Federation!Logan Walker

Logan wasn’t a cruel man. He wasn’t when the ODIN Strike occurred. He wasn’t when he finished high school. He wasn’t when he went through with his first kill. He wasn’t when his dad died. Instead, there was a sinking feeling of rotting alive. Hope drained, even when the end of a war was that close. They just had to get to Rorke.

And they did. Logan had fired that shot in the straining locomotive of the train. He was certain Rorke wouldn’t live–especially with the water rushing in. He remembered his own body straining to drag Hesh out, the water coming through his nose like an uncomfortable memory he couldn’t escape. Logan had dragged Hesh to the rock and gave Hesh the signal to call back to Merrick.

Merely a minute later, Logan’s arm was shattered and the desperate calling of his name echoed in his ears. He couldn’t think. Memories didn’t make sense.

He wanted to go home.

---

Rorke made every day long. Meals consisted of poisonous foods Logan couldn’t pronounce, and nights were spent with blinding lights in his eyes. At first, it was difficult to sleep in. But he had begun getting used to the light. Some days were spent half-naked in cages that made Logan have to physically curl up. Other days were spent making himself ‘useful’. Most moments wondered if the others were coming back. Eventually, he stopped wondering and his hope faded; that was when the real breaking began.

“Don’t you ever wonder how this is the greatest form of intimacy?” Rorke had asked him one day. His hand had been on his hip, moving his thighs away to nestle his pelvis against his ass. “Intimacy is formed when love is. They didn’t love you; none of them did. None of them did this. But I do, Logan. I like you. That’s why I’m doing this.”

And despite the pain pulling his body apart, no scream or whimper escaped his throat. A silent sob was all he let out, but even that was released when Rorke had left the room.

---

Coming back was a nightmare in itself. When Keegan pulled him out of the pit, it felt like vines had been cut from his wrists. The hug was foreign, the quiet shushing as Keegan pulled his silent body into the shadows. Merrick was there next, immediately giving Logan his father’s mask.

He had brought it.

With shaky hands, Logan had taken it and put it on. But there was no bit of love or care, or even thankfulness echoing in his brain. His father had left so many times, and Hesh only did so many hugs. They weren’t a ‘touchy’ family. Even with Merrick, Keegan, and Kick, there was nothing even remotely sexual. It was always a pat on the back or a side hug when one of them needed comfort. When his father died, there was...Logan couldn’t remember. It couldn’t have been that important, then, and therefore, he was not cared for.

This mindset was dragged through the next few weeks. Hesh was too fearful to go near Logan, especially with the absent stares he gave. ”It’s not him,” Logan had heard Hesh say in a low, breaking voice. ”He did something to him. It’s not right.”

Keegan had tried interacting with him. He brought him meals and checked the injuries, but any time Keegan got too close, Logan would always shift his legs apart; no matter the position. After a few times, Keegan got the hint and left to tell Merrick. Merrick came. Merrick left. Kick came. Then he left.

The only one who didn’t seem to stay or leave was {User}. ”My replacement,” Logan had told himself. And in a way, it was true. {User} had a uniform close to his own, had eyeblack on the same way the others did. Hesh was seen talking with {{obj}} more and more. {User} was quiet. Just like him.

Eventually, the psychological torment evolved into some sort of messed-up self-harm. He’d claw at himself, pick at the stitches where they had removed his tracker. He tore at his face to create marks that etched across his face in the same way eyeblack would. He’d rip at his own thighs–claiming he was taking away Rorke’s hands. Each time, {User} came back. Each time, he’d receive new bandages that were placed over the areas. And each time, {User} knew exactly where they were at.

At some point, {User} had begun sleeping inside his room. A chair set on the far corner of the cell monitored the movements of Logan throughout the night. Small gifts would be brought, but Logan would refuse them. He refused the thicker blanket, the pillow, the mattress to be brought in. He scowled when someone tried bringing new foods–ones they claimed he had liked. He pulled away when new clothes were handed to him.

”They aren’t doing anything. No fucking, no love.” He told himself the same thing, even when a heat would grow in his stomach each time he heard {User}’s familiar knock.

---

{User}’s hand worked against his thigh, applying the ointment in gently to each lifted piece of skin on his thigh. He was down to his underwear, his legs spread apart more than {User} needed. Regardless, he sat there in silence with a new expectancy.

Logan didn’t speak. He watched the hand roam across his thighs, coming up too close to the hem of his boxers. He had clawed there specifically to see how {{sub}} would react. Nothing. Instead, the gentle hands moved with a professional standpoint that he hadn’t seen in a good minute. And instead of letting it continue, Logan’s hand grasped {User}’s and pulled it just up to the soft bulge of his cock.

“If you care, you will do,” he had snarled. Maybe it was out of fear, but {User} had obliged.

---

Apparently, his words had given {User} enough insight on him. Logan would occasionally hear questions about what Rorke did, but nothing too invasive. Sex never continued, but Logan felt more cared for. He allowed {User} to bring him blankets and a mattress, but refused the pillow. He would use his own arm for support.

Eventually, {User} began sleeping right beside him. Logan kept his arm firmly around {{obj}}, pulling {{obj}} back against him as he breathed up {{poss}} neck. He stared as {{sub}} slept, but he was sure {{sub}} had been faking it. Some nights, he would grind against {{obj}} gently, his hands holding {{obj}} a little firmer in case {{sub}} moved. But {User} never did.

And tonight, he knew he was going a little too far. His body was practically cocooning {User}’s, his hands steadying {{poss}} legs apart. His cock was already firmly buried inside {{poss}} pussy, his teeth grazing the edge of {{poss}} neck.

“Stay,” he breathed. “I’ll be done soon.”

”Rorke’s words; not his.”

There was an underlying sensation with each slow, gentle thrust. He could give {{obj}} a baby, get {{poss}} belly swollen until he felt a little kick. Flood {{obj}} with cum until {User} was still bloated a day later because of it. After all, his father had two kids at Logan’s age. Why couldn’t Logan have a child of his own?

Logan had been fucking {{obj}} sideways for a few minutes now, his leg strung over {User}’s to keep {{obj}} still. He was panting against {{poss}} ear, humping {{poss}} ass while his cock stayed buried in that beautiful, tight pussy. It clenched around him any time he shifted, like {User} was worried he’d start hammering into {{poss}} body.

“I won’t hurt you,” he ushered, a harsh kiss pressed against the underside of {{poss}} ear. “I’m just loving you. Caring. I’m not hurting.”

Even though Logan was being gentle, he knew he was bigger than {User}. Big enough to at least strain {{poss}} pussy with his cock.

Logan wasn’t a cruel man. He wasn’t when the ODIN Strike occurred. He wasn’t when he finished high school. He wasn’t when he went through with his first kill. He wasn’t when his dad died. Instead, there was a sinking feeling of rotting alive. Hope drained, even when the end of a war was that close. They just had to get to Rorke.

And they did. Logan had fired that shot in the straining locomotive of the train. He was certain Rorke wouldn’t live–especially with the water rushing in. He remembered his own body straining to drag Hesh out, the water coming through his nose like an uncomfortable memory he couldn’t escape. Logan had dragged Hesh to the rock and gave Hesh the signal to call back to Merrick.

Merely a minute later, Logan’s arm was shattered and the desperate calling of his name echoed in his ears. He couldn’t think. Memories didn’t make sense.

He wanted to go home.

---

Rorke made every day long. Meals consisted of poisonous foods Logan couldn’t pronounce, and nights were spent with blinding lights in his eyes. At first, it was difficult to sleep in. But he had begun getting used to the light. Some days were spent half-naked in cages that made Logan have to physically curl up. Other days were spent making himself ‘useful’. Most moments wondered if the others were coming back. Eventually, he stopped wondering and his hope faded; that was when the real breaking began.

“Don’t you ever wonder how this is the greatest form of intimacy?” Rorke had asked him one day. His hand had been on his hip, moving his thighs away to nestle his pelvis against his ass. “Intimacy is formed when love is. They didn’t love you; none of them did. None of them did this. But I do, Logan. I like you. That’s why I’m doing this.”

And despite the pain pulling his body apart, no scream or whimper escaped his throat. A silent sob was all he let out, but even that was released when Rorke had left the room.

---

Coming back was a nightmare in itself. When Keegan pulled him out of the pit, it felt like vines had been cut from his wrists. The hug was foreign, the quiet shushing as Keegan pulled his silent body into the shadows. Merrick was there next, immediately giving Logan his father’s mask.

He had brought it.

With shaky hands, Logan had taken it and put it on. But there was no bit of love or care, or even thankfulness echoing in his brain. His father had left so many times, and Hesh only did so many hugs. They weren’t a ‘touchy’ family. Even with Merrick, Keegan, and Kick, there was nothing even remotely sexual. It was always a pat on the back or a side hug when one of them needed comfort. When his father died, there was...Logan couldn’t remember. It couldn’t have been that important, then, and therefore, he was not cared for.

This mindset was dragged through the next few weeks. Hesh was too fearful to go near Logan, especially with the absent stares he gave. ”It’s not him,” Logan had heard Hesh say in a low, breaking voice. ”He did something to him. It’s not right.”

Keegan had tried interacting with him. He brought him meals and checked the injuries, but any time Keegan got too close, Logan would always shift his legs apart; no matter the position. After a few times, Keegan got the hint and left to tell Merrick. Merrick came. Merrick left. Kick came. Then he left.

The only one who didn’t seem to stay or leave was {User}. ”My replacement,” Logan had told himself. And in a way, it was true. {User} had a uniform close to his own, had eyeblack on the same way the others did. Hesh was seen talking with {{obj}} more and more. {User} was quiet. Just like him.

Eventually, the psychological torment evolved into some sort of messed-up self-harm. He’d claw at himself, pick at the stitches where they had removed his tracker. He tore at his face to create marks that etched across his face in the same way eyeblack would. He’d rip at his own thighs–claiming he was taking away Rorke’s hands. Each time, {User} came back. Each time, he’d receive new bandages that were placed over the areas. And each time, {User} knew exactly where they were at.

At some point, {User} had begun sleeping inside his room. A chair set on the far corner of the cell monitored the movements of Logan throughout the night. Small gifts would be brought, but Logan would refuse them. He refused the thicker blanket, the pillow, the mattress to be brought in. He scowled when someone tried bringing new foods–ones they claimed he had liked. He pulled away when new clothes were handed to him.

”They aren’t doing anything. No fucking, no love.” He told himself the same thing, even when a heat would grow in his stomach each time he heard {User}’s familiar knock.

---

{User}’s hand worked against his thigh, applying the ointment in gently to each lifted piece of skin on his thigh. He was down to his underwear, his legs spread apart more than {User} needed. Regardless, he sat there in silence with a new expectancy.

Logan didn’t speak. He watched the hand roam across his thighs, coming up too close to the hem of his boxers. He had clawed there specifically to see how {{sub}} would react. Nothing. Instead, the gentle hands moved with a professional standpoint that he hadn’t seen in a good minute. And instead of letting it continue, Logan’s hand grasped {User}’s and pulled it just up to the soft bulge of his cock.

“If you care, you will do,” he had snarled. Maybe it was out of fear, but {User} had obliged.

---

Apparently, his words had given {User} enough insight on him. Logan would occasionally hear questions about what Rorke did, but nothing too invasive. Sex never continued, but Logan felt more cared for. He allowed {User} to bring him blankets and a mattress, but refused the pillow. He would use his own arm for support.

Eventually, {User} began sleeping right beside him. Logan kept his arm firmly around {{obj}}, pulling {{obj}} back against him as he breathed up {{poss}} neck. He stared as {{sub}} slept, but he was sure {{sub}} had been faking it. Some nights, he would grind against {{obj}} gently, his hands holding {{obj}} a little firmer in case {{sub}} moved. But {User} never did.

And tonight, he knew he was going a little too far. His body was practically cocooning {User}’s, his hands steadying {{poss}} legs apart. His cock was already firmly buried inside {{poss}} ass, his teeth grazing the edge of {{poss}} neck.

“Stay,” he breathed. “I’ll be done soon.”

”Rorke’s words; not his.”

There was an underlying sensation with each slow, gentle thrust. He could give {{obj}} a baby, get {{poss}} belly swollen until he felt a little kick. Flood {{obj}} with cum until {User} was still bloated a day later because of it. After all, his father had two kids at Logan’s age. Why couldn’t Logan have a child of his own?

Logan had been fucking {{obj}} sideways for a few minutes now, his leg strung over {User}’s to keep {{obj}} still. He was panting against {{poss}} ear, humping {{poss}} ass while his cock stayed buried in that beautiful, tight ass. It clenched around him any time he shifted, like {User} was worried he’d start hammering into {{poss}} body.

“I won’t hurt you,” he ushered, a harsh kiss pressed against the underside of {{poss}} ear. “I’m just loving you. Caring. I’m not hurting.”

Even though Logan was being gentle, he knew he was bigger than {User}. Big enough to at least strain {{poss}} ass with his cock.