#but if you put me in any water body. I will drown all the same.

[plasma-studios]

The Shape of You (ao3: x)

Winter King!Nightmare steals Dust away for his own. Blue refuses to leave his friend behind. Somewhat foolishly, he makes a wager: earn the favour of each Court, return with a token from each to prove it before the time runs out, and he'll be permitted to take Dust home.

Fail, and be lost to the Fae Realm forever. He's already attracting the attention of Spring Ruler!Ink, Summer King!Dream and Autumn Ruler!Error as he journeys through the Fae Realm... all who which seek to take him for their own gain.

But Blue plans to bring his friend home, whatever the cost.

(UTMV FAE AU)

Chapter 1: Foolish Wager

Up in the mountains, the ice does not melt. 

Cloud cover shrouds the palace on the peak; sculpted of ice and frost, it houses the Fae with long frozen over hearts. Beware the wind sweeping lost souls up the mountain paths; statues of ice made of brave adventurers and desperate men litter the snow-covered paths. And many more have long been buried under the snow.

The Winter King hoards souls, it is said. Beware the frost that doesn’t melt; beware the greed that guards their icy hearts. Winter’s greed has long been spoken of.

*** Blue has to resist the urge to bow. To kneel to the man resting atop his throne of ice. 

No, he thinks. Not man. Fae. The Fae is swathed in shadows seeping into the ice tiles, a single bottle-green eyelight fixated on him. His head leans to the right, as if curious. Or, more likely, uninterested, as his eye stares back at him unblinkingly.

The throne marks him as the Winter King, and Blue is very, very afraid. Or perhaps he is just shivering because of the cold.

The Winter King is made of shadows, dissolving under the glare of the sun, and swallowing all in the dark of winter nights.

But he is still very much solid under the light. Blue glances up, momentarily and warily, wondering where the light is coming from. 

“Little one. I suggest you turn back now.” His words are poised, almost regal, but the cruel turn of his mouth makes Blue swallow his fear and press ahead. 

“Let my friend go,” He says, trying not to falter against the hard stare.

“Yours?” His voice is as cold as ice. 

Dust is asleep. Or, Blue hopes he is. His back is flush against the side of the throne, head slumping over. Frost collects at his limp fingers spread across the ice, and he can almost hear his quivering breaths as— oh, Dust. The shaking breath that leaves him condenses into plumps of white smoke.

“You’re hurting him.” There is a quiver of his own in his voice. “You’re hurting him,” He repeats.

He prays Dust isn’t as lifeless as he appears. 

And the Winter Ruler simply stares back at him, though his mouth has curved over in amusement.  

“Hurting him? If that was my wish, he would’ve been left out in the snow. Not in my Court, and certainly not in my Palace. No, no.” He lets out a chuckle that makes Blue shiver again. “I’m helping him become better. Stronger.”

“Better?” Blue finds it in himself to shake his head. “He doesn’t need to be better. He’s— enough.”

“For you, perhaps. But he’s not yours anymore, is he?”

He is. But the thought that forms so quickly does not feel good. He is enough, but not in the way that it is for him. Dust’s his own person, enough as who he is. He swallows his words.

“He’s my friend,” He says. 

The Winter Ruler is still smiling. It is not kind. “Was he?”

“Dust is,” He hesitates. “Reticent,” He finally says. “But clever. If you knew him, you would know he’s already enough. You would know he doesn’t need to become better. You don’t know him at all.”

The hint of red was gone from Dust’s sleeping form. You don’t even know he never takes off his scarf. Because that was his brother’s. And it was red, so naturally the Fae had discarded of it. 

For the first time, the Winter King’s smile drops. 

“And that,” He says coolly, without so much as the slightest shift in tone (though the look in his eye makes Blue want to step back), “Is exactly what makes him worthy.”

“What?”

“What?” A voice mocks. Blue glances away, to the Fae lazing on the steps to the right of the throne. It is the only other Fae. 

“Killer,” The Winter King reprimands. The Fae makes a noise that tells Blue, mortal as he is, that he regrets nothing, but the WInter King simply rolls his single eyelight. He does not make a move to punish the Fae at all. 

Nightmare’s right hand man, he recalls from some Fae text, is his Killer. 

He stiffens, but the Fae known as Killer does not move to attack him despite the stories of his thirst of blood. Probably because the Winter King has not given him permission quite yet.

“Worthy of what?”

He tilts his head. 

“To join us? So few mortals ever prove suitable. It would be a waste, really, to let something so precious live on the filth—”

“He’s not yours.” 

The cold takes hold of him, stealing warmth and hope and light and—

“Don’t interrupt me.” 

And he is released, gasping.

“His soul is already freezing over,” He continues. “He may not be Fae quite yet, but he is already mine. He will be Fae soon enough.” 

“Let me make a deal.” Killer lets out a snort. He knows how desperate he sounds, but he can’t just leave Dust behind. He made a promise. “Let me make a deal for him,” He pleads. “To bring him home.”

The Winter King scoffs. His eyes glint with icy disdain. “Let’s say I was quite the fool, and did make a deal with you. Why would you want to go that far? What would you offer that could possibly be worth the latest soul of mine?”

“He’s not just some soul.” His hands had found the shape of a fist. “He’s my friend. I won’t leave him behind.” He considers if his next words will be his last, and says them anyway. “He doesn’t deserve that.”

The Winter King, instead, appears to soften. 

“He won’t just be any Fae,” The Winter King begins uncharacteristically softly. “One of my very own. He’ll be placed high in my Court, as young as he is. He’ll be allowed to stay in the Palace. You know how he is wanted, yes? You know how he had to run from town to town, village to village, to avoid arrest. You knew this, don’t lie to me, and chose to befriend him anyway. That means you want him happy, yes? Here is a place he’ll never have to run from again. Here is a place he will be safe, eternally. You would deny a friend all that?”

It is as if the breath has been stolen from his lungs.

“How do you know this?”

The Winter King does not smile, but Killer does. It is a cruel grin, spanning from ear to ear, with razor-sharp teeth he’s sure is growing sharper by the second.

He looks back to the Winter King, trying to look unperturbed. 

“Did you think we were so careless? To find him only when he wandered into our arms?”

“How long.” He swallows. “How long were you watching?”

“Boringly long.”

“Quiet. Long enough,” He smiles. It is more unnerving than Killer’s, though he shows no teeth. “Long enough to know you have a family waiting for you, back home. Long enough to know he asked if you would come with him, and you told him you couldn’t leave your family behind. Long enough to know even this friendship has its limits. So why act as if you would fight tooth and nail to stay with him when you’ve already left him behind once? Pretender.”

His throat tightens. “I— but that’s different.”

“How so? Enlighten me.” 

He wants to lash out, to deny it, but what can he say against the truth? He had wanted Dust to be safe, but, his family. His chest was twisting painfully. It wasn’t the same. 

“It is different,” Blue finally manages to say. “Who wouldn’t stay for his older brother? I didn’t want to leave Dust, but I didn’t have—”

“Ah,” The Winter King interrupts. “You didn’t want to, you say, but you did. How noble. What a wonderful friend you are.” He gestures to Dust, the movement small, but he clearly took pleasure in it. “So here he lies, abandoned, but safe. And only because I took him in.”

“You chased him up a cliff— how did I put him in danger? Who do you think snuck him rations when he was caught stealing and put on probation under his umpteeth fake alias? Hell, I walked the route with him! How can you possibly say he was safe because of you? You’re the one that sent the blizzard after him!”

“Yes, the blizzard. He survived, did he not? And proved himself worthy.”

Was Blue smashing his skull against a rock? Was he the illogical one?

“What if he’d died in the blizzard?”

“He didn’t.”

“But what if he had?”

He shrugs. The Winter King shrugged. “He would’ve become mine anyway.”

Blue simply stares at him. He stares, long enough that Killer takes his eyes off him to fiddle with his knife.

“If you leave now,” The Winter King casually says, “I could promise you safe passage.”

“You don’t want him.”

“What?” 

"You don’t want him for himself.” He almost spit the words out, but common sense made him swallow the welt of saliva. "You want him for what he can become . What he can do for you. You said it yourself. You chose him because of his worth to the Court. Not because of who he was— is.”

“I chose him because I saw something better. So what if the cost of achieving that is helping him leave behind mediocrity?”

“He—”

“Enough.” Nightmare’s face drops. “Why am I arguing with a child? You are being foolish. My offer for safe passage only stands for as long as my patience does. I’ll freeze you solid and have both of you if you keep this up.”

“I’m not a— fine. You want me out of your court? Make a deal with me, for him.”

“You still haven’t answered my question, child. What could you offer that could possibly be worth him?”

“Years of life.” 

He shakes his head. “The lifetime he would have when he becomes Fae? A thousandfold your own mortal lifespan. You would not have nearly enough.”

“What if,” He stops. He collects himself. “What about a challenge? If I win, you’ll give me safe passage and let me bring Dust home. Back to my town, that will not be affected in any negative manner or endure any negative effects relative to what most mortals would perceive negative, because of the outcome or anything else in relation to the challenge.”

“Mouthy.” 

“A trial? So bold.” He doesn’t even bother chastising Killer this time, his eyes gleaming with an odd hunger. “And if I win?”

He already knows what he’ll ask for, but he asks anyway. “What do you want?”

“I think you know. I want you to give me your True Name.”

He freezes.

“Giving?” He repeats. 

“Oh, yes. Knowing isn’t enough, here. I need ownership, little one.”

But that would mean everyone else forgetting it. 

That’ll erase every memory of me out there. There must’ve have been a hundred cautionary tales not to tell the Fae your name, and especially not to give them your name. Once you did it, you were gone from your loved ones forever. Even the memory of you. It would leave holes in their memories, your shape forever unfillable.

He hesitates for what must feel like an eternity. Though, what would he know of eternity?

“There must be something else,” He tries. The Winter King remains unimpressed. 

There is one more thing he could try. It is an unimaginable risk. But if Dust is what he wants, this is the only other thing he can barter. He hates it. But he has no choice. 

‘I know Dust’s True Name.” The moment he says this, the rustling wind goes silent. He hates the silence, the way the green eyelight fixates on him and even Killer is looking curiously at him. “If you win, I tell you his True Name.”

It feels like such a betrayal, wagering the information he had trusted Blue with. But if he doesn’t, Dust will never have the chance to escape. He swallows the guilt.

“I already have him, though.” The Winter King’s eyes gleam with greed. “A Name would definitely give me more room to work with, but he’ll be mine all the same. Just that won’t suffice.”

Winter is known for its greed.

What else can he barter? If he can’t offer Dust’s name, he can only offer his own. But— that would mean being forgotten. What about Papyrus? If he dies, he knows he’ll grieve, but he’ll move on just as he always does. But he can’t stand the thought of him never having known him at all. His Papyrus. 

And if he fails, Dust too will forget him. His Dust.

“Or,” He amends, “I tell you my True Name.”

There’s no mistaking the greed in his eyes. “And.”  

“Either I… give you my Name, or I tell you both Dust and I’s Names.” He swallows. If he loses, in any manner, he is fucked. “If I lose.”

The Winter King smiles. “Well, if you’re offering, how can I refuse?”

“And when I win?”

“If you win, I’ll let you bring Dust home under safe passage, and I will not do anything to harm anyone or anything in your town regardless of the outcome of the trial.” “You won’t do anything that would be perceived as harm by most mortals,” He insists. He’d heard too many stories of Fae-driven madness by ignorant blessings.

He smiles wider. “Fine. Do you accept, child?”

“You haven’t stated the trial yet.”

His smile curves into something more predatory. He gets to his feet. The amusement is gone from his smile, now. Shadows ripple at his feet, stretching out across the icy floor like living creatures.

Blue forces himself to stay still, and not flee.

“The trial will consist of all four Courts,” He drawls. “All the Rulers. Win their favour, and be given the token for each season. Winter, Autumn, Summer and Spring. Return to my Court with all four tokens before the Winter Solstice, and you will have won the trial.” 

“A token?” He pauses. Winter Solstice is what, two, three weeks later? “What about the token for Winter?”

“A charm imbued with magic. It signifies approval. Favour, even.” Blue frowns. Even if he’d succeed with the others, there was no way in hell he was going to procure favour from the Winter King. “But for the sake of the trial, I’ll grant you a Winter token. I would hate for anyone to think I’m anything but fair.” 

As if. He sighs, and thinks it through. Not like he has a choice.

“I want assurance that you won’t mess with Dust.” He knows he caught onto the right thing when he sees The Winter King’s smile drop. 

“Fine.” The slight flick of his head may very well be him rolling his eyes. “He’ll remain as he is, asleep and frozen, and still mortal.” 

“And retain his memories. Let him retain his memories.”

“I take it you accept the deal?” As he speaks, he catches sight of his teeth. Blue swallows.

“With my provisions, yes.”

“Very well.” He smiles sharply. “Extend your hand.”

Blue hesitates. He concedes.

He flinches away from the icy touch that spreads over— there is nothing there, he realises. Though his hand is numb with cold, there is nothing touching him. He turns his palm over.

There is a single snowflake resting there. It’s so small. Something in his chest seizes. What if he loses it?

Clink. He stills, confused. 

Then he sees the white trickling from the snowflake, curling around his fingers like a miniature silver snake. Before he says anything it is connecting around his wrist, and the snowflake is yanked out of his hand.

He stifles his yelp when he realises the token hangs from the newly-formed cuff.

He looks at the Winter King, but he looks wholly unaffected.

“There. One down, three to go.” It is a taunt. Blue doesn’t take the bait. Should he run? “Now, I said I could offer you safe passage. My patience is running thin. How about this? If you make it out of Winter alive, I’ll let you keep your pathetic life.”

Blue flinches at the cackle. But it is not from the Winter King.  The Fae on the throne steps rises. He carries his gleaming knife, and his grin from ear to ear is eager. 

He stares into those pools of black, leaking from where his eyes should be. 

He should run.

“Wait, Killer.” The Winter King glances to his left. “Horror’s hunting as well.”

He replies with something mildly rude. But Killer waits.

Blue wants to run, but he’s frozen to the spot.

Then something shifts in the corner of his eye. Light reflected off ice, reflected off metal. 

Behind him, there is another Fae rising to his feet. The glaring red eye staring dimly at him. The butcher knife gleams too, but he is not smiling. 

Blue stares at the hole in this Fae’s skull.

Among Winter’s most beloved terrors, is its Horror.

He sees himself, like prey, staring at his reflection in the gleaming knife. 

The cackle, from the other.

And then he runs like the prey he is. ***

With the two gone on another hunt, Nightmare leans over his armrest to gaze upon his newest soul sleeping so quietly. 

Dust, was it? That name won’t do when he joins Winter in whole. Just as Killer and Horror shed their pitiful mortal names, he’ll think something up for him. Something more fitting for a Winter Fae.

Ah, what a foolish little mortal. Brave? Perhaps. Stupidly so. 

Ink’s a problem. If the mortal gets to Ink, he might frustratingly show mercy. Always that soft spot for a good story. But that’s if he even survives Spring. 

It’ll be good if he goes through Autumn first. The kind of drive for one to commit to such a stupid decision is definitely going to pique Error’s interest. His ally has such an odd obsession with breaking wills, after all.

And then, Summer.

If he knows his brother, he’s fairly certain that’ll be the end of it. Faith burning so bright as to blind one to reality is exactly the kind of thing Dream adores. 

And his brother is just as possessive as him. 

Of course, none of that matters if he’s taken care of before he broaches the borders. 

Nightmare reaches for Dust’s cheek. The frost his touch leaves behind melts the moment he relinquishes it. 

A mortal with his family’s blood on his hands. Without anyone left for him, lost and forever running. Never loved right out there. Hunted for his sins, when he ought to be the hunter. He thinks of Killer, and Horror. Dust fits right in.

“You’ll make a wonderful addition,” He says to the unconscious, still mortal, Dust. “Just a few more weeks, and you’ll be as good as ours.”

[yinemw]

𝐛𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞

context: taking a bath with bf Viktor (gender neutral reader) I’d also like to add that this is my first time writing for a disabled character. Personally I’m not disabled so I wouldn’t know how that feels like, and it is not my intention to offend anyone or make Viktor’s disability the main focus in my writing. If anything is offensive or you guys have any tips or criticisms, I am happy to learn and fix anything!

warnings: nudity, nothing explicit though

character: Viktor from Arcane

m.list

“Is it working?” you asked innocently from behind Viktor, hands on his shoulders as you gently massage his muscles. Maybe a bit too softly for Viktor, he knew why though, you were always scared to hurt him, ever since the surgery on his back you were always extra gentle during your massages. So he knew why your fingertips sometimes felt feather light against his muscles.

“Oh uhm, yes” he answers, having been lost in his own thoughts as he looked down at the floor. Thinking about hextech as usual, new ways to improve and understand it. Wishing he was at the lab with Jayce, he didn’t like when you and Jayce wanted him to rest. “I’m feeling fine, let’s go to the lab”

“Viktor no” a sigh slips past your lips as you hold him down by the shoulders, making sure Viktor didn’t get up from the bed. The room dimly lit by a few candles and the moon shining from between the curtains. “It’s late—”

“Jayce is probably there”

“So you’d rather spend time with Jayce than me?”

“No that’s not what I said, it’s the hextech”

Your eyebrows furrow and fingers stop working on his shoulders. “You’d rather spend time working on hextech then spend time with me then”

He could hear the hurt in your voice and regretted his words. This wasn’t the first time you two had discussed the lack of time you spent together as a couple. Yes you saw each other at the lab every day, but it wasn’t like you were spending time with your boyfriend, it was spending time with your co-worker. “That’s not what I meant, and you know that” Viktor looks over his shoulder at you, leaning his forehead against yours. “I just feel restless…”

You knew that, you always paid more attention to Viktor than anyone else. It wasn’t because of his condition or anything , your gaze often just naturally wandered over to the pretty man. It was hard to take your eyes off of him, so you always saw the change of body language, knowing when he feels restless. “I know a way you could relax…since this massage clearly isn’t helping”

★

“Are you…joining me?” Viktor asked softly, leaning on his cane as he looked down at the bathtub. A few bubbles covering the surface of the warm water.

You light the last candle, placing it by the sink before turning to him. “If you want”

“I want” was all he said, letting his cane lean against the counter as he started to undress. Feeling your soft hands graze his skin as you help him, not like he necessarily needed the help to undress, but it was much appreciated. Today was just one of those days where everything seemed dull and dark, his body and mind both tired and restless at the same time.

With a little more help, Viktor sunk into the warm water of the bathtub, eyes closing as his mind wanders back to hextech. “I should be at the lab…”

“I will drown you”

A small smile spreads to his lips as he cracks open his eye to watch you undress. His beautiful significant other, the person who had stuck with him through everything. Who puts up with him and his stubbornness every single day and turned it into something amusing instead. “You’re beautiful” he mumbles, the words said in his accent seemed to have an even bigger effect on you.

Clearing your throat to pretend like nothing, you slip into the water. Sitting on the opposite side of the tub, knees held to your chest due to the small space. “We need to get a bigger bathtub” you say after watching some of the water spill over the edge.

Viktor had closed his eyes again, the tips of his hairs also submerged in the water. He felt light, and warm. It helped soothe his aches and pains, even if it was only a little, it was enough to make him feel more laid back than usual.

Finding a wash cloth and some soap, you gently start to rub it against Viktor’s skin. Starting with his shoulders, you lift his arms slightly to make sure you get every part of his body. You knew Viktor liked when you did this, the smell of your body wash and the gentle touch against his skin was always comforting.

But it wasn’t enough, wasn’t intimate enough. Discarding the washcloth, you decided to use your hands only. Skin to skin contact, to feel his muscles and skin against your fingertips. The soap making little bubbles float to the surface of the water, covering up his bare body. Some of the bubbles getting stuck to his neck and chin, glistening in the flickering lights of the candles.

“You okay?” You ask, just in case. He hadn’t said anything and his eyes had been closed the entire time. The sound of his soft breathing and water droplets filling the room.

He opens his eyes slowly, golden brown eyes meeting yours. Eyelashes wet due to the steam. “Yes” he answered simply, lifting his arms out of the water and tracing his slender hands across your chest and stomach. Innocent and soft touches against your skin, he pulled you closer to him. Not satisfied until you laid down between his legs. “I want to stay like this…you must be tired too”

He was right, you were tired, you just didn’t seem to realize until you felt how comfortable it was to lay against your boyfriend. You settle between his thighs and get into a more comfortable position, back rested against his chest. Viktor’s arms circling around your waist, holding you close and making sure you don’t slip underneath the surface of the water. His chin resting on top of your head, your body felt so soft and warm against his.

When Viktor first moved to Piltover he never understood the pleasure in taking a bath. To simply sit and soak in the water when there was so much else to do. But his whole perspective changed when he started dating you. You changed him, made his life easier, made his life brighter. As much as he wants to work at the lab, to build hextech into something that can help people, you made him realize that’s not all his life is about. So he tries to soak up every moment he has with you, and baths became a frequent routine in your relationship.

“Vik, did you fall asleep?” You chuckle softly, hearing how his breath slowed and how his arms loosened around your body. “We are going to turn into raisins if we stay here any longer, come on mister scientist”

Viktor groans, mumbling something under his breath as you force him out of the tub. Though he had to admit the water was starting to get a little too cold for his liking. And even if he would have preferred to stay a little longer, he couldn’t fight his smile as you tease him about his grumpiness.

“Do you enjoy making fun of a burnt out scientist, hm?” He teases back, throwing his towel over your head before starting to make a move to the bedroom. Still butt-naked, taking only his cane with him, the door to the bathroom wide open as he walks out. “I can feel you staring”

“Shut up!” You yell, though he wasn’t wrong. Taking a few extra seconds to admire his back, the way some water droplets still slid down his skin from the tips of his hairs. It wasn’t a view you could get sick of seeing easily.

After getting ready for bed, you join Viktor in the bedroom, seeing him already lay on the bed. Covers pulled up to his chin and eyes closed, though you knew he wasn’t asleep, his little snores were hard to miss.

“Oh to be a pretty sleeper”

Viktor only smiles sleepily, feeling the bed dip underneath your weight. He didn’t have to open his eyes or do anything, you naturally moved between his arms, molding to his body like a puzzle piece.

“So the bath helped you relax?”

“It does every time”

“Mmm good” you nuzzle into his neck, breathing in the scent of your body wash. His skin still a little damp and warm, some of the wet strands of his hair sticking to your forehead. You could feel how Viktor’s body went limp in your embrace after a few seconds. The room filling with his soft snores. If he fell asleep so quickly you knew he wasn’t lying, the bath really did do wonders.

“Goodnight Vik…sleep well my love”

[woodle-isbae]

hi hi hello i have a very awesome request for Wkko🤗

so imagine he’s working on some type of new invention or something of the sorts

and he just wouldn’t pay attention to you and you just keep prying at him until he caves and edges you or be a little rough just to put you in your place but hes still all sweet giving you praises and kissing you🤗🤗🤗🤗🤗🤗

"Isn't this what you Wanted, huh?"

He whispered into your ear, pressing his chest onto your back while he rutted into you, biting into any exposed skin he could get

"C'mon, answer me baby."

He leaned back, pressing his hand into your lower back to deepen your arch, groaning at the way you constricted around him. Ekko had bent you over his desk, moving his things to the side so he could fill you up, being so needy for him he couldn't ignore it any longer.

"Yes. . .Fuck! Yes, I needed this.."

Your fingers clawd at the wooden desk that creaked beneath both your bodies, toes curling at the way his thick tip hit right into your core, walls clenching to pull him in for more.

"Yes! Ekko, please- right t..right there.!"

Your begs ran right through his mind, provoking him to fuck you harder, his hips slamming right into your ass with a great force that it would surely leave a mark.

"You just couldn't wait huh? Yer' always so fucking needy f'me."

He slowed his hips, illiciting a whine from your lips, pushing back against him to regain that same friction. He let out a breath chuckle, holding your hips in place while he dragged his all the way back, stopping when his tip was just about to exit.

"Uhnt uhnt..ima have my way with you baby."

His words lingered before he gave one big thrust right back into you, a groan turned into a whimper shot out his mouth, the action sending a wave of electricity through your connected bodies.

He continued his fast and rushed thrusts, knocking you into the desk, causing your feet to lift up slightly. You were on your tippy toes, fucked out beyond imagination from how well he was driving his cock into you.

"Ek- ah!..please I'm gonna cum..!"

Your words flew mindlessly past him and into the heated air around you, yelps and pleads joining right after as he kept drilling into you, the table under you decorated with scratch marks from your need to hold onto something.

Just as you were about to release, Ekko pulled out and flipped you onto your back, diving right back in to continue with the same fast and rough pace that had your toes curled.

"Cu- hah..cum with me, yeah?"

His thrusts slowed down, pressing his chest against yours to get as deep as possible, allowing his thick mushroom tip to pound into that one spot that he knew would leave you dazed.

It only took him a couple of minutes before you clamped down on him, greedily pulling him in for more while you drowned in your orgasm, Ekko shuddering before halting his hips, shoving his face into the nook of your neck to muffle the pathetic whines he was letting out as his cock spurt out into you.

After a brief moment of silence, Ekko stood back up and pulled out, racing to get a warm wet cloth and a bottle of water for you. Picking you up and placing you on the couch he conveniently had put there in case something had come up.

"Y'know, that helped clear my mind- thank you."

"So you'll spend time with me?"

"Three hours, then I'm back to work, alright?"

"Great."

You leaned in for a kiss, making sure that the Three hours would go to good use.

Soo...hey!!

I'm still working on ALOT of yalls requests and my own personal projects, gonna take a while to post bc i got mad writers block rn but..

Do Not Fear, I Am Still Here! 👅

Xoxo

[okwonyo]

﹙ ✉️ ﹚ ──MIDAS TOUCH. in which 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗎𝗇𝗀𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗇'𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽.

엔하이픈 성훈 ⠀ ノ⠀ female reader 11OO non-idol au fluff established relationship ⠀⎯⠀⠀ not proof-read skinship making out⠀， recueil . . .

a/n. for @bywons’s on our love event and also to celebrate @cupidhoons & @sainns return ! 😚 for @atrirose because that picture showed a side of her i never saw ... read until the end i swear it’s worth it ^^

if you had to pick a favorite season, it would definitely be summer.

the sun shining bright as you wake up. the birds chirping heavenly at you window to welcome you in the morning. summer break starting. going shopping whenever you can, meeting your friends. finally stepping foot in the sand and greeting the sea after a long time being away from it. waiting for it during most of the year, there is just joy that fills your body when you can see the season peeking it’s nose — you already plan your summer’s hang outs at the end of spring.

it’s a perfect season, really. even the heat waves people tend to complain about are perfect. you always go through the most hot days of summer with a water bottle, your dear fan and the cold floor of your room you lay on during the whole day. curtains covering the window but not totally, you are almost in the dark for the entirety of your day— it’s not good for your eyes, your mom always scolds you, but you don’t care. during a weather like this, you barely do anything, anyway, if it’s not staring at the celling, though you can’t properly see it, and go to the kitchen when you need to.

this is the reason your back rest on the bare floor while you wear an oversized tee and a short right now.

today is the most hot day of the year and you doing fine, really fine even. the cold floor added to the fan hitting directly on your face prevent you from melting right then and there. you would be perfectly fine if your boyfriend didn’t erupt in your room without any sort of warnings. his tall and muscular frame appearing right in front of you, the light of the opened door he stands under showing off his biceps with his tank top perfectly, claiming that your parents let him in, before flopping right on top of you like he weighted nothing. which is far from the truth, those muscles made you let out a tiny ‘oof’ that he brushed off with a giggle.

the first ten minutes of it were fine. you fingers absentmindedly playing with his hair as his nose rested in the crook of your neck. barely any words were exchanged, too scared that your tongues would disappear into thin air if you even tried to talk. however, his weight added to the unbearable heat were threatening to be the end of you, and not in a good way.

“sunghoon,” you dare to speak, only to call your lover. he doesn’t respond entirely, only giving you a hum that vibrates on your skin. “get off of me.”

he lets out a groan. only moving to further put his nose in the crook of your neck, the tip of his nose seems to want to cut through your skin and makes a home for itself inside of your flesh. you can practically feel the sweat flooding all over your body. from your wet hair to your sticky body, the heat doesn’t spare you at all.

it is the same for sunghoon. his sweat is far from smelling bad, it reminds you of caramel and vanilla drowned in milk together. when your hands find his torso, with much difficulty, you can feel his white tank top being soaked against his pecs, can feel his muscles through the fabric, against your sweaty palms. the heat must be messing up with your brain, this feeling you feel in the pit of your stomach can’t be real. you stay still for a moment, his voice cuts through your trance like state.

“don’t be shy,” he whispers against your skin, his warmth breath sends you into a spiral. you can hear the smirk in his voice when he speaks again, “you can go a little lower.”

the blush appearing all over your body must be ten times hotter than the weather out here, “w-what do you mea—” oh, his abs. you shut your mouth immediately. closing your eyes, biting your lower lip, you do everything to get yourself back on earth. this man is crashing your bones, making you melt with his body warmth and has the audacity to play with you. you push his chest, he barely budges, “get off of me.”

sunghoon stays still at your words. then, he licks his lower lips. the ghost of his tongue tickles your neck, you almost combust on the spot. another silence fills the room for a moment, only the sound of the electric fourniture sending you cold air reaches your ears. after a while, you simply accept your fate, but you swear if the summer heat wasn’t taking half of your energy, the man on top of you would already be sent flying through the window by now.

you sign, freeing your hands from between sunghoon’s chest and yours, “i’m so hot.”

these three words seem to be the only ones you needed to say for your boyfriend to finally get off of you. you can’t see him well, but the light escaping through the slightly opened curtains lets you see his face being colored by a red taint a little in the dark. he pins each of his palms next to a side of your head. he towers over you as you look at him, his wet hair hangs right above you, his breath is heavy, his face is sweaty.

still, he grins while he looks directly at you, “yes, you are.”

you want to say something back, anything. alas, your body heat gets ridiculously higher and your throat is too sore to spit out any sort of sound. the look in his gaze weights on your lips, you can’t really see is eyes properly, but you can feel lust, desire in them. a droplet of sweat lands on your cheek, you would have cringed normally, but you don’t mind this time. you can’t focus on such meaningless things when sunghoon is looking at you like that. like his whole body is craving for you.

the warmth breath you felt on your neck a moment ago gets warmer and warmer on your mouth as he leans in. he falls onto you slowly, carefully, “s’hot,” he mumbles against your lips before capturing them.

a salty feeling fills your mouths when you kiss, the sweat on your lips is somehow sweet on both of your tongues. he is soon to be all over you again, his chest meets yours as he makes a total mess of your mouth. the way his mouth moves against yours makes you go crazy, you feel yourself getting weaker and weaker, gripping onto his wet hair for dear life. somehow, the room gets even hotter and the van is only here for the fun of it. his tongue slips inside of your mouth when he tilts his head to the side slightly, it feels like he is devouring you whole, sucking your soul like a sort of vampire. it’s the first time he kisses you like that, dizzying lovesick, you surely hope it’s not the last.

suddenly, his hand finds the one of yours who is free, his skin is so hot against yours. you don’t know if it’s the summer or, just, him. he pulls away from the kiss, because, right, you have to breathe. he puts your palm against his chest, on his beating heart, the pulse is so loud that you can feel it vibrating in your entire body. he goes back to kissing you before any words can leave your mouth. his hands guides yours lower as the kiss goes, you are way too busy going crazy on him tilting his head again to put his tongue in your mouth to realize that you are now touching his abs. he lets out a shuddered sigh as your fingertips presses against his soaked top, his abs well sculpted under it, your touch captivates him, his body aches for you.

you love summer and whatever it’s heat waves makes to sunghoon’s mind.

ㅤㅤ𓈒ㅤㅤ𓈒 taglist open ⎯⎯ click

[kakushino]

hello can i get a giyuu x reader angst , like where giyuu had an argument with the reader , but it turns out the reader is pregnant? you can add any other plot twist cus i love plot twists thank you !<3

Almost

Tomioka Giyuu x Fem! Reader

He had lost a lot of people in his life by his own making. He refused to lose you too.

Tags: pregnancy, arguments, blood mention, abortion mention (no actual abortion), hurt/comfort Word count: 2k

Masterlist

AN: Hope you enjoy it! I actually had a WIP of an argument + making up before, so I got to revisit it and add the pregnancy spice you asked for hehe~ Huge thanks to my dearest beta reader @glitchtricks94 for helping me clear it up (o゜▽゜)o☆ another huge thanks to @starrierknight for brainstorming with me

Giyuu’s injuries weren’t worse than normal, but that didn’t stop you from fretting over him – especially when he had a gash on his cheek, the same cheek you kissed a week ago when he was leaving for his mission. It made your chest feel tight to see his pretty face marred by demons. Your grandmother was surely rolling in her grave that such a classical beauty was hurt, the thought spurred you on to care for him.

No detail went unnoticed under your eye. He seemed tired, as usual, and a little stressed, as usual too - just a regular morning after slaying demons.

You sat him down at a western style dining table with a medical kit and supplies to clean the cuts with next to you. Your hands shook slightly when the damp cloth wiped away grime and blood, your lips pressed together when a fresh drop of blood oozed from the wound.

“You need to be more careful,” you murmured as you worked, the statement automatic, thoughtless.

Giyuu’s whole body stiffened. “Or what?”

You froze in place, your hand dipping the cloth in warm water. This was a new tone of his – a new way words could cut you if he wanted you to hurt: it was rough, serrated, mean. “What?”

He rolled his shoulders back a little, rearing for a fight. “You heard me the first time.”

You clenched your hand, leaving the rag in the water, and turned to fully face him. “Why are you so defensive? I meant no harm,” you replied, trying to calm the storm before it fully set in.

He stood abruptly, nearly knocking the chair he had sat in over. The look he shot you sent your heart galloping in your chest, from fear or indignation, you didn’t know. “You’ve done enough. Leave me be.”

Did he like you like this? Was the hurt in your eyes enough? That was – did he like the way it glinted, the way it caught the light? Hours upon hours spent on making your suffering pretty, and perhaps now it would pay off. He could cut you down into something pretty if he wanted to, and maybe you would let him.

Before he could walk away, before he could twist the rusty blade, you rose from your seat, “I have done nothing to warrant this tone with me, Tomioka Giyuu. Now tell me-“

"Stop bothering me," he cut you off, heading towards the door.

A violent whirlpool of emotion threatened to drown you, and for once, you let go. “You- you oaf! I can’t stand you being like this! What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong. Everything is perfect,” he snapped, voice like a viper and words just as stinging. “Or at least it would be if I didn’t have you nagging me every time. I’ve been through this enough to know what to do with myself. Unlike you who sits here all pretty and safe and fat, ready to wrap a bandage and call it a day.”

You flinched, for the first time in your husband’s presence, tears springing from your eyes, which you rapidly blinked away. What have I ever done to deserve this? You had waited on your hands and knees for this man every time he’d come home battered and bruised and broken and put him back together, without complaining, with love. This was what you got in return for your devotion? Pretty and useless. That’s what he basically called you.

Your throat tightened. You hardly had the energy to respond so you turned away and just… left. You couldn’t continue listening to Giyuu when he sounded so much like… like Shinazugawa. Whatever was bothering him best be left alone to cool off before you could talk about it.

You nodded to yourself as you packed an overnight bag. Some time apart would be good for you both. You knew he wouldn’t be sent out on a mission for a few days again, since he just returned from a longer stint, so you would come back tomorrow and try to resolve it then.

It was time for a check-up with a midwife anyway.

He had really said all that.

And you left.

Your eyes filled with tears, and you left, as you should. He had treated you like garbage.

There was no going back, no taking back his idiocy, no swallowing back his words.

‘Let's stop fighting’ was at the tip of his tongue. ‘Come here and let me hug you’ nearly spilled from his lips. ‘I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry’ choked him up as you walked away.

He knew you were right. You did nothing wrong.

He felt nothing.

He was worth nothing.

Giyuu picked up the shards of his heart up and finished cleaning up his wounds. A short bath later, he walked into the kitchen to find food already made for him, now long gone cold. It just reminded him how much he butchered his relationship by what – stress and tiredness? A demon taunting him right before its death? If so little shook him up, did he even deserve to be with you?

A sharp pain pierced his heart at the thought of leaving you. His selfishness truly knew no bounds, hurting you and putting you in danger for being a Hashira’s partner yet wanting you to remain by his side.

After eating his portion, he made tea and waited to see if you would join him. There was no movement in the house at all; were you in your shared bedroom, laying in bed as you were used to when upset? He would give you time to cool off, give himself time to breathe, and then he would approach you with a clearer head. He needed to apologize.

One hour. Two hours.

Had he angered you so much that you wouldn’t come out? Your spats had never lasted this long.

The tea had long grown cold, but Giyuu couldn’t bring himself to make more. There were no sounds coming from the house.

Were you even here?

The thought jolted him from his seat, quickly walking to your shared bedroom.

“Love?”

Nothing.

“I’m coming in.”

He somehow expected it, though he’d hoped against it. You weren’t there.

Already turning to check all other rooms, he called out your name. His pace was brisk, his throat starting to clog up with a familiar emotion. Claws of anxiety sunk into his stomach, his heart beat like a drum, his lungs struggled to take in air. You weren’t there.

Where were you?

He ran through the whole estate and back two times but came up with no clue as to where you were. Panic mounted, crawling up his spine like a spider he couldn’t shake away.

Giyuu slammed the gate of his home open, very nearly running into his elderly neighbour.

She was hardly phased, though confused by his frazzled visage. “Tomioka-san? What’s got you in such a hurry, young boy?”

“Have you seen my wife?!” he’d never been as rude as he was now, but you were gone so what was he supposed to do?

“Your wife? Oh, that’s right, I saw her. If I recall, she was on her visit… hmm, who was she going to visit?” his neighbour mused. Giyuu waited with all the patience Urokodaki beat into him, that was – quite impatiently. “Oh right! A midwife! I was very surprised when-“

He stopped listening, or rather, he stopped hearing anything going on around him. A midwife? A midwife was a profession with a very specific set of skills for a very specific group of people… Did that mean-?

“Isotani-san,” Giyuu interrupted, breathless, eyes wide with surprise. “Are you saying my wife is pregnant?”

She squinted at him, “You didn’t know?”

It felt as if lightning came from clear skies and struck him. Every nerve itched with some kind of energy telling him to move.

He later vaguely remembered asking his neighbour for the direction you left in, but at the time, he saw nothing, and felt everything all at once.

Were you going to… terminate it? Were you going to tell the midwife, and would she terminate it? Was the midwife going to terminate it and help you move on? Would you move on without him?

Thoughts racing, heart galloping, Giyuu felt feverish. He stumbled back, deaf to his neighbour’s concerned questions as he turned the way you had left just hours ago. One foot in front of the other, a step by step, getting faster with each meter he passed until he was running nearly as fast as Uzui, desperation spurring him on.

Kanzaburo flew overhead, and when he cleared the village bounds, he called out to get the crow to lead him to you.

Time was of the essence. He may have botched his life, but he was too selfish to let go of you. He wanted, no- needed to get you back. You were his love, his soul, his home. He wouldn’t be able to go on if you left.

He felt crazed, desperate, as he ran.

Giyuu would have been faster had he not have to follow Kanzaburo but he wouldn’t be able to find you alone. He felt as if he was racing against the time. Any minute now, you would be in a the midwife’s home, waiting for the release from his clutches; any second now, you would sever the only tactile link you had to him – your baby.

His baby.

He swore, his mind supplementing him with your argument. It had been all his fault, he’d just lashed out because of nothing, like a toddler throwing a tantrum. How childish he’d been – and he was supposed to be a father? No, he wanted to be a father. He’d fix himself and he’d support you and he’d even carry you your whole pregnancy, so you didn’t have to walk. He’d learn to cook more than the basics to feed you and your baby.

Please, let me be in time.

Then he saw you.

The whole world seemingly froze, grey and empty save for you.

You were a pearl amongst rocks, still as beautiful as the first day he saw you, as beautiful as you were on your wedding day.

Giyuu didn’t stop, even as you turned to him in surprise when he called your name. He didn’t stop until he had you in a soul-crushing hug, tight and near bruising – one he immediately eased up on, since he didn’t want to hurt you.

“Calm down, Giyuu! What’s going on?”

“D-don’t-“ he stumbled over his words, still frantic and breathing heavily, “don’t get rid of it!”

You were confused, “Get rid of what?”

His hands were heavy clutching onto your clothes, his frame nearly hanging onto you. “Our – our child,” he gasped out. “Isotani-san told me you were- she told me you were pregnant.” His words came out in a rush, eyes wide as he stared at you, his pupils darted all over your face for a sign of – of anything, be it forgiveness, anger, sadness, anything.

Looking at him in such a state, near quivering in his spot, you felt powerful. Giyuu was at your mercy for once. You could topple him as easily as a sandcastle, crush him under your boot and grind down to juice him of all that made him who he was. It made you realize you held just as much power over him as he did over you. Oddly, you felt reassured - of his love, of your love, of the relationship. 

Heart hammering in your chest, cheeks filling with warmth, the adoration you carried in your heart spilled over and pooled in your stomach. You hungered for more of this power, positively starved to sink your teeth into him and drain him.

But that could wait.

“I am indeed pregnant,” you confirmed, your hands resting on his arms, thumbs stroking soothing lines over his muscles. You paused, letting the seconds painfully stretch out, “I’m not terminating the pregnancy.”

His whole being sagged with relief. Giyuu fell to his knees in slow motion, his hands sliding down your yukata to rest over your hips, now clutching the fabric there with a weak grip. “Thank gods…” he rasped out, his breathing stuttered as if holding back sobs. “Please, love, let’s not- I apologize – I apologize for everything. I shouldn’t have lashed out. I was wrong…”

His impossibly blue eyes met yours, the surface glistening with unshed tears, his guilt bitter but his plea tasting sweet on your tongue. Saliva gathered in your mouth, wanting more.

Did that make you a bad person?

“You dismissed my concern,” you stated, fighting back any expression wanting to take over your face. “You said I nag you. You called me useless.” And pretty, your mind supplied. He’d also called you fat, so there was that. “I didn’t deserve that.”

Giyuu’s lips were downturned, “You didn’t. I was an oaf.” His admission did nothing to soothe the ache he’d given you. “I’m willing to take whatever punishment you deem worthy of my misdeeds.” He let go of your yukata, smoothing over the wrinkles he made. He didn’t know what to do with himself, trying not to fidget as you rolled his actions and words in your mind.

“There will be no punishment,” you told him. If possible, he became even more tense, the need for absolution great. Perhaps no punishment would be a punishment of itself. “But don’t think you’re entirely forgiven. I accept your apology; you however have to make up for it your own way.” You studied his earnest expression, brows slightly furrowed as he started thinking about ways to win you back. It shouldn’t be too hard. He did it once, he could do it again.

Giyuu slowly stood up, taking your hands in his. “I won’t disappoint you, love,” he said resolutely, kissing your fingertips softly. He adored you, with his whole heart, mind and body.

Everything would work out – just like the ice always melts and clouds disperse, a typhoon passes and the sea calms.

“If you pull this act again, I’m leaving.” You glared at him for a second to get your point across. Giyuu nodded and pulled you in for a sweet kiss.

He almost lost you and he wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

Thanks for reading! Reblog or comment if you liked it :3

Networks: @enchantedforest-network @themovingcastlez

[lanroman]

Taking Care

first (and last) fic- wrote this a while ago, its been sitting in my docs for over a year and a half probably, i came upon it the other day and i figured... why not share?!

a fluffy one shot about reader taking care of lando after a race!

~1k words

WARNINGS: slight suggestive comments, nakedness but not in a sexual way

The car ride back to the hotel was quiet, which was slightly out of the ordinary. Race weekends were always exhausting for Lando, but he’d somehow always find the energy to talk and laugh with you up until the very moment he drifted off to sleep. And when you couldn’t be with him in person, he’d Facetime you and give you a rundown on the race for hours. But this time, he was silent. Today the whirlwind couple of weekends seemed to finally catch up to him, as the high hopes and adrenaline started to fade; he looked exhausted. Even with the exhaustion setting in, he was still sporting the same sweet smile he always did, leaning against your chest in the car's back seat. You’ve been together for about two years, but you still feel those butterflies in your stomach you got at the beginning of your relationship when looking at him even now.

You were the first one to speak up after a few minutes as you were almost to the hotel. “Who’s showering first?” You looked down at him and spoke softly. 

He perked up a bit, sitting upright, saying, “When have we ever taken turns?” He jokes as you shoot him a look and nudged his chest. He laughs and then speaks again, but his voice is low this time. “You. I’m about to crash. I’ll take one tomorrow.” He sighs rubbing his eyes, his head now leaning against the headrest.

“Baby, you have to take one tonight,” You say, running your fingers through his hair that was slightly tangled at the ends. “you’ll sleep better all cleaned up.” 

He doesn’t offer a verbal response, just a small nod of his head as he closes his eyes.

“I’m taking that as a ‘me first’.” You whisper to him as the car pulls up to the entrance of the hotel. 

You helped with his bags and was practically carrying him into the hotel and up to the room. 

After opening the door, Lando tries to break free from you and headed straight to the bed, with no luck as you drop your bags and clung to his abdomen.

“Y/N please, I’m too tired. I’ll drown.” He says in between laughs. “Baby come on, I’ll help you. I won’t let that happen.” You say directing him to the bathroom.

He sleepily plops down on top of the toilet seat as you crouch down to untie his shoes, taking them off along with his socks. You set them aside and start the water in the shower.

“Ok, arms up.” You say, grabbing the hem of his papaya shirt. He barely reaches his hands over his head as you pull it off him. He winces slightly, putting his hands down and grabbing one of his shoulders. “Lan,” Your eyebrows knit, watching the pain show and leave his face quickly in an attempt to try to hide it. Your hand goes on top of his.

“Just sore. I’m fine.” He says plainly, rolling his shoulders back. You look up at him, unsure if he was just saying that. 

He smiles and chuckles a little bit. “Really, I’m fine.” He grabs your hand that was still on his shoulder and squeezes it. “Well, tell me if it gets any worse, okay?” You said somewhat confident that we is truly fine. He nodded in response.

“Alright. Stand up.”

“I don’t think my legs will let me.” He wines.

“Your pants Lando. Unless you’d like to keep those on?” You laugh.

“I guess not.” He lets out a big sigh, standing up. You stood up too and was about to help him but he let out a weak laugh. “I think I can manage this part myself, baby.” 

“First time for everything.” You said cheekily, going to take off your shirt. He hopped in the shower first, and you followed behind him after everything was off. 

He did not get very far into his shower routine before giving up, only had body wash done by the time you were rinsing your hair. 

“I need help.” He said handing you a bottle of shampoo. You take some and gently work the product in till it bubbled, then washed it out. He let out a soft breath as your fingers went through his hair, making sure the conditioner was thoroughly massaged in. Once you finished rinsing his hair again, you grabbed both of your towels and dried yourself off before wrapping him up and walking him to the bed. 

He sat upright until you weren’t holding onto him any more. He laid down with his legs off the bed, the towel wrapped around his waist. 

“Come on, you just have to get dressed.” You say as somewhat of an encouragement, taking the opportunity to dig in your suitcase to at least put on your undergarments before helping him. 

You turn around once you were finished to see Landos eyes glued to your frame with a wide sly smile on his face.

”Please, you are wide awake, get dressed yourself.” You say, blood rushing to your cheeks, throwing some clothes at him from his suitcase. 

He lets out a chuckle and gets up from the bed walking to you. He moved your hair to the side and plants soft kisses on the back of your neck and shoulder.

“Finding some energy now, hm?” You say tilting your head to the side.

”Maybe just a little.” He lets out a big over dramatic yawn. With a shake of your head and a laugh, you continue to get dressed as he gets grabs his clothes and does the same. You pull him into the bathroom one last time to brush his teeth before he was in bed for good. You had a few more steps of your routine before you were ready for bed, so when you were finished, he was practically one breath away from being fully asleep. You crawled into bed beside him. His arms instinctively pulled you in closer and held you in a comfortable sort of hug.

He lets out a hum, “Thank you for taking care of me. And not just today.” He said barely above a whisper. 

“Of course baby. I love you.” You place a small kiss on his cheek. He smiles with his eyes still closed.

”I love you too.” 

“Goodnight sweet boy.” You said as the butterflies in your stomach flapped their wings again, lulling you to sleep.

a/n: i feel embarrassed, but thanks for reading <3 maybe throw it a like so im not so self-conscious :)

[actual-changeling]

i've been thinking about this for a hot second now and i need to inflict the psychic damage it gives me on everyone else.

we all know that aziraphale has had a taste of crowley which means he is starving for more, right? he wants him to do that again, please, right now and there's a good chance he will be the one to kiss crowley the next time. aziraphale will look at him, all golden eyes and fire-red and stardust, and push him against the next best somewhat stable surface and kiss him like a drowning man being granted a breath of fresh air.

you might think the worst thing crowley could do in that moment is fully deny him another taste, to push him away or slip out of his grasp, to not let him get close enough to do any of it in the first place.

but.

what if they end up toe to toe again like they so often do? their bodies almost touching, sharing the same air, feeling the ghost of each other's breaths.

so, so close it is not a temptation but an offering.

crowley leans in, tilts his head, and there is a challenge in his eyes - aziraphale accepts.

then, a millisecond before their lips meet, crowley steps back and watches azirapahle stumble, watches his confusion morph into a longing so intense it is pain and desperation alike. he wants to kiss him again, god, of course he does; this hurts him almost as much as it hurts his angel.

but he is angry. he is hurt. he is heartbroken and he needs him to experience even a fraction of his loneliness, his pain.

so crowley looks at him, puts his glasses back on, and shoves his hands into his pockets.

"you had your chance," is all he says, and he turns and walks away.

because if there is one thing worse than empty denial it's the promise of salvation, it's hope, it's a drop of water on your tongue as the clouds threaten to break open just for the sun to evaporate them all and leave you alone in the desert.

aziraphale wants and crowley gives him just enough to break him when he leaves.

(just like he left him)

[redbullgirly]

Hi! Can you write something about Lando x reader where she wants to wait till marriage to have sex and how'd he react to this? I'll leave the rest to you, it doesn't have to be a whole fic, maybe just a small blurb. Thank you <3

SAND AND CONFESSION [LN4 oneshot]

Lando Norris x reader

Summary: You and Lando have been going out for few weeks, maybe months now. While you're enjoying each other's company on a beach with sunset behind your backs, you decide to tell him you want to wait with sex till marriage.

Word Count: 0.8k

Warnings: English isn't my first language and I honestly didn't write for a while, so if some sentences are kinda weird or sloppy, I'm very sorry! Don't be afraid to correct me if you find some errors.

Author's Note: Hi Anon, thanks for the request! I hope you and everybody else will like this shorter fic I wrote based on it. I'll appreciate likes, comments, follows, reblogs and any other form of support! :)

The sand beneath your feet was still warm, though the sun had almost set behind the fluffy clouds on the horizon. You ran up the beach, trying to get as far from the sea as you could, before the curly-haired man could throw you into the waves, messing up your hair. He followed you, laughing and almost tripping, which was probably the only reason you actually managed to escape to the laid out blanket with your things and bags.

You laid on it, your chest covered in droplets of salty water heaving with uneven breaths. Some sand probably stuck to your wet skin, but you didn't mind.

“Y/N, you left me there all alone!” Lando faked a pout, standing above you with crossed arms and a silly smile.

“Yeah, 'cause you tried to drown me!” you fired right back and stuck out your tongue.

He shook his head and stretched out his arm, helping you stand back up. Then, without any warning, he slapped your ass. You squealed his name and tried to punch him, but he dodged effortlessly. May his fast reflexes be damned.

It was getting darker by every minute, the sun now nearly gone from the evening sky. Shadows slowly crept to the beach, and you shivered in the cool air. Lando, the caring boy he was, instantly noticed the goosebumps popping up all over your body. You were both still just in your swimsuits, and it was getting cold. 

He bent down to the bag you took to the beach with you and took out a big towel. “C'mere baby,” he mumbled, and when you took a step towards him, he wrapped you and himself up in it. 

Suddenly, you didn't feel cold at all — quite the opposite, really. Lando's firm body was pressed against you, his hands around your waist and faces impossibly close to each other. You could feel his warm breath, smelling after the vanilla milkshake you drank at a cozy café before going to the private beach.

One of his big hands cupped your cheek, your eyes locked in with his intense blue stare. Lando and you were going out for a few weeks, even months now. You didn't put any label on it, maybe too afraid of the feelings that bubbled in your stomach every time that exact expression appeared in his eyes. The one of pure adoration and happiness, as if you'd give him the Moon. And honestly? If he ever asked, you probably would. Or at least try.

As if the boy could read your thoughts, his smile deepened, and he finally closed the remaining distance between you two. His lips felt soft and hard against yours at the same time, asking and demanding all at once. Lando was always careful at the start, but as soon as your body relaxed, and you gently bit his bottom lip, the kiss heated up pretty quickly.

He moaned into your mouth and his hold on your waist tightened. This wasn't your first time making out, but it never felt so intense, so breathtaking before. You struggled to keep pace with him, though you'd lie if you said you didn't like it. However, when his hands slipped under the towel that was still wrapped around your bodies, and tugged onto your bikini straps, you pulled away. Your cheeks were flushed, lips swollen and hair messy.

He stopped, furrowed his eyebrows in confusion and looked at you questioningly, eyes wide. You realized Lando thought he did something wrong, again. And that made you feel even worse than before.

“What's wrong, babe?” he asked in a quiet voice, his hand still cupping the side of your cheek. You wanted to look down, ashamed and not knowing how to say what had to be said, but Lando didn't let you. “You can tell me Y/N. I won't be angry or anything.”

It was his assurance and sweet voice that caused you to sight and swallow thickly.

“I… there's something I need to tell you,” you whispered. He just nodded, listening curiously. “So, I feel weird saying it, but… I never actually… you know.” You point between you and him. “I never did this before,” you confess, not able to look him into the eyes.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “That's no problem at all-” You put your finger on his lips, silently asking him to be quiet.

“And,” you say, making him know that's not all you wanted to say, “I don't want to. Not until marriage.”

Now he seems surprised, taken aback even. It's clear he's processing your words for a moment, while you almost faint from the nerves. You're worried he won't understand. That now, when you told him he won't get what most men want, he'll break up whatever you two have going on.

But he does nothing like that. No, he nods slowly, a little smile tugging at the corners of his lips. A smile that soon turns into the grin you know so well by this point. And then, Lando pulls you closer and whispers in your ear: “Well, good thing I plan on marrying you one day.”

And even though he says it in a joking voice, wanting to lighten up the atmosphere, you know right there and then that deep down, he means it.

THE END

[florencemtrash]

Please remember me - Azriel x Reader

Ok but just imagine how heartbroken Az would be if he lost the woman he loved, but when the Cauldron brings her back, she doesn't have any memories of him.

It's after midnight and I'm feeling things...

___________________

You broke through the frigid darkness, something fragmenting beneath your fingers into a million sharp pieces as you wrenched your body up and gasped for breath.

Freezing. You were freezing to death in a pool of water. Or so you thought. Weak, uncooperative limbs flung over the lip of the pool, rough skin grabbing hold of you. You spilled out of the Cauldron into Azriel's waiting arms, and he wasted no time in burying his face into the crook of your neck, breathing in your familiar scent no longer tainted bitter and metallic by blood.

"Thank the gods. Y/n. I thought... I thought I lost you. Y/n. Y/n." He whispered your name over and over. A word more precious than the holiest of prayers.

You basked in the safety of his arms, the strength in the hands that gripped your hip and cradled the back of your head. That feeling of safety didn't go away when the stranger pulled back, molten hazel eyes staring into yours. He was the most beautiful male you'd ever seen. A face composed of graceful lines broken up by the tragic pain in his eyes, the tears that traced a path down his cheeks, the pained smile. He looked at you the way mates did in all the stories you'd read. Like holding you was the same as holding the world in his palms.

But when he kissed you, stealing the breath from your lungs like he was the one that had nearly drowned, you knew you needed to put a stop to this. One hand on his chest, the faintest hesitation on your lips, was all it took for him to pull away, eyes searching your body for any sign of hurt.

"Y/n? What is it? What's wrong, love?"

You hesitated. Your name was familiar on his lips, like it belonged there, like it belonged to him. But none of that changed the fact that you had no idea who this raven-haired male was.

"I-I don't..." You didn't want to say it. Didn't want to break the look of hope and relief on his face.

"Y/n?"

You finally noticed the small collection of fae behind him. A striking female with silver-tinted eyes beside a male as strong and wide as a mountain, Illyrian wings held tight against his spine like a notched arrow. A male and female, clearly mated, looking like figures carved from the fabric of the night sky. A female in red with golden-blond hair and doe-brown eyes. All of them weeping, or wiping away tears from red-rimmed eyes.

"Y/n? Please, look at me." Azriel begged, "Please." He whispered, feeling the tension in your body and the panic in your eyes, "Talk to me. What's wrong?"

When your eyes slid back to him, his heart plummeted in his chest, nose diving faster than he'd ever fallen in his life. He knew what words would tumble off your tongue before you said them. The confusion in your eyes spoke volumes.

"I don't... I don't know you."

The room stilled, voices trapped in everyone's throats along with their breath, and Azriel's hope shattered into a million pieces.

[themareverine]

God Laughs | DoFP!Logan x fem!OC

synopsis: 'I'll love you in every time, Logan, that I know. Just say the word." So much hinged on so little, and it doesn’t make any damn sense. They all knew it—their moments, any of them, ceased to exist if he didn't do this—this unspeakable thing, the only thing that would keep any of them alive.

warnings: time travel elements, AU, pre-established relationship, some angst, a big age gap due to time travel, a little angst, unedited, will do later, PG-13. 🌶️🌶️🌶️

a/n: happy thirtieth birthday to me. 🎉🥂i am sorry this is so long, but i'm actually not, and this fic has been taking up space in my brain for like a month and a half. please enjoy.

MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION | TAGLIST🏷️ let me know if you want added!

Time in the ether is both cold, and slow. 

Being alive 200 years leaves Logan nowhere near shortchanged when it comes to dreams. Really the only peace a man who cannot die—a living weapon—finds is sleep, walking in and out of dreams. Digging graves to bury secrets, the horrors of living. Phantoms of his living moments, somehow though, manage to follow him into REM, into the colorful, twisting pictures of dreamstate—they rob him of purest joys. Highest highs. Through their boneless fingers he falls, time and again, even in his sleep—some nights, he doesn’t even rest. Barely breathes. Just wrestles with the things his mind shoves into dark recesses during daylight, vampires bleeding him dry. 

And much like the nightmares that find him as he fitfully sleeps, the ether between time is equally harrowing. A scythe that cuts slow and deep, through certainties and everything humans, once, thought they understood.

Nothing in the world like it, slipping through the sands of a timeglass—lives already lived, time already elapsed. Unable to fully blot from the universe moments already bled, God Himself, Logan is sure, laughs—laughs as he chases moments, daylights. Nights. Stretches of time in the bend of space the Almighty must just chuckle at. No more than a mouse chasing reward, trapped in the grand scheme of an oversized cat. 

He’d jumped through the waters of time before. Drowning in pain, his body fighting to stay alive and knit together when travel would otherwise viscerally rip apart.

Logan supposes it is not far removed from shaking a bottle, a tornado of contents spinning together to form some perfect union of chaos and beauty, bouncing off walls and wholly contained within units of matter. Hurricane on steroids, rushing to find somewhere to land, but in no hurry to do so all at the same damn time.

That is what the ether feels like—a hurried state of asystole, neverending, that somehow doesn’t seem to mind at all. And Logan has never felt more intimate, precise pain than he does here, filtering through time and space—everything hurts. Whitehot fire that laps at his spine, racking every thought, every movement, every cell with the finest, knife-edge agony.

Like a blacksmith’s hammer beating to life creation from the hottest flame he burns, beat into oblivion while slowly knitting together something that resembles signs of life. 

 “Need you to do this, Pryde.”

Kitty had an overwhelming ability, he knew. Taxed her to the point of soul crushing. He’d rocketed through time, balancing in her hands, times before—and some part of him always felt her during the process, guiding and sifting his moments in the past through careful, graceful hands.

Truly gifted, Logan understood this was not a bowl of cherries request—he knew it would shave years off her life, steal heartbeats she’d never get back. Days of recovery, horrors of readjusting back to the present. Not a light lift for either of them—as he was ripped apart only to be stitched back together in a younger, former life, she was there, with nobody to put her back together as strain and pain played her like a drum. 

And as painful as it was, Logan knew Kitty—she would die for things like this, consequences be damned. Young and reckless, she’d skipped through the folds of the time space continuum for less than what he was asking, but one’s own desires were another thing entirely. Couldn’t fault her for that. If he were able to rip open the universe, go back to former days, well—he didn’t know. So many nightmares, so many phantoms.

Logan wasn’t even sure if he was whole, anymore. 

“And you’re sure you wanna do this, Logan?” 

Cigars had never tasted so flat, so sour. Maybe if he rolled it through his fingers harder, it would shapen up. But nothing could change the broil in his gut, the ripple of consequences hanging out on the edge of history. They all knew it—their moments, any of them, ceased to exist if he didn't do this—this unspeakable thing, this thing God had gifted. To ensure his future, the future of Charles Xavier, had never felt so—so cold. Dead. Excruciating. 

So much hinged on so little, and it doesn’t make any damn sense. And then the voice of reason, a cherubim amongst thieves. Stealing minutes, ripping away time none of them have. Light in a universe of darkness, his sun. Adonis to his Icharus, Aphrodite to his eternal, cold war—she’d looked as if the world had stopped, and in a way, it was not far off. His world had stopped spinning, their world. Threatened to collapse. 

“Kitty, we have to. We need to–if we don’t, we don’t have this conversation.” 

No other conviction necessary. Decided, on a whim—on the bleeding edge of should we? they’d made a plan. Go back decades, retrace steps already taken. Cool trails already blazed. Forge new irons, cast new stones—do everything to ensure this moment, this moment that cannot be barren, paralyzed. Do what God commissions, what heaven allows.

Follow me, Logan. 

A bed of stone had never felt more like a grave, and the very idea sends an unfamiliar shiver down his spine. Like a seance, candles burn in the darkness—easier for Pryde. But in some twisted way, Logan finds it fitting—fitting, this supernatural undertone. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wishes it were light. Prays for morning, for the innocence of blinding daylight streaming through open windows, the fresh bounce of sun on his skin. Something about this being dark, tucked under the earth, feels eerie. Backwards. Graven.

Man was not meant to live in the dirt, but to die there—man was not meant to venture alone. 

I'll love you in every time, Logan, that I know. Just say the word.

Pain in his chest had ripped him from the cool ether, snapped him awake in an arctic sweat. Pebbled with goosebumps and twisted in damp sheets, he’d ripped off the layers of blankets with gusto enough to carve canyons.

Rousted from apparent sleeping arrangements, the world swims as he attempts to scrub life back into his face—to feel. 

Parts of him were still sorting themselves out deep in his tissues, Logan could almost count his cells unscrambling. Never would he wish the kinesthetics of memories sorting themselves into brain matter on any man, enemy or otherwise.

One thing was painfully clear from the jump, a branding iron seared into the folds of his brain—her face. Her features. Every moment spent together, every sweet nothing she’d ever said. Honey salve on gaping wounds, he could smell her. Taste her, even in time.

It’s the one memory that doesn’t need sorting, that seems welded into his biology, his very being—her.

Her face, her name, her laugh. More a part of him than he’d ever know, he carries her in the low of his spine, a simmering heat that starves. A man could die, aching for a woman like he burns for her.

Aching in memories that feel foreign in this body, like dreams. But they are more real than he’ll ever confess—more real than sunlight or air, than scripture etched into faraway stones. The song of the world, the prayer of the universe.

Logan had never believed in soulmates—until fate had split him down the middle. He’d never known he was missing part of himself, until he’d tasted her goodness. Her sweetness. Her beauty and strength and insecurity that had fallen through his fingers like butter.

Time is his enemy, and there’s very little room to reminisce. That comes later. Much, much later.

Her presence a grounding rod to the now and here, excitement pistons through him like a locomotive. Logan wasn’t around in this period of her life, decades ago. He’d met her years after—in the blossoming glow of things to come. He can only fathom where she is, what she does in the twilight years of knowing him—of better, safer years.

Often he catches himself, watching her march through the days of their life together, wondering where she’d have gone, who she would’ve become if not for him. What better she’d have done in the world, what good she may have accomplished beyond his tether. 

Never lasts long, though. He mauls the high fantasy of letting her leave. Crushes the beastial part  of him that warns she’s better off without him, navigating life alone. Safer, whole. Selfishness always catapults his justifications, his rationales. She stays, she’s yours, and nobody else gets her. Just the way it is, and he’d worked hard to ensure it. Logan wears enough blood to fill a reservoir—blood she’d helped him spill. Lives he’d taken for her. The cost for her was higher, atmospheric—he’d rob hell to pay it, even today.

And in a way, he isn’t far off. 

Thoughts of her send him buzzing with a little thrill he hasn’t known since boyhood, pulses his brain. Windows in this room are his stage, daylight a rapturous, blinding audience that sparkles with anticipation. He breathes and feels her, somewhere, in this universe.

There’s a presence, an energy— the world is alive with the promise of her, things to come. He doesn’t know how, perhaps it’s cosmic, built into the foundations of God’s creation. Or maybe it’s divine, maybe supernatural. Maybe just biology. Whatever it is, it tastes sweet, pulses through him like a live wire strung tight on five thousand molten-lava volts. 

A groan slips through streaks of daylight crisscrossing the floor through floor-length, heavy curtains. Logan all but springboards from bed, about-facing with the poise and grace of a fighter much younger than himself, heart racing. Somehow he manages self-control—the claws don’t come. Instead, his arm draws back into a fist far quicker than he remembers, almost sending him off balance. His arm—it weighs next to nothing. 

Mind spinning, he remembers. Adamantium—no adamantium. It’s a foreign, blissful feeling. At this point in his lifetime he hadn’t been cursed with steel bones, hadn’t been ripped apart to be stitched back together into whatever atrocity hell had born across the earth. Hadn’t been anyone’s lab animal, a plaything. That would come, he imagines—and briefly, Logan wonders if he’ll remember this feeling. If it will crop up in memories when he returns to his time, when future Logan is put back in time, and this is all but a dream. 

It doesn’t matter—assumptions come to a burning halt when blonde hair flips from beneath the covers of his former grave, his resurrection site. Blonde spirals of curl, muffled from obvious extramarital affairs, spill over milky skin. A hit of perfume hangs out beneath his nose, but it’s seared like a branding iron with the familiar, unmistakable scent of sex. Orgasm rides the air like it’s a jet plane, and very quickly Logan can’t breathe.

Thoughts spin through his brain, a kaleidoscope of horror and shame and confusion, watching his bedmate rise into a stretch not all that far removed from a cat.

He doesn’t remember this. Oh, fuck, not even a little. His future self’s mind pistons for any recollection, any silver cord of remembrance of who she could be, but it comes up blank. Distressingly blank, pitifully void. A blackhole of lust and perverted nothingness, his stomach hollows. Pitches up against his esophagus. And Logan isn’t a man to easily toss his cookies, but—he’s not far off. His dick numbs as she glances over her shoulder. 

“You’re awake,” voice heavily tainted with sleep, his feet suddenly burn with the itch to move. Get the hell outta dodge. Eyes scout the room quickly, picking out pieces of clothing he can only pray belong to this version of himself. “It’s early, if you’re hungry I can make breakfast—” 

Unable to think of anything —get the hell out of here, Logan, “—no!” It’s more of a bark than it is an answer, and he bristles, fingers swiping at the discarded pants hanging out on the floor by his feet. Wrangles into them in time enough to split atoms. Hiking them up his legs, he works the belt, tongue suddenly thicker than winter molasses as it attacks his back molars, trying to raise some moisture in the Sahara his mouth has become. 

He doesn’t miss his bedfellow flinching, though. Her shoulder shifts a little sharply in reaction, and he curses himself. “Girls are sensitive creatures, Logan,” years from now, she’s suddenly so there in his brain matter. Cascaded by the sun, rapturous in white. He can feel her against his ribs, her smile cutting paths through territory unexplored in the dark chambers of him, “Be careful with us, love.” 

Spiraling blonde curl and bare shoulders say everything that clothes don’t have to, and he’d laugh if this wasn’t the most depraved thing he’d ever felt crawling through his gut, clawing like it’s hell. Future him remembers wandering through these mirages of life—mindless fucks, one-night stands that get him off, little more than cold graves of satisfaction. Briefly he wonders what the fuck, what happened to him. Once detached, now he’s tethered to starlight, stars to which he breathes to revolve.

Fingers burning, weightlessness threatens to topple him like Rome, conquering him slowly. 

Shifting her hair in front of her, he feels a twinge of appreciation run him through—but he isn’t surprised. In a different world, he’d move mountains for a girl with curls the color of how he takes the coffee she so faithfully makes; curls that flick and move in private dances for him, God’s perfect design, conceived among the canyons of time. It’s a foreign memory, amputated almost—umbilicated to nothing in this world to give it life, but he knows. He just feels them tangle through his fingers something perfect, in a way that hair never has.

Always a sucker for a girl with curls—they were different. Feral. Wild. 

His canines hit sharply on the plush of his bottom lip as the stranger angles to shift against the sheets, probably to face him. Logan  all but bullrushes the mattress to put a hand on her shoulder, “—sorry,” bumbling like an idiot, he sucks in a breath, “not real hungry, but thanks. ‘S early, go back to sleep—I gotta hit the road,” barely above a constrained whisper, adds a little pressure to his hand to encourage the behavior.

She complies, and he dives for his shirt and what he can only assume is his jacket tangled in the sheets of his side of the bed. 

Surprisingly, she says zilch. Content to let the subject drop, a mercy from God. Thank you God. He’s dressed. Barely registered that punch of hunger a good fuck always leaves behind before he’s out the door, palming his jeans for keys—bingo.

Fingers grazing sunglasses in his pocket, he slips them on the low of his nose. Shakes in his blood tell him he needs a smoke, booze, something for the cold edge peaking through his bones. 

Spinning keys to the punched-out and snowkissed Bronco on his finger, Logan slips out the door, fighting boots onto his feet as he skirts the curb, looking for his ride. 

It takes him a day to find her.

Well, more specifically, twenty-two hours—and finding isn’t the right word for it, either. He knows where she’ll be, she said so herself before he’d slipped into the sands. There’s only one place in the world she’d ever received formal education, property lines of a familiar farm and prairie grass amidst old farmhouses teaching her more than any public education ever could.

He’d been there, her childhood home, more than a dozen times. Been here, tasted this air. Watched the frost kick up on windows, slick up highways that have carried him all over farmland America, almost-Canada. The wilds of this place remain, scattered in and out of industrial complexes and pop up bedroom communities. 

She’d always hated it here, all the snow and cold — people. Made no sense, honestly. She’d loved their home in Alberta, where winter was, in a sense, arguably worse. Had fostered a love for that place unlike anyone he knew, and he was from there. Never complained, though.

Logan had always known, secretly, that she missed the States, its freedoms and culture, a pretty that rivaled none. Faithfully and with duty she’d followed him everywhere, skiptracing across the globe like it was a game of hopscotch and not a fight for life.

While he’d been running all his life, she’d been firmly rooted—but he’d be damned if she didn’t pluck roots to keep after him, to keep them alive. Together they’d rested their heads in some less than Eden hotspots, places phantoms wouldn’t even tread—places purity went to die, holiness turned its face. 

She’d counted it joy, just to scout the lines of living beside him. I’ll love you in every time, Logan.

If the tires on his Bronco could heave, they would. Twenty-two hours and no sleep, Logan could pretty well feel exhaustion lapping up the marrow of his bones, needling away at his eyes. Highway 7 signs, painted with snow and wobbling in straight winds greet him as he guides his Ford off the asphalt, out from between guiding lines that had shifted oh so many times the last day and a half—prophecy not much unlike his life.

And pushing the Bronco along the tree-lined lane, lights shining in the last fingers of fading night, Logan realizes that he’s white-knuckling the steerwheel. Maybe for the first time in his life. 

He’s never been an anxious soul. Never a point to it, anxiety was wasted emotion. But all the same he feels a pit open in the depth of his gut, a fierce burning not unlike a lake flaming with inferno heat rising up his spine. Feeling feverish, his palms pearl with moisture.

A quick glance in the rearview at the darkness hanging out under his eyes punches home the marriage of piglet pink rising beneath his unkempt shave, which is now a handful of days overgrown. Muttering, he guides the wheel with a knee, working fingers through his hair—it’s thick. Dark, darker than future him remembers, styled in a way he hasn’t worn in at least four decades. 

Popping the Ford to a stop in a parking spot overshadowed with packed, plowed snow, he snaps the shift into park. Sits there, in his leather jacket and jeans, staring at the front door of the college complex. A stone Goliath, it towers in the fading darkness, sunlight beginning to stretch the horizon to a new morning. There’s a few cars belonging to the overly ambitious, his eyes scan them. 

Logan remembers the plan, all the details of the debrief—of a dossier that came from her lips, to his ears. Not a stitch of paperwork, no documentation to erase. So unlike the old days.

The most informal of the informal, perched across his lap, topless and smiling as her nails pull sharply at the flesh stretched across his collarbones. Scarlet lines to match fake but not inexpensive nails, he forgets how she manages them in an apocalyptic world. Twilight their only audience, four walls conferenced them as she’d relay detail after sweet detail, his brain pulsing with the weight of her against his chest.

If he closes his eyes, he can feel her again—even in a body that doesn’t even know her. 

His dick twitches with a needy throb that reminds him where he is, where she isn’t. Absently his mind spins, his hand skates across the bench seat of the 70s Bronco, palming for her familiar presence. Void coldness ices over the space, and when the Wolverine opens his eyes, the cab is deceptively empty.

Forty years from now his brain weaves an image of her, flashing like a film reel. Supplants her in this seat next to him, smiling—-as young and beautiful as she was the day he met her, age hardly more than a number even as it joins itself at her hip. 

Hips bucking up off the bench out of habit, with rebellion, his head falls back over the seat. Sinks lower on the bench, knees kissing the dashboard as the heels of his boots dig into the floorboards, anchored to nothingness. Bone grating against bone on his back teeth, the growl he releases is animalistic.

Painful, sharp, it licks up the heat in his blood. He palms at his cock buried in his jeans, suffocating in heat. Her mouth, sucking at his pulse, tongue flicking against his—tasting like lipstick, like chap and sweat. How her hair brushes his shoulder, raises his skin like he doesn’t remember. Her little noises, breathy little moans. Praying his name as he feasts on her presence, consumes her closeness, union almost supernatural, galactic. Otherworldly, divine. 

And it hurts, his starvation for her. Loneliness he doesn’t remember cracks like a whip, canyons open his spine to perform surgeries that’ll leave him a barren, cold wasteland. Oh, fuck.

God, he missed her—hasn’t been gone but two days, and he misses her. An unmovable hunger mountains in the low of his belly, rearing an ugly head Logan knows won’t be turned but only one way.

A way that won’t exist for another decade, ten long years of arctic cold. 

You’re a sick fuck, Logan.

Eyes snap open, pops the latch on the door. Freezing wind chases in and smothers tornado heat kicked up in the cab, amongst the radio buttons and film developing on the windows from his hot breath. Slipping out, Logan bats the door closed behind him. Pockets his keys. Considers the landscape, it’s pretty, then looks to the front door.

Marching after it, his eyes sweep the parking lot—her car. It’s here, sentinelled, standing guard in an otherwise empty lot of asphalt and fading starlight. 

He chuckles, shakes his head. Much to his surprise when he tries the door, heavy doors open. Unlocked. Whisking inside like a silent shadow, Logan breaches the foyer. The first coordinator. Nobody is here, hallways as dark as skeletons in squirreled-away closets, the air stuffy with age and ventilated air.

An old smell creeps up and down the hallway, wraps around him—but it’s quiet. Serene. She said it would be, one of the happiest places of my youth, Lo, and she doesn’t really lie. It bleeds from walls like open arteries. 

Something hangs in the air, a sweet lightness, airlessness that he can breathe, but doesn’t know. When his finger brushes the wall, curiously, the earth doesn’t split open, the air doesn’t move—-it’s just still. Unmoving. Patient, like a lover. Fortressed between thick pines and Midwestern snow, it’s a sleeping giant Logan doesn’t know. When he pauses to listen, to think, he can feel it try to touch him—-that weightlessness, that solace.

He could sleep here a thousand years, felt like he could breathe for the first time in a century. 

Unsure where his feet point, but he knows where to go. Senior year, first class is theatre—-she’ll be in the auditorium.

One by one he ticks off the details in his brain, smoothing his hand over his mouth, trying not to miss his past, his future, whatever the hell it was. But parts of him claw to go back, memories that don’t belong in this body—and very suddenly, Logan wishes for the first time he were older, time wasn’t now. That he survived long enough for the day, ten years from now, that the rest of his life came marching through the doors of a dimly lit bar to rattle steel cages.

Wandering corridors eventually finds him standing outside the door. Metaphorically, crossing this threshold will change his life—it will ensure the future of everyone he’s come to care for, to know. It will ensure them, in a life far from now that feels faraway down and lightyears away.

He opens this door, crosses the place where carpet meets cheap linoleum, and he’d write in stone events that will play out forty years from now. 

And he hesitates, only briefly. Hand hovering over the knob of the double doors, waiting for something to tap him on the shoulder. Opportunity to rip him away, fate to call out behind him, stop, you fool. His blood sings with anticipation, ripping through his ears in a way that blocks out everything but him in the shadows, standing here.

Waiting has never felt so smothering, so earthquake. It’s hard to swallow, but he manages. About to open the door, movement behind makes him flinch. 

“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow! Creeps in this petty pace from day to day—to the last syllable of recorded time—and all our yesterdays have lighted fools—” 

Oh, shit. If that doesn’t fit. 

For the first time in nearly 200 years, Logan’s heart stops functioning.

He forgets to breathe, the familiar weight of suffocation launching his lungs forward, pitching them against his ribs. Every part of him simmers with flames of ice he hadn’t known but only one other time in his life, fingers itching as they rest at his sides, motionless. Paralyzed.

But that twinge of ache, deep in his skeleton, rockets to life between the bones of his hand—-and Logan lifts one, to consider the claws. But there are none, they are still sheathed deep within himself, but they echo. They ring and shake, trembling as the speech continues again, restarts. This time louder, with more life—from the gut, it stirs him in a way that pays homage to curiosity killing cats. 

Carefully he pops open the door, peeks through. Light spills through the opening, warm tones that force him back, squinting as his eyes adjust. Washed in light and emptiness, the room is vast. Pitches down to a floorstage, theatrical seating a quiet giant waiting to throw stones.

Instead, the air is still, motionless among the seats. Only thing moving within the four walls is the body rearranging a rolling podium, collecting things off the floor. Running lines under rushed breath, bare feet so at home center stage that it is almost treacherous. 

He can’t breathe, every cell in his body pistons into an overdrive that sends his head reeling.

It’s her.

He shouldn’t be surprised, forty years in the future she’d told him she’d be here. Was always the first one here, in the auditorium, the only time I can use the stage, Logan, and the truth of it smacks him across the face as if he’s been whipped with a milkstrap.

Castor wheels on the stage are loud, rattle the air as the podium rolls back to reset, and Logan realizes he's standing stupidly in the center aisle, looking lost and enchanted with her—and he is.

Even as he slips into the last row, sitting low in a seat to observe, he aches in a way that only God designed for the most violent, deep love.

Even at distance, the detail of her springs after him like a predator. It overtakes him, powers him into corners of himself that Logan didn’t think to ready. The first thing that he thinks is that she’s young, so young, young in a way that even a decade from now couldn’t know.

You ain’t ready for who you’re going to find, honey, it was a warning, shadowed between kissing him and making love in a way that would imply the world’s end. 

When she told him he wouldn’t be ready for her, he thought she couldn’t be serious.

But she was righter than he is alive, he wasn’t prepared—innocence. Purity. Naivety. It spins around her in a dance he can almost taste, and his memories struggle to assimilate this precious little thing with the woman his heart knows, his body craves.

And Logan thinks it’s wrong, feels absolutely filthy, falling in love with her all over again, in the mere seconds he’d seen her standing there, reading from a frayed and tattered Macbeth.

How she’s the same person, he doesn't know—how she couldn’t be, is another thing entirely. 

Logan realizes she’s been the same height practically forever, and that makes him smile. High heels tossed stage left beside a backpack in the shadows, what he wouldn’t give to see her conquer the world in thrift store heels the color of darkness. Familiar curves pull at denim jeans that take every ounce of his self-will not to notice, full hips on Hollywood display with the same leather belt and buckle she’d be wearing in ten years, when this body first makes eyes at her.

And her style hasn’t changed—high heels and jeans, a tucked-in tank top and left-open buttoned shirt that floats almost ethereally.  

And his head cants to the side, not unlike a curious dog—he could cry, he thinks. Probably.

Brunette curl spills down her back, nearly to her ass, a lazy slipknot hanging limp at the base of her neck. Righteous indignation rises up in him like a wild animal—in a decade, he’ll meet her with cropped hair, curls cut to not-even shoulder length. His stomach knots, solidifies like it’s concrete. Memories spinning—Logan realizes he’s never known her with long, full hair. Hair like this, curls that make him insane, almost threaten to send him up the wall with ferality. 

Insane, sick the way his mind immediately shoots to all the things he wants to do with it, with this little thing pacing downstage and back, humming and reading lines to what she thinks is open air.

Straight to hell with him, thinking about bending her over that stage and fucking her until she weeps. He won’t get the privilege of her taste for at least a decade, if not a few years after.

And that’s enough to gut him completely, punch a low moan from the base of his spine as blood rushes to take up space in his cock. 

Subliminally, he feels for the ring that’s been hanging out on his left hand for twenty years—alarm snaps his gaze to his hand, its absence alarming and unfamiliar. Takes a second for his heart rate to still, realizing it isn’t there—and that’s right. It won’t be for a while.

But it’s become an engrained thing, a usual part of his life—memories relay that he does this often times a day, it’s almost a coping mechanism. Hilarious how it so easily translates to this body, this time when it isn’t even reality. The ring probably isn’t even crafted, he’s missing something that doesn’t exist. 

“Excuse me, what are you doing in here?” 

Klaxon alarms rings through his blood like a warning shot, and Logan for a second considers that he has been shot, a burning hole through the center of him widening to swallow him almost body and soul.

A steel beam drops to replace his spine, and he catapults to his feet like he’s on fire—scrambles out of his chair like an upset cat. Heart pounding, heat flares across his skin like his life depends on it, palms riding up the denim on his thighs as he tries to wick away bubbled moisture.

Swallowing a shallow breath, he watches her gracefully hop off the platform, finding her feet as she tosses the book on the stage. 

Realizing she’s meeting him up the aisle, he steps to greet her halfway.

“This is a closed classroom,” her tone is firm, but not entirely uninviting—memory serves that he’s not unfamiliar with this, and won’t be, in their future together. “I’m running lines, did you need something?”

Her little way of always assuming the best of people—of prying without making it feel like she’s digging. God, she was good—-it’s no surprise to him that she’ll become a journalist, the nosiest person in the world, in but a few short years from this very moment. 

Even up close she glows with a radiance that alarms him. Wearing the makeup she always does, mascara that sets off icy blues like a plague, Logan fights his way out of the depths of her gaze. Claws for purchase at anything he can get his hands on, which at the moment, is a quicksilver smile this body knows. It’s worked well for him, disarming the opposite sex.

He knows he looks good, always has, and Logan has weaponized his sexuality for his betterment since years ago. It’s a toxic thing, one that this very girl will dismantle in about twenty years—-will continue dismantling, claiming, for the next forty. 

Absence of any reply has her taking more conversational territory. Her hand extends, she offers her name.

“I don’t know you,” no room for argument, God she’s still so forward, “are you a student here, or faculty?”

A polite way of asking what his old ass is doing at a college at ass o’clock in the morning, and very suddenly he realizes, off like a shot, he has no alibi. No backstory, no agenda for this moment.

Logan can’t even think past her bludgeoning pheromones and scent, much less the assault of her eyes. Like a wolf she takes him apart, plays with the carcass of his resolve like it’s a plaything. 

Never usually unprepared, he fumbles for words. Arms crossing over her chest, she waits. Stands there for all of a few seconds, before she does that thing that all girls, seemingly, do—she fills up the silence.

“You’re not Graingly’s theater buddy from Pensacola, are you?” The look on her face tells her that not being whoever such a person is probably isn't a good thing, the way her hip cocks and her jaw flicks with the tight of muscle.

She doesn’t wait, not even a second, “You’re not supposed to sub until Friday—I’m his student lecturer, I set that date.” 

Well there it is, his perfect in.

She won’t learn to interrogate and intimidate with silence for a while, and he finds her battle for dominance amusing. It’s even more raw and unpolished in her youth, she’d mastered it already in the years after this.

If he didn’t already know, he’d find it hard not to be curious how she’ll stonewall in the coming years—as she ages, matures. Instead, he just revels in her presence, in the floating feeling taking up space in the empty of his gut. He’d slaughter for a cigar but couldn’t move from his weld right here if the earth split open to consume him. 

Logan’s chuckle is low, off the base of his ribs. Even if it is a little weak, a little breathless and ashamed of the thoughts sounding off like nuclear bombs in the back of his head—their first meeting, in a crummy Canadian bar in May.

The first time he sees her cry, an awful first date ending with an argument, him at her door asking to see her again in the straightline winds of a near tornado. How he asks to marry her, that first look at her on the day he makes her his own. That look on her face when they move in together, when they buy their first house—when they spill first blood together.

Pain raptures him to new worlds when he realizes what she becomes, what he gives her—mutation that traps her in this world, this life for an indefinite future. 

And he can’t shake the reminiscence—their first fuck, her first time, his first time with someone so virginal, so holy and sweet and good. Burning through him like a branding rod dripping with white heat, he struggles to assimilate this young little thing with the woman, ten years in this body’s future, she’ll become.

And as legal as it may be, Logan can’t imagine touching her like he will, someday—she might break, such a fragile little thing. And yet all he can picture is taking her, right here and right now, unraveling the strands of time to hurry the fuck up what is meant for a decade from now. 

She’s still talking.

“Listen, I really think you should—-” agitated. She's pissy, that same edge he will walk well, that same edge he’ll teach her to teeter, to exaggerate.

It’s a beautiful thing, really, watching their life together unfold in his brain—it’s like a movie he never wants to get up from, a picture he creates.

It tastes good, it feels perfect. 

He puts up a hand, offering her an easy smile. Her mouth snaps closed, bingo.  

“I figured,” if you only knew. He extends his hand, “Logan,” and she shakes it, hers fitting in a way that confirms God’s very existence. “'M not a teacher, and sure as hell ain't from Pensacola.”  About three thousand miles north, actually—-a mountain house so pretty, we’re going to spend our honeymoon not leavin’ it. 

But of course, it hangs out in the open wound his heart has become, unsaid. 

That hits home, seems to fit the bill. Her posture loosens, and she crosses one leg over the other. Still does that, forty years from now, and he still finds it adorable.

“Good to meet ya,” and good God if she still drag her ‘o’s’ in that little Midwestern way that ticks up the corner of his mouth, amusingly. “Can I help you with anything?”

Again, always so willing—so naive. He could’ve been here to ruin her entire world and she’d help him do it, patient as a flower. 

“Yeah, actually,” he runs fingers through his facial hair, gestures to her. “Believe it or not, honey, I’m here to see you. Sent, actually.” It’s going to sound so ridiculous. Unbelievable, and at this point, it is.

More sci-fi than reality, no human in this universe is aware that time can be so manipulated. Kitty Pryde, his very vessel, isn’t even alive.

And that hollows him out like a canoe, bloodlets any confident air in his sails to the ground. It cries out unforgivingly, laughs at him. 

God was laughing at him, he was sure.

Her airy snort is dismissive, aggressively derisive. “Yeah, right,” she shakes her head, turns on the ball of her foot, “I don’t know any Logans. You can go, now,” turning back around, she backpedals away from him.

Hand flitting through the air, her chin lifts in an away gesture, “Like I said, closed classroom. Nice meeting you,” moving to the stage, she hauls herself back up, moving to retrieve the text she’d discarded. 

Stalking after her, Logan hauls up on the stage. Comes up on her, grabs her arm. Starting, she whirls around at speed, knocking into him. Fingers clamping around the muscle of her arm, the look on her face is horrified for all of a few seconds, fear skittering in and out of the blues that flash in her eyes like dreams he doesn’t want to rise from.

His hard look into her face is quelling, and she shrinks back. Pages fall from her hands, hitting the floor at their feet with a hard thunk. 

Logan can feel her heart throbbing, her blood singing with heat. Color creeps up her neck as she pulls at his grip, investigative. Eyes holding his gaze, they put up a fight—they disarm him in a way that he should fear, that shouldn’t be so difficult for a man that will endure the unthinkable.

Pain flashes between his ribs like a flare, lighting up his chest. Shuffling her a few steps closer, his other hand moves to loop a finger through a belt hoop, knuckle rubbing against the familiar leather. 

“What are you do—” 

He remembers what she told him to say, “I have a word for you,” it’s assured. Hard. Riddled with a confidence that bleeds out of him like his arteries have been sliced, pumping lifeblood onto the floor at his feet. He’ll beg, if necessary. Grovel at her beautiful feet like it’s worship, and in a way, she’s deserving.

Her eyes snap up from where he’s conjoined them, Logan watches her swallow a handful of shallow, doing-nothing breaths. “Sent to find you, darlin’.” 

Ripping her arm away, her brow mottles with scarlet heat and confusion that isn’t concrete, but instead unsure. She said she’d be confused, uncertain of him when he walked up out of nowhere and called her darlin’, a petname that meant something. The name, the one she conjured up in showers and feel asleep to. Logan knew it was her favorite; she’d told him so their first time, You had me at darlin’, Lo, and you always will.

Poetic justice, really—and maybe, now, this will be why.

He’ll be why she falls in love with that name, with how he says it, how he calls her. 

“I don’t understand,” she tries to make it sound strong. Logan releases her, expecting her to rear away like a upset horse—surprise lands in his gut when she doesn't.

Instead, she faces him. Draws her shoulders back. Lifts her chin and steps up to him, closing daylight. Her head cants slightly, eyes narrowing in that what’s up with you way that is curious, but hesitant.

Unsure rips off of her like heat he can only feel in every cell of his genetic makeup, in a way that regenerative mutation could only ever hope to heal. 

“You may not,” he challenges, it falls off a sigh as he upturns a hand. Offers it, kindly. “But try, honey. A whole lotta world needs you to try.” 

And she does. She tries. Business hours and daylight interrupt them, but she tries—and it’s a bloody fight, making her understand. Challenging every quip, every reasonable logic that she hurls at him like knives.

Moving to the auditorium’s lobby, then to the corridor, then up into the library. And  after an hour, when she really started believing him, he drags her out to his Bronco—where they can be alone. Thrive in the uninterrupted them.

Cranking the heat and turning to rest his back against the door, he accepts her denial. Any question she throws at him for another hour, every rabbit trail of You’re absolutely wrong and this is why.

She pauses to breathe and remember what class she’s blowing off, and oh does he love her. He’s already so in love with her that it hurts, bludgeons that space behind his ribs with the knowledge that soon, when this is over, he may not remember.

Multiple times Logan has had the thought to fuck everything and just run away with her, take her anywhere she wants to go and start their life right now, to explore and give life to memories he doesn’t already know.

No matter how much he rationalizes, that idea doesn’t leave him—the high fantasies of what she’d look like, attached to him at the hip.

Of who they could be, before adamantium, before the X-Men, before—

And questions finally metamorphosize. A standstill, like after a hurricane—her chest is heaving, curls sticky with sweat. Memory recall tells him that his normal for her—she’s argumentative, by nature. Defends what she believes, is not so open. Doesn’t back down from a fight, which is why, in years from now, she’ll be his perfect match. His soulmate.

The one God designed for him, since the foundation of the stars and the bends of time. 

It’s what makes her so her, a Wolverine. In a roundabout way. Another version of the same monster he becomes, but a holier one. If that’s possible—and he reminds himself it is, she becomes it. This young woman, on the cusp of living, will become everything Logan had only ever fantasized, more than he could ever conjure up in wild imaginations and greedy headdreams.

It’s surreal, sitting in this cab of this Bronco, watching windows film up with the heat of their breath. His knee knocks against the steering wheel, adjusting to glance at her milkwhite grip on the door handle. His eyes skate from hers to her grip, and he knocks his head back against the glass of the door’s window, a lazy smile turning up the corner of his mouth. 

“Still don’t believe me, huh?” 

After an eternity of silence, she side-eyes him.

“It’s only a little ridiculous,” exaggerated sarcasm drips like sour honey off her tongue, “I mean—put yourself in my shoes here, Logan.”

His heart flatlines and then resurrects—she’s called him Logan a handful of times, now. It sounds like it never has from anyone else—at points in his life before this, he’d always thought his name sounded so good, at its best coming from a woman he was balls deep in, hearing it chanted like a prayer.

But that’s gone, so anemic that it’s sick—it will only ever sound so orgasmic again if she says it. Nobody else is worthy, all graven images in comparison to the goddess she has become, him at her feet.

“It’s unbelievable.” 

Whatever else she’s said fails to land. He can’t stop hearing his name in her mouth, consonants and syllables so delicious it turns his spine to jelly, stirs up his cock in a way that makes him adjust his leg on the floorboards. Suddenly uncomfortable, sardined into a too-tight space crowded with her and everything he wants, he rolls down the window with a few pumps of his arm. Forces air in, underneath his collar.

Logan swears he’s boiling alive beneath his jacket and shirt, there will be medically evident boils when he’s finished with her. 

The Bronco rocks slightly with her moving to mirror his posture, back against her own door. Her knee knocks against the seatback, other leg bouncing anxiously against the floor.

Picking nervously at the buckle of her belt, Logan has to force himself to look up from the cut of her shirt, the way it pulls taut across her tits with the angle of how she’s sitting.

Aw, hell. Fuck him for being such a filthy, sexual creature. 

Fairly certain he will die if he doesn't have her, he repositions—sits up, leans his arms over the steering wheel to knuckle mindless patterns into the fog hanging out on the windshield. She manages an uneven sigh that may as well rip open the world—Logan cuts her a look from the corner of his eye. 

“You think I’m lyin’,” he sighs. Falls back against the seat. 

“Hell yeah I think you’re lying.”

And if that doesn't make him laugh. 

“You laugh, Logan-whoever-you-are, but—honestly. C’mon,” her hand extends to serve a point, “time travel? This isn’t Star Trek. You don’t just waltz up to someone and tell them that and expect it to be believable,” her hand flits, through the air, through whatever she uses to rationalize the anger creeping up into her words.

“And then, if that isn’t good enough, you tell me this, this Hollywood bullshit that I’m going to meet you in ten years in Canada, somewhere I’m not even ever planning to go—and that kicks off the next forty years and the survival of mutants in the future!”

Her hands fly into the air, as if trying to pull down reason from heaven, “That’s a bunch of bullshit, if you ask me.” 

It’s quite the line of reasoning—he can’t fault her for it. Just chuckles, shrugging as he leans forward to pluck sunglasses off his dashboard, slip them along the cut of his collar.

Arms crossed over her tits, her chest rises and falls with nervous breath after breath, eyeballing him with enough force to rip the sun from the canopy of sky. He flicks off the heater, sweat between his shoulder blades sign enough that it’s too warm in here—she’s already damp, sweat raising the makeup on her face. 

“That’s the highlights,” didn’t mention how you’re the love of my life, how I can’t hardly think straight with you sittin’ right there, he cards his fingers through his hair. “Not askin’ you for anything, sweetheart. I’m just telling you—it’s gonna happen, and when it does, you need to remember me, this moment right here, and trust that it works out.”

He lifts a shoulder, hand turning through the air in a so-so way, “It’s like—fuck. It’s kinda like a prophecy, right? I’m telling you what’s gonna happen, and you just gotta wait to see if it does.” 

“Prophecy? You’re mocking me now, right?” 

His sigh is excessive, roughs up the wind in the tissue of his lungs with more froce than he thought possible. Knitting his brow together, his fingers pull at the cartilage in the bridge of his nose.

Stubborn little thing, always, stubbornness was both a strength and a weakness—nevermoreso underestimated in her, right now, by him. 

He nods out the window.

“This is a Bible school, right? Yeah, I know it is—you graduate here, in the spring,” the look on her face implies that he’s backhanded her, hinge of her jaw failing entirely to instead, sit there. Agog.

Rolling his eyes, he holds out a hand, begins counting off his fingers, “I told you, honey. You graduate, you get a job working for some lowlife newspaper editor–you fall in love with mutants, in that sick and twisted ADHD way of yours that you obsess about everything, and—” he stops, mostly to breathe. Halfway to bludgeon everything he wants to tell her to the point of pain, “—just listen. If you’re as high an’ mighty as you say you are—and you are, I know that about you—then you can’t say you don’t at least believe in prophecy, darlin’.”

Knifing a sharp smirk over to her, his brow lifts. “And last I checked, a whole helluva lot of unbelievable stuff happens in God’s history book, sweetheart—but I ain’t the expert.” 

That’s why I have you, in a decade or so. 

There is absolutely no time for his words to land anywhere other than nowhere. 

Her dismissal happens swiftly, like sharp jabs. The laugh bites, more of a bark than anything. Bam.

“Oh, I so get it now.” She absolutely does not, but he tastes the first blood. Pow. “You’re a messenger from God—right. Yeah, yeah I’m sure,” her eyes roll. Angles to pop the latch on the door.

In one go she’s out of the Bronco, letting all the hot air and frustration of the moment out into the arctic wasteland the parking lot has become. Bam bam bam. 

“I don’t say this very often, and pardon my language, but—fuck off, asshole.” 

Shouldering her backpack, staring at him from the cresting daylight that bleeds into the cab from behind her—if Logan didn’t believe in the celestial, he would’ve, exactly now.

Near frantic—and Logan has never, in all his 200 years been frantic—his hand slaps at the door for his own latch, and he rips out of the Bronco like a shot, hustling to stalk after her marching across the parking lot to her car like a soldier with orders.

And he is.  

Not so fast, tiger—that ain’t right, nah. Wolverine, you’re a wolverine.

My Wolverine.

“Honey, listen—” 

He grabs for her arm again, but something whips her about-face of her own volition, stepping up into his chest like a powerhouse of pride, absolution.

Her eyes cut through his armor, what will someday be adamantium bones like knives, hot and thrilling as they grab him by the absolute balls. The ferocity at which her eyes scout through his is wild, sends his blood spinning through his ears. He can’t hear anything but the thrum of his heart and every one of the breaths she sucks into her chest. 

There she is. 

 “I am not your honey, so quiet calling me that,” she bites, and it’s venomous—snapping fangs that sink deep into his veins, slavering at this soul.

And Logan should be upset with her, he should shake some common sense into her. Scream in her face the logic that she so lacks—but he can’t. He can’t move beyond the boundaries her eyes set, deep pools that empty oceans and rival the very stars hanging in the universe.

She could echo jump, and he’d beg her to know how high—and that may make him a fool. A pathetic shadow of the man he was hours ago, laying in someone’s bed, getting all the tit he wanted, without waiting.

“You say all this, this stuff about me—ok. We meet in ten years, sure. I’ll give you that. You’re hardly forgettable,” her eyes narrow, and Logan can’t miss how she shivers—how her lip trembles in the cold air, how snow clings to her lashes and sticks to her hair, carries it away across her features.

“Explain to me how you know everything about my life forty years from now, Logan.” 

Oh, fuck. This entire thing could be wrong, but it feels so right. 

Her eyes skate over him—down, up, and then back to his face. Like she’s summing him up—maybe she is. It would be the first time, but never the last.

Logan weighs the words in his chest, wishing for the first time that his bones were adamantium—that way, they’d cut through what to say. They’d bear the weight of her statement and haul them up the mountain-ing uncertainty he feels rising against the tail of his spine.

He’s never been so out of control, felt so out of his element than he does right now in the ripping wind of Minnesota cold and sunlight. 

She’s lined up the shot for him. All he has to do is take it. 

He does.

“We marry,” barely there, it’s the only thing he thinks to say.  So much more happens, “A lot of shit happens, a lot of it bad, but a’lotta good— takes a while, but eventually I get my head outta my ass and marry you, like I should years before I actually do.” 

“What?” 

Logan isn’t ready for the look of surprise on her face, and she’d told him before that he wouldn’t be.

A series of emotions pass through her eyes that he’s able to earmark, he watches them fall like dominoes—denial. Anger. Disbelief and hurt and really? that knots his guts up like the Sesame gates.

And Logan could watch the revolution of the earth around the sun in her eyes for all eternity, but their clarity is clouded by a mist of tears that rise—-she drops her head away, reaching fingers to swipe at the sting in her eyes.

She goes to turn away, and that may as well rip every organ out of his body. 

His heart leaps up into his throat, he snags her arm. Coming back willfully, he can’t miss how freezing her hand is in his. Logan pulls her close, against his chest, wraps his arms first around her shoulders, then around her waist, fingers gently skimming the rise of her jeans, the leather of her belt.

Her heart against his ribcage pistons like a locomotive, and he fears if it beats any harder, it’ll drive him into an early grave. 

When her head lifts to consider him, she isn’t crying. There’s a whimsical, faraway look on her face. He’s never seen it before, and somewhere deep inside the places you don’t show anyone but God, it terrifies him. Watches her swallow thickly, her tongue fill the pocket of her cheek. How it skips over her bottom lip, accompanies the way her eyes subliminally move back and forth, looking for him in the depths of his.

And Logan can see the thoughts spinning alive in her brain, wheels that have no place to go—that turn, over and over, looking for memories, thinking. Grasping at straws, clawing for the surface. 

Her eyes flick beyond him, back to the Bronco. Taking his hand as if she’d been doing it her entire life, she tugs him behind her, back to this Ford. Logan opens the door to tuck her inside.

Slipping in, she drops her backpack at her feet and shifts in the seat. And before he can bat the door closed, her fingers find the front of his leather jacket. Twisting into the leathers, she pulls him forward until his thighs brush the frame of the truck—until he’s flush against her chest, closer, somehow, than before.

A hairline moment and her lips find his, soft and curious but starving. 

Jumpstarted to life, every organ in his body flings forward against bone, fighting for air as she sucks the very breath from his lungs in the best way he could ever fathom.

He can tell she’s never kissed before. The way she moves, clumsy like a new calf. Can’t breathe. Her teeth knock against his, and despite how hard he tries to urge her tongue forward to meet his, it retreats. All thumbs and clumsy, it would be humorous if lightning bolts weren’t rocketing down his spine, if he wasn’t burning alive. 

And fuck, if it isn’t enough to wake up every part of him he’d been fighting to bury.

Insane, how even so foreign to him she could feel like home, like everything he’s ever been missing. His missing rib, created from dust.

Nothing aside from God’s grace keeps him composed, keeps his mutation leashed to the walls of his prison—God’s grace and how he absolutely is not actively ripping at the leather of the Bronco’s bench, nails buried so far that they ache.

Fingers find her hair, playing through brunette curls he knows will never be this long again—wraps them around his fists, nails gently pulling at her scalp in a way that makes her hiss, arches her forward against him. 

And if she doesn’t mean for that little mewl to be so lascivious, he’ll never know—it punches him low, in his dick, enough that rips a groan from the back of his throat, rattling around his teeth. She breaks first with a wet pop, a string of sticky saliva drawing him back to her in a way that leaves him stunned and breathless.

All traces of the frigid world gone, her skin coats with a sparkling sheen of slick sweat, she almost glistens. Racked with ache that he wouldn’t be able to admit in therapy, he drinks in every one of the shallow breaths she releases, as if it’s the air he needs to live.

It’s not far removed. 

Her eyes hold his captive, enraptured in his attention before they flick down to his mouth, the heave of his chest. Logan is fairly certain that fire laps up the heat in his blood, wolves eating away at the marrow of his bones, hungry in a way that nothing short of her will ever touch.

Her teeth snag her bottom lip, gnawing cautiously, and her fingers curling into his jacket are the only greenlight he requires—his hand at the back of her neck pulls her in for another kiss, a part two he’ll never stop writing, as his other hand slips behind her knee, gently guiding her down to the seat so he can slip in over her. 

It’s worship, how he crawls up her body—an altar that, memories recall, he worships at like it’s religion. She’s a fast learner, picks up the cues like a champ, finally allows him to French her in a way that should be unforgivable.

This him has never done this with her, doesn’t know her like he wants to—but memories. Fuck him, the memories; movies, their own future pornography feeds him just how she’ll react, what she likes.

In his mind, a life he's never lived, he can hear her crying out his name. Sobbing as he splits her wide open, body and soul—stares at her heart, takes everything God had given her. Greedily, he takes—he wants, desires, lusts for everything now, in a time that isn’t right, and can’t be, for the next decade. 

His hand anchored on her hip is enough to arch her back, her head tipping back into the leather of the bench, brow pulled taut into a hard line that makes his head reel. Keening, Logan angles to run his nose along her jaw, tongue lathing at the pulse pounding in her neck like a racehorse, steady like the sun.

And it takes willpower not to touch her the way his body demands, the way he lusts after. Instead his nails bite into the back of the seat, others far too busy playing with the hair he prays she never changes but knows she will. 

“Oh my god,” Logan isn’t sure it’s a prayer to him or heaven itself, but—he won’t complain how it rousts his blood, stirs his cock something good. “It’s—you’re, Logan—-shit,” His smile is wolfish, of the devil.

Perverse and twisted, he sinks his teeth into the words vampirically, rips the lifeblood from them like it’s soulworthy.

“I can’t breathe,” he knows she can’t. He knows, in some deep and faraway downs part of himself that this is all so new—so living color, so all over the place.

Part of him, a more rational Logan, knows that overstimulation stalks.

But he chuckles all the same, brushing aside the collar of her buttoned shirt to suck hard at the soft flesh of her collarbone. Lathes his tongue into its pool, tastes her sweat. Dies, resurrects to taste it again.

“You can and you will,” he prays it into her skin, hopes it takes, “hmmmm—-just feel, darlin’.” And it hurts, the way he absolutely wants. Knows he can, but won’t. Fuck, fuck,  “Fuck, yes—just, honey, just feel.” 

Her hands buried in the front of his shirt pull him back from the haze, from where he’s lost. Kiss him again. Again and again, he drinks at her well like a man who will die, and he will.

Logan will die if he doesn’t have her, if this isn't real and is nothing but a sick and feverish nightmare plagued upon him like the dead firstborn in Egypt. She’s already ripped open his chest and clawed out his heart, balancing it raw in her fingers where it bleeds out all of his will, his absolution. 

There’s a chance he doesn’t remember this.

If he dies from thirst of her, he’ll never know why.

That’s sick. 

Absently, his finger tugs over the waist of her jeans, dips beneath the denim. Grazes the buckle of her belt, investigative. She gasps, breath cut short as her back arches off the seat as his knuckle brushes her sensitive skin—she arches so far that he fears she’ll snap.

But the low of her belly is soft, inviting—inferno. He can feel her womb from here, the kiss of her cervix that memory serves is so good.

Breathless and hard, a light tug at the waist of her jeans makes him groan—all the way from the depths of his soul. It’s so familiar, so easy—he expects her to acquiesce, but it’s demonic. Torturous.

Fuck yes, this is right—

His drifting hand snaps her eyes wide open. She’s propped up on an elbow so quickly that it sends him for all of a heartbeat. Her hand shoves at his shoulder, off, and he falls back on his heels, breathing hard.

Unable to catch his breath, cut his eyes from the swell of tit peeking up over the top of that barely-there tank top she dares to call a piece of clothing. 

“No,” and there it is.

Absolution and righteousness that could strip him of his skin, if she desired.

Embarrassment sets in as she wrangles out from beneath him, to the farthest side of the Bronco that she can get. Unable to breathe, unable to think, her hand shakes as it settles over her stomach, her other propping her head up in the heel of her hand.

“Logan, I—” 

He knows. Doesn’t cure the sigh. Reaching behind him, he pulls the door closed and traps them both in the sex swirling through the Ford, unfilled and thick.

Guilt plants deep stakes into the soil of his soul, and he scrubs his hand down his face—looks out the window. Shifts against the seat, ignores the absolute agony of a hard cock festering low between his legs. 

They sit.

It’s a full silence ready to give birth, until she sweeps her hair up into a high knot, off her neck, twists to sit fully in the seat, fingers slipping through the slots on the steering wheel. He noticed when her breathing levels, when the cardio rhythm in her blood bleeds away into a normal heart rate—but it takes time. A full minute or two.

And he doesn’t know what to say, how to bridge this chasm—how to proceed from here. 

“What happens ten years from now?” She’s quiet, doesn’t look up from her hands for a few heartbeats, until sapphire eyes cut to him with a raised, interested brow. “You coming here to tell me this—does this change what happens to us when I find you, in the future?” 

The question of the ages, indeed.

“Dunno. Might not remember this, might not know you,” leaning across the seat, he moves his hand to take one of her curls, rubbing it gently between his fingers.

His other takes her hand, his thumb skipping over the familiar ring anchored firmly on her right hand—a ring she will gift him in the future, a ring that he will wear through time and space, should it be asked of him.

“Or I might. Not quite sure how the memory’s thing works when I wake up in our future, honey.” It doesn’t answer her question, and he knows that. He doesn’t have answers, never has. “Not sure how it works for you, either.” 

“Wow. You’re so helpful,” she teases.  

He cracks a small smile. “It don’t improve, trust me.” He gently brushes a knuckle over the apple of her cheek, her angling into the touch a little farther. “Still as pretty as you will be the first time I see you, sweetheart,” she said she’d need to hear this, that this alone will spare so much of the pain she has yet to live.

“You remember that, yeah? ‘Member that someone out there wants you, even if he doesn’t know it yet.” 

She slips across the seat to brush shoulders with him, her palm along his cheek guiding him for another kiss—this time, it’s what he expects. Soft, sweet, young. So her, so familiar. He could die a thousand deaths to experience this, over and over.

Softly carding his fingers back through her hair, she breaks firs. Curls a finger beneath his chin to draw his attention to her. He gives it, willingly, up unto the half of his soul and any kingdoms he possesses.

“Are you still in love with me?” Want me, Logan—do you want me? 

He smiles, nods. Presses a kiss to the inside of her wrist, her lifeblood. The very pulse that will bring her back to him, that carries him away.

“I’ll love you in every time, sweetheart. Just say the word.” 

taglist: @thevoicefromanotherworld @sidkneeeee @misscrissfemmefatale @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 @eternallyfrustratedwriter@ayamenimthiriel @pandapetals

[aspergerasparagus]

I have an Milkshake idea for you What if one day

the contestant has a fever and frankie Take care of him And in a scene frankie cuddling and nuzzling the sick contestant While frankie does purred like a cat.

frankie drown the contestant with affection Because frankie knows a golden opportunity when he gets one.

of course The contestant must be healthy For better show performance

But at the same time this gives him an excuse to cuddling and nuzzling the contestant

Typically Frankie didn’t need to wake his little contestant up. They were usually already awake and dressed when he came to collect them so it was an unusual sight to see them still buried under the covers when he arrived. Tutting he sauntered over, expecting to yank the poor man out of his bed and scold him for sleeping in but he caught himself as he reached for the sheets. Lucky was curled up, his breath laboured as his whole body shivered beneath the thick covers. Leaning down he gently slipped the mask from their face, something he wouldn’t have condoned but the circumstances needed him to bend the rules slightly. The man’s face was flushed, his forehead stained with sweat. Sighing Frankie pushed their bangs away as he placed his forehead against theirs, the man was burning up. The action was enough to finally cause Lucky to stir, his eyes snapping open as he was greeted by the rabbit so close to his face.

“F-Frankie?! What the hell, are you trying to kill me?” The sudden outburst made Lucky clutch his head whining, finally remembering just how sick he was as a wave of nausea came over him.

“You know the answer to that already but for now I guess I’ll have to do the reverse. You’ve gotten sick somehow. Maybe something you’ve eaten? It’s not like anyone here could give you something…”

“The whole facility is covered in corpses, you stupid rabbit…” Ah, yes. Frankie was used to the corpses that had been mounting up through the years as it wasn’t like any of them had to worry about them but with a living human amongst them it had only been a matter of time before he contracted something. He’d have to make a note to maybe get rid of a few of them in the incinerator when Lucky was better.

Clearing his throat the rabbit tried to other the man a sympathetic look which only earned him a weak scowl in return. 

“Well yes, that was… an oversight of mine. I’ll rectify it in time but for now let’s focus on getting you fighting fit again. I can’t have my star dying on me before the next season.” Lucky just gave him a look of displeasure at the mere thought of Frankie looking after him. Rude.

“Can you just leave me to die in peace? I don’t want you of all people caring for me.” 

“Absolutely not. You’re worth too much for me to lose you to some stupid fever. So put on your big boy pants and stop complaining. And besides don’t couples dote on one another in their partners time of need?~” The voice change and implication of a relationship between them just made Lucky groan and crawl back under the covers as he tried to go back to sleep.

“Please kill me…”

After collecting some medicine (Lucky insisted on checking it all, even after Frankie said it was fine) and some water, Frankie had managed to get him settled back under the covers. He still looked terrible but luckily whatever energy he did previously had had finally run out and he couldn’t deny the rabbit’s help any longer. Which did give Frankie an idea. It wasn’t like he’d have this opportunity again so without asking he crawled hid way onto the other side of Lucky’s bed.

“You have got to be kidding me…” Lucky was far too weak by now and with the medicine kicking in he was powerless as Frankie pulled him against his chest and buried his face against his little contestant’s hair.

“I heard cuddling can assist in speeding up healing, plus it’s not like you can do anything to stop me~”

“If I could, I would strangle you.”

“Oooh naughty, save that for when you're better and I might let you~” Lucky just shot him a look as Frankie chuckled, but he couldn’t find the energy to fight back right now.

“Shut up and just let me sleep. You can do… whatever this is just make sure I have more water and meds for when I wake up.” Purring, Frankie snuggled closer as Lucky finally began to drift off again.

“Of course, I’d do anything for you sweetheart just rest and heal up okay~!” Frankie could only giggle as he received a weak punch to his chest before Lucky finally passed out in his arms.

[diejager]

hii!! just so you understand, I have real brainrot because of your “Only Human” series! I love it madly tenderly and with all my heart😭😭 anyway, I saw that you have requests open, but feel free to ignore if this is not the case or I indicated something incorrectly. how about our favorite monsters and hybrids 141 with a new member of the team who is a witch??

also, sorry for my english, I use google translate☠️

Hey, no worries, I understood your request!

Spell Cw: witchy stuff, death, murder, drowning, blood and injury, fluff, magic, inaccurate understanding of magic, tell me if I missed any.

He always found it mesmerising, the soothing coldness of your spell working its magic on him, gleaming like water embracing his bleeding wound, the skin ripped apart at the middle and flesh throbbing painfully. It wasn’t anything new, pain wasn’t a stranger to him, rather a friend, a brother to him. Pain was a repetitive thing in his life, wound after wound bleeding him, and scar after scar painting his skin, he’d gotten so used to it that the stripes on his face were now an integral part of his identity, pushing the facade of a tiger if he didn’t have his ears and tail out.

But with you, everything had smoothed over to a soft thrum, like the warm waves cradling his shifted body, your magic, attuned to their aches through your bond and being, worked to cure everything to ensure that the pack he grew to love and care for stayed safe. Your being was like a body of water - the ocean - a beauty of nature when calm, but a terror when enraged, storms crashing against land and causing devastation in moments of fury. You were as dangerous as you could be caring and loving —just like the sea.

“Why didn’t you come see me first?” You sighed, tone laced with amused disappointment, brows tensed but your pretty lips quipped up, “I thought I put you in control of this Horangi…”

You worked your magic on König, fingers weaving invisible threads over his bleeding forearm, pulling the strings of puppet of flesh and bone, controlling the sinuous fibre of his skin to sew itself back. Horangi watched his friend’s wound steadily close up, injury shrinking with every pull of your finger until all that was left was the lingering scent of your cool magic and the metallic odour of blood.

“König is stubborn, ” Horangi chuckled, flashing you a sly smirk despite your exasperated expression, “Big too. I can’t move him.”

“And I can?” You scoffed, finishing off your skin weaving with a soft pet on his arm, letting König admire your work like a child with a new toy even though you’d gone through the same process over and over in the past, König had a habit of collecting scars as often as he toppled his enemies.

Your magic wasn’t only used in healing, you were an adaptive soul, your comfort found itself in water, and water meant life, and life meant whatever violent fury came along with quiet calmness. And in the right situation, where Laswell sent the Task Force on a boat or by the shore, you could level the oceans at your will in anger or protection. You gave men and women a watery grave on land, drowning them in their water-made coffins to stop them from reaching your wounded comrades, glaring off at anyone who tried approaching your cover .

You had Gaz, Price and him, tending to their deeper injuries and letting them use their first aid while you kept the enemy at bay, lower lip pulled between your teeth, gnawing on the skin until it bled. Separating your attention for both healing and defence/offence demanded a lot of concentration, especially when you were sewing up Price’s deep gash on his leg, listening to his hiss and groans of pain.

“Fucking-” Horangi busied himself with wrapping the bandage and gauze over Gaz’s wound, his eyes occasionally peeking at your clenched fist that pushed out your anger through the waters you controlled, “Bastards keep coming.”

You were a puppet queen and the sea your mannequin.

“Almost done, Hunter,” Gaz hissed out when Horangi pulled too tightly on his bandage, sending you a reassuring look to calm down your raised hackle, teeth bared and eyes burning the enemies alive as much as you were depriving them of air.

This was another show of your prowess, your fingers puppeteering water, commanding it and coaxing the water’s will to follow your call, heeding your every whim. It was a majestically show, as tragic as it was beautiful, much like the cleansing of the world when the oceans flooded Earth, leaving but Noah and his wife, and couple of animals to remake the land. You were remaking the land you fought on in an imagine, to make it safer and protect them —it would tire you out for the day, Horangi will ready to help you with anything wile you doze on and off.

Taglist: @craxy-person @crowbird @dead-cipher @iwannabealocalcryptid @iizx7y @mxtokko @capricorn-anon @perfectus-in-morte @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @angelcakes-22 @cassiecasluciluce @ramadiiiisme @ramblingsofachaoticthinker @im-making-an-effort @love-dove-noora @jinxxangel13 @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @mul-pi @danielle143 @beau-min @makayla-666 @urfavsunkissedleo @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @luvecarson @petwifed @randominstake @heartelysia @jggykhug09090 @cassiecasluciluce @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @call-me-nyxx @sans-chara @infpt-zylith @sweetnanah

[ratsonastick]

Clarisse with a mermaid/lake protector girlfriend? as if they were talked about a lot by the reader only appearing to talk to her or when Chiron called her, however she manages to transform into a human, and she doesn't talk to anyone other than Clarisse because she is shy and also doesn't like demigods ( except Clarisse, of course)

Lakeside

Clarisse La Rue x FemMermaid!Reader

A/N- I hope this is close to what you wanted!

Requests Remain Open

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Clarisse has never liked the lake, it reminded her of too much and she could never sit down and focus because of the many sounds. 

But one day she spotted something stepping out and walking towards the shore and she became curious. At first, she thought it was another camper, but then she noticed how you had a different type of shine to your body. 

She drew a dagger from her pants and crept forward thinking it was a monster that had split in. Taking shallow breaths she approached you. When she stepped on a branch and broke it she mentally cursed at herself as you turned to look at her with fright. 

You quickly ran back into the water, your skin merging and forming what looked like a tail. Clarisse had heard of you, a myth around camp that she never believed. 

You were the protector of the camp lake, saving drowning children and whatnot. Aphrodite cursed you for loving one of her children. It was said that the girl had asked her mother to get you to leave her alone and this was the first thought.

What was meant to make you ugly, simply only made you more beautiful – or that's what Clarisse thought 

She heard Chiron make an announcement once about leaving trash around the lake, saying the living species were getting upset. She didn't realize it was you they were upsetting. 

Once she left she still had the curiosity to see you again, she asked her siblings if they had seen anything like you but they all just brushed her away. 

So she left it up to herself to find you again. 

She went at the same time she did the day before, this time she went slower, being careful not to scare you. 

She spotted you once again, you had small fabric pieces covering you, and vines, necklaces, and bracelets decorated you adding to the shine of your skin. 

And most importantly you had legs again. 

The night before Clarisse had asked Chiron about you. He told her that you do exist, but you dislike demigods – or any type of god really because of your past. So if she were able to get to you then he would be amazed. 

She wanted to get to you … boy did she want to. 

She walked over the pebbles and cleared her throat, you placed your hands on the ground to quickly stand up but she put her hands up trying to show that she wasn't a threat. 

“I'm Clarisse” she spoke softly, taking a step forward. “What do you want?” You asked in a soft and shy voice which surprised her. 

Clarisse shrugged her shoulders, not even sure what her reasoning was, she just felt drawn to you. “I haven't seen you before.” 

“Good” You answered, simple and plain, not wanting to add more as you took another step away from her. “You're afraid of me?” Clarisse asked, but it came out more as a statement. 

You scoffed turning to face her “No … I hate you.” 

“You don't know me.” Clarisse challenged, if there was one thing Clarisse hated, it was losing a challenge. 

“I've heard the children speak from the boats, they are afraid of you,” you spoke softly, but there was a certain sternness in it that made Clarisse’s heart pump. 

“I’m sorry … but that is simply the way I am. Mean. But I will be nice to you … I’ll try.” Clarisse found herself apologizing for no reason, her shoulders kinda shrugged and she had a straight face. 

It wasn't long until she convinced you to sit down with her, and eventually, she got you laughing. Clarisse was still her anger-driven self, but she mellowed down when she was near you, bringing out a more flirtatious side of her. 

After a few weeks, another camper noticed the two of you talking, and when Clarisse was questioned she gave them an aggressive look and told them to ‘back off’ and that you were not theirs to know about. 

She wanted you to socialize with others, to get over your hatred towards others, but at the same time, she liked having you all to herself. She couldn't help it but it was in her blood to be selfish. 

So the day when she saw you talking to another camper she lost it. She stormed up to the two of you and watched as you stroked the kid's back. “What the hell is going on?” Clarisse pretty much growled at you. 

But the look you gave her was unphased, and that made her even more annoyed. Her arms were crossed as she looked down at the two of you. “He was drowning … it's my job to save the children.” You spoke softly looking back at the kid. 

When Clarisse walked around the kid to see his face, she noticed the snot rolling down his nose and how he was drenched. She felt stupid, but to keep up her strong act she rolled her eyes “You're fine, now get lost.” She told the kid, tilting her head towards the cabins so he would get the hint. 

The little kid who was terrified of Clarisse got up and stumbled away. 

Clarisse watched the kid leave and then turned to face you as you stood up, “You let your imagination control you.” you spoke softly meeting her gaze, “Nothing controls me.” 

“Except for your anger and jealousy.” 

Clarisse scoffed and shook her head “Whatever I'm leaving.” 

“Don't,” you called out to her as she was already walking away, she stopped and swung her foot so it almost twirled her body for her.  She stopped, still a distance away from you as she waited for something else. 

“You're my only friend … I want your company.” You admitted for the first time since she started talking to you. Clarisse couldn't help but smile, so she looked down trying to whip off the smirk and play it cool. 

“Fine only because you are so sweet.” She teased, but she was gonna stay anyway, whether you wanted her to or not. 

She sat down and you followed her, you shyly scooted your hand towards hers, still afraid that Clarisse might get angry and curse you, like that camper had done in the past. 

But Clarisse smiled and took it, letting her hand interlock with yours, feeling your skin and how your hand was so smooth compared to hers. 

You sat together in silence, Clarisse drew patterns into your skin with her thumb, enjoying how you felt, and for the first time, she enjoyed sitting by the water. 

[o0chiyami0o]

Second chance:

Pt 1. The Saviors

Lil warning before we start

Listen uh, I'm making a series because uh I want to. Judge me or not, I have a K9 dog with me(totaly a dog). But anyway other that I'd hope you all enjoy this lil series of mine, the reader have a bit of personality and hit of same backstory from a character, I'm not gonna really reveal who I was refering to but I'd love for you lots to keep guessing 'till someone guess it right:). Also, I'm not good with their accents so I might just slip in some the words I know, sorry.

Everything is dark and you can't even see a thing, is your eyes even open? Are you even alive? You keep asking yourself that. Your lungs feel full as if water were filling it each time you tries to took a breath.

Soft murmured can be heard but from where? You can barely make up the words they're saying "Poor soul" "Barely reach late twenties" "lord forgive this soul". And some you couldn't make up, soon the soft murmured became more louder and the voices adds up.

Your eyes finally flutter open only to meet with blinding white light as you can't feel yourself breathing, yet here you are, awake but the blinding light make you second guess it "Poor soul, it's not your time yet. I'll bring you back there but not at the same place you use to be. Be as brave as you're before." the voice say, sound so soft and soothing but something about it make you feel unease.

Before you could quest whoever's voice was it, you soon felt like yourself falling. The blinding light is no longer in view as you find yourself in a what seem to be a bulding with a gasp escape you once you feel yourself breathing again.

"What.. the fuck" you breath out as you clutch into your chest, everything felt so wrong and different as your eyes flick everywhere. The sounds of people yelling, screaming, gunshots and more chaos. Just what the hell is happening here? You ask yourself as you stand up on your feet before a groan escape you, everything hurts.

You look down at yourself before took a notice the bruses and wounds on your body which make your eyes widen 'What happening?' You repeat in confusion, you didn't have time to think before the door, that already broken anyway, kicked down by a male "Captain, foun' someone" he say, talking to the mic that were resting on his ear.

You took in his appearance, a soldier, what you can see from his uniform as his hair.. is somewhat unique for a soldier. Whatever it is, make you tense up once you saw his uniform. "Yer okay, bud?" He ask as he approach you, clutching the gun he holding while he keep his guard up.

You just continue to stare up at him, your mind telling you to fight or run but you remain still with body tensing. One time you're drowning and the other time you're here. Weird.

"Gee, could use a medic, kid" he say as he crouch down in front of you. Kid? You ask youself, this man doesn't seem to be older than you in any thought. "Come, let me help ya" he says as he put away his gun and carry you up in his arms. An arm behind your knees and the other behind your back.

"S'tense, wha' happened to ya, Lass?" Ask the man as he keeps his focus straight, running toward what seems to be a helicopter. His question remains unanswered as you keep your guard up when he steps into the vehicle only to meet four other men with the same uniform as his.

The sight make you tense up even more than you should which make the man who holding you took a notice of it "found 'er still breathing in one of the building. The other already left with the others suvivor" the man explain to his team as he sit down on the barely enough space in the vehicle.

"This is why I told 'em to check every building even there's no call out for help" mutter a man who sitting across from you, seems to be the oldest if you take in his appearance but look can always lie. "The medic is busy, let 'em be" say another man who offer you a sympathic smile.

The man who still holds you in his arms shift slightly to help you have a comfortable position while all of you fit in the small space "we're going" a gruff voice say from the pilot seat before the helicopter start do lift off from the ground.

"S'tense, where did ye find 'er?" Ask the man from across of you, tilting his head slightly as his bear shifting every time he start talking "one of the broken building, colaps as soon we leave. Lucky 'er" say the man who still holding you in place, giving his teammate a grin.

"Lass look traumatized" say the other man, who give you a softer gaze as if trying to help you ease up, that didn't help thought. "Wouldn't imagen wha' happend there, the town were turn upside down by tha' maniac".

That gets your attention as your gaze flick to the man who just talk. A maniac? Surely they just being overzealous but nothing is impossible to you anymore.

———

You can't remember shit. You're now in a medical room where they tend your wounds and bruses. They ask you your name, you say your name to them but it feel wrong to say as if it's wasn't even your name to begin with.

When the medics leave the room to let you heal, you hear the door of the room being open to reveal the man who save you "how 're ye doin' lass?" Ask the man as he approach your bed. Staying silent as you look up at him while laying down on the bed "not much of a talker are ye?" He ask, after a while he notice you're not going to answer him.

He soon called out your name with a grin on his face ",heard they called ye' that" he say as your head nod comfirm his words which make his grin widen when he knew you're not fully ignoring him. "Call me Soap, Bonnie" he say as he watch your expresion, wich to his supprised, you let out a short laughter.

This fact make him tries to pull out more of your laughter from you by making some jokes in hope to ease you up, some were so bad that manage pull out a louder laughter from you.

But soon it come to an end when one of the nurse tell him to leave you to heal, you watch him walk out of the room as he give you a grin before leaving the room.

You now left alone in the medical room, you glance to your side to find an open window that reveal the night sky. You look outside from your bed, looking at the stars as you still confused what will happend next since you know nothing of this place neither how you got here.

The stars held no answer for your questions as you found yourself slowly falling asleep, maybe tomorrow will answer at least some of the questions that have been flooding in your head.

[ponyosmom35]

he's gone

Simon Ghost Riley x reader

synopsis: reader finds out that Simon passed when Price, Johnny, and Gaz show up at her house.

warnings: angst, death, PTSD, panic attack, crying, I'm so sorry

Link to master list:

https://www.tumblr.com/ponyosmom35/733401347573088256/simon-ghost-riley?source=share

She holds her hose tightly in her hand as she sprays her blooming flowers with water. The sun was beginning to set and she felt at peace. Allowing her mind to wash away the stress of the day. The sunlight hits her face and she sighs, imaging that somewhere in the world, Simon was looking at the same beautiful sky. She recalled their conversation earlier that day, a small smile coming to her lips as she remembered his voice. 

She stood in the kitchen, intensely focused on her measuring cup as she attempted to fill it with the correct amount of water. She turns off the water after allowing it to reach ⅓ and carefully moves over to her mixing bowl. She dumps the water in and moves the mixer down, flipping the switch and watching as her kitchen aid whips the cake mix together. The loud noise drowns out the sound of her phone ringing and she carries on. A few minutes later she finishes putting the batter into a pan and throws it into the oven, hoping that a lemon cake would distract her from how much she missed Simon. She looks down at her small ragdoll kitten who plays with her feet and laughs, she picks him up and kisses his little face gently. Still deciding how she was gonna come clean about adopting a pet without permission. 

It had been two weeks since he’d gone. So far she’d been doing better than she expected, managing to keep herself quite busy all day. It was the nights that were the hardest. She struggled to sleep without him. She tried to pretend like her body pillow was the same, but nothing could beat the feeling of his arms wrapped around her. When she came across a post about the little guy needing a home, she volunteered without a second thought. 

He was quite good about calling, he would try to call every other day when in between missions. But as they got new intel he wouldn’t be able to reach out for several days at a time. This week she had not heard from him once. She knew he was going on their first mission.  She worried about him, she knew that he could handle himself, better than anyone in the world. 

She picks up her phone to set a timer when she realizes she’d missed his call. Her heart drops and she calls him back instantly. 

“Si?” she asks anxiously 

“Hi my love” 

“Oh thank god, I thought something may have happened. I’m so sorry I didn’t hear my phone I was baking and it was on silent” 

“Don’t worry about it, I don’t expect you to pick up every time I call”

“Of course I will” she says 

“How are you doing darling?”

“I’m doing good, I decided to bake a cake for whatever reason” she says staring at the mess of flower and egg shells on the counter.

Simon chuckles and leans back in his chair as he imagines her in the kitchen trying to bake. Tears fill his eyes and he attempts to keep his voice steady.

“Is my kitchen still standing?” he asks

“The kitchen smells wonderful thank you very much” she responds 

“What have you been up to this week? Catch me up” 

“I wanna talk about you, where have you been the past week? Are you any closer to coming home? How are you doing? How are the boys?” she says rapid firing her questions 

“We’re all good. But I don’t wanna talk about work, tell me about you distract me” 

She nods to herself, understanding that he didn’t want to talk about it, meaning that their mission didn’t go as planned. “What do you want me to talk about?”

“just talk to me baby, anything” 

“Well it’s been pretty gloomy today so I started reading a new book, it’s about grief. I’ve only read a few chapters but so far it’s been very reassuring and comforting to know that grief isn’t linear, you go through ups and downs just like anything else”

“That sounds wonderful love” 

“Yeah, so I’m gonna try and read for a few minutes everyday. Kylie and I have started a jazzercise class, you should see how awful I am. I can’t look at myself in the mirror because in my mind I’m absolutely killing it, but then I look at the mirror and it looks like i’m half dead” she laughs 

“I’d pay anything to see it” 

“Don’t worry, when you come home you’re gonna get a full performance” she promises, causing him to laugh. The lump in his throat is tightening as the tears fall down his cheeks. He runs his hands through his hair and covers the speaker as he sniffles. 

“I’m counting down the minutes” 

“Me too” she muses “so I think we should get a cat” 

“What?” he asks

“Let me rephrase that, I brought home a kitten last week”

“Did you now?” he chuckles 

“Before you freak out, he’s so cute and cuddly, he was abandoned and my friend found him but she couldn't take care of him, I just had to bring him home!” she defends herself 

“I’m not mad love, I’m glad you’ve got someone to keep you company. What's his name?”

“Junie”

“Why Junie?” 

“Because june is the month we met” she admits 

Simon puts the phone down and covers his face. His heart was crushing at her words. He receives a knock on the door, he wipes his eyes and picks the phone back up. “I love it”

“We’re about an hour out from departure, so I’m gonna have to let you go” he says slipping his mask over his face.

“Okay, please be safe”

“I love you more than anything in this world, take care of yourself okay?” 

“Of course Si, I love you too, call me as soon as you can”

“goodbye love” he says before hanging up the phone. 

She noticed his odd behavior that morning, but decided to let it go to prevent any unnecessary anxiety. She finishes watering the plants and turns off the hose. She walks to the steps and heads inside. She shuts the door, making sure to lock the door as well as placing the wood down to prevent it from being opened easily. She slips off her shoes and smiles at the sight of Junie sitting on the counter. She picks him up and holds him close. The sound of a knock at the door catches her attention. She wasn’t aware of any company. She walks over to the door and opens it to see John, Kyle, and Johnny. Her eyes travel to the British flag held in John’s hands and her smile falls.  

“John?” she asks as her brain struggles to process the situation. 

“y/n-”

“Don’t you dare” she warns holding her hand up to stop him “don’t” 

“He’s gone lass” Johnny says, his teary eyes meeting her own. She shakes her head and glares at him. 

“I just talked to him this morning” she refuses 

“Mission was local, went south and we barely got out. We came here as soon as we could” 

“What happened to him?” she asks, crossing her arms, clearly still in shock from the news.

“Can we come in?” John asks, she nods and leads them into the living room where they sit and she remains standing. 

“Tell me john” 

“Why don’t you sit down” he responds 

“I want to know what happened!” she demands 

“He was hit” Kyle says 

“Where?” she asks, Price shakes his head and stands up, moving over to her and placing the flag in her hands. She notices the tags placed neatly in the center of it and she reads his printed name. She looks up at him as tears fill her eyes. 

“He’s not gone, I just talked to him today! He was telling me not to burn the kitchen down -” she cuts herself off with a sob, and holds her hand to her mouth. “We’re getting married in four months”

“I’m so sorry for your loss, I-I wish I could’ve saved him” Price says gently

“Please don’t say that” she begs

“Is there anyone we can call for you?” he asks gently 

“Stop this john I can’t - I can’t” she says setting his things down on the table as she looks out of the window. Tears stream down her face as she attempts to control her breathing. 

“These are for you” Johnny says, handing her a bundle of letters, each of them addressed to her. There is a small box on the top of the pile. 

Her vision blurs at the sight of his handwriting. Her body becomes weak as two words loop in her mind. Her body falls to the floor as the voices of the three men fade away. He’s gone. He’s gone. He’s gone. He’s gone. He’s gone. He’s gone. He’s gone. The man she loved with every fiber of her being. Her Simon. Simon who nearly killed the person who disrespected her. Simon who held her when her sister died. Simon who saved her life. Simon, who built her a bookshelf, redid her entire deck and porch. Never again would he give her one of his bear hugs. She wouldn’t hear his beautiful laugh, or watch the way he separated his food to keep it from touching. No more early morning cuddles, kisses, silly arguments. How would she live without him? What she wouldn’t have given to hear his deep voice in that moment, telling her that it was going to be okay. He couldn't. He was gone. 

She was inconsolable, her heart wrenching sobs echoed through the house. Bringing tears to the eyes of the soldiers surrounding her. Johnny was at her side, holding her shaking body, trying his best to bring her even the smallest bit of comfort. He felt sick to his stomach watching her writhe in pain. 

John had called her parents and the trio waitied with her until they arrived. As soon as John opened the door, they recognized him from the day he brought the news about Emma. Her mother gasps and hurries into the house, seeing her daughter crumpled on the ground, agonizing sobs erupting from her lungs. She drops beside her and rubs her back. Her father shakes Johns hand and walks the soldiers to the door. John pulls him outside and informs him the the truth. 

“Sir, we need you to understand that the work we do is classified, in the eyes of the Government we do not exist unless we’re needed. With a job like this, comes sacrifices we have to make to protect the people we love”

“I’m not following? What sacrifices?” her father says, crossing his arms 

“If one of the people we’re investigating finds any bit of information about out lives or our loved ones then they’d be in danger”

“Are you telling me that my family isn’t safe?” 

“Officially I can’t tell you anything, but you need to know that we’re taking care of the situation, you’re family will be under 24/7 surveillance. You won’t even know they’re around” 

“Is it true then? Is Simon really gone? Man to man, is he gone?” her father asks, staring at Price. 

“For now” he responds “it’s imperative that y/n believes this”

“You’re asking me to lie to my daughter? Do you hear her in there? How can I-”

“Sacrifices, we all have to make them in order to keep our family safe. That’s all we’re doing here” Price shakes his hand and walks down the steps “take care of her, we’ll be checking in”

-

After hours of tossing and turning, crying until her lungs and throat burned she finally decides to get out of the warmth of her bed. A place she used to feel the most comfortable, now was empty. She rubs her hands over her face as her headache grows more intense, the lack of sleep already affecting her. Having woken up multiple times from nightmares, she willed herself to stay awake, to protect her fragile heart from the horror of her dreams. Everyday for the past week she’d been reminding herself that dreams are simply just a reflection of the mind, a way for her worries and fears to be shown. It wasn’t real. He wasn’t gone. This couldn’t be true. Simon wouldn't leave her. 

She moves into the bathroom and stares at herself in the mirror, she looks exhausted. The weight of Simon’s absence is evident on her face. Her face was puffy and her hair was tangled. A mixture of tears, saliva, and mucus coated her face. She wipes it off and sighs. Her lips trembling once more as her eyes fill with tears. She grips onto her hair as she tries to breath through her fourth panic attack in 24 hours. Memories of his hands running through her hair flash through her mind. A wave of nausea runs through her and she stares at it in disgust. He always loved her hair, he’d play with it absentmindedly. She was angry. How as she supposed to live with the hair he would kiss every morning, the hair he gripped when he kissed her passionately. She notices the scissors on the counter and grabs them, without hesitation she begins to cut strips of her hair off. She watches as her gorgeous strands fall, some in the sink, others landing on the ground. She sobs as she ruins her hair, unable to stop herself. After several minutes, she drops the scissors and stares at herself, the jagged strands unbalanced. She rushes to the toilet in a split second and empties her stomach violently. 

The sound causes her mother to rush into her room, she bursts through the door and spots her daughter laying against the toilet surrounded by her precious locks. “Oh honey”

-

please forgive me for this! omg I made myself cry. below is the link to when they reunite, I posted this a few months ago. If you wanna read that now, you are more than welcome I'll link it below, however there will be a few filler chapters in-between that I'll be posting!!!

You’re alive? (middle of MW3)

https://www.tumblr.com/ponyosmom35/724654294153003008/youre-alive?source=share

love you all <3

[pxtched]

ok so this head has been rotting in my head and i think its time to let it free.

so pirate!miguel stumbles on siren!reader's territory by accident bc his ship got wrecked and he was sorta the only left of his crew (u can change that if u want ofc) and siren!reader saves him cus she wants to know if any other man is gonna come so she can prepare herself for a future attack. he wakes up by mouth to mouth but he doesnt realise until siren!reader herself says something about it. the rest you can decide.

i love ur fics sm! stay hydrated!<33

𝐬𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞

╰ Pirate!miguel x Fem!siren!reader.

╰ angst, death, slowly gaining trust then immediate betrayal, (not really…)

AN: this is so short I’m SO SORRY, thank you for letting it free!! Thank you for requesting and hope this is to your liking!

Miguel ohara.

That was a name that was well known, feared, and one of the strongest captains and have one of the most strongest crew in the sea. Get attacked by him? You’re dead, you aren’t making it out alive.

He’s listening to his crew mate talks about sirens, saying how they are worth a lot and they should go hunting for one! Miguel instantly rejected the idea, saying it’s a waste of time.

Miguel never really believed in sirens, he thought it was some tale to scare kids and to make pirates like him search endlessly for them.

“Awh c’mon!” “No Peter, It’s just a waste of time and resources.” “You are like probably the only captain that dosent believe in sirens” “Because I’m not stupid.”

He remembers helping another crew hunt a siren but never even saw it, nor heard it. Miguel scoffed at the fact he wasted his time helping someone hunt for something that probably wasn’t even real.

But now? He believes, he saw one. He even looked at one. Talked to one.

Miguel felt like he had a fever dream, he doesn’t know how to put it into words that what happened in that day was real and not some random dream.

He’s not even on his ship anymore, not his crew, just some random people. He dosent know what happened to his crew mates but just assumed the worst.

It happened so suddenly, He was sailing on the ocean on his ship with his crew mates. Laughing and just having fun. When he least expected it, the tides got rough, the waves got higher and it was stormy too.

The last thing he saw before passing out was a massive wave, All he remembers is feeling the impact and then black.

His ship wrecked god knows where, His crew mates most likely dead sinking down in the same ocean but different area than Miguel. Miguel was drowning alone.

Until you saw him, You noticed him sinking down. Your first thought was free food but then you realized who he is. He’s a pirate. The same ones who try’s to hunt your kind. You scowl at this discovery but you soon realized he’s alone, his ship is gone too.

You could get information if there’s any attacks coming, their weaknesses and then kill him.

So, you save him. Grabbing his body, stopping him from dying and throwing him on the shore. you look at his body, you recognize that symbol that’s on his chest...your eyes widened, you grit your teeth as the grip on him tightened.

This was the Captain that helped that crew hunt your kind. Yeah, you are going to kill this man afterwards.

You give him CPR, isn’t working. So you give him mouth to mouth. Soon enough he’s awake sitting up immediately, coughing up some water. He looks at you, looks around. He’s at some random island as some lady saved him.

“What do you want from me? Is there anyone else coming? Is there going to be future attacks I don’t know about?” You immediately question him.

He looks at you once again in confusion and opens his mouth to answer but his mouth closed then his jaw went slack as his eyes widened in horror as he realizes that you aren’t a human but a siren.

He frantically searches for his cutlass but you hold it in front of him “looking for this?” You say as you toss it in the water. He looks at it sink I the water then looks back at you in fear but regain his composure.

“I don’t mean any harm, I didn’t even know—“ you scoffed, not believing his words “Oh cut the bullshit, answer my questions now.” You demanded him.

You get closer to him narrowing your eyes at him as he backs up “Is there going to be any men attacking me? Is there going to be people trying to hunt me down?” You questioned him once again.

“I’m being truthful, I don’t know. I didn’t hear anything about people looking for you. I don’t mean harm, You can see that my crew mates are not here most likely dead. My ship is wrecked. So please trust me.” He pleads, you glare at him and backed off.

“Why would i ever believe a pirate Like you?” You sneered at him, and he sighed “Please, I’m alone. You have my word.” He pleads once again. You look at him trying to see if he’s trying to trick you but you don’t see any malice in his eyes.

You decided to trust him, you felt bad for him. And you especially know how it is to be alone so, you just nodded and point your head to the island “There’s some food there, You Can stay” you tell him and you swam away in the water.

He smiled and began to explore the island, trying to see what he can work with for the time being. He can deal with this, He is a bit shaken up that he just talked to a siren.

As time went by, you guys respected your guys space. Staying away from eachother…which was actually you avoiding him because you still hated him.

But after a couple of days, you talked to him more. Making short and awkward small talks but it’s something!

Now Miguel sits at the shore, looking at the water as he searches for you. He notices your eyes staring at him back and he’s a bit startled but he offers his hand to you, you swim up to him and take his hand.

“Yes?” You say, tilting your head. He smiled at you and puts an apple in your hand “Here, I don’t really know what you eat and i don’t want you to still hate me” you eyes widened at his kindness.

You couldn’t help but chuckle a bit “you don’t do your research?” You say as you take a bite of the apple, usually you’ll just eat whatever is in the sea or sailors but sometimes an apple wouldn’t hurt.

He shakes his head “No, I don’t focus on stuff like that. I just focus on where I’m going, why, and the safety.” He admits honestly, you raise and eyebrow at him being a bit skeptical of him.

“You were there helping another pirate hunt my kind” you pointed out and he sighed “you think I wanted too? It was a waste of my time and my resources. Even after that I didn’t believe”

You smile. Maybe he isn’t half bad “Realized I never got your name, What is your name?” You asked him.

He smiles, knowing he’s getting on good terms with you “Miguel, Miguel ohara” and he offered you a handshake, you give him a handshake.

“you aren’t that bad Miguel, I thought you were going to kill me or send men my way” you joked and he shakes his head.

“I wouldn’t either way, why would i crash my ship risk my teammates life and my own! just for a chance to get you?” He asks and you thought about it. Huh, he was right. “Dunno, people are desperate.” You shrugged and he laughed.

“True, true. I see pirates fight all the time and I don’t get why!” He says while eating some berrys, You didn’t even notice but he was halfway in the water. “So, how’s the pirate life been?” You asked him.

“It’s…Something alright, it’s always shocking something. Everyday is an adventure and I…had my crew mates with me, it was fun and I miss it. I miss their laughter, and…everything.” he tells you. His shoulders dropped as he has a frown on his face.

You feel bad for him, you understand how that feels to be left alone. To miss home, to miss everyone and everything.

You put a hand on his shoulder and then loved it up to his cheek for him to look at you.

“Hey, It’s okay. I understand where your coming from. Trust me, I know how it feels to be alone. I didn’t live here always, I was with my family, my friends but then…they came. I seen all of my family die in front of my eyes.” You looked away, You didn’t like going back to this memory but you told him anyways.

“I tried to stop them but 3 ships was there. I couldn’t do anything, so I swam away as fast as I can. And that’s how I got here” you confessed to him.

It was silence for a few moments but then he apologized “I’m sorry that happened, but hey! You got me now” he says with a smile, picking the mood back up. you laughed, You Can Finally trust him.

But that thought quickly goes away, you hear the familiar sounds of a pirate ship. Your smile dropped. There was multiple, he lied to you.

His eyes widened in horror as your widened as well. You back away from him, looking at him with disgust and betrayal. You turn around to the ships and you noticed that they are aiming their pistols at you, their cannons as well.

He desperately pleads that he didn’t do this, that he didn’t know but you glared at him. You’re in disbelief that you actually gave him the benefit of the doubt and trust him.

As much as you want to attack him, You safety matters first. So you swim away deep in the water as Miguel watches, as he hears his name being called from the people above.

A/N2: im so sorry this took so long