#liquid bubble timer

[flappyhappystim]

Here are our three different liquid bubble timer options!

[squishsquishy]

>> _wolky__

[cutiepieautistic]

Purple ooze tube/timer

[eddies-ashtray]

white hot forever

Pairing: Logan “Wolverine” Howlett x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: Most days exhaustion plagues him. But tonight, with his last dregs of energy, Logan cooks for you. Though he’s hungry for something far more enticing.

WC: 5.6k

Category: Smut (18+ ONLY, minors dni)

Content: Implied (non-specified) age gap, kissing, Logan throws reader over his shoulder/carries her, cunnilingus, unprotected pnv, reverse cowgirl, dirty talk, petnames (baby, old man, etc), beard burn, 1 single spank, some light nipple play, spitting, kinda dom logan/sub reader, light teasing/mocking, a dash of humiliation kink, lots of manhandling, an inordinate amount of animal metaphor/simile, mentions of logan’s exhaustion/aging due to the adamantium poisoning.

His biceps strain against the thin cotton of his white button-down–the sleeves rolled up–as he finely chops a red pepper. His heavy hand lends to the particularly booming sound of the knife landing on the wood cutting board. But you don’t mind, content to observe from your ideal spot on the countertop of the island. 

A half empty wine glass sits in your palm as your gaze lingers on the smattering of dark hair beneath the low-cut tank he wears under the button-down. 

The kitchen smells of the sweetness of the cooking oil he used and the warmth of nostalgia. Faint memories from childhood of your mother bustling around the kitchen as she prepared dinner linger at the edges of your mind, brought on by familiar scents. When you breathe it in, you also catch lingering traces of Logan’s shampoo and, faintly, sweat. 

“You ever…Ya know,” you pause, swirling the white liquid around. “Use the claws to chop an onion or something?”

Doing your best to suppress a smirk when Logan looks up at you from beneath his brows and pins you with a stern gaze, you hold his eyes. 

You quirk a brow, waiting for his response as a snort threatens to bubble up. 

A smirk cracks through his intense facade, crows feet deepening slightly. With an endearing shake of his head, he huffs a laugh through his nose. Logan’s a bit of a grump—even more so now that his hair has greyed and he’s let his beard grow somewhat unruly—but he’s not without a sense of humour. 

“No,” his voice, though signed with a note of playfulness, is as gruff as always when he rests the knife on the cutting board. “But as you know, they’ve been useful for…other things.” 

The word ‘other’ is loaded with intensity as the hand that previously gripped the knife handle lands deceptively gently on your right knee. It skates roughly up your thigh to thumb at the edge of your skirt. 

You only hum in response. Despite the warmth of the kitchen, a chill runs up your spine and you shiver involuntarily. You’re not sure how he does that. Dial things up to 100 before you can even blink. It keeps you on your toes, even a few years in.  

Now it’s his turn to quirk a brow–ever expressive–when his heavy gaze finally lifts from your legs.

Warmth begins to seep into your chest and stoke a small fire in your belly.

But the growing tension vanishes the moment a timer dings, shrill and intrusive. 

Pulling himself away from your skin to tend to the sound, Logan bends at the knees to pull a steaming dish from the oven. 

The crack of his joints is a quiet popping sound compared to the low grunt he releases when he stands back up to his full height to place the dish on the stovetop. 

He tosses a worn out dish towel over his shoulder–the same one he’d used to pull the food from the oven. 

Watching him carefully as he spins around in search of his whiskey glass, you remark, “You look handsome like this.” 

You pass him the liquor, his large hand wrapping around the glass. 

“Handsome like what?” he asks, a hint of a chuckle in his voice. 

It’s not often Logan has the energy for this. Long days drain him now. Like sweet syrup from a tapped tree, a slow drip that takes and takes.

“Just–in the kitchen with me. Cooking…Taking care of me,” you say. 

Another soft smile graces his lips and he presses a tender kiss to your cheek, a hand at your hip, and your face warms. 

Gulping down a healthy sip of his drink, his throat bobs as he swallows the auburn liquid. When the glass clinks against the marble as he puts it down, you notice droplets linger in his beard. Once you’ve placed your own glass down you reach to thumb away the beaded liquid.

“Hm?” he hums, though it’s more of a growl when he does it, the sound rumbling up from deep in his broad chest. 

“Just got some…” you trail off, expecting him to come to the natural conclusion himself when you lean in and cup his jaw. Feel the roughness of his beard against your palm as you swipe away the small droplet. “There.” 

Logan leans briefly into your touch to kiss the soft skin of your palm in thanks. The gesture makes your heart ache. 

You’re about to pull away, but Logan grasps your wrist in one strong hand, savouring your touch. He’s looking at you with an unexpected hunger behind his eyes as he feels the skin of your wrist beneath his rough palm. You can’t deny the way it revives the searing heat in the pit of your stomach. 

“What?” The word comes out more breathy than you’d intended. 

“Nothin’.” Logan shakes his head, holding your gaze. He releases your hand gently. 

The word lingers in the air between you. 

The way he says it–like it’s not really nothing–wires you right up again. You know he knows it too–his overly keen senses able to pick up the rhythm of your heart hammering against your ribcage. 

You need to expel the energy or let the tension snap but can only think of the intoxicating scent of whiskey on his breath. “You know, I’ve never tried whiskey.”

He’s quick to respond. “No? You want to?” 

“Okay.” It comes out in a whisper. The atmosphere feels too fragile for any other tone.

Logan grabs the crystal glass, just another sip or two remaining. He steals another as he steps in front of you, his left palm falling to your knee to push your legs apart so he has room to stand between them. 

He lingers above you and you lick your lips in anticipation, catching the way hazel eyes darken beneath furrowed brows. 

Then, Logan looks away and you watch as he places the glass down on the counter and his palms flat beside your thighs, effectively caging you in so you’re trapped in his space. Logan is all you can breathe, all you can see, all you can smell as your chest rises and falls with shallow breaths. 

Eyes finally returning to yours, his head tilts to the side–cocky, challenging. “Then give your old man a kiss.” 

A whimper nearly escapes you before you’re wrapping your arms around his neck and hungrily pressing your lips to his like it’s an order. It may as well have been, gruff as he is. 

Logan grunts in response to your quick action, pulling your leg around his waist so your heel digs into the small of his back. 

The roughness of his beard rubs your chin and cheeks, a pleasant sting against sensitive skin. Though you’re soon distracted when his hand leaves your calf in favour of greedily running up your thigh. They leave heat and tingling skin in their wake, and you gasp into the kiss when he gives the meat of your thigh a generous squeeze. 

His desperation for you is matched only by yours for him as you wind your other leg around his hips to tug him closer. Grunting at your forcefulness, Logan finally slips his tongue into your warm mouth.  

The whiskey on his tongue is overpowering as he kisses you like he’s starving for it–the meal he was making long forgotten. Warm hands brush up the length of your spine, eliciting a subtle shiver, before one of his large palms cradles your skull like you’ll shatter without the support. 

His nose bumps yours as he deepens the kiss, licking into your mouth with fervour now. When his spare hand coasts over your chest to grab at your tits over your top, you arch into his touch with a moan like he demands it. 

When you bite his bottom lip he growls, long and deep. A renewed sense of desperation claws at your skin as your kisses become increasingly wanton and sloppy. Tangling tongues generate sounds bordering on obscenity. 

His claws may as well be dragging down your body, leaving bloody marks in their wake with the way his touch makes your skin sing. You hope he leaves bruises when he grasps at the flesh of your hips, pulling your lower-half flush against his pelvis. 

You can feel him, hard and straining against his black slacks. It’s impossible not to moan, lips leaving his as your mouth falls open to release the breathy sound. 

For a moment, you grind against his cock with your forehead pressed to his, using your hands wrapped around his neck as leverage. Feeling back muscles flex under your warm palms. The delicious slide of your soaked panties against his hardness is enough to drive you wild. 

A gasp is pulled out of you when your clit catches briefly on his tip beneath clean slacks. Logan growls through clenched teeth, pressing you into him harder, fervently rolling his hips. The sound makes your pussy clench around nothing. 

“Logan,” you whimper, aching for him as you pant into each other’s mouths. “Please.” 

“Fuck,” he rasps before he’s scooping you up off the counter, hoisting you up over his shoulder. Squealing at the surprise demonstration of his great strength, Logan strides through the kitchen and towards the living room. 

Desire burns deep in your belly as he carries you across the house like it’s nothing. He’s all broad chest, bulging biceps, and thick thighs. It makes you dizzy. You can’t help but reach out and pinch the meat of his thigh. 

“Hey!” He barks. 

Unsurprisingly quickly, Logan delivers a sharp smack to your ass and you yelp in shock, jolting against him. “So fuckin’ naughty.” 

The lingering sting coupled with his gruff tone has you squirming in his hold, whining low in your throat. 

In a single sudden motion, Logan manoeuvers you off his shoulder, dropping you onto the couch. And suddenly you feel deliciously small pinned beneath his hooded gaze. He towers over you. His staggering height emphasized from your perspective where you lay against the cushions. 

He’s assumed that authoritative stance that has every atom in your body buzzing–his arms crossed over his chest. This paired with his hard gaze is a lethal combination. He’s got that look in his eyes, like what am I gonna do with you? 

“Sorry.” Insincerity bleeds through your tone. You like to get him like this. To rile him up until he is more animal than man. 

Hazel eyes narrow as he grunts, disbelieving your weak apology. 

“You wanna be sorry?” He asks with a quick flick of his chin in your direction.

Biting the inside of your cheek, you nod. His chest rumbles with a deep sigh.

Unable to avert your gaze from his face, you bear witness to the glorious sight of Logan shedding his button-down. Your hips wiggle subtly in anticipation–though Logan would call it impatience. The cotton article is tossed carelessly over the chair by the couch.

He crouches down with a soft grunt, nods. “Okay.” 

Swiftly, you are tugged to the edge of the couch by Logan’s hands on your hips. Your skirt gets rucked up your waist, exposing you to the warm air of the house. Though it feels far more jarringly cool between your legs where you’re hot and wanting, pussy weeping for the older man before you.

“So fuckin’ soaked already,” He mutters, more to himself than to you. The comment has pleasure boiling low in your belly. 

“Logan.” He glances up at you briefly then returns his eyes to your cunt.  

You watch with rapture as his nostrils flare, no doubt overwhelmed by your scent this close to your centre. A predator ready to devour its prey. 

For the briefest of moments, Logan admires the wetness seeping through your panties, presses his thumb against the clothed, leaking well just to see your hips jump. Biting back a pathetic whine is far more difficult when his lips twitch into a faint smirk. 

There’s a change in his eyes in a split second where brows lower and pupils dilate. It’s then that he rips your panties down your legs and you swear you hear the distinct sound of fabric tearing. Gasping, you toss your head back between your shoulders, panting and warm all over. 

His chest rumbles with a guttural sound, savouring the sight of you spread open wide and dripping for him. 

Logan’s rough hands rub up and down your thighs, hungry. When they pause you swear you can feel his gaze burning a hole into the column of your throat. 

“Eyes,” He demands.

You obey, catching a glimpse of him stuffing your panties into his back pocket from where he kneels on the floor between your legs. 

The anticipation eats you alive, hips flexing, unable to remain still. Logan pins them down in an instant. 

Everything quiets. Tunnel vision casts out any and all sound or sight besides him. 

“Don’t move,” Is all he says before he’s diving in and devouring you, tongue hot on your sensitive skin. 

“Fuck!” you cry, hands plunging into his hair. 

He’s groaning the second his tongue licks up your cunt, dining on your taste. He gorges on you like he’s been deprived of your taste for far too long and he’s hollow without it. 

You’re drunk and dizzy on the way his beard scratches against your skin. The way the thick hair rubs against your cunt and sensitive inner thighs. A carnal craving satisfied. He’ll pull away after and be covered in you, unable to kiss you without smearing your desire across your own chin. 

The rough tug you give his hair causes him to grunt into you. He eats you out with zeal, an energy that so often eludes him these days. 

“Feels so good…Shit…So-” you babble on, only half aware of the praise spilling from your mouth.

For now, you are not sorry about his overzealous approach. But you will be. After, when the burn becomes a sting. When you are unable to walk for a week straight without feeling the roughness of his beard between your thighs. When he’ll reach over while he’s driving and squeeze your thigh meanly as a reminder. 

For now, you moan unabashedly as he nips at your clit harshly. Free roaming hands find warm skin, grabbing fistfulls of you. Rubbing your thighs, grabbing at your hips, spreading possessively over your stomach. Soon, his hand snakes under your top to squeeze at your tits, and you gasp sharply when he pinches your nipple between thumb and forefinger. 

The fire in your belly rages on, burning bright, spitting ash. 

“Logan,” You whine, long and drawn out, when he shakes his head back and forth animalistically, coating more of his beard in your wetness, your scent. He grunts against your pussy at the sound of his name hot on your tongue, the vibrations it causes driving you mad. 

His roughness makes your cunt throb. You derive as much pleasure from the sensation of his tongue licking up your slit and circling your clit as you do from simply watching him like this. His eyes shut in concentration, locked in as he laps up your juices like it sustains him. Like he is taking his fill of you before he hibernates for the winter. 

Just the obscene sounds of his hunger, the slurping and the groans emanating from deep within his chest are enough to prompt your hips to grind up into the pleasure his mouth provides. And he accepts all of it enthusiastically. 

You get lost in it, his wet muscle prodding at your entrance, licking up your slit to spread the wetness he’d collected over your clit. He sucks it between his lips, causing you to groan. 

Briefly, Logan pulls away, and you whine in protest. But his pause allows you to glimpse the parts of his beard that are now matted down with wetness. The sight causes warmth to spread across your chest, equal parts humiliation and pleasure. 

“Taste so fuckin’ good, baby,” he pants against your thigh, warm breath fanning over your puffy cunt. “Look at you,” he slurs, thumb rubbing over your pussy, spreading the wetness all over. 

Your hips jump and you whine again. Logan growls a quiet, desperate sound before diving back in, practically making out with your pussy and inserting two of his thick fingers into your heat. 

“Shit! Lo-” his name gets cut off with a girlish moan, a high sound only he could pull out of you, body completely overwhelmed by the excess of pleasure. 

“There she is,” he drawls, voice muffled and thick with lust before enveloping your clit in the warmth of his mouth and sucking. Your grip in his hair tightens as your hips grind into his mouth and down onto his fingers. Fingers which curl up into the gummy walls of your cunt, languidly brushing that sensitive spot inside over and over. 

Soon, slow movements evolve into quicker, but still consistent and deliberate, pumps into your weeping hole. It is precisely then that the ever-growing fire in your belly begins to consume you entirely. The moment Logan’s jaw goes slack and he begins to desperately lap at your cunt with a near entire loss of coordination, your vision goes white. 

Your orgasm crashes over you, an all-consuming force as Logan continues to fuck you with his fingers. It’s like you are bursting at the seams, coming apart in his hands. Every cell in your body catches fire as you roll your hips into his hand, riding out the waves of your climax. 

You’re panting as you come down, hips slowing to a stop as your body becomes over-sensitive to his touch. You twitch as Logan slowly pulls his fingers from you, his head falling to rest on your trembling thigh. 

“You know…For an old man, that was-” 

You suck in a sharp breath, hips jumping at the harsh sensation of Logan intentionally rubbing his beard over your already burning inner thighs. He chuckles lowly at your reaction, but is quick to soothe you, laying tender kisses across heated skin. 

Your hands trail down from his hair, and stroke a thumb softly over his cheek. He allows the sweet touches to continue for several moments before he pushes off his knees with a grunt. Logan falls onto the couch next to you, legs spread wide. Eyeing him in your periphery, you can tell he’s just as exhausted as you; his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.  

You’re still panting softly as you watch him, your limbs like Jell-O, skirt hastily pushed up past your waist, and top askew. The sight of him licking his fingers clean of you makes your clit twitch despite its sensitivity. 

Finally, he finds your eyes. 

“C’mere,” Logan rasps, patting his thigh. 

It takes great effort for you to crawl into his lap, and you don’t do it without some assistance. Logan’s hands grip your waist, pull you so you’re seated sideways over his thighs so as not to further irritate the burn. 

You wind an arm around his neck, tenderly stroking the hair at his nape. 

Logan rubs over the dough of your thighs, thumbs caressing between the split of them. Later, he’ll help you gently rub soothing lotion into them, but for now he’s all desire as he gazes down at where his hands press lightly into your legs. 

“How’s that feel?” he asks quietly. 

You can’t help but squirm in his lap a little, feeling him hot and hard beneath your thighs.

“Mmh,” you muse, staring down at his hands on you, legs raw and tingling. “Good.” 

You can feel his eyes on the side of your face, the warmth of his body beneath yours. “Yeah?”

You nod, meeting his eyes before cupping his jaw and scratching softly at his beard, feeling the lingering wetness there. Briefly, his eyes drift shut and he groans quietly. 

“How’s that feel?” you repeat his question back at him, teasing. 

Logan growls, grabs the back of your head, and desperately presses his lips to yours in answer. 

You moan softly into the kiss, holding his face in your hands as you lick into his mouth, tasting yourself on his tongue more than the whiskey now. 

Then you’re trailing your hands down his chest and pulling away only briefly to tug his white tank off before your fingers deftly begin to undo his belt. The metallic clink it makes, the sound of leather sliding against cotton as it comes off, only makes your pussy clench around nothing as you whine into his mouth. 

Your ardour makes Logan chuckle, breaking away from your lips in favour of kissing roughly down your neck. His hands now cup your jaw, allowing him to tilt your head back as his lips leave a trail of wet kisses across heated skin. You sigh as his beard tickles your neck. 

“So needy,” he mumbles into your skin. 

You groan and feel his smirk against the skin of your chest before he’s pulling your skirt and top off over your head and tossing them aside. 

Wanting hands find their way into his hair again when he pulls away from your skin momentarily. He enjoys having you completely naked in his lap while he’s still mostly clothed. You can tell from the way his nostrils flare when he drags in a deep breath, the way his tongue wets his mouth before he pulls you close and latches onto your nipple. 

He greedily licks and sucks and bites at one while palming the other in one large hand. 

“Logan,” you breathe his name like a prayer, pulling him closer with hands locked in his hair. 

His teeth graze your nipple, tugging it gently. Gasping in shock, your face twists up at the intense mix of pleasure-pain that swirls around in your gut. He releases your breast, breathing harshly over your now damp skin. 

Impatient and needy, you can’t help but squirm in his lap, rubbing yourself over his hardness. Surely, you’ll leave a damp patch on his clean slacks. The thought only spurs you on, movements becoming desperate. 

His cock twitches beneath you, tip probably an angry red and leaking sticky precum you selfishly wish to lick up. “Fuck, need to feel you, sweetheart.” 

The whine his proclamation elicits borders on pathetic, and in a rush you’re helping him tug his slacks down just enough that his cock can spring free. 

“So pretty,” you whisper, dragging your middle finger across prominent veins that run down his length, prompting him to twitch and hiss through his teeth.

Saliva begins to pool in your mouth, but you’re tugged back to Earth when Logan grabs your waist, ordering you to ‘turn around’. 

Body buzzing in anticipation, you allow him to manhandle you into the right position, savouring the feel of his hands manipulating your movements. 

“There ya go,” He praises, pulling your back flush against his chest. His hand sneaks up your chest. When it reaches your neck, he presses gently so your head falls against his shoulder. 

Your eyes meet as your chest heaves. 

“Open.” 

Eyes remaining on his, you part your lips. 

“Don’t swallow,” Logan instructs gruffly, brow quirked. He may as well have pointed a finger in your face, stern as he is. 

You nod quickly, and he leans forward slightly to spit thickly onto your tongue. It’s so obscene a tremor wracks through your body as heat spills into your gut. 

Hand below your chin, Logan closes your jaw for you, allowing his saliva to mix with your own before putting his hand in front of you, saying, “Spit.” 

You obey a little messily, some ending up dribbling down your chin. 

“Good fuckin’ girl,” he says, smearing the sticky mess over your already messy cunt. You whine, all high and breathy. Still slightly sensitive. 

Finally, he adjusts you, shoving you forward in his lap so he’s at the right angle to thrust into your wet heat. 

Tandem groans are released into the air the moment he fills you. A millisecond to adjust. To savour how deeply he fills you before his hands are at your waist to help guide your movements.

Using your own hands on his legs as leverage allows for slow, deep thrusts that make your body quake. Those first sweet drags of his cock against your slick walls are enough to make you shudder. 

Reaching a steady rhythm, you begin to pant, the exertion it takes to ride him like this tiring you out quickly. Though Logan is quick to help, supporting you with strong hands as he guides you up and down. Still, you’ve yet to lose your vigour. Entranced by the slow roll of your hips, the way his cock reaches the deepest parts of you in this position. His strong thighs bracketing your body. 

“That’s it…That’s it.” Logan grunts lowly, nearly delirious and wholly mesmerized by how your body takes all of him. How you stretch around him to accommodate his size. Hypnotized briefly as he hungrily watches the place where you connect. 

A gasp evolves into a moan as one of his hands leaves your waist in favour of seeking out the sensitive button at the top of your cunt. Clumsy fingers toy with your clit, slipping around messily. Flames lick at your nerve endings. On occasion he loses his place, unable to maintain a perfect rhythm from behind you, but just as quickly returns to circle the bud.  

Another hand moves to your belly, pulling your body backwards, his sweat-slick chest now pressed up against your back. You wish you could drag your nails down his broad chest, watch as he loses himself in the feeling. But the closeness this position allows is worth the sacrifice. 

Being nearly immobilized pressed up against him like this, giving him full control of your body, it feeds some deep desire. It’s the reason your head has gone a little fuzzy. He knows it too. He knows it when you let a whine slip past your lips. When you begin to grind back against him needily. 

“Feel good, baby?” he rasps. At the same time, he rubs his middle finger over your clit in time with a deliciously deep thrust. All you can do is throw your head back against his shoulder, another wanton moan clawing its way up your throat, directly into his ear. That’s all the answer he needs. 

Logan grunts in response. Pistoning hips setting a rhythm that is both intimate and punishing, making you dizzy. His closeness makes you dizzy. Those low grunts in your ear are enough to drop pearls of pleasure into the pit of your stomach. All of it contributing to the growing fog in your mind. 

You writhe against him, an arm wrapping around the back of his head, keeping him close with a hand buried in his hair. Your other hand remains locked onto his forearm as it flexes with each rub of your sensitive clit. 

Logan begins to grunt animalistically into your ear, unabashed about his desire for you. You feel it in the way his strong arms grip your body, ensuring your security. In the way he lets moans and grunts and groans rumble up from his chest, unafraid to let you hear what you do to him. 

His hands all over your body, the deep strokes of his cock that reach the deepest parts of you, his soft grunts in your ear��it all feeds the flames in your belly. 

“Fuck. S-so full,” you mewl, overwhelmed tears springing to your eyes. 

“I know, baby. I know,” he placates, tone edging on mockery. His voice sends shockwaves through your body. The sweet humiliation it brings presses into your skin like a brand, leaving it white-hot. 

More. You need more of him. 

Desperately, clumsily, you grind back into him enthusiastically, writhing in his grasp. The rhythm turns staccato and messy as a result. But it doesn’t matter. You just need more.

You whine, turning your head towards him and he gets the hint, meets you halfway and licks hotly into your mouth the moment your lips meet. Your hands twist in his hair. 

It’s messy and uncoordinated and your neck hurts twisted to kiss him like this. But then there’s the fiery taste of whiskey. And you. And him, his cigars. And the pain–it’s worth it. It’s necessary. 

When you break away, only a thin line of saliva connecting your mouths now, it’s to gasp. Your brows furrow, pleasure twisting your insides. 

You go cross-eyed trying to hold his gaze, and he grins. It’s a wolfish thing. A flash of his teeth, lips kissed red and puffy. The sight makes your pussy clench around him. 

A smile tugs at your own mouth, probably fucked out and hazy with pupils blown wide. It only grows when the hand gripping your waist skims over your hot skin. On its journey, he grabs at your tits, pinches your nipple. Every sensation now blends together, overwhelming you with pleasure.

His hand pauses at the base of your neck where it grazes over the stretched expanse of skin. 

A teasing squeeze. Once. Your brows knitting together. Twice. Your mouth dropping open. His grip not quite tight enough to cut off airflow and elicit that floaty feeling. But enough to make you whine low in your throat. You are at his mercy.

Eyes drifting shut, you cry out, feeling your climax building at the pit of your stomach. Breathy moans escape you with each rub of his finger over your sensitive bundle of nerves, edging on overstimulating. Each sharp thrust drives you closer to that edge, setting your body alight. 

“Y’gonna come, honey?” Logan pants, voice hoarse. 

These escapades exhaust him now. You’ve witnessed the way it sinks into his bones after. But there’s also the hint of a grin in his voice. Along with desperation. Desperation to feel you fall apart. An indication that the pleasure he provides, the pleasure he receives, is worth the exhaustion. It’s rewarding for him. 

Your answer is the most pathetic whine, high and wanton as overwhelmed tears blur your vision, threatening to spill over. “Uhuh.”

“Oh, yeah?” he asks, and you swear his fingers were made to make you come apart at the seams when he rubs over your clit like that. Like it gives him pleasure too.

“Yeah,” you say, breathless, barely moving over his cock as he pounds into you from below, his strong legs beginning to tremble. 

“Yeah,” Logan repeats. Mockery is thick on his tongue, a faux pout playing at his mouth. You lose it. 

Everything else falls away. Tingling heat spreads beneath your skin as you finally let go. Your body thrums with your release, the feel of his damp skin at your back, his hands on your body, how full of him you are. 

 Logan has little room to be cocky. Because the moment you begin to clench around him–cunt pulsing with each wave of your orgasm washing over you–he’s grunting curses into your shoulder, leaving bite marks on the tender flesh as his warm seed spurts into you. 

He shudders with his release. 

“Fuck,” he growls, grinding up into you, his grasp on your body tightening. 

In a flash, he removes his hand from your throat. And, distantly, past your post-coital fog, you hear the sound of metal unsheathing rapidly. You glance to your right.

Retracting claws reveal three deep holes pierced into the faux leather, showcasing thick wire springs and white stuffing. 

Blearily, you drag your hand down his arm, running over hair and slowly aging skin. Reaching his wrist, you bring his hand up to your mouth, cup it in both of yours. You smooth your thumb gently over the edges of his knuckles, watch for moments as the holes very slowly begin to close. 

You kiss his knuckles thrice. Once over each slowly healing wound. 

Eventually, the skin will mend. The wounds will be nonexistent. They will heal in time. But his body is exhausted. And every time the claws come out, the cracks in his skin take longer and longer to repair themselves. 

He collapses beneath you, rugged breaths pulled from tired lungs. 

Carefully, he slides out of you and you help him tuck himself back into his boxers. Press a kiss to his forehead. 

A whisper of, “Be right back.” against heated skin before leaving on unsteady legs to clean yourself up. His desire is a slow leak down your thighs now. 

If he were a younger man, still full of strength and agility, he’d have done this part for you. You know he wishes he could. Part of you wishes he could too. But you like to take care of him too. 

When you return, he’s still sunken into the couch, chest bare and sweaty. He accepts the glass of water you bring him, gulps it down thirstily. 

Cuddling up next to him now, you brush the sweat-damp hair back from his face. You’ll allow him to pull you close. You’ll hold each other, stroke the skin beneath his eyes tenderly. The fresh dark circles there. And he’ll press soft kisses against the lingering bite marks on your shoulder, whisper praise into your ear. 

When his honeyed eyes catch yours, you know he longs to spoil you. To scoop you up in his arms and take you to bed. 

But this takes a lot out of him now. It will be days–maybe more–before you’ll be able to do something like that again. 

So, you’ll take care of him. He’ll insist on having you underneath him. Begrudge the fact that the exhaustion will have yet to be leached from his bones. But acquiesce the moment your hands reach beneath his belt. 

Thank you for reading! Reblogs are greatly appreciated :)

[darsynia]

Hi Darsy, I hope you're recovering from your procedure okay! Please only write for this prompt if you feel inspired–no pressure at all!

I would love if you wrote something with Steve x Reader Friends to Lovers and Steve realizes that Reader has a history of past/abusive relationships. Obviously Steve is just protective and compassionate and fluffy. But I totally understand if you're not interested or comfortable writing this! Ty bestie, get well soon!

Thanks for this prompt, I hope you like what I came up with for it!

MCU MASTERLIST | STEVE ROGERS| BUCKY BARNES

Words//Warnings: 1,600 // allusions to past abuse (reactions)

For @the-slumberparty's December Daze challenge Day 5, I chose the prompt: 'I worked so hard on dinner, but nothing turned out'

MCU MASTERLIST | STEVE ROGERS | BUCKY BARNES

You Win Yum, You Lose Yum

People like to call your scrappy little apartment building The Matchmaker.

To fit in its narrow footprint, the designers put studio apartments on one side and 1 or 2 bedroom apartments across from them. You’ve heard that the management company capitalizes on their reputation by placing single women across from single men when possible. Given the other aspects of the place (shoddy wiring, flighty elevators, and smoke alarms that get the vapours more than an Eighteenth century heroine dying of consumption), you imagine the turnover is enough for it to be true.

It’s certainly true in your case. All of it. You’re hopelessly in love with the single man in the 2 bedroom apartment across from you--but honestly, who isn’t in love with Captain America?? 

His signature ‘home from work’ notification tap on your door makes you wince and assess the utter catastrophe happening in the kitchen corner of your studio. He’ll be over in just about a half hour, as the two of you have standing dinner plans on Wednesdays. You had the day off, and Tuesday You had the brilliant fucking idea to go all out.

You’ve gone all out, all right. If you go any more out, the whole apartment building will be forced out, on account of the fragile flower of a smoke detector that lives in your apartment.

A timer beeps to remind you that Failure #2 is due to come out of the oven. You look down at your cute little apron and do a little hiccup-laugh-cry before leaning over with a flashlight to see if opening the oven is going to make you everyone’s least favorite neighbor tonight.

The Shepherd’s Pie actually looks…

As you watch, the center of golden-brown mashed potato crust bubbles up, up, up--and then, like the worst version of Enceladus, some of the under-crust liquid splashes up onto the oven’s surface, creating smoke.

“SHIT!” you scream, grabbing your armpit-deep oven mitts and the bottle of specially formulated anti-smoke solution, setting it down at your feet. “I can do this. I can do this,” you mutter, taking a deep breath before springing into action.

You throw open the oven, immediately yanking out your offending moon pie with both mitts and tossing it onto the stovetop. Chanting arcane prayers to Steve’s teammate Thor, you snag the spray bottle and let the inside of the oven have it until it's a dripping, alien landscape in there. There will be no Try #2 at berry rhubarb tonight, Pi day or no Pi day.

“You got everything under control?” a male voice booms from behind you.

The sound prompts the primal, instinctive need to become smaller and apologize, not that it ever really helped. The spray bottle falls from your nerveless fingers, and the lid flies off. You sink to your knees and snag a dishtowel to start sopping up the mess as soon as you can, tossing the mitts to the side in haste.

“Hey, are you--” the voice asks, and it’s familiar, it’s Steve. Reality comes swinging back around, slamming into you from behind with even more force than your practiced misery. The elation of knowing you’re not back there, you’re safe--more than safe--is your accidental undoing.

You set your fingertips down to push up from the floor, but it’s not the floor, it’s the oven door. Hissing in pain, you snatch your hand back, but the next few minutes blur by, filled with the quick, careful actions of an actual hero. Somehow when it’s all over, you’re sitting on your couch, a bandage and a washcloth-wrapped gel cooling pad on your stung hand. Steve is nowhere to be found, and if it weren’t for the thankfully dulling pain you can feel in your fingertips, you’d wonder if you were actually asleep eight feet away in your own bed, dreaming of being cared for.

Movement makes you look up. It’s Steve, his eyes on you, a concerned look on his face as he moves slowly into your line of sight. He’s trying not to startle you, and god, that means more than a dozen roses.

“I brought you some pain meds. I don’t think you’ll need any medical treatment, but you won’t be touch-typing anytime soon.”

You blink up at him, but every time your eyes close you see an after-image of disaster: the separated corner of your cutting board//the burnt top of your first sweet pie attempt//the splash of Shepherd’s Pie juice in the oven//the instinctive jolt of fear that had led to your wet knees and finger burns--

“Hey,” Steve says, his voice impossibly close. Something about the care in his tone nearly brings you to relieved tears, like the first glimpse of sunrise lifting after a night lost in the cold woods. You open your eyes to see that he’s kneeling beside you, one hand setting down a glass of water on the end table. “I won’t let anyone hurt you,” he adds.

The hiccup-laugh-cry is back, more laugh than cry this time, because if you can’t believe Captain America when he says something like that, then you’re truly broken.

And you’re not.

“Wow, I just realized something,” you whisper.

“Looks like a good one.”

“You know what? It is.” The pressure of a long-held, toxic breath leaves your body in a long exhale before you allow yourself to look at Steve. “I believe you.”

His expression goes on a journey from concern to affection with a detour through ‘stern.' “I’m not going to ask, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to know someday, all right?” He holds your gaze, and you swallow, then nod. “Good. I had a look at everything--” You groan, but Steve lifts up to his feet in a move you’re certain is pure operational distraction. “The mashed potato pie thing looks delicious. I turned off the oven and threw a towel down on the stuff that spilled. The food looks great, thank you.”

“You didn’t have t--” you begin, but Steve clears his throat entirely too loudly, and you shift gears as smoothly as you can into, “We managed to avoid setting off the alarm, and that was the real win, wasn’t it?”

Fifty minutes, two generous slices of solidly-mediocre Shepherd’s Pie and two cautious slices of too-sweet, topless sweet pie later, Steve offers to take your plate into the kitchen.

“I’m going to do the dishes, and you can’t stop me,” he says, once he’s over there.

He can’t see the look on your face, which is good because it’s got to be embarrassingly close to ‘completely besotted.’

After a few minutes of dish-washing noises, Steve says, “You’re too quiet in there, are you planning my demise?”

“Of all the men in my life, you’re the one I’m least likely to want to murder, Steve, don’t worry,” you quip, the words escaping before you realize how revealing they are.

The sounds stop.

“Never mind,” you offer, but you can hear him walking back over. “Steve--”

“I’m sorry I startled you. I didn’t know-- I’m sorry I startled you,” he says, the small break in his voice burning an asteroid’s path straight to the deepest places in your heart.

“You never have anything to be sorry for,” you gasp out, but he’s beside you on the couch, taking your undamaged hand.

“Don’t overcorrect,” Steve tells you gently. “Expecting perfection is too much pressure, as I suspect you know. Not every relationship is like winning the lottery-- just like not every meal ends up the way you want it to. That’s what I love so much about-- what I value about knowing you.”

A rare third hiccup-laugh-cry threatens, but you valiantly hold back enough to tease, “My lack of perfection, you mean?”

Steve freezes in obvious horror. “Crap. See what I mean? I’m trying to say you treat me like a regular person who can make mistakes, not like--” he pauses, obviously struggling to come up with the right words to explain himself.

Maybe it’s your burned fingers, maybe it’s the sincerity on his face, or maybe you’re a little high on the smell of burned pie crust, but you are feeling really brave tonight.

“--a hero to fall in love with? What if I fell for my very kind neighbor instead?”

There’s the barest few seconds’ pause as a smile grows on Steve’s face.

“Yeah.” All of the tension rushes out of Steve’s body at once, leaving behind a look of abject relief tinged with joy. You totally recognize it, because that’s how you feel too. “That would very much feel like winning the lottery.”

He’s looking at you like you’re precious, even after you burned half of his dinner and made a mess for him to clean up. This is as foreign to you as another planet-- but one where you recognize all the elements, at least.

Your instinct to deflect from strong emotions via laughter bubbles up before you can really stop it.

“So, are you going to tell me which neighbor caught your eye, or…”

Steve throws his head back in a laugh, rubbing a fond, affectionate hand across your back as he leans close.

“You may have to help me with that, I don’t think I remember her apartment number.” As he says that last, teasing word, Steve touches his lips to yours. For the first time in a long while, you realize that ‘losing’ a battle (of wits or whisk) doesn’t really have anything to do with losing a war, not with a soldier like Steve at your side.

[soppingwethog]

Green Vanille by Régime des Fleurs

I am awfully sorry for the length of this review. I wish it were shorter. I wish it were possible for me to remove even one single word from this lengthy missive, but I fear that doing so would undermine its candor. I hope, despite its seemingly long-winded nature, you are able to glean some insightful information from it that may leave you better-informed than you were beforehand.

A few months ago, I took a trip to the coast where I indulged in some much needed solitude and relaxation. This year, like all years, has been a difficult one for me. That is not to say that it has been unpleasant without exception. There have been many moments of elation and true joy, but as a whole, things have been quite punishing for me. In an attempt to remove myself from the horrors of my common existence, I planned this short trip so that I could bathe myself in the restorative ocean air and, if luck happened to smile upon me, have myself a nice seagull dinner.

Many people look down on the lesser fowl such as seagulls and crows and mice as they think that they are filthy animals without much flavor or nutritional density. I will say that their assumption about these beasts’ cleanliness is indeed correct. I speak from experience when I say that seagulls are terrifically dirty and smelly, but that should not, and does not, stop me from making a meal of them when I can. They are made of meat, after all.

In the township I visited, there is no season for hunting seagulls as they are seen as a nuisance and the local municipality encourages people to dispose of them by any means necessary. For a time, they were even offering rewards to those who were willing and able to present evidence of any gulls that they snuffed out of existence. This was not something in which I ever participated as I do not enjoy taking the life of an animal just to do so. I am not afraid to humanely close the eyes of a seagull in a permanent way if I plan to dine on its stringy flesh, but hunting for sport is not something which has ever interested me.

Catching and assassinating a seagull is no small task. Yes, there are old-timers who have spent decades perfecting their techniques, and they may make it look simple, but I can assure you, it is tricky business. I do not say this as an attempt to dissuade you from trying your hand at the time-honored tradition of seagull hunting. On the contrary, I only hope to inform you that it takes patience, cunning, wisdom, skill, and courage if you hope to catch yourself one of these winged devils.

I don’t believe that this is the appropriate time or place to provide a thorough manual for how best to catch, dispatch, clean, and cook a seagull. Instead, I will simply say that I, after a good deal of trouble, was able to catch two of them during my trip to the sea. Unfortunately, the first outsmarted me and was able to escape with not only its life, but my pocketbook as well. The second feathered fiend was not so lucky, so into the stockpot it went along with plenty of seawater, onions, garlic, carrots, kelp, potatoes, and a myriad of spices which I purchased from a local spice vendor at no small expense. I boiled the bird on a lonely stretch of beach as the sun was setting and revelled in the delectable, aromatic plumes that billowed from the simmering cauldron.

Just as the soup was about ready to eat, a horrible blast of wind issued forth from the briny sea. The squall was so intense that it toppled the bubbling soup pot. As I was close at hand, mindfully tending to it, I quickly found my lower half saturated in the scalding, fragrant liquid. I believe the following goes without saying, but I shall say it anyway. The extremely hot soup burned my loins very badly. The pain was immense and indescribable. My flesh sizzled and puckered as I did my best to remove my soaked trousers as I ran toward the sea. I meant to dive in. I hoped that the cool water would extinguish my intolerable groin pain.

I don’t recall much of what happened immediately after, but it is my understanding that I never made it into the ocean. I must have tripped over a bit of driftwood or a tangle of kelp as I was running toward the waves for I found the following day, unconscious, facedown in the sand, with my trousers knotted around my ankles. The woman who found me was kind enough to phone for a medic. After they arrived, they were eventually able to rouse me from my pain-induced slumber and load me into their vehicle. They then ferried me to a local hospital where I was briefly and incorrectly pronounced dead by a doctor who has since had his license revoked and shredded. I can assure you that I am not now, nor have I ever been, dead.

As I convalesced in this unfamiliar seaport town, I spent much of my time gazing out a small, unwashed window next to my bed. It was a trying time for me, but I would be lying if I said that it was entirely unpleasant. I became friendly with one of the cleaning staff at the hospital and he took the time to teach me to play a card game that he called “squat.” I never completely understood the rules and it seemed as though they sometimes changed with his mood, but it was nice to spend an hour or two each week with another person.

He was a short, rotund man of indeterminate age and he told me that his name was Pferdeschwanz. He always had a sly look in his eye and a sweet, powerful odor about him. On the day before I was to be released from the hospital, I asked Pferdeschwanz what fragrance he wore. At first, he refused to tell me. After much begging and an exchange of thirty dollars, he told me that the potent scent in which he was constantly enrobed was none other than Green Vanille by Régime des Fleurs.

It is a scent that, when sniffed, will always remind me of the cantankerous little man with whom I shared a few precious hours while I was locked away in that seaside sanatorium. I will never forget Pferdeschwanz and I pray that he shan’t forget me.

[sinnabee]

INGREDIENTS:

2 cups evil boredom

3 teaspoons (heaping) blorbo poison (powder, not liquid)

1 daycare theme (10 hour loop)

1/3 cup brainrot

*1/2 cup distilled back pain

**(un)diagnosed mental illness

*(any kind of pain works, back pain is usually what i have on hand)

**(if you aren’t a fan of the flavor a diagnosis leaves, undiagnosed will work in a pinch! Personally, I like to add a bit of both.)

INSTRUCTIONS:

First, turn on the daycare theme (10 hour loop) and pre-heat the oven to 375 degrees.

Sift together your evil boredom and blorbo poison in a medium sized bowl.

Add in your pain of choice and mix well.

Once thoroughly mixed, it should be looking a little thicker. Some granules from the evil boredom and blorbo poison are fine. (You can always mix further, if you’re worried about it affecting the texture.)

Add your brainrot and beat with a whisk until it’s looking lighter, a little fluffy. (If you aren’t in the mood for fluff, a dash of angst or hurt/comfort can help tone it down. An AU if you really wanna spice it up.)

Realize this is turning out a lot better than you thought it would. Dang. Well, you’re certainly committed now.

Go ahead and get out a glass baking pan. Coat the bottom with non-stick spray. (I tend to favor Y/N brand Nonbinary Spray myself)

Using a baking spatula (one of the rubbery bendy ones), carefully move your mixture from the bowl to the pan. It’s alright if you get some on the sides, the heat should help it settle once it’s in the oven. To get out any air bubbles, tap the pan (carefully!) a few times on the counter.

Place the pan in the oven and set a timer for 15-25 minutes, or take a peek every now and then and see if it’s the right shade of cheerful.

Congratulations!!! You’ve successfully survived evil boredom, despite the hurdles you faced, and made something! (Pretty tasty too, if I might add.) You are still mentally ill, though. But - hey - now you have a little treat! And hopefully, your day’s just a little bit brighter! Enjoy!

[sloppysequinz]

Intox Bimbo Mansion - Allie’s Games

This is a second character introduction for one of the residents of Intox Bimbo Mansion. See Kari’s intro here.

As far as Allie was concerned, beer was her god.

She didn’t necessarily think of it that way, so directly and explicitly. To be fair, she hardly formed abstract thoughts anymore. But she worshipped at the altar of beer nonetheless, with a cheerful heart and cheerful mind in her worship.

Her daily dose of Pink was almost an afterthought compared to the six pack of ice cold cans that appeared next to it, every morning, just as mysteriously. Apparently whoever left the drug knew just what else she needed. Allie had liked beer just fine before coming to the mansion, but something about the beer here just had an extra oomf that she couldn’t get enough of. She wasn’t sure if it was the flavor of the beer or the effect it had on her, but she’d stopped trying to figure it out in favor of putting her remaining brain cells on the task of consuming as much of it as possible.

Every morning Allie would sit up in bed, and after tossing aside her empty Pink bottle, she would time herself finishing all six cans. Her current record was 12 minutes, but she was determined to get it under 10. When she first came to the mansion, it had taken her almost an hour. The cans started appearing on the third day, and she had cracked open each one and drunk them one after the other, but she didn’t know how to make them go down faster. Since then, other girls at the mansion had taught her how to chug, and more importantly, how to shot gun. Shotgunning six beers in a row was a skill that had taken time to develop and Allie practiced religiously.

She took a second to open her phones timer, hit the start button, grabbed her room key to puncture the first beer, and opened the top, and eagerly held it to her mouth. The beer slid down her open throat, ice cold, bitter, and bubbly. When the can was empty, she dropped it and reached for the next, not caring where it landed. She had a job to do.

She paused after the third beer to let out an enormous burp, but the pause was short. She tried to make up for it with speed on the fourth beer, but the body can only handle so much liquid at once. She forced the fifth down despite a tickle in her nose, grabbing the sixth before the fifth was even empty. Finally she drained the last can, and let out a massive victorious belching “BRAAAAAAWP” as she stopped the timer. Ten minutes and 40 seconds. She was definitely under 2 minutes per can, but still there was room for improvement.

She flopped back in bed next to her empty cans. Her belly sloshed on top of her. The booze she had forced into her body at high speed finally washed over her brain and she moaned. She reached down to edge her pussy with one hand while she rubbed her belly with the other. One edge per can. She forgot where the rule came from, but she loved it. It made her even more addicted to the booze than she already was.

When she was done, she rolled herself out of bed and waddled to the mirror to check herself out. The sloshing pot belly she had gained as a Mansion resident took up most of the mirror. It protruded from below her substantial tits and now hung low enough to cover her fupa. It was too wide and soft to be a pregnancy belly, but if she still went out in public, she knew she would’ve been congratulated on the baby many times.

“My lil *uh* beer baby…” she cooed, reaching down to hug and jostle her belly. “Mommy nees ta *urp* make ya eben bigger, doncha thing?”

Now that the warm up was over, the real game could begin.

Allie had long forgotten how it started, but she knew she and the other girls in the mansion had come up with it. The game was that if Allie saw a beer, she had to drink it. It started with her drooling whenever one of the other girls shook a can in her face, but it had escalated since then. Allie had started leaving cans out around her suite so she would see them the next day and drink them. Then other girls had started to sneak into her suite to plant more cans around. Now it seemed like every person in the mansion knew about the game, and beers appeared in Allie’s suite and in front of her face with a regularity that would be alarming if she wasn’t so beer bloated and brain dead. The one edge per can rule stuck too, no matter where she was. Usually she just edged while she drank so she didn’t lose count.

The first can she found was on her dresser. “Seben~” she singsonged to herself, popping it open as she headed unsteadily for the shower. There was another one waiting for her in the shower, so she chugged the first and opened the next. “Eigddd!” She chirped victoriously. She edged herself with the shower head, then managed to wash and dry herself without finding another. But there was one by her hairbrush to sip as she did her braids and one in her makeup drawer for good measure. Downing beer with one hand and edging her pussy with the other before each task was routine, and she loved it.

She hit the door frame on the way back into her room and paused for a second to lean against it, giggling. “Ten beer shmen beers, I’m just a lil drunk!” She said to no one. She continued on to her dresser. Of course there were cans in the drawers waiting for her. She chugged her two more beers, rubbing her wet pussy as she did so, then pulled on a pair of daisy dukes and a wife beater tank she has cropped dangerously short herself. She liked everyone to see her beer belly jiggling as she staggered around the mansion and she liked her hard nipples on display. She hadn’t gotten any complaints yet.

“Twelb beers is a *urp* lodda beers.” She mused as she swayed in place in front of the dresser, jiggling her exposed beer belly. She grinned. “My beer baby ‘z… gonna be *hic* soooooo strong.”

Allie staggered out of her room and made her way toward the kitchen, beelining for the fridge. “I neeeeedz an eben bigger *braaawp* stronger beer *hic* baby!” She told the room, pulling open the fridge.

But horror of horrors, the fridge was empty!

Allie whined and swayed in place for a moment, leaning hard on the counter and the fridge door, trying to remember what one was supposed to do if there was no beer. “Godda *urp* get…more I guesh…” she finally remembered. She turned and wobbled towards the front door. She went to pull her cowboy boots on—and there was a beer in each boot, of course.

Allie clumsily pulled her boots on, then shotgunned the two beers back to back. She slid her fingers into her shorts to finger her throbbing pussy as she did so. Fuck, she felt good.

“Doze bisshes…made *urp* me dring thirdeen beersh before *hic* leavin da house!” She mumbled. “Meeean. Dash *hic* unlucky.”

Having lost count of her 14 beers and ignoring the fact that no one except she herself had made her drink anything, Allie swung the door open and staggered out. She ran into the far wall of the hallway and let out a chain of giggles and burps. She leaned against the wall as she started to walk, following it down the hall toward the elevators. There was a “general store” on the first floor, which generally sold just booze, but they called it the general store anyway. Allie was headed that way, determined to get a 30 rack to bring back to her fridge.

Surely no beers would appear in front of her between here and there.

[sexhaver]

writing to encourage you to post a recipe of your successful smashed potatoes!🙌 that shit looked nutritionally dense and I love more food per food when possible especially if tasty

ingredience:

3lbs fingerling potatoes (i used a 50/50 mix of yellow and red but whatever works)

6ish cups broth (if you use veggie broth this is vegetarian)

1 pint heavy cream

3-4tbsp butter

6ish cloves garlic (literally impossible to overdo the garlic here, go with your heart)

salt, pepper, thyme, and parsley

flour

BONUS: cayenne pepper and mustard powder

steps:

wash the dirt off your potatoes and dump them in a big pot (ideally one with close to 90 degree angles on the bottom instead of a curve). pour in all the broth. if the potatoes aren't entirely submerged, add water until they are (but just barely), then turn the heat on high and put a lid on it

while the potatoes start boiling, crush and peel your garlic WITHOUT CHOPPING IT

add 2 tbsp of butter to a sauce pot and heat on medium high until melted and sizzling

add the garlic cloves and swirl/baste them in the butter for a few minutes until they and the butter both start to turn brown

dump in all of the heavy cream, then add salt, pepper, parsley, thyme, cayenne pepper, and powdered mustard to taste. unfortunately i do not have measurements for any of the spices because i cooked this while drunk. follow your heart here

reduce the heat on the heavy cream mixture until it's simmering (not all the way down to low, you still want some bubbles). by this point the potatoes should be boiling (leave the lid on). set a timer for somewhere around 23-25 minutes

come back and stir the heavy cream mixture every few minutes, and stir the potatoes once or twice throughout their cooking process

when the timer goes off, strain the potatoes out from the broth, BUT make sure to save at least two cups of the broth before pouring the rest down the drain

use a potato masher to mash the potatoes, skin and all (none of this fucking around with the back of a spoon). ideally you should probably do this in a separate bowl to avoid microplastics in your food, but im not a cop (this is why we picked a pot with 90 degree angles in step 1)

once the potatoes are properly mashed, dump most (but not all!) of the reduced heavy cream mixture in with them and continue mashing to spread it out evenly (this will also mash in the garlic cloves, which is why we didn't need to slice/dice them earlier). you should leave behind enough heavy cream to coat the bottom of the pot and then some

let the potatoes rest for a second and put the heavy cream back on medium-high heat. add 2 tbsp of butter and wait until it melts, using the whisk to mix it in with the remaining heavy cream

once the butter is melted, sprinkle in some flour, using the whisk to integrate it with the butter + cream mixture. again, i don't have exact measurements for this because i was drunk, but you want to keep adding flour and whisking until you're left with some pretty thick clumps of what looks like brown dough

crank the heat just a little higher while whisking the dough around to get it nice and burnt all over. once you're satisfied with your work and/or you start smelling burning, dump in some of the saved broth to deglaze the stuff burnt to the bottom of the pan (it should sizzle at first, that's good + normal). keep up the whisking motion so the added liquid is integrated with the dough, then add more liquid and repeat over time. eventually you should end up with something recognizable as gravy. congrats, you just made gravy from roux!

use the rest of the broth to thin out the mashed potatoes if necessary, mashing it in just like the heavy cream mixture

????

profit!

[clairelutra]

A dead cheap extremely spoonie-friendly recipe that I constantly get compliments on:

Chili (adapted from this recipe)

2 tbsp cooking oil (preferably olive but basically any mild cooking oil works, as does butter/butter substitute/etc)

1 diced onion (any size, try to go for 1-2 cups of diced onion total, as your heart desires) (can be bought diced if need be)

SPICES*

1-5 cloves of garlic (chopped, minced, jarred, etc)

3 15oz drained cans of beans (your preferred mix of black, kidney, pinto, red, garbanzo, etc)

1 14.5oz can of diced tomatoes

1 6oz can of tomato paste

1lbs ground meat (beef, pork, turkey, chicken, whatever) (optional)

1 tbsp sugar (make sure it's normal sugar, not a substitute)

1 cup of water (or beef/chicken/vegetable stock)

OPTIONAL: Leftover vegetables/mushrooms/etc, 1 drained can of corn, 1-2 tbsp of worcestershire sauce, extra bullion, a splash of soy sauce

Spices:

1 tsp cumin

1/2 tsp onion powder

1/4 tsp garlic powder

1 tbsp smoked paprika and/or chili powder (the mild spice blend, make sure you're getting that unless you know what you're doing)

1 tsp salt

OPTIONAL: 1/2-1 tsp smoked paprika, 1/2-1 tsp Italian seasoning/oregano/dried herb of choice, 1/4 tsp cayenne, 1/2 tsp black pepper

Instructions:

Oil in big pot over ~medium heat until it's fizzling

Measure the spices into a bowl

Put the onions in the pot with the oil, dump the spices on top and stir it around

Set a timer for 3 minutes and go sit down while you open and drain the cans. Stir when the timer goes off and then set it again and sit.

When the onions look like they're probably translucent-ish (6-9 minutes for me), add the garlic. If it's raw cloves chopped big, cook em for 5 minutes. Raw pressed or chopped small, 1-2 minutes. Jarred, not at all.

Add in the meat, if using. Poke and stab and stir until it's in cooked crumbles and there's no pink left. Take breaks to sit if you need to.

Add all the cans, all at once (beans, tomatoes, tomato paste, any extra canned vegetables), plus the water/stock and any other vegetables you might be using.

Stir until it's all combined, and sit and wait for it to boil (big bubbles) stirring occasionally, then drop the heat until it's only giving you small bubbles

Set a timer for 30 minutes and let it simmer, stirring every 5-10 minutes.

This is the time to start adjusting things by taste if you're into that. Add more salt or bullion or soy/worcestershire or sugar as needed -- the sugar is to help cut the acid from the tomatoes and can offset bitterness from the spices if you messed those up. Go tsp by tsp and taste after every addition.

It's good to eat after 30 minutes of simmering, but you can leave it there for an hour or two and it'll only get better.

NOTES:

I am a biiiiig wimp about heat and leave out the cayenne and pepper and only use smoked paprika, but I have it on good authority that it's very good with heat as well

Costs as low as $5-7, depending on whether you already have the spices and if you can chop an onion, if you make it vegetarian.

Makes like 6+ solid meals.

All the ingredients except the meat are shelf stable or long-lifed at room temp, so it's good for leaving in the cupboard as a backup meal

It's extremely adaptable. You can make it with just about any combo of canned beans you might have around, you can make it with whatever the cheapest ground meat is currently, it's already dairy-free and you can make it vegetarian or vegan or whatever. Use up old veggies in the fridge and grab your favorite savory spices.

The process can be done almost entirely sitting, if you need to. If you have slightly more money and you're very low energy, you can buy pre-chopped onion.

It's pretty forgiving if you're prone to forgetfulness. The only things that really need to go in order are the onions and meat, because the onions need to break down and flavor the meat, and the meat needs to be crumbled before it goes into the liquid. I forgot to add the meat at the right time once and came out with a perfectly good vegetarian chili. Yesterday I forgot the garlic until the simmer and dumped it in halfway. The spices need to be simmered for a while, but if you forget until the end somehow, you can add them and let it simmer for another hour. It doesn't burn very easily. You can add water or boil it off if you need it thinner or thicker. There's a very long time in the middle to adjust the flavor if it tastes off.

It was one of the few things that reliably came out good when I was forgetting my sentences in the middle of saying them, so I hope this helps some of you as well!

[prismaticpichu]

You wanted prompts for Angeal and Sephiroth?

I like the idea of Angeal slowly getting Sephiroth attached to modern appliances or concepts, especially since Seph has been so sheltered. Maybe Seph starts copying him, solely because he associates this stuff with Angeal. And Angeal is an all-positive force for good lmao

AHHHHHHHHH!!! I did!!!! And this is an ADORABLE one 😭💙💙💙

Tyyyy, Alto!! You got it!!

*zelda cooking music*

~

"Hmm-hmmhmm-hmmhmmm~"

Strong fingers cracked the egg in a smooth, soundless split, not a drop of yolk running loose as it splashed into the batter like liquid sunshine, not a single shell or shadow to be seen. The entire apartment now billowed with the sweet, mingled fragrance of cocoa and vanilla, a toasty warmth ballooning from the preheating oven as Sephiroth's gaze oscillated between the timer and his friend's masterful performance, completely marveled. Completely captivated.

He had never seen anything like it.

...Well, alright: he had seen eggs before, but hardly the kinds that didn’t hatch into Zoloms, dragons, or other cold-blooded creatures—let alone ones that were split asunder so neatly, and without a supernova of eggshells as the result of making direct contact.

How did one do that?

How did one crack an egg without it exploding in their hands like a water balloon?

How did one, per se...

Do all of this?

Noting his sheer wonder, Angeal's hum bubbled out into a chuckle, neatly plunking the eggshells into the trash can and tossing his comrade a quiet, knowing smile.

"Heh, I must say, I'm pretty honored. Some people tend to find this part prettyyy boring."

Sephiroth blinked, his awe momentarily eclipsed by a burst of shock. "Boring?" he parroted, peeling his elbows off the kitchen counter.

Angeal nodded, relaxed and unbothered. He cracked another egg into the bowl. "Mmmhmm."

"But..."—Sephiroth paused, watching yet another pearl of perfect, unmarred yolk splash onto the sandy mix—"but this is fascinating..." He sounded almost offended, incredulous. "Who finds it boring?"

It better not be—

"Genesis," Angeal chuckled, disposing of the last of the eggshells.

Sephiroth's face turned wooden.

"Hey, don't hold it against poor Gen: he just, y'know... prefers to eat things, not prepare them."

"...So he's impatient?"

"I prefer the word 'eager'," Angeal amended, a playful dash of authority in his tone. He then flashed him another knowing smile. "But... yes. Quite impatient. Especailly with the brownies."

"See, I just don't under—... brownies?" Sephiroth's eyes widened, completely discarding his previous qualms in favor of this much more important information, the word floating from his lips as if only spoken in legend. "Did you say brownies?"

Angeal's smile only broadened, brightened. "I did."

"...You know how to make brownies?"

"Yessir."

"As in: chocolate rectangular prisms of fudge?"

The man's eyes must have been as round as two obsidian moons, luminous as the sun.

He didn't care.

He didn't need to care...

Not around his friend.

Presently, Angeal had bent down to fish around for something in the cabinets, but Sephiroth could still hear the smile in his voice as he quipped, laughing, "Y'know, Sephiroth... I don't think there's a soul on this planet who would ever say that besides you." It was said like a joke, phrased like a tease, annunciated like a jab—

Yet it warmed Sephiroth's heart like an embrace.

He turned away as the smile threatened his lips, an inexorable force.

C'mon, friend, what do you say: want to be my co-chef...?

Mmphhh. Weren't we just granted these apartments?

Well, yes.

And you want to sully it with food residue already?

Heh, well... they're going to get dirty eventually, no? Might as well start early.

"..."

C'mon, Sephiroth. You won't regret it.

..No.

He did not regret it.

"Alllright!" A loud, heavy thump. "Here we go! Last step."

Turning back to the counter, rattled, Sephiroth was surpised to see that a large, milk-white, wire-leaking... something had been placed atop it, and was promptly plugged into the nearby outlet as if it didn't look like something that was meant to grind him into mince meat—especially with the metal, webbed device protruding from the bottom...!

He took a step back, defensive.

Genesis would have surely expected him to hiss like a frightened housecat.

"Alright! You wanna— whoah, Sephiorth?"

"What is that?" Sephiroth's eyes narrowed, knifelike. "Some kind of weapon? Of war...?"

"What? No!" Angeal's voice sounded as if it was bisected between amusement and concern, his countenance just as divided. "It's a mixer."

"A what?"

"A... mixer?"

"Of internal functions?"

"Interna—... what? No! Of course not!" Angeal broke into a bit a laugh now, raising his hands in a sign of peace. "It's an automatic mixer! You know—" But he stopped himself, waiting a beat, realizing from Sephiroth's expression alone that the man clearly didn't know, and that being condescending or blithe about it would only damage the situation further. He instead lowered his hands, watching Sephiroth carefully, assessing his expression—tense, triggered, anxious. Wide and alert in ways that Angeal would never be able to fully understand, but in ways that he had learned, knowing good and well that Sephiroth's dubiousness wasn't his fault, that it was baked into his soul after years upon years of experience. Nightmares. Abuse. Things that had taken time for Sephiroth to even confide in him about, and things he would never mishandle.

Not for long as he lived.

So, instead, with his hands lowered, he lowered his voice just so, and—

"It's okay, Sephiroth..." Calm, collected, kind. "I would never do anything to hurt you... okay?"

They weren't many words, but they were true words. Loud words. Sincere words.

...

And words that rang true, ultimately, as Angeal turned on the mixer, as he guided Sephiroth's hand across the bowl as he mixed the ingredients, beating the egg into the batter and watching as the color swirled, as his hand grew shaky and some mix splattered and as they laughed, both of them, giving life to the first of many beautiful memories to be baked into that apartment, the first of many beautiful lessons. And games. And shenanigans.

...and lectures.

"The same old", as Sephiroth would come to call it.

And when the cake was finally done, and Genesis had returned home from his mission, there was only one thing he wished for as his nineteenth birthday candle was kindled that very same night:

I wish this could last forever.

[cutiepieautistic]

Source/source/source

[therapyshoppe]

Tumbling Bubbles Gel Timer

https://therapyshoppe.com/specials/P4529-gel-timer-visual-sensory-fidget-tool-toy-liquid-motion-calming-focus-fidget-figit

[thespiritssaidso]

Just A Pinch of Magic

Summary: Shawn is brewing up a potion. Lassiter is on standby in case something goes wrong (like it always does). 

AKA: PotionMaster/Witch!Shawn and PowerfulWitch!Lassiter

Notes: AAAAHHHH WE’RE FINALLY HERE MY MOST ANTICIPATED DAY ITS HERE!!! 

You guys have no idea how excited I’ve been for this prompt, oh my sweet goodness. Just the thought of Shassie as witches just makes me go dhsjfjsljdkals and just fucking shake /pos 

Anyways, hope you guys enjoy! Literally all of my knowledge of witches and familiars come from a Webtoon I haven’t read in over a year called Accidental Magic (go read it, it’s super cute and hella gay). So I used some of the lore on witches from that along with a little bit of my own twist~

Flufftober day 11: Ingredients and Spells

—————

Shawn leaned over his miniature cauldron, sniffing it and nodding in satisfaction. The liquid inside it bubbled and popped, the consistency resembling that of mud. But it seemed to make the potioneer happy, so it must have been right. 

Ingredients of all kinds scattered the countertop surround the electric stove. Bottles of dried herbs, jars of strange powdery substances, a mortar and pestle filled with some kind of pink glittery paste, and even a small bowl filled past the brim with twigs that sparked from the tips every now and then. 

Carefully, Shawn reached over and pinched a tiny amount of white powder from one of the many. He sprinkled it around the edges of the cauldron and let it sit, allowing it to slowly soak into the mixture. Then he lifted the tip of his pointer finger and hovered it directly over the center of his potion. With extreme concentration, hand trembling from strain, his fingertip glowed a soft yellow. Slowly, it began gathering and soon materialized into a golden liquid, dropping into the cauldron once it grew heavy enough. 

Shawn let out a breath he’d been holding in. That never got any easier, no matter how many times he had to do it. He shook his hand in an attempt to loosen up the muscles.

“Alright, just gotta let that sit for a few minutes. Startinggg… now.” The second he said that, a plume of green smoke erupted from the cauldron, staining the ceiling above. 

Inside the cauldron, the mixture had gone from mud-like to a more liquidy texture, becoming a bright shade of chartreuse where originally it had been brown. 

Quickly, Shawn reached over for the egg timer and slammed it down, setting it to go off in exactly five minutes, no more no less. If it went more than that… ah, it was best not to think about it. 

Behind him, the door opened and in stepped Lassiter with a large black cat – a familiar – draped over his shoulders. It nimbly jumped off of him as he shrugged off his matching black suit jacket. “I’m home!” 

“In the kitchen, Carly!” 

At the sound of the other man’s voice, the cat quickly trotted over to the other room to greet Shawn. Swiftly and full of agileness, it leapt onto the counter – dodging all of the objects with grace – and onto Shawn’s expecting shoulders.

“Smith! Hey buddy! Did you have a fun day with Carly? Catch any bad guys? Ohhh I bet you did! I bet you got all of them, huh?” 

The cat, Smith, purred like a motor and leaned into the finger scratching his cheek. 

Lassiter had gotten Smith when he was only eight, the age when all witches' magic matured. He could remember the naming ceremony like it was yesterday, when he could feel half of his magic being transferred to his cat and turning it into a familiar. 

Commonly, children only kept their familiar until they themselves had also matured enough to handle the full weight of their magic on their own. But Lassiter was a special case. He had so much magic that even now, at his age, if he tried to take it back — which would revert Smith into a regular cat — his body would simply be overwhelmed. No, keeping his familiar was the best choice, for his own health and safety. 

Shawn, on the other hand, didn’t have a familiar. Mostly because of the fact that he simply didn’t have enough magic inside of him to need help regulating. It was why he took to making potions so often, desperate to be part of the magical world in some capacity. 

Lassiter smiled at the sight of his two boys getting along. It felt like just yesterday they were both fighting over who got the detective’s attention at the moment. “If I had to guess, I’d say you liked Shawn more than me, Smith.” 

Smith’s head shot up, as if awakening from a daze, and quickly leapt down to the ground. He began circling Lassiter’s legs, acting as though he’d been there the whole time. 

Lassiter sniffed at the air, slightly wrinkling his nose. “What is that smell?” 

Shawn, not seeing his boyfriend’s slight look of disgust, smiled proudly and gazed at his concoction. “Oh, nothing special. Just a new sleeping draught I’ve been workshopping.” 

Immediately, Lassiter became wary. “Shawn…” 

The fake psychic was a master at potions, although he sometimes really didn’t act it. He loved experimenting and trying to improve on already existing recipes. More often than not he’d just barely miscalculate some ingredient or add it at the wrong time, causing it to explode in his face. 

Or it would, if Lassiter wasn’t always there to cast a containment spell over an unruly potion Shawn had made on a whim. 

But there were moments when Shawn would indeed improve something. One of his most successful modifications had been a newer and easier way to get rid of migraines. That one was one of his favorites.

“Don’t worry! I’ve got it all under control. I added some ground essence of moonlight this time, so it should stabilize it.”

“Should?”

“Well, it either settles after the timer goes off. Or, it… doesn’t.” 

Lassiter ran a hand down an exhausted face. “Well, I’m just glad I got home in time. What if it does something it’s not supposed to and I’m not here?” 

“But it hasn’t! And you’re here now! So if it does go up in flames and fireworks, I know I’ve got you to protect me.” 

“Mmmh… Can’t argue with that logic.”

Smith bumped his head against the detective’s shin and let out a single meow. 

Lassiter raised his eyebrows. “I’m not telling him you said that.” 

“What? What’d he say?” 

“Nothing. How much time did you say until it was done?” 

“Uh, hang on.” Shawn leaned over and checked the egg timer. “Thirty seconds left. If all goes well and it doesn’t explode, I need to add another splash of magic,” he groaned when he said that, “and then stir it counterclockwise with a stick blessed by a druid until it turns dark green.”

Lassiter noticed his less than enthused expression at the notion of having to use his already very limited magic supply. Again. “Does it have to be yours?” 

Shawn immediately caught on to what Lassiter was implying. “Well, that depends. Are you offering? Because you know it won’t work unless you actually say it.” 

“Yes. I’m offering.” 

Just then, the egg timer went off. Almost immediately the potion began to softly whine and let out bright blue sparks. “Crap on a cracker…” Lassiter mumbled under his breath, rushing to the cauldron as fast as he could. 

Like Shawn had earlier, Lassiter held his finger over the concoction. Although he didn’t have to concentrate nearly as much as his boyfriend had to. Almost immediately a drop of golden liquid dripped from the tip of his pointer finger and splashed into the potion. 

The liquid stopped throwing off sparks, and instead began to smoke. 

Lassiter looked at it with mistrust and backed away. “Is it supposed to do that?” 

Instead of answering right away, Shawn began laughing with glee. “Yes! Oh my god, yes! This is great!” He reached over to the bowl of sticks and grabbed the longest one. Without missing a beat he began stirring the potion counterclockwise. 

Nothing changed. The potion stayed the same shade of light green, smoke still pouring out heavily, and Shawn’s grin never wavering. 

“Okay, now I just need to do this until-” 

BOOM

Lassiter, ever the quick thinker, cast a containment spell — a spell he was becoming all too familiar with — faster than he’d ever done in the past. And it was just in time, too. One second later and the entire kitchen would’ve been doused in Shawn’s concoction. 

The two (three if they were counting Smith) stood in shocked silence at the disaster they had just barely managed to avoid. 

Through the cracks of liquid splattered on the transparent dome of Lassiter containment spell, they could see Shawn’s potion raging. It splashed angrily against the walls of the spell, thrashing desperately. 

A bead of sweat ran down Lassiter’s temple and he gripped a hand into a fist in an attempt to strengthen his spell. He waved the other hand, magically supercooling the heating coils of the stove underneath the cauldron. 

Lassiter held on for at least two minutes before the rogue potion finally settled down. He released the spell, and he and Shawn looked to see what the damage was. 

It was a complete mess. The cauldron — one that Shawn had bought recently — had melted halfway, the potion inside spilling all over the counter and onto the floor. 

With another wave of his hand, Lassiter was able to make the disgusting remains disappear to save them the hassle of cleaning it up. 

“Dammit!” Shawn angrily tossed the blessed stick back onto the counter. “I thought I really had something there…” 

“Hey, look, it’s alright. Accidents happen, Shawn.” Lassiter consoled his boyfriend. “What were you trying to modify, anyways?” 

“I was just trying to see if I could make the sleeping draught pineapple flavored. Don’t get me wrong, the grape flavored stuff from the store is great.” Shawn sighed. “I’m- I dunno, getting a little tired of the taste. It got really old really fast.” He looked over where the mess once was. “Back to square one now. Yippee.” 

Lassiter couldn’t help the amused grin. “Pineapple? Really?” 

“Hey! That fruit is a gift to this earth!” 

“Right, of course.” Then he remembered something. “Hey, know what’ll cheer you up?” 

Shawn looked at Lassiter, all previous signs of disappointment completely gone. ��Ooo what? What is it?”

Lassiter reached behind his back and into his pocket dimension. His hands closed around the handles of a plastic bag. “Tacos from your favorite food truck,” he dramatically presented the bagged styrofoam boxes that held their food, “and we can watch whatever movie you want.” 

Shawn’s whole demeanor brightened up even more, if that was possible. “Oh Carly, you always know exactly what to say.”

—————

Notes: This was super fun to write! I hope you guys loved it as much as I do <3

ao3 link

[aquabuggy]

“Imagination, life is your creation”

Say, what band was it that wrote that song again? Escapes me… Oh well, anyways,

Happy Barbie Movie Release Day!

It’s nice to feel excited about something again.

It’s not every day you see a toy product centered movie gaining this much positive attention, much less one that deals in the existential horror of being alive. Which is, actually, exactly what I expected out of it and am very happy to see.

Barbie’s probably one of if not the most recognizable and successful product Mattel has, and it’s been that way for decades. But why am I talking about that here? This is a things-full-of-liquid-with-heavy-emphasis-on-water-games blog!

Well, you’re not gonna believe it, but Mattel being a toy company that’s been around for this long, has actually dabbled a bit in our territory! And they actually made a good couple of water games themed around a certain blonde blue eyed doll and her best friends!

So! Without further ado, may I present to you……..

Polly Pocket Tiny Games!

What? Was that not where you thought that was going?

Believe it or not, there really aren’t many Barbie water games at all, just cheaply reskinned ring toss games with a Barbie backdrop…which is both baffling and disappointing considering Barbie has had COUNTLESS beach, pool, sea, and just general water themes. Polly Pocket though? Got 6. You may recognize these if you’re a veteran of this blog.

Being one of Mattel’s latest ventures in water games, my sources tell me that these were actually received incredibly poorly, averaging at a 2-3 star rating. While definitely cute and unique, reviews often mention that the games seem to be designed more for aesthetics than actual play, and that it’s very hard to get some of the play pieces to actually move. Not too surprising looking at those cramped tanks. Wasted potential for sure!

Ohhh but I can’t just end the post there can I? That’s such a bummer! Well, what if I told you this wasn’t the first time Mattel tried their hand at making water games? What if I told you that in 1989 Mattel was one of the few big toy companies that actually dared to challenge the reign of Tomy’s Waterfuls during the peak of its popularity? Oh it’s very true, and considering you’ve probably never heard of it, you can safely assume how that endeavor went. But it’s intriguing nonetheless!

Introducing….

[ photo credit- rww121212, lb-squared, whats-in, and gilbe-niema on eBay ]

Trouble Bubbles/Fun Bubbles

Documentation of these online is mostly limited to listings on buy-and-sell sites (As always. I can’t stress how vital these sites are to conserving lost/obscure media.) so there’s not a lot known about these, and not many pictures of them either. What I can gather is that Mattel made at least 6 of these as well, 3 Trouble Bubbles games and 3 Super Trouble Bubbles games. The main difference between the 2 being Super Trouble Bubbles having a small switch that allows you to redirect the jets of water, which is pretty cool and admittedly not something I’ve seen in other water games! Both also have a wind up timer to challenge yourself to complete the game in a short period.

I’ve yet to collect one of these myself, but they look pretty decent in terms of quality and stand out nicely. They never fully took off in terms of popularity but I think they’re pretty cool, especially as a piece of toy history! Not too shabby at all for Waterfuls competition, my hat’s off to them! Not bad Mattel, sad they haven’t recaptured the same inventiveness for their Polly games. But hey, honestly? Nowadays would be a GREAT time to bring back Trouble Bubbles if you ask me. Water games are coming back in style and Waterfuls has been slow in new major products for quite a while. Who knows? It may just be able to snag that crown sometime in the future…

Unlikely.

But hey, anything’s possible in this crazy age!

[lavareview]

THE FIRST LAVA LAMP...?

The history of the lava lamp can be quite muddled and confusing to approach. From its original invention to its manufacturing and sale, who exactly “did it first” is often unclear. Two lava lamp companies, Lava Lite and Mathmos, are said to be the originators of the lava lamp, and both draw their histories back to inventor Edward Craven Walker… Who himself is disputed as the true inventor of the lava lamp.

So, what’s the real story?

Well, it starts sometime in the 1940s with a Scot by the name of Donald Dunnet, a motor engineer living in South East England. Little information is available on Dunnet, and the most helpful source on him and his inventions is his great-grandson Charlie Leverett, who along with his father and aunt have tried to piece together accurate information on Dunnet and his invention.

According to an old (unfortunately dateless) newspaper article, which the family uses as a source, the original invention came about when Felicity, Dunnet’s youngest daughter and Charlie Leverett’s grandmother, broke the family’s egg-timer, coincidentally while there was a wartime shortage of egg-timers in the UK. Dunnet, who was described as a part-time inventor, set out to build a replacement – imagining, instead of sand falling down to measure time, a controlled rising of oil to the surface of water. This “inverted egg-timer” would therefore be the very first lava lamp prototype.

It would not, however, be the last prototype created by Donald Dunnet. In December 1950, Dunnet applied for a patent granted in 1954 for “a display device using liquid bubbles in another liquid” – making no reference to time measurement, it can be assumed that at this point the invention no longer had anything to do with egg-timers and was instead meant to be an aesthetically pleasing display.

The abstract further describes the invention as “a display device [which] comprises an upper layer of liquid 2 and a lower layer of liquid 3 in a transparent container 1, the two liquids being non-miscible and the upper layer being of lower specific gravity than the lower layer and means 9 for heating the lower layer so that it rises through the upper layer in the form of liquid bubbles […], the bubbles being cooled by the upper layer so that they return to the lower layer.”

Further technical detail is added, but with this initial description, you may already have recognized the basic workings of a lava lamp: wax or oil heated by a light bulb at the bottom of the lamp bubbles up through the fluid filling the container (typically water); the bubbles cool down as they reach the top of the lamp and fall back to the bottom, creating a continuous flow of 'lava'.

While there are no other patents I could find for further iterations on this invention, Dunnet continued to improve on his design. The family was able to find one picture of various models created by Dunnet: one resembles a large glass jug, one a long-necked, bulbous bottle, and three resemble lanterns (interestingly, lantern designs would later be sold by both Lava Lite and Crestworth). The picture is dated "Easter 1960".

Dunnet was even featured on “The BBC Inventors Club” (date of broadcast unknown) for another of his inventions, seemingly his “cleaner for flat surfaces” patented in 1955, pictured here:

According to Dunnet’s grandson, in the 1960s, the family still owned and used one of Dunnet’s lamps, which he says “worked really well and was well developed, quite far removed from his original ‘egg timer’ based design”. He further describes this lamp as using “a Grant’s whiskey bottle with Red lava”. He also declared his intention to create a replica of this prototype based on his memories of it, but it seems pictures of such a replica never materialized.

Sadly, Donald Dunnet passed away sometime between 1960 and 1964, and would never market his invention himself. According to his grandson, his widow had his workshop completely cleared after his death, and no surviving prototypes remain. Still – thanks to newspaper articles, family testimony, the 1950s patent, and the surviving photographs of Donald Dunnet and his inventions, it seems clear that he was the true original inventor of the lava lamp, though not the one who would come to market it to the public.

Unfortunately, Dunnet seems to have been widely forgotten from lava lamp history, with many sources not mentioning him at all, and only his initial egg-timer prototype being briefly credited as inspiring Edward Craven Walker in other sources. It seems Dunnet’s family passed on his story through generations and often spoke of his invention as being stolen, though his granddaughter Linda Leverett is “not sure what really happened”, and the family primarily expresses wishing that he was better known and recognized for his creations. You can take a look at various other patents held by Dunnet here.

So then, who is this Edward Craven Walker we keep hearing about?

Edward Craven Walker (1918-2000) was a British inventor, now known as the creator of the lava lamp. In 1963, Craven Walker found himself at the Queen’s Head pub in Dorset, England. There, he spotted a “blob light” on the bar, described as “a glass cocktail shaker full of oil and water with a light bulb beneath”. This was one iteration of Dunnet’s invention – already no longer an egg-timer as is often claimed, but instead a decorative item.

Craven Walker, learning that Dunnet had died, decided to take on the further development of the lamp himself. He hired British inventor David George Smith to further develop the device. In 1964, Smith applied for a patent assigned to Craven Walker’s company ‘Crestworth Limited’ and granted in 1968, for “a display device comprising a container having two substances therein, with one of the substances being of a heavier specific gravity and immiscible with the other substance […] and when heat is applied to the container, the first substance will become flowable and move about in the other substance”.

Craven Walker named this lamp the “Astro Lamp”, and this model was sold by Crestworth starting in 1963, making it the first commercial lava lamp.

The Crestworth Astro and its variations (such as the Astro Mini) have defined the classic look of lava lamps ever since. They were greatly successful throughout the 1960s and 1970s and are now icons of the era. Crestworth would be renamed Mathmos in 1992, and Mathmos is still one of the two best-known lava lamp companies in the world.

So, what’s with Lava Lite and its claim of being “the original lava lamp company”?

In the end, it’s simply a case of international manufacturing rights. In 1965, Craven Walker sold the US manufacturing rights of his Astro Lamp to two American entrepreneurs, Adolph Wertheimer and Hy Spector, who saw the lamp at a novelty convention in Hamburg, West Germany. Wertheimer and Spector founded the Lava Manufacturing Corporation in Chicago, Illinois, and the Astro Lamp was renamed the Lava Lite and brought to the US market. In the 1970s, the rights to the Lava Lite were sold to Haggerty Enterprises, and it would be distributed by a subsidiary called Lava World International. Lava World International was later renamed Lava Lite LLC. Finally, the Lava Lamp brand was acquired by toy manufacturer Schylling in 2018. This brand, often referred to as “Lava Lite”, is the other big player in the lava lamp world. Because both Mathmos and Lava Lite originate from Craven Walker’s initial Astro Lamp, both brands still lay claim to “the original lava lamp”.

So that’s the story of the lava lamp, as best as I’ve been able to piece it together! An original invention by Donald Dunnet, developed by Edward Craven Walker, and sold in the US by Lava Lite and internationally by Mathmos. A simple but ingenious device, originally only meant as an egg-timer, which would become an icon of the 60s and the 70s, and remains popular to this day.

Did I get something wrong? Am I missing details? Do you have more information on lava lamp history? Feel free to reach out with an ask or submission!

Sources:

The History of the Astro Lamp - Designs by Donald Dunnet - FlowOfLava

The History of the Lava Lamp - Smithsonian Magazine

Donald Dunnet - Original Lava Lamps Inventor by Charlie Leverett on OozingGoo

The Mystique of the Lava Lamps - BBC

Craven Walker - The Telegraph