's fate in the show really felt like "uhh we need more plot. I know, let's do this!" Rather than something that makes sense from a character driven perspective.

"Anyone have ideas for a bombastic finale?"

"Lots of shows have the MC become ruler so let's do that"

"Epic! She's totally queen now"

"Wait what about the current rulers?"

"Uhhh they just don't wanna rule anymore. Vacation time"

"Yeah that works. Film it"

Instead of considering what the characters do and want to do with their lives. Flurry heart sure does exist! They comment on how unusual it is for an alicorn to be born but nothing happens. She doesn't age. Doesn't even become a toddler because they didn't think beyond "baby alicorn for the toy sales"

So that's where the unkindness of canon comes from. Doing things for the hell of it and not considering if the characters would actually want it.

When I do that, and i force things upon characters that they don't want, I explore the suffering it entails. Then, I let the characters shape their destinies as much as they can, to relieve their suffering and find joy even in uncrollable circumstances. I don't just draw a smile on and say they are happy with their fates.

Happy endings don't exist. Endings in which people are happy do, but they take work, perspective, and forgiveness to achieve.

[lanalosty0uu]

⋆.˚ chapter i: ahoy! ᝰ.ᐟ

🕰️ BACK TO THE FUTURE 🕰️

warning: slight cussing, time travel confusion.

main masterlist

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚.

The next day you wake up, you felt weird textures coming up to your nose. It felt like… dust. You woke yourself up by sneezing hard, first sneeze of the day. What else felt off? It was your room that was being quiet different… Scratch that, it was completely different from when you slept on last night. The room that Mrs. Byers made you sleep in for the rest of your exchange days, the once nice purple room with soft bed, now turned into a horrifying, messy, and filled with dust.

You unlocked your phone to look for any notifications

9.13 P.M. Friday, 27th June 2025 No new notifications

P.M? But the sun is literally shining outside? And Friday is yesterday... Today's supposed to be Saturday? Things are starting to feel off, so you stood up and went out of the house.

The once beautiful house seems to be... Abandoned, now. All glass are falling out of it's place, boards covering some of the window and doors. It looks like there's no one ever lived on this place. You kept looking around in confusion as you went out of the house, coughing like a sick maniac.

"What the hell?"

You started walking down the neigborhood, passing all these big houses along the way. This still looks like Hawkins, though... But, something feels different. Seeing all the people dress weirdly like they're in some kind of cosplay event.

As you kept walking, the town starts to get crowded. Looking at these people give you the creeps, but what actually gives you the chills are the fact that lots of people stare at you as you walk. You don't feel like you're dressing weird, you feel normal. Black T-shirt, baggy jeans, and red converse, with a dark red flannel, yet these people just can't take their eyes off your, like you just comitted some murder.

𓏲 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖⋆.ೃ࿔*:･✧˖°.

You saw a building in front of you.

STARCOURT MALL

A neon sign says above the mall's entrance. The neon signs was already lit up even though it was still... Probably like 10 or 11 A.M? You don't really know what time is it now, since the clock on your phone basically stopped at 9 at night.

The whole vibe of the mall felt off. It’s like… you’re in the backrooms… Might as well watch too much TikTok videos, you thought. But, you were actually convincing yourself that al this doesn’t seem right. It felt like a dream. Well, at least your phone’s clock stopping is a sign that you’re dreaming, it doesn’t make any sense, right?

The mall was filled with people and shoppers of all ages, it was like the mall was just opened a couple of days ago. You really want to ask the people here about where you are and why do these people dress weirdly.

scratch that.

You only want to ask about where you are right now. Even though this whole places does look like Hawkins, but it doesn’t feel like Hawkins. Sadly, your urge to ask the people around you isn’t strong enough, compared by how these people look like they’re enjoying their time at the mall. You don’t wanna be some party pooper who just ask random people a nonsense question and ruin their mood. Until finally, you found a not-so-busy ice cream store.

The yellow colored sign with blue background, that was surrounded by red light edges says

SCOOPS AHOY ice cream parlor

You saw a guy, leaning on the counter, as if he’s so done with his job. You decided to ask the guy about your question(s) earlier since he doesn’t look so busy.

“Ahoy, there! Would you like to set sail on this ocean of flavor with me? I’ll be your captain… I’m Steve Harrington.”

His sudden ice cream jingle scared the shit out of you, it made you widening your eyes at him.

“Hi, uhm… mind telling me where am i now?”

"You're in Scoops Ahoy Ice Cream Parlor, ma'am... How may I help you?" The man answered your stupid question with a bored tone. Geez, he must hate his job so much, huh?

"No, I mean... Where am I excatly now?"

The man in front of you squinted his eyes, like he's being suspicious with me.

"You're in Hawkins, Indiana. The United States of America." He responded once again, as if I have no idea where Hawkins is. So this is actually Hawkins? Indiana? Why so different?

You looked around the ice cream shop, leaving the man staring at you in confusion. You pay attention to every detail in it like some kind of detective trying to solve a murder mystery, even if you can still feel the man's eyes on you through your every move.

"Ma'am, are you okay? You need help with anything?"

"No, no... I'm fine, don't worry." Your voice says otherwise, though.

Your eyes finally stopped at the box shaped television on the counter, showing a news broadcast about the newly builded mall, this Starcourt Mall.

"...the year 1985 will surely be a memorable year for us, the people of Hawkins, getting a chance to witness and experience the beautiful Starcourt Mall..."

You felt like your head was spinning when you hear the words: 1985.

“Ma'am, are you sure you’re okay? or do i need to call a doctor?” His face is fully concerned of your well being right now. Instead of answering him, your eyes travelled from the television back to the man's direction.

“What year is it now?"

“it’s 1985? duh..?”

And that's the moment when you knew.

You are doomed.

note: finally, the first chapter's here! i really, reaaallyyyyy hope y'all like it! i'll make sure to post daily since i also need to catch up with some school stuff here. if there's any confusion about this whole time travel thingy (trust me, i was also pretty confused with my own thoughts) feel free to ask! and feel free to request to be on my taglist! happy reading <3

taglist: @xprloki @pupwrites @gorlillaglue25 @lovestrucklyuniverse

[yinyuedijun]

since it is on the brain tonight. have one of my favourite (very very long) scenes of desire path backstory (happened in both versions of the fic, og and current)

(tw implied child abuse and incest)

background: you've just been adopted into the itoshi household and have had a really hard time opening up. sae hears you crying in your bedroom every night. here, he finally decides to try and help you. you're about 6 here, sae is 8.

___

Still, you had your bad nights. Progress has never been linear with you, not now and not back then. Sae recalls one midnight where you had a crying fit that disintegrated into a violent string of coughs, each one so powerful that it made him wince.

He wondered how the whole house wasn't awake, listening to your pain. Rin always slept like a rock—Sae could see him snoring away in the other bed, so it made sense that he wasn't bothered—but surely their parents were hearing this? But then he decided not to linger on it for too long.

It didn't matter since he was going to help you anyway.

He ended up knocking on your door with a glass of water. Almost immediately, all the shifting in your room stopped, almost like you were trying to silence yourself. But Sae could hear the coughs being torn violently from your throat, even though they now sounded strained and muffled.

"Hey," he called out softly. "It's me. Are you awake?"

Silence. Sae knew to give it a moment before he tried again.

"Can I come in?"

If it had been anyone other than you, you told Sae years later, your fingers running lazily through his hair, lifting the bangs out of his face, I wouldn't have said anything. I'd have pretended to be sleeping. But I let you in because it was you. You squeezed his hand, then, and your eyes were close—so close, heavy on his own and weighed down by the vulpine flick of your eyeliner, by the mascara sooty and thick on neatly curled lashes, by your childhood shadows. Your strawberry gloss shone next to his lips, and your heated and tender words kissed them: Do you understand what I'm saying, Nii-chan? If it had been anyone else, I wouldn't have been—

"...okay."

When Sae crept into your room, found an empty bed. You were hiding underneath it, curled up in the tiny space between the floor and the mattress, hugging the quilt he'd handed to you weeks ago. He crouched down, showed you the glass of water. Sae wasn't sure if the offering would be enough to draw you out from under the bed, but another coughing fit—this one strong enough to make you teary-eyed—had you crawling out. You mumbled a little thank you as you took the glass from him and drank.

"You haven't cried like that in a while," Sae commented, and you gave him a stricken look. After a long moment of unadultered panic in your eyes, he heard you string more than two words for the first time:

"...s-sorry. I'm really sorry." You were looking down at the floor, and it was like all the progress Sae had made over the past several weeks had gone up in smoke—you looked petrified, small, a cornered animal with nowhere to run. "I didn't know you could hear me."

"Don't apologize. I don't mind it."

"...you're not mad?"

Sae thought it was a funny question. "No. Who'd get mad at something like that?"

You didn't reply, just looking away, and Sae felt a little frustrated, then. He'd been working so hard to make you feel comfortable and thought he'd finally made some progress—but now he was seeing you regress in real time. Back into the fragile little thing that his parents had decided to adopt out of the blue, looking like you couldn't trust anything around you. Like you couldn't trust him. Sae couldn't help but think—

"You don't like it here, do you."

Even at that age, you had a distinctly doe-eyed look when you were confused, and he remembers staring at it.

"No," you said. "I do."

"Then how come you don't wanna talk to any of us?"

Maybe his voice was a little too harsh. Or a little too blunt. You flinched, your body retreating into the turquoise shell of your quilt.

"Sorry."

"That's—" Sae paused, chewing his lip. Tried to make his voice as gentle as possible, because he knew his usual tone would scare you. "...you don't need to be sorry. I'm not mad. I just wanna know what's been making you so upset. Like—how come you always cry at night?"

You got that nervous, uncertain look in your eye again, and Sae got the distinct feeling that you were wondering if this whole conversation was some kind of trick. He added, "I just wanna know how to cheer you up. I don't like seeing you so sad all the time."

You blinked, gave him a surprised look, but it was fleeting, quickly making way for another gloomy expression. "You don't need to worry about me… I don't think I'm going to stay here for very long."

Sae's brow furrowed. His mom had made it sound like you were going to be his little sister just like how Rin was his brother—that is, permanently. "Why not?"

The face you made was so miserable that it startled Sae. He hadn't had a lot of experience with sadness as a kid—most of what he'd witnessed revolved around soccer, when the opposing team lost, and Sae never felt very sorry for them. Sometimes Rin would throw tantrums or cry over silly things, but those were easy to handle. Sae supposed that the worst sadness he'd ever seen was in his mother, who tried her best to hide it—

—but not even her saddest expressions could compare to how shattered you looked in that moment.

"...your dad doesn't actually want me here, Sae-san."

Sae's brow creased. You have a new sister, he recalled. You need to take care of her, OK? It's your job as the eldest.

"That can't be right," Sae replied. "Dad said he wanted you to be part of this family. He even said I should look after you."

Instead of responding, you looked long and hard at Sae, and for the first time, he experienced the strange feeling of being dissected by you. He felt translucent and naked under your eyes—keen for such an innocent age, seeing everything in the dark.

"We have the same father, but different moms. You know that, right?" you asked quietly.

He hadn't.

"Your dad didn't like my mom very much, and that's why he didn't want me. He's only being forced to take me now 'cause my mom decided she didn't want me either." Your eyes started to shimmer, and you hid them in your blanket. "My stepdad and my brother also left 'cause they didn't want me. And I don't think your mom likes me very much, either. So"—you breathed in deep and whispered, and Sae felt like he was watching a vase tip over the edge, a sandcastle crumbling into dirt, his mother crying as she fumbled for her cigarettes when she thought no one was watching—"it's not gonna be very long 'til your parents throw me away too."

Sae went silent. If his heart ached for you when he first laid eyes on you, then it was being crushed right now. He didn't think very hard about it when he placed a hand over one of yours.

"They wouldn't do something like that," he said.

Your fingers twitched under his, like you wanted to pull away.

"They want to. I can tell."

You're just imagining things, Sae nearly replied, but then he remembered that he'd never once heard his parents come here at night to check on your crying, and then he went quiet.

"...it doesn't matter," he eventually decided. "I won't let them."

A little sniff. "No?"

"No. I'll make sure you stay with us."

You blinked the saltwater away from your lashes, then gave him a curious look. "Why?"

"Because I'm your brother, and it's my job to take care of you."

"Really?" you asked, voice watery.

His eyes softened, his usual impassivity crumbling for you.

"Really. I would never let anyone throw you away," he said, and the words felt so ugly in his mouth that he couldn't fathom how anyone had done that to you. How anyone could have done anything to you. You were so sweet, and so kind, and so vulnerable, and it left him feeling sick when he imagined you being hurt in any way. "I'll keep you safe. Promise."

Sae nearly jumped when he felt something move in his hand. He looked down, saw your little fingers prodding at his own, and he offered you his open palm. You took it readily, Sae found himself transfixed by the latticework of your entwined fingers.

"Thank you, Sae-san."

"It's nothing," he wrote off. His thumb rubbed the back of your hand, gentle in a way that his voice wasn't. "But I'm your brother now, remember? You should address me properly."

You smiled a little, studying your interlocked fingers, and Sae felt a peculiar warmth in his chest, an uptick in his pulse.

"Okay, Nii-chan."

Nii-chan. Sae's always loved hearing that title in your mouth. Not out of a demand for respect the way Rin obsesses over it, but because you've always seemed so happy to say it, the syllables sweetened by your adoring tongue. Okay, Nii-chan, you've always said. I'll listen to you, Nii-chan. I trust you, Nii-chan. I love you, Nii-chan. I love you, I love you, I love you.

So please don't leave us again.

Please don't throw me away.

[nmoroder]

i know benjamin had a lot on his plate already but hear me out... an au where ayin for his reasons puts ben in charge of extraction team and not the arbiter who must have deserved to be there (not stating the reason. so don't immediately hate on A and all that. see the full text below for a load of details, and also english translation of text on pics 4 & 5)

it has the atziluth sephirot swap their colors (i've already did a post on color swap btw. but purely color) and the age of their filtered appearance; the full color swap (not just color change of department and uniform but colors of their hair, their bodies too) is required for original scheme to stay, with the colors corresponding to fixed sephirot and so on. names, too, would swap to what their respective kabbalah nodes should be and former benjamin is kind of pissed about his mentor's decision to give him work which is enough to drive a meaty human to insanity, even though after his escape he returned and tried to pry ayin off the plan in the earlier time, and overall he did all he could for the man. for him, the virtue would still be about the past and the future though as he'd have to come to terms with what ayin did to him, and his meltdown would probably have not the 'i want you to stay here with me and live at least somehow, i don't want to go' but instead 'i will make this place your tomb just like you did for me'. i guess it kinda sounds close to angela's feelings in ruina and that's also why both atziluth sephirot would've probably backed up her rebellion idk. its a fun little idea which blooms into a shitton of different things to think about

oh and also pics 4 and 5 have roland converse with library version of ben (he MUST be named binah at that point but i KNOW this will just bring confusion) and it's the quote from their first talk in original game. "i've dedicated my entire life to the wish of a single person", then roland asks "and the person's a rotten egg, eh?" to which ben explodes with OH THAT'S AN UNDERSTATEMENT. they'd probably get along as well over their similar feelings about ayin, which is funny. still not sure whether the respective floors would've been swapped for them... i mean either hokma still stands for religion and binah for philosophy and ben being the current binah would take the philosophy floor, or it's just color swap and religion would be dark with stars and philosophy the white hall and all. the anomalies of both floors fit very well with the color schemes and overall topic and i dont wanna meddle into that really but ehh... food for thought ig

[thezombieprostitute]

Dr. Hot Stuff

Summary: You're probably the only nurse who hasn't slept with Surgeon Johnny Storm and you're happy to keep it that way.

Warnings: Age gap, Implied smut, Medical setting, Talk about surgeries. Please let me know if I missed any!

A/N: Many thanks to @bigtreefest for help with the medical terminology and more!

A/N2: Reader is 35+ years old and female. No other physical descriptors used.

You feel like a zombie, asleep on your feet after an incredibly long surgery. As much as you liked being Dr. Beck's go-to nurse for long and complicated surgeries, it still took a hell of a toll on you. As soon as you were cleaned up and in fresh scrubs, you were headed to the sleeping area.

When the doorknob doesn't turn you blink as your brain tries to process why you're not already laying down. You try a few more times but nothing. Is it stuck? It's not supposed to be locked.

Then the sounds of giggles and moans pierce through your brain fog and you put the pieces together. Dr. Johnny Storm, aka Dr. Hot Stuff, doing his regular, pre-surgery "ritual" with one of the nurses. You roll your eyes and shake your head. You should break down the door just out of fully justified spite! But you know you won't get much support. Apparently Dr. Hot Stuff earned his nickname. If there's one thing you'll give Storm, it's that his partners have no complaints, and they are the type to complain.

You slink off to the break room to find a recliner for a nap.

You're startled awake by Johnny loudly celebrating his latest successful surgery. He's proudly proclaiming his mastery over the appendectomy to anyone and everyone who will hear. You roll your eyes and start getting out of the recliner. You should be used to these kinds of things by now. Young surgeons are always so loud and proud.

Before you can get out of the recliner, though, Johnny steps in front of you.

"If it isn't my favorite veteran nurse," he smirks.

"What do you want, Dr. Storm," you sigh.

"You know you can call me Johnny, like all the other nurses, right?" he raises an eyebrow, grin never dropping. "I'm just trying to be friendly but you keep shutting me out."

"I just woke up, Johnny. And I'm still very tired. I'd be friendlier if I could've actually slept in a bed." You give him your best glare, hoping it would get him to back off, maybe apologize.

Instead his smile widens, "oh, sorry about that. Next time I'll make sure you get to join in." He winks and you scoff.

"I'm out of here," you shake your head. "I've gotta get back to work."

"Wait, please, I wanna talk to you!"

"About what?"

His facial expression changes into puppy dog eyes that your certain would work on a younger you. "Can you put in a good word for me with Dr. Beck?"

Your eyebrows crinkle in confusion. "What?"

"I'm doing so damn well with these appendectomies and cholecystectomies that I could do them in my sleep," he explains. "I want to get into doing the interesting surgeries, the ones that'll help my career, you know?"

"You haven't mastered the mundane yet," you tell him and he rolls his eyes while giving you a groan. "It's incredibly important for surgeons, especially new ones like yourself, to get experience with the variety that can come from even a simple procedure."

"What variety?" he protests. "It's all the same procedure. The same hand motions. The same instructions."

“You’re about to sever the common bile duct but your view is partially blocked by a section of hard adipose tissue. What do you do?”

"Predict where the duct continues under the fat tissue and make the incision,” he shrugs as if it should be obvious.

“WRONG," you loudly scold. "You just nicked the hepatic artery. Your patient is bleeding out.”

He starts pouting but you continue to grill him. You can tell he's studied but he's just too inexperienced and he continually falls short. Given how red he's getting, you can tell he knows it as well. When you finally let up on the questions he backs up so you can get out of the recliner but he's definitely not happy.

"Bet you'd put in a good word for me if you helped me with my pre-surgery ritual," he grouses.

"Not gonna happen, Junior."

"You sure?" he raises an eyebrow in that way you know works on the younger nurses. "I bet I could make you feel young again."

"I'm sure. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna get back to work."

"I'll get you to change your mind one of these days," he promises with a wink.

You roll your eyes and shake your head. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

"Ooo! Giving me permission to think of you next time I can't sleep?"

You facepalm. "I walked right into that one."

Tagging: @alicedopey; @darsynia; @delicatebarness; @icefrozendeadlyqueen; @irishhappiness; @lokislady82; @ronearoundblindly; @thiquefunlover63

[todayisafridaynight]

one of the weirdest bits of trivia about aoki is that according to the article saeko was reading he ‘was a shut-in until he was 20 then he suddenly took off for america’ and like that’s fine but he would’ve actually been 24 if he enrolled at harvard in september 2001 but a literal line earlier in the same article it correctly ages him at 42 in 2019 if LaD7 takes place in the spring and his birthday’s at the end of the year so i’m just. Why Did You Make it Seem Like you Were Four Years Younger For College. also can no one do math if he was 20 in 2001 he’d be 38 by 2019, he’d have to be in school in 1996 for everything to line up unless you’re telling me the story they made is he left for america in 1996 and graduated in 2000--

[britneyshakespeare]

you: nicholas alexander chavez, the actor from ryan murphy's recent work

me, a mama's girl and daytime tv viewer:

[longmaxsilvarg]

will forever have a soft spot for chloe cause yeah dawg i get it we can try to avoid becoming attached out of the overwhelming fear of being abandoned again but miserably fail together

[bmpmp3]

this is the least important thing on earth but sometimes the way we vocal synth fans try to explain what vocal synths are to people who know nothing about them is a little. flawed. LIKE ITS FINE people are doing their best but i keep seeing people explain them in like really vague ways or using confusing words in the definition like stuff like "well a vocaloid is a type of voicebank" or "its a type of virtual singer" and i get a bit frustrated because like Unfortunately if someone doesn't know what a vocaloid is they are definitely not going to know what a voicebank is.

again this isnt that big of a deal and doesnt matter That Much but im pretty good at explaining niche or old or unusual colloquial stuff to laymen so this is always on my mind LOL you have to tailor it to the context and person but i usually start by asking if they are familiar with electric keyboards and/or digital audio workstations like garageband (depending on age) and go from there, maybe explain that its a piece of software but also the importance of the mascot characters representing the software. if they're really interested in the technicalities then we're going back to the 60s with LPC speech coding. BUT ONLY if theyre really REALLY curious. and maybe point on japanese mascot character culture a bit if they're confused.

always remember when expaining niche stuff to people to listen to their questions and try to answer thoughtfully, with consideration to the other person's understanding... (guy who is neurodivergent voice) i think about human interaction in a normal way and my explanation skills are immaculate.

[hollytree33]

I’m back!!

[invinciblerodent]

(oh, i should not be trying to playfully weigh in on a "who's your LEAST favorite companion?" post, it starts off lighthearted and then it makes me go on my Fenris-rant again)

[raeathnos]

.

[rosalinesurvived]

I wonder if Fukuzawa lives with the unending paranoia of there being four other government top-class swordsmen assassins alongside him who may or may not have been asked to murder their rouge ex-member.