#but you look into their eyes and all you see is that younger you staring back at you!!!

[saintzweig]

older next door neighbor!reader x stanford!art

– teehee :3 proofread? do you even know me (of course it's not)

– edit: i actually dont know how to feel abt this so please let me know what u think!!

art donaldson has been harboring a big fat crush on the girl next door for years now. you're two years older than him, already well into college by the time he got accepted into stanford. 4.0 GPA, a great volleyball player and you volunteer at animal shelters, his grandmother loves you– heck, every mother in town loves you. you used to come over atleast once a week, having dinner with him and his grandma. when you started tutoring to earn money, he had you over three times a week to help him even though his grades are doing fine. he reckons he can do better but really he just wants to have you to himself, the two of you locked in his room for hours. of course that changed when you left for college, choosing a university miles away and leaving him alone for the rest of his highschool years.

you come home every break which means that art does too, hoping to catch you and maybe show off a little. after all, he's a man now– he's on the stanford tennis team, he's won multiple tournaments and he's no longer the little nerd you've known since you were kids.

you come over one afternoon, bringing over some fresh brownies that you've made for art and his grandma. he opens the door shirtless, telling you he was just about to jump in the pool but really, he saw you walking over through the window and took his shirt off. he asks you if you want to maybe join, the weather's nice and all and much to his surprise, you agree, saying you have nothing going on anyways. you excuse yourself for a while, wanting to change into something more suitable and he prays it's the red bikini he's seen you wear before.

and it is. you come in and he offers you a cold beer. "beer huh? i didn't know you drink now, donaldson." you say with a slight grin, taking the bottle from him. he watches the way your hands wrapped around the bottle, images of your black manicured nails wrapped around his co–

he makes a comment about having done stuff in stanford, stopping himself from telling you that he's been drinking since he was a teenager, at the academy. with patrick. he doesn't miss the way your eyes lingered on his lips as took a swig of the beer, making him smirk subtly. he leads you to the backyard and you help yourself to a floatie while he sits on the edge of the pool. you paddle yourself softly to the water, leaning back and savoring the sunlight on your skin. he doesn't even try to hide the way he's staring at your chest, not that you can see anyways because your eyes are closed. "my grandma's having a poker game at one of her friend's so it's just us" he tells you.

you begin to ask him questions about his first year in college– how was tennis, how were the parties, any girls?

tennis was great, he says his coaches are really helping him improve and prepare to go pro. parties were crazy, it was loud and sweaty but he doesn't let himself get carried away, being an athlete and all. he's gotten on a few dates and he tells you he's been asked out alot, exaggerating a little bit to show off. you say you weren't surprised and he asks what you mean.

"i mean look at you, you're not bad looking. you're tall, blonde, athletic– girls dig that. you've gotten bigger too"

he smirks, "bigger?" and you only roll your eyes, leaning your head to look up the sky. he jumps in, walking over to you, crossing his arms over the floatie, making you shift slightly. his elbow touching your thigh. "what about you? any guys?" you hum, sipping on your beer. "there was one, but I don't know. didn't really work out" he asks why and you tell him you just don't see yourself dating someone on campus, they're all assholes who don't take anything seriously.

"have you ever dated anyone younger?" to which you raise a brow, only for him to tilt his head with a stupid grin on his face. you shake your head, "i heard younger guys can treat you very well." he says, and you knew exactly what he meant.

that's how you ended up sitting on the edge of the floatie, legs apart with art standing in between. you're leaning back on your arms while his hands are on your thighs, pulling you closer as he place kisses on your skin. your bikini is beginning to get wet, not just from the pool water. he looks up at you, water dripping down from his hair down to his face. "you don't know how long i've been waiting for this."

you almost whined at his expression, eyes wide as he looked up and lips plump, aching to taste you. you lift your hair to push back his curls and he leans into your touch, closing his eyes. "wanna show me how well you can treat me?" he thinks he just died and came back to life. in a second, your bottoms are untied and floating somewhere in the pool. fully exposed to him now, your cunt soft glistening in the sunlight. he lets out a soft cuss as he takes in the sight. "you sure about this?" you only nod, smiling down at him.

he kisses your sensitive clit, keeping his eyes on you as you throw your head back. he watches as your adams apple bob when you let out a moan. he begins to circle his tongue around your clit, sending waves of pleasure throughout your body. butterflies floating in your stomach as he made his way down, sticking his tongue inside your hole, tasting every bit of you. he moans as he feels your slick cover his tongue, "you taste so sweet, angel." you tug on his hair and he takes it as a request to go deeper and he does. he fucks you with his tongue, lifting his hand to press the rough pad of his thumb on your clit. his eyes are closed, savoring every moment. he pulls away slowly, teasing his finger into your dripping hole before slipping it in, and you tense up. immediately enclosing him with your warm gummy walls, art starts to feel pain inside his swimming trunks. he moves his hips slightly, hoping the water will create a friction to relieve the ache.

he attaches himself to your clit once more, sucking on it this time while he curls his fingers inside you at the same time. your stomach tightens as you feel your climax approaching, making you tug on his hair harder. "f–fuck, how are you so good at this" you gasp, bucking your hips. he chuckles, you feel the vibration against your core. "art– shit, i'm so close, baby" he groans at the pet name, his other hand gripping your thigh harder.

"you like that, huh?" your voice breathless, "you like it when i call you baby?" he nods feverishly, lapping up your juices, his own hips bucking softly underwater. you wrap your legs around his back, "i'm gonna cum, artie– fuck, baby just like that. doing so good f'me" within seconds, you're shaking violently into his mouth. feeling warm fluid ooze out of you, which he immediately takes into his mouth. you struggle to hold yourself up, leaning back on your arms as you catch your breath.

if only you could see the string of white floating out of his trunks under the water.

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Rigor Mortis (part 11)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,

Part 10, Part 12

summary: You and Miguel spend the day together. You get a surprise visit.

warnings: mentions of death, mentions of microaggressions and racism in the workplace (projecting bc my ass is tired)

a/n: uhhhhh. heyyy.... so i took a cute little break 👉 👈

Join my taglists here

wc: 7.2k

Oh! and I finally made the series' playlists (very open to requests) <3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

cracks in clay, poured over

Cold. The slow drip of an IV seems to echo in that little room. 

She feels cold; the kind that drapes over her like a second skin - slimy, slick, and it makes him shiver. Pale; her hands barely have enough strength to curl around his anymore. His little girl, and he watches as she takes shuddering breaths. In, out. In, out. The shaky rise and fall of her chest and it’s all he can do to watch, hunched over metal railing with a certain kind of dedication. His eyes creak. His back groans. 

There’s an emptiness to hospital hallways, he thinks. That thought comes with traitorous relief - balled up like chewed gum at the pit of his stomach. He wants her to rest; to take a breath that isn’t heavy with the weight of living. Even in a tangle of wires and tubes, and the steady metronome of a heart monitor to punctuate a mess of thoughts, she still looks like his. When he blinks, he sees her: rosy cheeks and chubby fingers entwined with his. He curls into them now, with rough palms softened by love - which he will dirty just to keep her safe. 

Gabriella is a force of nature. A supernova: bright, bright light at the corner of someone else’s universe - but certainly the centre of his. And when she smiles; oh God, when she smiles; he sees his mama, he sees Gabi… and sometimes, he sees himself.

It’s not a case of roaring thunder in place of quiet sky. A flash-bang in the night felt more like a whimper: hushed tones in a doctor’s office that came with a wringing of hands. And dread - settling amongst the room like a lead balloon - that was what he remembers the most. It's a feeling he'll never quite forget. The doctor; a genteel, younger man with more worry lines than Miguel himself, he had thought. Gabriella was prone to poking at the folds beneath his brow, at the sides of his mouth that curled around the very same nose he had passed on to her; smoothing them out like lines in the sand. 

Like pockmarks and furrows in sand washed away by the sea. El Mar - but Gabriella had trouble rolling her Rs. She would get there, he had always thought. He would not brandish a wooden spoon or chancla as his mama was prone to do. He would be different. Better - provide her with the space to make the mistakes he never could. If it meant a lifetime of forehead kisses and boiled candy stuck to the roof of her mouth, he wouldn’t mind.

The sea. Maybe he should take her to the beach - a proper one, not the murky waters he had grown up with. Her hand is too pale, and Miguel can already hear his mama complain; fussing over his little girl. Has Gabriella been eating properly? Has he? She would pinch his cheeks and squirm, hissing at their sallowess. Too much like your father, Conchata would say. 

He's decided. Yes, that's just what they need. White sand stretching out as far as the eye can see - azure and turquoise and deep, deep blue. 

He blinks. Miguel, ever perceptive, swipes it away from your skin. A sliver of bare flesh against his, your arm across the couch as you lay across the pillows. He woke up to this, to you; a fleeting nap that takes you both to a bright midday. Tangled up in blankets, a mess of his limbs and yours; and yet, you still feel…

Cold.

You stir. Like a lamb woken from fresh grass, he watches as you stretch; shaking away gentle sleep. At least Miguel has the sense to look away, to pretend as if he hasn't been staring at the gentle rise and fall of your chest, nor the stray hair that peeks out from the nape of your neck. He traces it with his thumb, with a tenderness that makes his head hot and heart heavy. A warm blush spreads across his face as you huff, blowing air that makes his curls jump. Despite himself, Miguel smiles, feeling the warmth. It's lop-sided, gentle where his face is sharp and he allows himself to soften - if only for a little bit.

“You okay?” You croak, voice still heavy with sleep.

He smiles, daring to curl his fingers around yours. 

“M'better now.” It's barely a whisper, and so he clears his throat. “You still seem tired, sweetheart.”

When your face scrunches up into that adorable pout, he laughs the kind of laugh that echoes throughout his whole body; deep and sonorous.

“What’s so funny?” You're whining, but your face cracks into a small smile. And like the sun peeking out from the horizon, he feels its warmth spreading from his side; onto everything your light has touched.

“Nothin’” 

His breath hitches as you come closer, placing your head on his chest.

“You're a fat fucking liar.” 

Yep, he thinks. And you don't even know the half of it. 

There's something about domestic bliss that twists his heart into knots. Most of it is you, of course, neatly pressing him out and spreading him on wooden pegs like fresh laundry. A life together, like this…? 

Fuck. Maybe he hasn't had enough sleep.

Miguel hums, quietly turning your palm in his, tracing its lines like a lovelorn sap. He likes your hands, for some reason. They are smaller than his, gentle in their curve and crackle, fitting exceptionally well in his own.

He frowns. 

“I think I'm happy.” 

…and then he's biting his lip like he's said something he shouldn't. What should be an off-hand comment, swept away by the tide, makes you sit up abruptly.

“You think?” There's no malice in your voice, just confusion.

“It just feels…” He can't even look you in the eye, deciding to inspect your hands instead. 

“Different?”

You finish his sentences now, great. Miguel feels like a walking cliche; all butterflies and shaky hands and cotton in his mouth. 

In an attempt to sound indifferent, he hums. If you can see through his paper-mache facade, you don't show it.

“Different.” He rolls it around on his tongue, wanting to know its taste. If it fits, how it fits, and where you come into the equation. Different. Good different? It's a tentative thought, creeping into the back of his mind like a thief in the night. Whilst he wouldn't usually entertain it - as it was a dangerous thought, the kind that leads to others, thoughts of skipping through meadows with his hand in yours, or picnics on the beach, or–

“You think that might be because you had a full 8 hours of sleep?” You snort, stretching out. More thigh peeks out from under the covers.

His throat goes dry. Focus, Miggy. Yes, he wouldn't usually entertain it, but it felt far too good to think about the both of you, together, under different circumstances. 

He would've met you at an overpriced coffee shop on his way to work. Or maybe he would catch your eye on the subway, and you would flash him a smile too beautiful to ignore in return. One to keep, like the expectant one you give him now.

You're waiting, he realises. Waiting for him to say something; something that gets stuck in his throat. He hopes not to spill his guts like this: a tangle of maybes and might'ves. The reality is less exciting. It comes out wrong - flat and pathetic and lifeless.

“7 and a half.” He says, shaky. Sleep, right? You said something about sleep? “The other day, I had 7 and a half.” 

Miguel forces down the person-sized lump in his throat. You are stunning; sleep-rimmed and tangled up between his legs and that worn blanket.

Maybe we could've been more.

~~~

He’s an idiot, you think.

“And what good did that do you?” You retort, still sharp despite a blossoming headache at your temples. 

“And what good did that… you're the last person to talk.”

For all his degrees, his accolades, his middle-school-science-fair-certificates; he could barely manage to take care of himself. It worried you in a way you were sure was common decency, like the pang of sympathy one would regard a puppy too tired to keep its head up. 

“You look like shit, Mig.” And he did. In that frustratingly perfect way he was prone to, of course: rugged and ragged and handsome; messy, but without a hair in place. An oxymoron. A paradox. A fool with 2 degrees pending. A loveable idiot - certified, absolutely.

“You look like shit–”

You put your hands over your eyes like glasses, like a child on the playground. “Only one of has eyebags the size of Mars–”

“ –and only one of us has a hangover the size of Mars,”

“I do not.”

“The 3 tequila shots you took last night say otherwise.”

You descend into a heap of giggles, unable to refute his claims. Goddammit, does he have a point. You hate him for it; his smug tone, wagging a knobbly finger in your face; but you know there's no malice. What might've been turned into an argument oh-so long ago, stays childish and playful and maybe even a little… fun? There is a shine in his eyes that you have so dearly missed, and a hint of a smile you know he is barely clamping down on. It brings a warmth to your chest far greater than any alcoholic buzz - tequila shots or otherwise - ever could.

Wait. How did he know you had—

“Took you long enough.” 

He's chuckling, reaching over for his phone discarded on the rickety coffee table. With a couple quick swipes you're greeted with a plethora of drunk messages sent by Lyla; the majority of which are unintelligible. He hands the phone over, seemingly more interested in satiating his appetite as he heads for the kitchen, leaving you ample time to scroll through. You recognise one or two videos from Lyla's private story, and sure enough, there you are - knocking back shots offered to you like it was your job. Watching it back makes you wince. You were so sure of yourself last night, chock-full of liquid courage, it almost seemed like water in those dainty glasses. There’s more, as you scroll up: including candids of you at the club, some you don't quite remember posing for, others with Lyla's slim arm draped around your shoulders like they belong there.

Unsurprisingly, most of them are of Lyla; drunken selfies sent with a string of messages you were barely able to make out. It all makes you wonder just how well Miguel knows his friend, able to respond accordingly to her nonsense string of characters and emojis. Considering it had taken you this long to be barely conversational in Miguel-ese, Lyla would prove to be something else entirely. 

There's a peek of something as you scan through last night's messages. You don't mean to pry, but one thing leads to another, and you get stuck on a conversation that occurred not too long ago.

[Sent: 15:32]

Are you guys still on for tonight?

[Received: 15:32]

👍👍

[Sent: 15:3]

Okay, cool. I won't be home to drop her off, though. Is that okay?

[Sent: 15:32]

👍👍

“I messaged her this morning,” You start, making space for him on the sofa. “No response. Do you think I should give Lyla a call?”

“Don’t take it personally, sweetheart. Sometimes she falls off the face of the earth and then you find out she’s in Indonesia with a cocktail by the beach.”

You must make a face, because Miguel comes closer. It’s tender, and much more intimate than it should feel; and all you can do is short circuit as he brings his hand to your cheek.

His thumb rest at the cleft of your chin, gently moving your face to look him in the eye.

“I’ll give her a call, if you like.” He presses a gentle kiss to your furrowed brow, and you can barely breathe. “You’re much too pretty to worry. I’ll sort it out.”

When he pulls away, all you can manage is a weak nod. All that pomp and self-rightousness that filled you not even 5 minutes ago dissipates like a limp balloon with just a flash of his smile. 

“You hungry?” He asks.

“Starving.” You say with a grin.

~~~

You hear his voice first, the mellow timbre and its slight twang rumble through the walls. Your door is open in the hope that Miguel will saunter in and… and do something resembling earlier on in the day. Considering the time, it was little more than delusion - you can count on one hand the amount of times you’ve seen Miguel up past 11pm. Whether it was work, or studying, or a popcorn movie on the couch, he could never make it through the night. More and more, you’ve found him passed out on the couch, one arm slung lazily over it’s back - but that was another matter.

Now, your door isn’t too open - you wouldn’t want to seem desperate - but wide enough that you can catch whispers of his conversation. Miguel seems to speak in more grunts and huffs; and you can almost see his scrunched brow and crooked grimace. The other voice is tinny, but clearly male - spouting garbled, frantic words that you can’t quite catch. It’s odd; whilst you were no stranger to late nights, your roommate started fighting sleep at 7pm sharp - so what exactly was going on?

You creep towards the door, snaking your head around its edge. There he is; down the hall and shadowed by the doorway with his phone flat on the dining table, perched on its lip with nothing but a plaid pair of pants on. He looks bedworn and exhausted, sure - but gorgeous in the kind of way only oils on canvas can capture. With his hand scratching at light stubble, you watch as he takes a deep sigh.

“It’s– Pete, it’s–”

More jumbled words from the phone.

“I know, man.” He pauses, hesitant. “Are you… have you guys tried Lyla?”

He says the words like they’re bitter, acrid on the way out, eventually producing a deep frown as he listens. The image sticks with you, for some reason: hunched over, shoulders slack like a ragdoll, and picking at the loose black-and-red threads. There's a flash of something you can taste - like blood  after a sucker punch - and he flattens, roughly swallowing as he rubs his temples. There’s an ache, there - and it wasn’t just a migraine from all that salty junk. His eyes are sallow, without the lustre you had grown so accustomed to. Where did he go? Your Miguel, saccharine and sickly-sweet? 

A trick of the light, you decide; just the morning sun. 

You are too lost in your own thoughts - vivid ones, of takeout noodles and orange chicken - that you barely notice him move. Almost a second too late, it registers, and you scramble to your bed in a flurry of limbs, managing to close the door just in time. You hear heavy footsteps, and there’s a knock at the door. 

“Come in!”

Miguel pops his head through the door, shirking away from the bright light.

“Jesus, you need all these lights on?”

You roll your eyes. Laptop on, a desk lamp, a standing lamp, etc etc. Warm lights, made even cosier by pillows and plush bedding. The very same bedding he fucked you in the first time, and the next, and the next. Clearly, he couldn’t recognise ambience if it whacked him in the face.

“Did you want something?”

When once he would’ve been taken aback by your gall (and you too, you suppose, as Miguel had never been the most tactful), he simply purses his lips.

“I… I'm babysitting for Peter.”

“May's coming over?” You visibly perk up, and it makes him smile.

“I wish you got this excited when I come home. Yeah, she is.” He’s still picking at the loose fibres of his pants. “I'll try to get her to bed as soon as possible, but she's a little hurricane, so be wary of the noise.”

“It’s pretty late, Mig. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah; something came up and their usual sitter isn't available. It's the least I can do.” He gives you a weak smile

“Okay. Thanks for the heads up.” 

Despite this, he lingers for a bit, clearly antsy. “With traffic, I’m not sure when they’ll get here. Pete lives just across the way, but...” 

“But?”

“I’ll probably have to stay up for a bit.”

“I can keep you company.”

“No, no, I can’t ask you to do that--”

“Alright, alright!” You throw your hands up, huffing dramatically. “Mig, there’s no need to beg. Give me five minutes.”

He gives you a weary smile, before turning to leave. But he pauses at the doorway, and as if in a trance - tightening grip, clenched jaw - 

“You look nice.” He says, low and slow.

“Thanks.” You manage to squeeze out. Ever so slightly, you squeeze your thighs together too, for good measure.

With one last look he drags that heavy gaze away from you, giving your room a once over. 

“...now I know why the light bill’s so fucking high.”

~~~

The doorbell rings when the two of you have settled in - head on his broad chest and something on the TV. Whilst you don't know how you ended up here, you do know how it ends; he puts a boring documentary on, you proceed to fight sleep before hands wander, the room gets a little heavier, and…

The doorbell, right. He shuffles out of your grip, gently placing your head on the sofa. You feign a yawn as you shift, watching the wide expanse of his back as he answers the door. Unfortunately, he's put a shirt on, but you are still mesmerised by the way that baggy t-shirt clings this way and that. You sigh at the sight - it’s much too late for unabashed yearning - burying your cheek into the pillows.

The door opens. You manage to spot a flash of red peeking over your roommate.

“God, we are so sorry. We don't know what's gonna happen to my Dad and–”

Miguel brings a hand up to stop her. She is clearly exhausted, eyes-red rimmed like she's been crying; with a tight hand around the strap of a sling bag. It's full to bursting, likely haphazardly prepared - stuffed with diapers, snacks, toys and God knows what else. She scratches at the nape of her neck, pulling at choppy hair scraped into a bun. With her bangs pinned back, you can't help but think she looks less like the character she plays on TV and more like a person - experiencing the kind of grief made less glamorous by makeup and bright lights. 

“It's okay, Em.” 

Em. You can't see his face, but you can see MJ's; and you notice the way she softens at the nickname. 

“I haven't heard that one since college. Thank you, Miguel.” She gives him a watery smile.. “I've got some food for her in the bag, extra milk, those peanut cups she likes, my personal and my work phone number, my mom's phone number in case you can't reach me or Pete, diapers, wipes – hypoallergenic, she can be a bit sensitive – a-and we are trying self-soothing with her stuffy because she can get antsy before bed.”

Her eyes are a little bloodshot, but she manages to hand off the bag, before turning to talk to a little mop of red that peeks out from behind her. May's chubby fingers are clamped tight around her leg, but with some gentle coaxing, the little girl steps into your apartment.

“Hi, May.” Miguel smiles, one you imagine is dazzling kryptonite from her favourite uncle, and she puts her small hand in his.

“Bye, honey. Be good for your Uncle.” MJ gives her daughter a gentle hug, brushing back her hair for a kiss. Little chubby fingers try to do the same, and it's a display that makes your heart melt.

“Stay safe, MJ. Say hi to Peter for me?” You call out over the lip of the couch.

“Of course, sweetheart.” She flashes you a smile, and you are windswept by its candour. 

Once she leaves, May is uncharacteristically quiet. She seats herself on the sofa, little legs dangling, unable to reach the floor. Miguel slides off her backpack and jacket - brightly coloured plastic adorned with a kid's TV show - with an ease and gentleness you didn't quite know he was capable of. There's something to be said about a man of his stature - tall and hulking, with hands that could easily palm a basketball - using those very same hands to carefully unbutton the loops on May's jacket. Despite her muted panic; the gradual kind, the kind that wells up like the tide before a storm and comes with a wobbly lip and balled up fists; his voice stays calm and soothing in the walls of your little apartment. It is well-practiced and unfazed, exceedingly gentle in his approach. He'd make a good dad, you think. 

She's restless. You both try your best, coaxing her to eat mushy peas and applesauce, with little to no success. May clearly isn’t pleased - scrunching up her face with disgust.

“I feel you, kid.” You sigh, plopping the dinner spoon into the green mixture. “Not the most appealing.”

“But it’s good for her!” Mig yells from the kitchen, digging around for something in the cupboards.

She makes a face, looking to you for some comfort. All you do is shrug, tugging at your collar in an exaggerated manner. She almost smiles, and so you make your eyes go wide - pulling a peal of laughter from the little girl. It is contagious, and makes you beam from ear to ear.

“That doesn’t sound like dinner.” Miguel breezes past with something in his hand.

“I think they serve prisoner’s better food. Or food that looks less grey, anyways.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass.” He hisses, seating himself on the other side of the little girl. In his hands are a cute little bowl - pink plastic and toddler sized. It comes with a spoon that fits in Mayday’s palms just-right, and he scoops up some of the mixture the bowl. 

You’re a little confused. “Where did you fi-”

“She’s a big girl.” He says simply, facing her and mimes taking a spoonful. You watch as her eyes get a little rounder, shining and intelligent. You can almost hear the gears moving in her tiny little head. “She can feed herself. Can’t you, May?

“Mig, I don’t know if that would work.”

And like a curious little dove, her head cocks this way and that, with a deep frown on her face. Pudgy fingers wrap around the neck of the spoon, and clumsily, she brings it to her lips. It falls with a clatter, and mushy peas splatter everywhere. 

There’s an I told you so on the tip of your tongue, but he tries again; cooing at the little girl, encouraging her to take the spoon once more. He’s gentle, but doesn’t talk down to her - and like she can understand every word, her eyes shine with recognition. Now, you’re not the best with kids - a baby cousin or two notwithstanding - but its hard to believe he hasn’t babysat before. Miguel O’Hara; lab tech, masters student, and clearly, world class Uncle. You’ve got a million and one questions, but you are unable to do anything but watch - all the while, gears turning.

She gets increasingly frustrated. In an adorable, gap-toothed way, but the toddler can’t seem to get a good grip. You watch as the spoon falls: clatter, hollow clang, conk; and every time, Miguel picks it up, wipes it off, and encourages her to try again. 

Clatter.

“One more time, sweetheart,”

Clang. 

“You were so close! You want to try again for me?”

Thunk. You've got an idea.

“She’s not going to eat, Mig.” 

He looks up. You’re handing him her jacket, and pulling on a long-discarded sweater. 

“Let’s go for a walk.”

~~~

It fills you with a certain amount of delight to say something that surprises Miguel.

“I know a place.” You say, somewhat smug.

“What do you mean, you know a place?”

You shrug. After a couple of quick phone calls, you did, in fact, know the perfect place for a late night wander.

“The park on 10th?”

“Nope.”

“If it’s The Rec Centre on Chelsea Ave, it’s closed. I grew up with the guy who runs it, and–”

“Nope.”

“Where are you taking us? May, she’s going to kidnap us and sell our organs on the Black Market.” She’s got her little palm in his, and gives you a look that says ‘Him first’.

“Don’t want your organs. You’re Mexican and lactose intolerant; can’t imagine the damage you’ve done to your gut.” You stop them, crouching down to speak to May directly. “Do you like animals?”

Her face shines with recognition. She nods profusely. Miguel seems somewhat horrified, but it just looks cute, to you.

“That doesn’t reassure me, sweetheart.”

“I know.” You give Miguel a dazzling smile. Somewhat smug turns into very smug, very quickly. “We’ll take the subway!”

~~~ 

The Nueva York Research and Conservation Centre is quite the gem, Miguel quickly realises. It's the kind of thing that predates him, and even his oldest neighbours; immigrants that came to Nueva York in the 60s and 70s. He remembers a handful of school trips in elementary and middle school - traipsing around the old building with a clipboard and stubby pencil in hand. Even when he was a kid, the centre had paled in comparison to the Zoo up in Central; that was shiny and modern, with actual lions (plural) and giraffes. Of course, his school couldn't afford the accompanying exorbitant fees, so they settled for the converted municipal building and grounds; housing less exciting animals.

But he still remembered the first time he had walked through those double doors, and past the little ticket office after being handed the paper stub. 

He liked that there weren't any cages. At the time, there was thin plexiglass separating the people from the animals, but they had space to roam, and were never the flashy sort - meerkats were the highlight of one trip, and an alligator snapping turtle the next. The centre was temperature controlled and meticulously maintained despite the clear understaffing; he always enjoyed the trek on cobbled path, and the insect building and reptile room never failed to disappoint. 

There were always researchers hanging about there. Not in white lab coats and clicky pens like he had once thought; but sturdy trousers and frazzled smiles. They were kind, and easy going; always happy to talk to the little boy in clothes two sizes too big. 

Maybe May was too young to understand, but he felt it immediately. That rush of excitement as you lead them on a long forgotten path, and pull out a key that unlocked those very same double doors. Nostalgia, perhaps, bubbles up from his fingertips.

“Hey, Ernie.” You nod towards a night watchman, perched at the reception desk. With his head buried in a magazine, you are satisfied with a nondescript grunt. Security clearly hasn't changed. 

May gives a little wave, and Miguel can't help but coo. She's squirming, feeding off of his clear excitement and dragging him towards you with a surprising amount of force.

You lead them to the outside park. The Centre is dark, for a while, and after some rattling, and the careful click of a few switches; Miguel feels like a kid.

The lights are on, illuminating an acre or two of land, and he is transported to being 6 and then 7 and then 11 - clipboard and pencil in hand.

May is agape, eyes wide at nothing but fenceposts and plexiglass. The enclosures are empty with the majority of the animals asleep; yet she is fascinated with the landscape, so much so that she paws at Miguel to hoist her up. She's on his shoulders before you can orient yourself.

He hears you laugh first. Bright, gorgeous laughter like morning rain on a warm day. You laugh and clap with wonder, and pinch the little girl's cheek good naturedly. She returns it with her own, pointing at ‘funny trees’, their green tongues lapping at the bright light.

“We'll need to be quick.” You finally say, leading them once again. He catches a sliver of neck, pretty and supple as you turn your head towards them. Fuck. 

“How do you have access to this place?”

“I know a guy.”

“Not a chance.” A guy, sure. It sounds like bullshit, but he can feel the confidence radiating off of you. It makes him wonder… is this another ex? Someone who works here, no doubt, but with so much pull you can walk straight through after closing hours?

“We'll meet ‘em, in a bit.” You trail off towards a plaque, reading out the inscription. “The Giant Armadillo, Priodontes maximus, is a giant insectivore – that means eats insects, May – characterised by its hinged bands and pale head. Found in much of South America, this – oh, look!”

Miguel follows your line of site, to some movement within the enclosure. Between large, grassy mounds, sure enough he spots the pale snout of the animal. May squeals with laughter, pointing toward the movement.

You put a finger to your lips, and ease her out of his grip. You get closer, whispering excitedly in response to the little girl's babbling. He doesn't follow, hands buried deep in the pockets of a brown leather jacket. 

We'll meet him. He plays it over and over and over in his head, letting it rattle and clank before sinking to the pit of his stomach. It tastes familiar: heavy and bitter. He's thinking of a man from a nicer background; kind, maybe, and softer. Walks around in suits and shiny shoes; who owns shit, who doesn't rent. Someone with softer hands than his own. 

“Mig?” 

Your hand is on his cheek. He’s pulled out of that haze, and straight into the warmth of your eyes. 

“Y-Yeah.” He croaks.

“You okay?” Your brow is scrunched up adorably, little Mayday hanging off of your arm. He can't make you worried.

“Just fine, sweetheart.”

“Well, come on then. I’d like you to meet someone.”

You pull him towards the Reptile Room; a brick and mortar building with the metallic sheen of a lizard on its face. You pull out more keys, sifting through a whole jumble. Before he can stop himself, he's staring at you; intense and stormy. That sinking feeling deepens. You look up, and give him a smile. Like emerging above troubled water, he takes a deep breath and feels a little lighter.

“Liv?” The door is open in no time. You're calling out into empty space, boots click-clacking on tile. These lights are on, but dim, matching the hot and humid air of the building. “Liv!”

Miguel pulls at his collar, following you deeper inside. A service door; amidst enclosures of leafy green, pebbles, sand, and more; leads to a modest lab. Amongst vials labelled ominously and rows of benches that smell like disinfectant, lies a nest of hair crudely tied back.

Liv pops out from behind a clunky monitor, beaming from ear to ear. They're older, with a sharp jaw and soft features framed by wrinkles and smile lines. 

“Doctor Olivia Octavius,” You smile, “Meet Miguel.”

Hand outstretched, Liv clears a path of pens and junk to reach his hand. It’s firm, he notices; with inked scribbles on the underside and a stack of bracelets at their wrist. They look familiar, but he can't quite place the name.

“How do you two know each other?” It spills out like May's mushy peas, and he hopes his sweaty palms aren't too noticeable.

“She used to work here - night shift.” Liv adjusts octagonal glasses, jewellery clinking.

“I was only a janitor, Mig.”

“The best damn janitor around. And good company during late nights.”

You get a playful nudge in the side for your trouble, and the two of you share a knowing look. 

“And who's this?” Liv crouches, attention turning to May who is engrossed by a tangle of colourful wires. 

“Her name's May.” He grunts.

“Your….” Doctor Octavius looks between you both, choosing their words carefully. “Daughter?”

“No, no.” You laugh - a little too much, for his liking. “We're babysitting - Liv, he's just my roommate.”

Miguel winces. Twice. He chooses to ignore the raised eyebrow and pursed lips, lest it blossom into any awkwardness.

A beat passes. “Does May like lizards?” 

She nods enthusiastically, hissing like un vibora. She’s almost there, he thinks, and Miguel can't help but smile.

“We've got some speckled lizards in tank 3 and 4 - donations from our freshwater contacts in Panama. You want to show her around?”

“Sure, but what about–”

“You guys head off, I've got some paperwork to finish off. 10 minutes? If she's gentle she can touch one or two.”

Satisfied, you nod, looking at him expectantly. Your eyes shine just like May's, and like his once upon a time, with a childlike wonder that makes his heart ache. You look happy. God. He'd do anything to keep you smiling like that.

But he's tired. Finally, the night has caught up with him, and he just doesn't have the energy anymore. 

“I'll stay.” He says gently. “Need to sit down for a bit anyways.”

He must imagine it, but for a second, you falter. Big, round eyes that shimmer in the harsh lab lights; and for a millisecond, he sees it dull. It’s gone in just a moment. And then you give him a warm smile, with a touch on his arm that seems to linger. The two of you beam, and you bound off with the kind of vigour he hasn't felt in years.

The click-clack of keys fills the room. He takes the opportunity to look around, noticing plaques upon plaques in the little corner of the lab. PhD. Masters. Accreditation from organisations with long, winding names. Doctor. Bioengineering. A foray into experimental physics. Pictures of her shaking hands with flashy names - and he recognises one with wide eyes.

“That's Marcus Kirby.” They barely look up.

“I… I know.”

“I worked with him before he headed up Alchemax, and well before the position was passed onto his son.” There's a hiss, and Miguel hears the violent rattle of the keyboard come to a stop. “I remember when he was still a kid, actually.”

He hesitates. “I watched one of your talks in Prague…. the one on metaphy–”

“Metaphysical dimorphism? Or was it the metagenesis of the perpetual plane? I can never remember these things.”

“Something like that.” He grunts.

“You were there? Should've asked for an autograph. Wouldn't be worth much, though.” A little snort catches him off guard, but he shakes his head.

“I was 17 - so, no.”

“Ouch.”

Ouch, indeed. He had loaned that particular talk from the library, a tape played over and over until Gabi had thrown a spoon at his head for the crime of astrophysics at breakfast.

“Do you still work with them?”

“Oh, I've been back there a couple of times; despite the complaints otherwise, mind you; their conference centre is world-class –” They stop themselves. “You meant–”

“I meant Alchemax.”

They snort. “We went our separate ways.” 

Why? He can't help but wonder; considering the equipment and brilliant minds the company has access to. Especially someone with the tenure and experience of Doctor Octavius - he could only dream of that kind of influence. Imagine the good he could do, the lives he could change…

Wonder turns to indignation, which turns to unfair assumptions; he looks around at the dingy workspace and curls up his nose. Disgust. From a well-respected, world-renowned bio-astrophysicist to this. Without the rose-tinted goggles of his youth, Miguel can't help but feel the walls closing in - a future career flashing before his eyes. From a dim rent-controlled apartment to an equally dingy desk in the corner of nowhere. He can't have done all of this for nowhere.

Doctor Octavius squints. The click-clack of keys stops. The air leaves the room, leaving only a cold chill.

“What exactly do you do?”

“Genetics and Bio-engineering department.” He puffs out his chest, but is unable to hide a slight shake to his voice. “I'm a lab assistant at Alchemax.”

Liv gives him a blank expression.

“So you're young.”

“I guess.”

“Unexperienced. You've barely taken your first steps into this world. I bet you still have dreams of saving the world. What are you working on, a cure for cancer?”

His jaw shifts.

“A joke.” They smile stiffly. “Research isn't like that. It's stuffy and bureaucratic and painfully capitalist. Everything requires a thousand yards of red tape until it doesn't; until they ask you to fudge numbers for the sake of shareholder value. Until they axe vital projects that affect the bottom line.” 

They step closer, boots thudding on cheap linoleum.

“It’s hard, to get them to see you. It's even harder when they've already made their mind up. I gave 12 years of my life to that place and you'd be wise to quit whilst you're ahead. Whilst you're young.”

Their eyes are empty. A quiet, cold rage swirling for the last 10, 15 years. He recognises it, of course he does; it's the very same rage that sits at the pit of his stomach - with the dense heat of a white dwarf. In that way, he thinks, he's collapsing in on himself; one that precedes an abcess into the very same perpetual plane Doctor Octavius built their career on. 

“Alchemax is doing things no one could've predicted 10 years ago - our genetics trials are world-class -” He starts a spiel he is well versed with – but it sounds hollow even under these dim lights. 

“Is that what Marcus is going with these days? Plasticky and insincere?”

“I–We are saving the world.”

He's met with a withering look; that echoes the indignant sighs from teachers of his youth.

He remembers small squares of paper, handed out to kids in the Reptile house. Brightly coloured facts pasted along its route; detailing the kind of research undertaken at the conservation centre. For a 7 year old Miguel, he was wholly absorbed with the worksheets - three words at the top of a blank table. Hypothesis. Observation. Analysis.

Hypothesis.

“If this a personal gripe–” 

“Of-fucking-course it's personal.” It was spat out, with more emotion he thought they were capable of. A pause. “Did you know Marcus Kirby commissioned the research for near-unlimited nuclear energy? Did you know we actually built it?”

“You're–” His throat is dry. “You continue to make claims without evidentiary basis. 

Observation.

A slight bobbing of an Adam's apple. The tightening of the invisible string that slowly winds their shoulders back.

“We could have powered hundreds of thousands – millions of homes. For much cheaper and cleaner than what we have now; clogged up by fingers sticky with oil money, most likely. And the proprietary technology is collecting dust, somewhere in that fucking building. Knowing Marcus, he's using it as a paperweight.”

And his head is a blur. Miguel isn't stupid; he sees Alchemax for what it is. A business, at the end of the day. He thought childlike naivete was a distant bygone but for some reason, he's shaken.

Can he believe what he hears? Is it just personal pettiness at the root of all this venom? Sure, he doesn't get invited to after work drinks. Sure, he isn't involved in the office gossip; in signing birthday cards and impromptu lunches out. Sure, just once, he'd like to get more than lab reports and risk assessments dumped on his station. He even finds himself missing stilted small talk; picking his fingernails as his coworkers talk around him, like he isn't even there. No man is an island in his field of work. For every discovery and pseudo-cure-for-cancer there are hundreds of lab techs doing the grunt work. So he knuckles down and does the only thing he knows how to do. He keeps his head down; because he already has a job to do, he doesn't need to be liked.

Analysis.

He sees it now, clear as day. A coffee cup gripped too tightly, a flash of fear when he clears his throat. Little comments, and then big ones: 

Drug tests at your stage are mandatory, O'Hara. 

Ronnie’s been working here a long time. There's no need to be aggressive, O'Hara. 

We want you front and centre in this picture, O'Hara, but don't forget to take out the trash on your way out.  

But what he has always attributed to the status quo, to his prickly personality, to his distinct lack of charm and unwillingness to be loved - could it be something else? When they look at him, who do they see? Is it O'Hara, the underpaid, awkward intern - or Miguel, brutish and brash and scary?

A great crash and in its crescendo is Doctor Octavius, hand outstretched, half bitten fingernails and papercuts all the same. He's different, he knows that. He's intimidating and gruff with a slight propensity for violence. But he's saving the world! He’s making a difference, one meagre test tube at a time.

And then there’s that voice again, hoarse and buried deep deep down at the pit of his stomach. With all that they've asked him to do… what does he have to show for it?

You come to mind. Kind eyes and an even kinder smile. The way you look at him, the way you touch him - like he's delicate, like he's capable of breaking. He thinks of soft nights spent in your arms and between even softer sheets… and not once have you shirked away or asked him to flatten. Acceptance; whole-hearted and unconditional; tastes much too sweet between your thighs.

“Mig!” He hears a squeal from out and down the corridor. Footsteps on the linoleum are followed by a pitter-patter, before you and May arrive at the door giggling uncontrollably. 

“You okay, sweetheart?” He softens like butter under a hot knife, because of course he does. It’s you.

“Come look, come look!”

He throws a glance to Liv, their white hot grip on the desk relaxing. They tuck a strand of loose hair back and sit down, shuffling through papers like nothing had happened. The tension dissipates - that was your doing, he thinks.

“It's a… Mig, God, there's a tank with an oc…”

“Cephalopod, actually.” Doctor Octavius smiles, picking up a battered coffee mug to lead the way. “You would not believe the hoops I had to jump through to get her here, but isn't she a beauty…”

He trails behind, flashing you and May a shaky smile. The frazzled scientist is knee deep in another story - betrayal, heartbreak, a tentacled hero, and more. But when Liv looks back, for a moment, he sees it: the very same look he had given unapologetically just a few minutes ago.

Pity.

_

_

_

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[after-witch]

When You Looked at Me, I Should Have Run [Mahito x Reader]

Title: When You Looked at Me, I Should Have Run [Mahito x Reader]

Synopsis: Your trip to Japan doesn’t go as planned, thanks to a monster in the forest.

Word count: 7400ish

notes: Yandere(ish); body horror, violence, vore and implied digestion, reader is transmasc

If there was one thing you could appreciate about getting lost in Japan, it was the fact that people were very willing to give you directions. So when the realization hit you--you have been unfortunately walking the wrong way for some time now--there is none of that stomach-churning dread that occurs back home, when asking someone for directions typically ends with someone telling you to “fucking looking it up on your phone.”

And sure, you didn’t exactly speak Japanese, but that’s what your secondhand “301 Phrases You’ll Need in Japan!” book was for! You’d also found that you could ask in English, and people didn’t seem to mind. Or at least, they didn’t say they minded, and that was what counted. 

Sighing, you grab the book out of your tote bag and begin to flip through. A few people veer to the side from behind you after the sudden stop, but you pay them no mind, instead focusing on finding just the right phrase you need. When you do, you repeat it out loud what feels like a million times before tucking the book away.

The map comes out next, and you unfold it haphazardly, searching for the hiking trail you’ve been searching for all morning. It was supposed to be really scenic, but a little off the beaten path. Perfect for photos, plus you could tell your friends back home that you weren’t on one of the annoying overcrowded tourist paths, which was always a bonus. 

Now, to find someone to help and--ah! 

A young man leaning up against the alley wall of a charming little storefront would do. He’s dressed unusually, wearing a flowing shirt with a striped pattern, and he was maybe in an accident of some kind, with stitches on his face. But you don’t stare (well, maybe for a second); because that would be exceptionally rude, Japan or otherwise. 

You smile, bowing (maybe too low, maybe too dramatically, but it was hard to get the angles right) and hold up your map. In very accented Japanese, you ask, “Can you help me find the…” And the word you had memorized from the book vanishes, so you tap the map, shaking the paper. “Mountain trail?” You complete in English. 

The man blinks at you, saying nothing, which is a bit strange. A bit rude, you might say. Maybe you pronounced the words completely wrong. You fumble for the book, finding the page again, and hold it up for him to see. “Mountain trail?” You ask again, still in English.

The man blinks again. 

You sigh, and point at the page where the phrase sits, not wanting to attempt a pronunciation in Japanese at the moment. 

He leans in closer, too close, really, and his silver hair ghosts your shoulder. Mismatched eyes--contact lenses? He was really trendy!--scan up and down before he moves backward, staring at you again.

Then--

The man grins.

Widely. Unusually so, among the people you’ve met. But perhaps since he was younger, he was breaking social norms a bit. I mean, he already was, with his outfit--with his hair, long and impossibly silver. And those contacts! 

His eyes roam over you--and you feel suddenly self-conscious of yourself, wearing a simple touristy t-shirt and trousers with hiking boots--and his finger finds the map even as his eyes never leave your face. 

The finger slithers down the paper, and you force yourself to follow it (geez, why was he staring so rudely?) as it lands on a particular sidestreet marked with a hiking trail symbol. It’s not too far off, thankfully, and you could probably cut across a few streets to get there sooner. 

He says something in Japanese, but you don’t know what. When you stare at him blankly, he grins again.

“Forest,” he says, in English. His grin gets even wider, somehow, and you swear one of his stitches twitches. “Fun.” 

“Thank… you very much,” you murmur, in your accented Japanese, before giving the strange young man another exaggerated bow. You wave--a habit--and don’t bother folding the map before you leave, walking quicker than you might have, to avoid wasting anymore time on this trip.

The wave seems to amuse him, and he waves back, beaming. 

A strange young man, sure. But just as helpful as anyone else you’ve met on your trip so far. And his hair was really pretty; it was a wonder nobody was so much as staring at him.

--

There is something in the forest.

There is something in the forest, wild and large.

There is something in the forest, wild and large--and it is following you.

You’re not sure exactly when it started; you weren’t paying much attention to the forest itself until it became too loud and obvious to ignore. There weren’t enough service bars on your phone to look it up, but it had to be some kind of bear, right? Japan did have bears--you think. 

Maybe it was a deer. But deer would be too skittish, wouldn’t they? To follow you around in the woods, despite all the noise you were making. Unless it was one of those deer that was used to being fed by people, though if that was the case, wouldn’t it have made itself known by now? Begging for an apple and bowing, like the videos you saw online.

Probably not a deer. Maybe a bear. Or a fox or something else large and rumbly and, you think, eyeing you as a potential snack. 

Whatever it was, it was staying hidden. In the brush and trees, with the occasional rustle and snapping branch to give away its position. 

What do you do? Your mind tries to trace back to those Saturday evenings spent watching the occasional “When Animals Attack” documentary with your family. There were episodes on bees and mountain lions and sharks and bears, too, you’re sure… should you play dead? Make more noise? Run like hell? 

How can you get help, in the middle of the woods?

There’s on one else on the trail. Your phone isn’t working. And you’re not entirely sure if you should retrace your steps or keep going on ahead, to make it lose interest. The choices are all too confusing, with the adrenaline steadily growing inside your body, and your heart beginning to beat altogether too fast.

A decision can’t be made, not like this, heart and brain buzzing too quick and too loud to be steady enough for a proper thought process. 

In the end, though–

It doesn’t matter.

Your choice is made for you, when the animal retreats from the camouflage of the brush and steps right onto the trail. Its body takes up the entire trail, and it’s a wonder it was able to hide amongst the leaves and branches at all. 

And–

And it’s not a bear, or a deer, or anything you’ve ever seen before.

The creature that has been following you for oh-so-many steps is deformed. A monster. Something you’ve never seen in your entire life and so entirely wrong in its construction that your brain doesn’t register it as being real for a few awful, agonizing moments.

What is it–

It--whatever it is--has too many limbs. That’s what stands out at first, because it’s the most bearable thing to look at--the limbs. There are at least 6, skin-colored arms sprouting from the torso on downward. Claws or… hands? Fuck, they look like hands; hands are at the end of each arm, fingers wiggling like worms.

The creature doesn’t just have too many limbs. There are too many mouths, all open and red, with white human-like teeth showing in the center. Opening and closing and there’s a sound being made, but you can’t register if it’s human speech. It couldn’t be, because this thing was not a human. The sight of it was making you crazy, that’s all, and that craziness traveled from your retinas to your ears.

The worst sight of all, and it’s the sight of this that finally unfreezes your legs, is the rippling underneath the skin. A solid mass worming its way around the body. Like there was something else underneath the flesh, waiting to burst out, slithering along like a gorged snake.

You couldn’t let it come closer. You wouldn’t let it. 

So when your legs feel like they can move, when your breath gets sucked in with a terrible gasping that nearly chokes you, you bolt.

The creature comes after you. Of course it does. You ran like prey, and you feel like prey; you are prey, here, in the woods. You hear the creature now in full force, no longer meandering in the brush of the woods, but chasing you. The sound of too many feet hitting the ground, the sound of the air whipping by its many arms, and its breathing. Steady, loud, increasing as it gets closer. 

Your own breath comes out ragged, desperate, wheezing. You weren’t made to run like this–or perhaps you were, and that’s the crux of this whole damn trip–but this creature was clearly meant to chase. 

Regret on ever coming to the woods courses through you every time your feet pound against the ground, but regret wasn’t going to save you. Thoughts whir together--don’t let it catch me, how do I get out of here, will anyone be able to help me?--as you rush down the winding paths of the forest trail.

But there’s no one in sight, and there surely wouldn’t be anyone to help you if you went deeper into the woods. The only chance for salvation, if there was a chance at all, would be to head back towards the city. Monsters didn’t live in cities, didn’t thrive there. There’s an almost prickling fantasy that blurs through your mind: cross the threshold of the trail and it will stop instantly, like a fairy tale creature unable to cross a magic bridge. 

You will be safe, if you can get back there. 

But how to get there, with a beast at your back? 

You’ve got to turn around, somehow. If you can turn around, you can go back the way you came, and get back to human civilization. If you get back to human civilization, where monsters are dreams and movie magic, you will live. 

If you keep going into the woods, you’ll only get lost, you’ll be so deep that no one will hear you scream. If you even had the lung capacity to scream, after all this running. Would the lungs the monster tears through with its claws, its teeth, have anything left in them? 

You can’t turn around the proper way. Your brain, frantic though it is, is steady enough to understand that fact. You’ll lose momentum if you try to pivot and go back the way you came, and who is to say if you’ll be fast enough to evade the monster at all? 

But you want to live. 

So you do what the signs at the beginning of the trail forbade you to do, and veer off the trail, pushing into the thicket of the forest. The branches snag on your clothes, and you’re glad you decided against wearing the fanny pack after all. You’re able to pull the fabric of your shirt and trousers free from the branches as they snap and rustle around you; a fanny pack would have been a death sentence.

And when you make your desperate foray into the thicket of the woods, something happens. Something that makes your blood run cold, despite the heat of your pumping muscles and the sweat beginning to drip down your back.

The creature stops running. Oh, just for a moment.  You hear the racket of its limbs, of its power and size, cease. And you hear a little sound, a bit like a chuckle. That can’t be right, though. It must be catching its breath. Even monstrous creatures get tired. 

It must have been a wheeze, that’s all. The alternative is far worse.

It doesn’t stay still for long. You hear its body pushing through the canopy of trees now, too. 

It’s faster than you. And stronger than you.

But you keep running. Desperate, human, wanting to avoid the horrible fate at the end of its teeth and claws.

Your thighs and lungs and chest burn awfully as you hop over branches, run through canopies of leaves that slap your face as you go through them, the sting of micro-scratches registering as if you’re experiencing them as a third party.

What does a few scratches mean, if you get attacked by some--thing? No one will ever find your body, probably. Or it will be so unrecognizable that they’ll never identify you.

If you trip now, you’re done for. If you trip now, that thing will be on you, with its many mouths and many hands and many teeth.

If you trip now, that is.

Somehow, sheer dumb luck or some otherworldly being guiding your burning legs, you don’t trip until you reach the very edge of the woods, when the beautiful sight of the trail’s entrance is within arm’s reach. 

“Fuck!” 

You shout out, hands catching you before you hit the ground proper and hurting awfully in the process. Your palms sting, you’re sure there will be blood and scrapes. Like when you used to trip on the sidewalk as a kid and you wound up with gravel in your palms for the trouble.

That doesn’t matter though. What matters is that you can feel the weight of the creature behind you, can imagine it rearing up, can smell something--its breath, its body?--and you know you’re about to die.

This is it. A lifetime, all ended with–

Ding-ding-ding!

The ring of a bicycle bell turns out to be your saving grace. Someone pulling up to hike or maybe they heard your distress or who fucking cares, really, because at the sight of the bell, you hear the monster retreat back into the woods.

The person on the bike seems appropriately concerned at the state of you, sweat plasteirng your hair and clothes to your skin, your face red with exertion. They offer a hand and you don’t know what they’re saying because the thought of getting your translation book out right now is the furthest thing from your mind.

They murmur in concern at the scrapes on your hands. Those scrapes are nothing, compared to what was behind you; what should have happened, when you tripped. Child’s play, in more ways than one.

You let this stranger–your savior, really–guide you on jelly-like legs that carry you away from the forest, back towards the little town and what must be safety. Safety in numbers, safety in humanity, safety in the knowledge that the streets are filled with buildings, bikes, cars; the smell of automobile smoke and food stalls. The chatter of people, car horns, all of it a far cry from the wild woods and the wild creature behind you.

As you walk away on unsteady legs, you swear you hear another sound from the forest. you swear–but no, no, the rational part of your mind bubbles you safely away from it; oh, it can’t be real it can’t be real it can’t be real.

Because--

It sounds like laughter.

--

You don’t tell the police about the arms, and mouths, or the laughter. Only that you were chased by some kind of animal--you don’t know what--that was following you on the trail. 

The police smile at your story, told to them in shakily typed app-translated Japanese, and one of them types into his own translation app that they will search the forest, but that it was probably an aggressive bear. 

It was not a bear. You know this. You know this, and you let them placate you with assurances that they will put up signs, and send out a forest warden. Despite the awful knowledge that nests in your stomach like a rotten egg: this was not a goddamn bear. 

It was a monster in those woods. 

But who would believe you, if you tried to tell the truth?

–

The stranger with the silver hair and mismatched eyes spots you that afternoon, sitting at a local cafe with what must be a shaken, sullen expression. You’ve hardly touched the food you ordered, instead keeping your hands wrapped around your warm drink, focusing on the way it spreads through your fingers. 

Not that he seems to mind your look or the clear tension surrounding you like miasma. In fact, he plops right into the chair across from you without even asking, all grins, and swipes one of the mini sandwiches you ordered for lunch.

The audacity. The over-familiarity. Honestly? You can’t help but find it refreshing, in this moment, your mind and body still shaken from the ordeal. It was better than the awkward distance between you and everyone else; it was like the monster in the forest had laid its scent on you, and everyone knew to keep a step back.

“Trail?” He asks, eyes glancing over your hair, cropped short and still sticking a little to your forehead from sweat. He smiles a little–at you, maybe. Or maybe he just likes to smile. “Fun?”

The word hits, but not too hard. Not as hard as it would have, if anyone else had asked it.

It’s not like he knew what happened. And maybe… maybe he would know something more? A local who knew the trail, who lived around here, might take you more seriously than the police. Especially since he was a little strange himself, he might be used to the idea of not being believed. 

So you shake your head and offer up your phone to this perfect stranger, with the translated story from the police station still typed in. An animal, but you didn’t know what kind; a chase through the woods. 

“Ah,” he says, after a while of staring unblinking at the screen. “No fun.” He smiles, when he shouldn’t. “Scared.”

“Yeah,” you admit, breathily, almost smiling yourself. A lighthearted confirmation for a terrifying experience. Something about this stranger makes you want to open up. Makes you want to trust him. It’s like he gets you, and considering the fact that you stuck out like a sore thumb in this small foreign town, you latched right onto it. 

Then, leaning forward, you type the eager words into your app before asking them out loud: “Have you ever heard of there being a monster in that forest?”

You’re not sure if he knows enough English to register what you’ve said before reading the phone screen, but your words make his eyes widen. 

So you continue, almost babbling a bit, describing it in more detail. You’re not sure how much he understands, how much he’s getting. Your fingers type frantically into the app, repeating a choppy version of what comes bubbling out of your lips, hoping it makes enough sense. App translators weren’t exactly known for their accuracy. 

But you want to tell him, need to tell him, all about the way it moved, the odd breathy sounds that almost sounded like speech, and the rippling under the skin. The primal feeling of being prey in the woods, the same as any rabbit, any deer. 

People are glancing over as you speak, as you show this stranger your phone and go on about the horrors of the forest; and you’re not entirely sure if it’s because he committed an awful social faux pas in plopping down at your table to casually or because of you. Your words, your clothes, the way you’re getting increasingly frantic as he actually listens to what you say and doesn’t tell you that you’re some crazy American tourist who might consider going back to your hotel and taking a nap.

He gets you, he gets this, you’re sure of it even before you’re finished with your story.

When you’re done, you can feel new beads of sweat dripping down the back of your neck. During the course of your conversation, his wide-eyed expression has gone somber. Seriously. Like he knows exactly what you mean and it makes your chest clench in sick hope. 

“Yes,” he says, finally; low, leaning forward. His voice is soft and earnest and you latch onto it in a sea of unfamiliarity. “I know about a monster.” He glances around, apparently now keenly aware of the stares, although they only make him grin. “I tell you… not here. At home.” 

Home? His home? Maybe you shouldn’t--lord, stranger danger--but the stares only seem to intensify when he stands up, and you follow suit on instinct. It makes you feel naked, judged. Frayed-nerves don’t do anything but amplify the sensation. 

This is stupid. You read enough travel articles before coming to know that you shouldn’t go to places with a stranger. Hell, you knew that before you searched “Japan travel tips” on your phone for the first time–how many times did your mother tell you to never be alone with a stranger, back when you were small and so very different? 

But you were an adult now. More sure of yourself, in more ways than one. And this stranger, this strange young man, might be able to help you. If someone else knew about the monster, well; it might mean you weren’t out of your mind. It might mean you could leave Japan with this part of yourself intact. 

It’s something of a relief when the stranger grabs your wrists and pulls you away from the cafe. 

Your stomach flutters equally with that relief–and uncertainty. 

--

His home, he explains in his own accented English, is at the edge of the forest. It’s enough to make you nearly trip over your own shoes, when he tells you. The stranger turns around, smiles, but he doesn’t stop walking. He doesn’t let go of your wrist, either, holding it with a gentle firmness that makes you want to avoid pulling away.

“Scared?” His smile is small and almost private. Whether it’s just for you, or him, you’re not sure.

You swallow. And nod. A knot of fear tightens in your stomach, but you try to remember that there is strength in numbers. 

He looks you up and down, and tugs you closer, so that you’re walking nearly side by side as he holds you close. The closeness is, you think, a comfort. 

“The monster lives anywhere,” he says. There’s a blend of solemnity and humor to his tone that you can’t quite place. It might just be his accent, you tell yourself.

You tell yourself a lot of things. Like that he sidepasses the forest trail and takes you through a shortcut in the woods because it’s quicker, and safer.

Branches and leaves snap underfoot, and the dead silence of anything but the noise the pair of you make as you walk is all too familiar. The quiet is unusual, in a forest like this. There should be the sound of animals, the sound of scurrying, the steady hum of insects.

Silence in a forest means something is wrong. 

You shouldn’t be here, your body tells you. Your heart begins to pound again, and you tug a little on your wrist--you should tell him that you don’t want to go to his home, after all. You’re fine with not knowing the truth about the monster.

You’re fine with not following this stranger into the woods, in a foreign country, after having just been chased by something mere hours ago. 

If he notices your tug, your apprehension, then he says nothing. He only maintains his steady grip, his steady smile. 

“The monster eats people,” he says again, with that awful casualness. There’s a thought in your mind--you, tripping, the monster over you, tearing you apart with its teeth. Nobody finding your body, or whatever was left of it.

Without warning, the stranger stops. His grip on your wrist loosens and you slowly pull it towards you, heart thudding in your chest.

He stopped, yes, but why? There’s no house here. Only the woods around you, without the comfort of the manmade trail as a guide. Not that the trail kept you safe the first time. And are you really at the edge of the forest? If anything, you walked deep into it, away from the trails, from the markers, from the tourist spots marked on the maps.

Oh. 

Something is wrong, something is wrong, something is–

“How do you know so much about the monster?” You ask, quietly. There’s only so much room for proper thoughts in your brain, and the only one that worms its way to the top is a sensible, naive question. “Have you seen it before?”

He doesn’t answer. Not in words, English or otherwise. You wish he did. You wish he kept talking, and you kept talking, and you found yourself at some run-down shack where he lived off the grid.

That doesn’t happen.

Instead, he tilts his head up, long hair almost slithering across his shoulders with the movement. As he does, he grins, the profile of it broad and then wide and then wider and then--

Then it’s so wide that it splits his face into two, revealing a mass of dark red colored flesh and teeth sharp enough to tear through your muscles. And oh, my, grandmother, what big teeth you have.

There are undoubtedly words within you, words that might express the primal shock and horror at what you're seeing. But all that comes out of your mouth is a squeak, a wheezing little sound that has him turning.

You wish he didn't turn. You wish all you saw was the profile of his split face, because as he turns it is no longer possible to recognize him as the young man from before. Except for that beautiful silver hair, cascading over his shoulders, beautiful and grotesque.

His body expands as he turns, and muscles beneath the skin rise as his height gets too tall, his arms grow too numerous, and you can't believe mere moments ago he was simply a quirky good looking stranger who was going to help you solve this traumatic tourist mystery.

It’s not enough that he has too many arms. It's not enough that he has too many teeth, and they are so sharp that you know without thinking that they are going to tear through your flesh and rip it like well-braised beef.

There is something underneath his skin. It was there before, and it’s there now, only you’re closer–and still–and its presence is not some shock to the system but a confirmation of an earlier, terrible scene.

Oh, yes, there is something under his skin, and it does not stay still. You can see it moving, like a worm or an alien. Only instead of bursting out of his chest it simply moves, rippling the flesh underneath. Is it separate from him? One and the same? Is this some solitary mass, or are there more–to go with the creature's many arms and many teeth? 

How can this creature be anything but a monster, something other? 

Unless--unless you're looking in his eyes. 

(His, or its? You don’t know, and you never want to find out.)

But those eyes, those eyes are just as pretty and human as they were before.

His human eyes are staring right at you. Your mouth is agape, and you wish you had something other than domesticated teeth designed for chewing and not ripping apart. Because there's nothing you can do in the face of this but run.

You are prey, after all. The rabbit. The deer. The thing that scurries and squeaks. 

So you do run. For the second time in so many hours, you run for your life.

Only now the sun is starting to set, and you are in a completely unfamiliar part of the forest, and you know the monster is real and that it wants you and that it played with you like a cat plays with its food.

Your breath comes out in sharp, short pants. There's something tingling in the adrenaline that courses through your veins, pumping straight from your brain to every extremity, making even the tips of your fingers feel numb and floating. 

It’s like you're high from the fear. 

"Why run?"

The monster calls after you, even as it gives chase. It doesn’t sound as winded now.

And fuck, his voice sounds exactly the same. Why couldn't he sound like a monster? Why couldn't he sound like some guttural beast with no connection to humanity?

Why does he sound like the helpful, if a bit strange, young man who sat with you in the café? Who cheerfully pointed out the spot on the map you ought to go? Who seemed kind, if odd, an unusual character you would surely tell everyone at home about once you got off the plane? 

But the resemblance ends at his voice, at these little things. It ends at the glimmer of silver hair and the too-human eyes that you can no longer see as you try desperately to lose it in the forest. Swerving here and there, stumbling and half-leaping over obstacles, whipping through tree branches that claw at you in the dimming light.

You’re bleeding, you know it. You think the monster knows it, too.

"I like you," the voice says, light and breezy, from behind you. He says it in English and you wish he didn't, because it means he wants you to understand. 

It’s better when you don’t understand the monsters that chase you. 

Your foot trips on something, a branch or a log or the bone of a dead animal, and for the second time today, your body goes sailing through the air. This time, you land on the ground with a thump, half-crumpled. 

You could lie down here. You could lie down and die; let it rip through your throat and hopefully it would kill you quick before consuming your flesh.

But you don't want to. You don't want to die and it's not fair and you're just supposed to be on a nice trip, the end result of an entire year's worth of paid time off accrual. But instead, you're panting and bleeding and being chased by something in the forest that wants to eat you and likes you in what may be equal measure.

So you force your exhausted arms to push up from the ground and you stumble into a run. Pitiful as it is. Pointless as it is. 

Behind you, the creature laughs. Or the young man laughs. You're not sure which is which, or if they were different to begin with.

"I like you," it says again. There's something lighter in its tone now. Or maybe you're imagining it, high on adrenaline and lack of oxygen from all the panting. The tingling in your body hasn’t stopped, even as you stumble forward. 

"I'll keep you," it--he? You don't know, fuck--says. "Always."

The silliest of thoughts worms its way through your fear-addled brain.  Did he learn English just to communicate with you? Did all monsters speak different languages? Or did he shove his face into a tourist phrasebook in between chasing you and finding you in the cafe?

It's this silly thought that sticks in your ear as you go sailing to the ground again. Pushed, maybe. Or maybe you tripped on the bones of a dead fox, its flesh long eaten away by predators then maggots, in that order.

Palms stinging, knees burning. Blood bubbling through a tear in your trousers--cut on a sharp branch, you think. 

Your thigh aches.

Your lungs ache. 

Your chest aches.

Behind you, there is only the forest-noise of the monster chasing you. Arms and legs and the presence of it, pushing through branches and bushes like nothing. It could kill you like nothing, too. Maybe there are claws at the end of those hands, too many hands and too many fingers, and the world makes no more sense than it did a few hours ago.

Still, you don't want to die. Not here, not like this. So you push up with your burning, aching arms, and force yourself into a wobbling, weak standing position. 

It halts when you stand. You don't turn to see, you don’t even register the cessation of the rush of brush and bramble--you just know. 

One step forward, on wobbling legs. Legs that can’t run anymore, no matter what is chasing you.

“Oh,” says the monster. A soft, sweet sound.

Another step forward, and your knees buckle underneath you. Down you go. 

“Oh,” it says again. You do register the lack of sound, now. Nothing but distant insects (you wish they were closer) and your own breathing, and a sort of rustling as the monster approaches you from behind. 

”Cute,” it says. And oh, now, you can imagine its wide mouth, all those teeth, cradling the word like soft candy. 

You stare, barely able to support your body on your arms, at the ground underneath you. This will be the last thing you see, you think. At least it’s kind of pretty--nature. Green and brown and there’s life here, some insects meandering along underneath you, uncaring as to whatever is going on up above. 

Maybe they’ll get to eat what’s left of your body, when he’s finished. The circle of life, and all that. 

But it won’t be the last thing you see. Because you’re turning--no, you’re being turned, four or five or six arms on you, cradling you in a sickeningly gentle way even as your weakened muscles strain against their hold.

Your lungs strain and your breath comes out in short, terrible pants. The soft, sad acceptance is a lot harder to keep up when you’re facing death head-on. 

The last thing you’ll see will be this monster, above you, silver hair almost shimmering in the dimmed light of the forest. His mouth too wide, his limbs and teeth and scars too many, his human eyes boring into you with a glinting fascination. A sickly sweet sort of affection. 

That something is still underneath the skin, too. Rippling. Like a tick burrowed underneath the flesh, straining, wanting to get out but being unable to do so. 

His stretched mouth opens and there are so many fangs--you imagine the pain--imagine the teeth boring down into your chest or your neck, the tearing of your flesh. 

But that isn’t how you die; that isn’t how he eats you.

Instead--instead--his mouth opens wide and you hear the grinding of flesh as he teeth retract further into his mouth, leaving only a gaping dark hole staring down at you. Above it, his nose, distorted; above that, those eyes, still human, still searching your gaze as he leans forward and your body is gently cradled into the open mouth and pushed down into the tight cavern of his throat.

He swallows you down, and pushes you forward into his throat, down his gullet, onward and onward. There are brief glimpses of the world outside just before you enter his mouth, and then everything goes dark.

But not because you’re dead. Oh, if only you were dead. Instead, you are alive–you are inside.

It’s wet, inside. Wet and warm, like an inside should be. But there’s a wrongness to it all. You were never meant to be pushed down a gullet, to be surrounded by this pulsating warm darkness that slickened your skin even as your mind began to constrict along with your lungs.

Too tight. Too warm. Too many limbs--and despite all those teeth, they did nothing to ease your passing, to tear through your arteries and let you bleed out before you were swallowed up. 

You were swallowed whole, instead. Like Jonah and the whale. Like Pinnochio. Like other characters in other stories, and you can’t think of them now, with the buzz in your brain getting both louder and weaker all at the same time.

You don’t want to die–and not like this; the buzz in your brain constricts, something primal, telling you to GET.OUT.

And you try. You really do try, through pure instinct alone. An instinct you didn’t know you had until you were in this forest, inside of this beast. That animal instinct to free yourself from the jaws, the very stomach, of death.

Your arms, pressed up against your side by the pressure of the moist muscles around you, begin to flail. Your legs, too, constricted by the space you’re in–but moving. Squirming and kicking, trying to get some sort of purchase inside your living prison.

Strange, dim thoughts come as your body begins to squirm. They are the only thing keeping you human, separating you from the mouse clawing from inside a snake.

The thoughts–Being in here is like the time you wrapped yourself up in a sleeping bag and got stuck; being in here is like the first time you went down the tube slide at the playground as an adult, drunk at midnight, and almost got stuck.

Being in here is like all those times you thought you were going to suffocate inside something tight and warm and wrong–only this time, there is no triumphant roll as the sleeping bag unwraps, no sigh of relief as you wiggle your body back up the slide to freedom

There is only the wetness and warmness and the feeling of the monster around you. He hums–oh God, you can feel him humming, feel the way his body rumbles. He says something, too, you think. Something with a cadence that you’re so glad you can’t understand.

You have to get out. You have to get out, damn it. 

There’s a sick sort of rhythm to it, and while your mind recoils from the slick feeling against your skin as you begin to trash, it also gives you hope. This is how you get out, how you get free. Somehow, squirming inside the beast that’s swallowed you–you’ll survive. 

If only you could move more. If you could raise your arms and claw at the warm, wet interior, it might hurt enough to let you go. Throw you up or spit you out or maybe you could burrow your fingers so deep it rips the beast’s flesh open, like a bear gutting a salmon.

A salmon is perhaps what you most resemble now as your thrashing becomes a spasm, reflexive, increasingly jerky as the oxygen in your lungs begins to dwindle. 

Get-out-get-out-get-out, your mind screams.

Your body does its best. Your breath comes shallow now, panting loud inside the tight space and its moving, living walls. It’s all too moist, too hot, too wrong.

Warm, damp limbs jerk and kick and get nowhere in particular for their troubles. The moving walls against you constrict and release, slowly, and you find your thrashing only helps move you down further.

Further into the body of the beast. Further away from the world outside, further away from everything that made you a living breathing tourist just looking for a pretty mountain trail to explore and winding up eaten alive for their troubles. 

It was just an hour or so ago, wasn’t it, that you were sitting in the cafe? It seems like a lifetime, a distant memory, a dream. You cry out, the sound all warbled and wrong inside the tight cavern of his body. 

You want out–you want to go home–but there’s nothing you can do but trash again, soft, bleating sounds pushing out of your increasingly constricted lungs. 

“Oh.”

The monster speaks again, and the rumbling against you is softer, somehow. Cooing and low. And oh, Jesus–you feel him now. Feel his hands on the outside of what must be his belly, where you’ve wormed your way towards with every thrash.

The press of his hands against his skin from the outside is nearly unbearable, sending the wet-hot interior of the inside pressing against your cheek, smearing something slick against your skin, against your eye.

It stings against your lashes and you can’t see, can’t move your hands up enough to properly wipe it away. It makes you jerk again, makes your breath come in tighter, faster, less thoughtful and closer and closer to pure instinct.

Thoughts don’t come as easily. There’s only that desire to get out, to break free, to get away from the wet heat that surrounds you. There’s more slickness now, and a strange sort of acrid scent. A bitter, acidic scent in the air that stings your nostrils. 

He presses against his belly again and you wail, and he coos, and there’s hardly any space left for you to thrash but you try as best you can.

One.

Two.

Three more times.

And then the world gets too woozy, too hazy. You can’t breathe in here. You can’t move, really, aside from the way your limbs still twitch on instinct. You can’t see, and the sounds are only the strange rushing, the warbled noises from the beast that are hard to distinguish. 

The last thing you can sense with any sort of human distinctness is another side, slick and slithering, the sound of something inside the beast with you–oh God, you are not alone in here–and this last thought is when you stop being a person. When the thoughts cease to come as distinct lines from your brain and turn into a low, humming, dying thing.

The twitches that send your body spasming are not that of a person trying to escape, but of prey, finally subdued. 

Undoubtedly, you were once a human being. A person who grew up and imagined a future, some distant thing you couldn’t conceive as a child but which grew more concrete with every passing year. Someone who wanted a girlfriend or boyfriend, and eventually got one. Someone who thought, yeah, maybe kids, some day, if you adopted. 

Who imagined going to school and getting a job that paid decently enough; who did just that, working your ass off, spending all nighters drinking shitty dorm coffee before examples. All to get a degree to get an internship to get a desk job, so you could take nice vacations like this one, where you saved for a year and submitted your time-off request 6 months in advance and everyone at work told you to have fun and take plenty of pictures.

You were a person with hopes and dreams, with a family, with a past, with memories both clear and fuzzy. Sitting on the beach as a child and getting pinched by a crab you tried to place on top of your sand castle. Pushing another kid off the swing when he refused to give you a turn. Coming out to your parents and your dad making a joke about father-son fishing trips and your mom laughing too loud because she didn’t know what to say about having a daughter and now having a son.

All of that, and so much more besides--all of that and everything you ever were, everything you are, everything you will now never ever be, is lost inside a warm void of a body, a slithering, living cavity.

There’s no buzz in your brain now, no lungs to draw in desperate sucks of air. Nothing to register the monster sprawling out on the forest floor, satiated, thinking of how pretty you looked when you ran and the warm, full with the feeling of you inside him now.

He’ll rest here, dappled sunlight warming his skin, letting you digest; breaking you down with acid, absorbing your nutrients into his own body. 

And you? 

You’re dead and gone and there’s no comfort in knowing that Mahito will think of you for a long while, even after you’ve been digested. You were such nice prey, after all. 

[endereies]

ICE BOUND - MS

No Nut November - Day 4

NNN Masterlist...

-➤ When you treat Matt to a day of skating, he ends up teaching you the ropes

After the easy breezes of autumn, the chill in the air was noticeable. Months slowly rolled around to the beginning of December. You and Matt found yourselves wound up together inside a vast majority of the time, huddled under one of the many blankets you insisted on purchasing. Snow would occasionally fall throughout the week, as much as you hated the sheer chill it added to your skin, you adored the subtle crunch.

Today was one of those days, yet you found yourself within the bustling markets. Each stall was full of cute decorations and gifts dedicated to loved ones for the Christmas season. A hand painted ornament laid delicately in your hands, flipping back and forth as you further admired the cute design.

“Baby, look how adorable this is!” When you didn’t get a response from your boyfriend, your head raised. You saw him leaning against a lamppost, staring off in the distance. Your gaze met where his eyes were placed, and you smiled sweetly when realization his you. It was a skating rink, one you knew looked almost identical to the ones that introduced him to hockey.

“Matt? You alright, love?” A small giggle passed your lips when he jolted at your voice.

“Yeah, fine…I just miss skating around this time of year.” He shuffled slightly, trying to dismiss how he felt, but you had already noticed. Skating was a massive part of his life, especially his youth, you’d be surprised if he wasn’t nostalgic a smidge about it.

“How about me and you skate?” The words came out before you yourself could even think about them.

“Really?” He perked up instantly, his body reacting instinctively. “Can you even skate…?”

“I’m welcome to learning for you, baby.”

That’s how you found yourself stumbling on the ice like a newborn deer. You had been skating about 4 times in your life, all of which were when you were young. And it showed. Both your hands clung to the wall that circled the ice, doing anything you could to not slip and fall.

On the other hand, Matt was letting out small giggles at your actions. He was practically skating circles around you. Of course, after years of not being on the ice, he was a little rusty. However, he looked like an Olympian next to you, skating backwards and forwards alongside you.

“Baby? Do you trust me?” His voice is gentle and timid, and you can’t help but let it entice you.

“Always…why?” Your words were interrupted by Matt’s grip on your wrist. His hold pulled you away from the wall. Your body was practically frozen, not willing to move. The wall seemed so far out of your reach but you were relived when matt had a tighter grasp on your waist.

“Relax, breathe. I’ve got you, okay?” He watched as your body relaxed slightly, his warmth welcoming you. Until he let go.

“Matt, what are you doing.” You hadn’t meant to be stern, you were just scared and intimidated by the unfamiliar experience. When you were younger, you had that excuse to be bad, but now? You just felt like an idiot. “See, you can stand perfectly fine. Can’t you?”

Your gaze fell to your feet, frozen and sturdy on the ice. “I- uh I guess so.”

“Try pushing with your dominant leg towards me, slightly diagonal. Like this” After making sure you ware watching, he pushed with his right leg, inching closer towards you. You watched as ice gathered around the edge of his blade, scraping the top layer off.

Hesitantly, you did your best to push my leg out and to the side. It was gentle, but you moved none the less. Without stumbling, your blade once again scraped the ice and finally you were met with Matt’s body. “Perfect baby…Now, try again.”

Once more he furthered himself from me, a wider gap between the two of you. His eyes searched yours, in case he pushed it too far, but he wasn’t able to for long before you slid towards his. Your foot created a small indent in the ice, and you moved stronger, reaching him in one stride. His arms held your shoulders, letting your sturdy yourself on the ice before looking down. He admired the cute redness of your nose from the bitter cold.

However, all you could do was feel embarrassed, you were a grown adult and yet a bit of ice has you in pieces. You just wanted Matt to have a day out that reminded him of his childhood, but all you could do was shy away at the fact he was babysitting you like a toddler.

“Love, what’s wrong? Are you okay?” His eyes held a certain warmth that remedied your concerns, but you couldn’t easily let it go. “I wanted you to enjoy yourself skating, but you’re stuck with me which I cling to a stupid wall... I don’t know, I guess I figured you’d have a better time with Chris or Nick, y’know… someone who can skate.”

The soft look morphed into a bittersweet smile, his lips twitching upwards. “Oh sweetheart… I don’t care if you can skate. The fact that you were willing to do this with me, knowing you can’t skate well already means so much to me. I’m having fun teaching you. I’m doing something I love with someone I love. Why the fuck would I complain about that? Don’t you worry your pretty head about that…” The blush on your nose spread to your cheeks and now you hid for another reason. With another practised stroke of your feet, you pushed your body into Matt’s.

“Thank you, Matt…”

“No. Thank you for doing this with me. Now, c’mon. Those strides of yours need a little work.” A faint giggle slipped past his lips as he skated to your side, continuing to teach you about the basics of skating.

You couldn’t ask for anything more than that.

@melliflws @yuhayeee @st7rnioioss @sturn-bugz @bueckerrss @worldlxvlys @raysmayhem-72 @patscorner @y0urm4m @bernardsbendystraws @junnniiieee07 @luverboychris @jnkvivi @rac00ns-are-c00l4 @shorthairchris @colorthecosmos444 @anabethinking @zay-sturns @anyaa23 @emilyfaith2003 @zariyam @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut @sturniolosiphone

© ENDEREIES 2024

[ddiidi]

bf! LeeMinho x gn! Reader

Masterlist

When he strikes an insecurity by accident

Previous Pt. 1

Pt. 2

!Warnings: angst, swearing, term "princessa" is used, reader has childhood trauma Minho does know abt, fluff, kissing, mention of blood, mention of violence, lmk if I missed any

Side-Note: Should I make a special Pt. With reader having a nightmare about her past?

Ppl that want to be added the the general tag list for all series comment 🤍 pls🙏🏽

Minho has never been home as fast as he been today. He skipped red lights, speeding through the city as if he's crazy. He has to get home as fast as possible and see if you're alright.

He entered the parking lot in front of your shared house and basically jumped out the car, tripping over his feet and letting his keys fall. He cursed, getting up and runs towards the house door, entering.

The house was quiet. "Y/n?! Y/n, baby, answer me please!" Minho yelled running towards the kitchen door. He opened the door and looked around. You were no where to be seen. Panic raises in him, as he walks towards the kitchen island, uncutted ingredients sitting on it.

He walked around the kitchen island and froze. He stared down at your laying body, unmoving, blood fleeing out of your left thigh, a knife laying besides you.

He panics. Kneeling down besides you, shaking you. "Y/n!! Y/n, god, please wake up! I'm sorry okay? I'll make it up to you, so please just wake up", he kept yelling and begging, your body not moving an inch...

How long have I been asleep...you think to yourself, Why is everything dark..you ask yourself, Why does my body hurt so much...you wonder to yourself. You start to fall. Deep. A dark while swallowing you inside, pain crusing through your body. Then there was nothing. Black darkness, till someone grabbed your arm.

You try to free yourself from their grip, but you suddenly weren't an adult anymore. You were a child, you were your younger self, standing in the kitchen with your mother. Your mother yelled, at man, your dad, his grip on your arm tightening, as he pulled you down to the ground.

Your mother yelled your name, crying hitting your dad. He grabbed for a kitchen knife and-

Your eyes shot open, abruptly sitting up from, what feels like a couch, panting, drained in sweat. You looked around. You weren't in your parents's house but in your shared house with Minho. You were pretty positive you fainted in the kitchen, so how come you're on the living room couch now? You tried to stand up, letting out a Yelp at the pain in your left leg, looking down, you see your leg Baindaided. You let out a heavy sigh, looking over at your phone.

You picked it up, several missed calls and unopened messages from Minho.

You slightly smiled to yourself at his panic and were about to reply, when you heared someone walking around in the house. You grabbed the empty, sweets plate off the coffee table and tried to stand up, when the person entered the room.

You closed your eyes and screamed, in shock the other person screamed too.

Wait- You knew that voice.- You slowly opened your eyes and stopped screaming as you saw who stood there. Minho.

You stared at each other, till Minho talked first "Why in the world are you screaming!" He yelled "Why are you sneaking around the house!" You yelled back. "I'm not sneaking around, I made you something to eat, your Highness! I'm sorry i'm not allowed to cook in my own house!" He scoffed and you sat back down, crossing your arms over your chest. You looked away, still made for what he said per text.

He came over to you and sat a plate, filled with food, on the coffee table, turning to look at you. "Hey..sweets..how ar-" "Dont talk to me." "What- but I-" "I said don't talk to me. Don't wanna be a clingy baby, who's up your ass 24/7 and can't take care of herself, because I can. So leave me alone. Why are you here anyway." You bit out at him, still not facing him.

He stayed quiet for some time, before putting a hand on your shoulder to turn you around. "Hey please...i just,- i'm sorry. Really, what I said was, totally not okay and I know a sorry won't help anything but I want to make this right. You hurted yourself because of me and I can't every forgive that myself, but I want to make sure you won't hurt yourself again. I didn't think when I said these things." he stared into your eyes and you stared back, he was deeply sorry, you could see it.

You let out a sigh and hugged him tightly, inhaling his scent to calm your racing heart. "I dreamed again...you know.." Your arms around him tighten, such as his around you "I know. That won't happen sweets, never, i'll protect you, always okay?". You hummed in agreement and pulled away from him. He kisses first your nose, then your lips, softly.

After what feels like 1 second but also a life time, he pulled away from you, putting his forhead against you. "Eating now?" With a nod you pull away, trying the food.

"I'm still mad at you though"

.・゜-: ✧ :-⋇⋆✦⋆⋇　 🖤🤍🖤 ⋇⋆✦⋆⋇-: ✧ :-゜・．taglist: @hwayne2294 @stephanieeeyang @chanchansgirly @mmarusa @seungminsteddybear @ionlyeverwantedtobeyourequal @chrisbangswifey @straykidslvr @victorbutnotreally @hannieslovebot @seungfl0wer @lemonn015 @certainsweetssheep @rockstarkkami @bbokari711 @grubeboss4 @peanutkittyt

[neithoftheveil]

Ko-Fi donation ficlet #4:

“San Lang, this isn’t actually your true form, is it?” Xie Lian says one night, lifting his head from his husband’s shoulder. Their altar-bed in Thousand Lights Temple is bathed in warm lantern light.

“It is, gege,” Hua Cheng responds. “Or do you think your San Lang is a liar? How mean, gege. I’m only ever sincere with you.”

“But…”

The playful smile on Hua Cheng’s face fades. “But?”

“You were younger when you died, right? A couple years younger?”

“Mm.”

“Then…how is this your true form?”

“I cultivated this form over my years in Tonglu.”

“Oh.”

“Why? Is gege disappointed in this form?” Xie Lian shakes his head. “But gege’s curious what I looked like when I died?” It’s morbid, phrased that way, but there’s no judgment in his husband’s tone. “You wouldn’t want to see it. That form is ugly.”

“San Lang’s never been ugly once in his life,” Xie Lian says, and pinches his husband’s cheek, earning himself a laugh and a twinkling look. Still, he knows Hua Cheng’s self-consciousness runs deep, like a subterranean river. Nothing Xie Lian will ever say or do will stanch its steady flow. “You don’t have to show me. It just crossed my mind.”

But Hua Cheng is already shifting underneath him. His crimson sleeping robe, already gaping, gapes a little further as Hua Cheng shrinks, maybe only an inch or two in height but half of his muscle disappears. His face is a little rounder. Two eyes, one like blood. And—

Under Xie Lian’s hand, a dozen puckered scars.

“Oh. This…”

“I can hide them if they displease gege,” his husband says, but Xie Lian has already lowered his head to kiss one of them, the one over his husband’s heart. He knows what an arrow wound looks like. But this many? How many until Hua Cheng staggered? Until he fell? Did they happen all at once, or did Hua Cheng continue to swing his sword until he couldn’t stand any longer?

“Gege…”

Xie Lian kisses the next one, and the next, and the next. He anoints the entire constellation of scars with the touch of his lips, with wordless apology. Hua Cheng’s belly twitches underneath the final kiss.

“I wouldn’t change any of this, gege,” Hua Cheng says quietly. “I wouldn’t be here with you if it hadn’t happened.”

“I know.” He lays his head on Hua Cheng’s stomach and stares up at his husband. Their hands find each other—intertwine. “But it still hurt you.”

“Not as much as being without you does.”

[lady-ashfade]

Mha Reaction to their big pro!hero sibling coming to visit

´*: ･ﾟ⋆˒ Characters: Katsuki Bakugou, Izuku Midoriya

READER: Masked Hero!reader, reader doesn’t give their name to the public.

WARNINGS: Angst coded a bit, but really fluffy other then a few things, siblings bickering!!

GENRA: HC’s

Izuku Midoriya

Izuku liked to keep you a secret— not in the way you think. When he was younger he got bullied for being quirkless and he was sure you wouldn’t want to bring down your reputation. Or get more bullied because of how different he was.

No matter how many times you made it known you respected and love quirkless people, even announcing to the world that you had a quirkless brother, he still felt ashamed. 

But once he got into UA he was so proud of himself, he was messaging you everyday about his progress. He felt horrible to keep you in the dark about allmight but he had too! Deku still kept you hidden, he wasn’t sure how you would feel if he spoiled your identity.

“Look at you, little hero!!” Izu was so shocked to see you standing in front of him and his class, a smile plastered on your face. “My My, how you’ve grown!” Everyone watched you practically fly to him and hug him.

Now seeing you both together in the same room…it was so obvious that you both were related!! Same nose, eyes and even freckles. Even if you had different dads, you both favored your moms features more.

He was overwhelmed with questions, mostly why he never told them he was your brother, then everyone was fine.

Until you started sharing stories of when he was little. How you would pretend to need saving just so he could rescue you. And somehow a baby picture even up on the kitchen fridge…

“I’m so proud of you,” and yet after all the embarrassing stories, kicking his butt in training, and giving him lectures you still held him when you need to leave, “My brother is going to be the best hero.”

He was a sucker for your hugs. Don’t forget the waterworks!! He’s crying at the slightest praise from you.

Everyone in the class, including him was shocked when they saw a picture of them on tv while you did a interview! “This is the future of Japan!” And you sang their praises on tv.

“Midoriya, your siblings the best!!”

“Yeah…I know.”

Katsuki Bakugo

He’s sooo over you. For years he hated how he had a pro!hero sibling. That just means he’s have to work harder to get out of your shadow. Unlike izuku, MF didn’t want anyone to know he was related to you— YOUR NOT SPECIAL.

I think deep down he was wordied he wouldn’t catch up to you, or that somehow he would fail and you’d be disappointed. Because katsuki really does care AND look up to you, which is why his first thought was to go to UA to follow in your footsteps. Tho, he never admitted it.

“I just want UA to have a better Bakugo, can’t have you spoiling our name.”

Boy would be so pissed if you sent a letter of recommendation. And better expected a angry call, “I don’t need you help.” “Think I can’t do it on my own?” he really hates when you try and help him. Makes him feel weak. Like I said- he doesn’t want his big sibling to look down on him.

“Put the boy down!” Bakugo freezes out the stern tone of someone yelling at him. Denki pulls away from his grip, thanking the person. Yep, it’s you— and the first thing you do is embarrass him.

“Why the hell are you here. Shouldn’t you be fighting low level villains. What, People stop stealing candy from babies?” Everyone is staring at him because he’s talking that way to a pro!

“Don’t be like that! Give your sibling a hug!” they watch you chase him around for a minute while he’s screaming his head off….YOURE HIS SIBLING?

Kats hates that everyone knows now and is asking him questions. He hates to be in your shadow. He hates watching you give praise to his friends and then give him “tips” or whatever. He’s constantly trying to train with you, to try and prove he can be better and beat you in a fight.

“Don’t hold back! I’m not some loser kid like you think,” he screams. It’s been hours since you’ve been training and you still haven’t used any of your power moves on him, “I’m better then you! So stop looking down on me!!”

And you clicked it right there. Why he was always pushing you away, or overworking yourself. Why he hated when you tried to help him. So you did what any good sibling would do—Kick the shit out of him.

“I never thought you were weak, katsuki,” you bend down as he’s laying on the ground out of breath and beaten up, “Just because I give you pointers doesn’t mean anything. I just wanna be there for you,” you pat his head while he has no energy to reject you.

“I’m so proud of you! I knew you would be a hero years ago!”

The last day he was more closed off because of his disappointment to see you leaving but didn’t wanna show it. Being a pro meant he never got to see you, even he was younger you were here at UA training.

Anyway from everyone, he hugs you deeply. “Try not to die! I can’t have everyone knowing I have a weak sibling.”

As he huffs in your chest to give off the impression of being mad, but the grip of his hold says something different.

“Whatever you say, Kit-Kat,” you chuckle and pats his head and hold him for a few seconds as he trues to pull away from you.

[writterofstars]

a sugar adiction

Ok, can you imagine a world where Kryptonians’ metabolism requires a lot of sugar, and they also age slowly and have problems if they don't consume enough?

Clark Kent was five years old, though no one would believe it just by looking at him. He seemed like a three-year-old, with chubby cheeks and curious eyes, but with a gaze that Martha and Jonathan Kent had learned to interpret as someone who saw much more than he said. And for some reason, all the sweets in the house disappeared as quickly as they bought them.

“Jonathan, I swear I left a jar of jam in the pantry yesterday,” Martha said, checking the empty shelves over and over again. The jars of honey, the sugar, the cookies; nothing was safe when Clark was around. But what child, no matter how small, could finish an entire jar of jam in a day?

Jonathan sighed, both amused and concerned. “It must be a phase,” he replied, watching the child play among the chickens outside. Clark seemed normal, but the Kents had started noticing strange things. Like how he appeared exhausted if he didn't get something sweet during the day, or how, even though he ate an incredible amount of sweets, he remained thin and small. Very small.

Clark heard the sound of the door and turned to them with a sugary smile, small smudges of jam on the corners of his lips.

“Were you in the pantry, Clark?” Martha asked gently. The boy looked down, part amused and part guilty.

“I was hungry, Mom.”

Martha knelt down to wipe his face with a cloth, her fingers pausing for a moment on Clark's cheeks, soft as those of a much younger child. At five years old, he still had delicate skin and the eyes of a little boy, and sometimes Martha couldn't help but let a silent worry slip into her thoughts. Other kids his age already looked more grown-up, stronger. Clark, on the other hand, was like a mystery.

But the problems weren't limited to his size. There were nights when the boy would wake up gasping, saying that the air felt heavy, as if breathing the Earth’s atmosphere took effort. Martha and Jonathan would find him in the middle of the night, sitting up in bed, gazing out the window at the sky with that melancholic expression that only he had, as if he somehow knew he didn't quite belong to that place.

“What do you see out there, Clark?” his mother would ask, stroking his hair. The boy would smile, not knowing how to respond. He didn't know why, but some nights he felt just a little bit closer to the stars, even though he didn't understand why that attraction existed.

It wasn't just his slow growth or his obsession with sweets. Sometimes, Clark had trouble with his eyes. He said they hurt, especially when he stared at something for too long. Once, while trying to cut carrots in the kitchen, Martha was startled to see Clark staring at the carrot with a strange intensity.

“Mom…” the boy said in a low voice, “I can see inside the carrot.”

Martha stopped, her knife in mid-air. “What do you mean, son?”

“It’s just that… I can see inside things. Like shadows. I see them even when I don't want to see them,” he said, with the confusion of someone who still doesn’t understand what his eyes are seeing.

From that day on, the Kents began to understand that Clark had a different vision, one that sometimes showed him things no one else could see. Martha tried to make him feel that this wasn’t wrong, that it was part of him, but she couldn't help but wonder what else awaited her son.

[zhvakinnn]

Can you do what it feels like to be the crews younger sibling pls?

Stay beside me.. please

Mouthwashing character x sibling reader (platonic)

A/N: im not sure who's crew but im assuming this is mouth washing is not I could totally write different, and finally something that is not romantic

Warnings: jimmy

Fluff and angst (yes)

✳️as always i don't know much English so if something is wrong correct me✳️

Daisuke

Fluff

His mere exited for you to be there, since he could talk to someone while still not being close to anyone

He brought many things like jigsaw puzzle, chess, monopoly etc

Your duo troupe is either yapper x listener or yapper x yapper (his always the yapper)

It's fun to be around him your surrounding won't be silent even in a second

And I think his the type of brother who laughs before helping you if you get stuck on something or fell

But his the only one who can mock you he will not fight the person physically but in words his definitely a trash talker

Okay now back to the ship, he was the one who introduced to Swansea and Anya

If you ever got your brothers personality Swansea is double pissed

He loves you and his showing it by cheering for you like praising the things you did "you did pretty good there little dude" "that was cool! Im proud of you"

His a pretty cool brother

Angst

You were there to where Swansea killed him

You looked down to your brother who was suffering

Swansea made you back away not letting you watch the scene

You even tried to stop Swansea to kill him but Swansea said it's the only way to stop his suffering

You kept on making excuses for him to save

You argue back that if cpt. Curly can survive daisuke can too

"(name)! FOR FUCK SAKE GET OUT OF HERE" he shouted making you cry seeking for your brothers comfort but he can't

Daisuke was coughing loud "I love you bro" you run and run till you reach the nurse room

His a pretty cool brother

Anya

Fluff

She's the sister who always and will take care of you

Even a little scratch she's putting on alcohol, disinfectant spray,betadine and more hijibigibis before slapping a bandaid

She's the nurse after all

She's a calm and beautiful woman and sometimes you wish to be like her one day

If you ever need a shoulder to cry she'll let you lean, need a hug she's there open arms, need to spill all your problems after bottling it up she has two ears to listen

But sometimes you wonder what is going on with your sisters head, you tried to let her talk to you about her problems but she shook her head saying she's fine

You didn't believe her you were patient taking each step for her to get it out of her

And when the crash happened she finally let it out of her

You stared at her as your fist curled she stopped you from attack it (jimmy)

You calm down and nodded you head but you never stop staring daggers to Jim

But then again I think she's the type of sister who wants to do some of TikTok dance and mostly sleep over

And if you two are playing some kind of board games and if she lose she would stare at you wanting to strangle you

But she still loves you don't worry

Angst

When you went to check on the room since cpt. Curly was making noises, once you open the door your heart sink's

Seeing your sister sitting there blood on her mouth

You ran up to her and drop to your knees you cried out for help while cpt. Curly was there to watch the scene

You held your sister close to your chest not caring about the blood

"captain what happened to her" you cried looking at him he groans and landing his eyes on the bottle of pills you looked to where his eyes looking at seeing the bottle

You picked it up and it was all empty making you cry more

She always tells you that "don't keep everything bottle up to yourself or else you'll die drowning"

Yet she couldn't even tell you and you didn't know she was hurting to much

You swear on your life you'll take avange of your sisters death

I couldn't finish this but I'll make a part two for the rest of the characters

[yuesya]

“Is that her?”

Aoi pauses at the whispered question, glancing down towards the three younger girls who are helping her hang up laundry. The three younger girls who are no longer focused on hanging up laundry, rather –Naho, Sumi, and Kiyo are currently peering curiously towards the other end of the garden, where Shinobu-sama is standing with the newest guest to the Butterfly Estate.

Snow-white hair, and deep blue eyes. The coloration is unusual and eye-catching, and it only takes an instant for Aoi to realize that this is the girl from the rumors. It has to be her –the one who’d saved the Flame Pillar by killing Upper Moon Three, and the one whom Oyakata-sama had mobilized so many people to search for over the better part of the past month.

“It has to be, right? Didn’t Nagakura-san say that the girl who saved the Flame Pillar would be staying at the Butterfly Estate for a while?” Naho peeks over the edge of the freshly-washed bed sheet. “Look at the way that Shinobu-sama is talking to her! It seems like she’s someone important, doesn’t it?”

Naho’s observation is very astute. Even though the white-haired girl only looks to be around Aoi’s age, Shinobi-sama does not speak to her as if she were a junior demon slayer. Rather… there’s a certain level of respect, and… wariness…?

The suddenly girl turns around. Blue eyes look towards them, precise and unflinching, causing all three of the younger girls to let out startled squeaks of surprise simultaneously. Aoi squeaks a little bit, too, embarrassed at having been caught staring red-handed by their new guest.

Shinobu-sama glances towards them, smiles, then says something to the white-haired girl. Then, she leads the other girl over to them.

“I see that you’ve already noticed our new guest,” Shinobu-sama says. “This is Gojo Shiki –our newest recruit to the Demon Slayer Corps, recruited by Oyakata-sama himself after her timely assistance to Rengoku-san.”

The girls pull themselves together, and offer their greetings in a cheerful chorus together. Aoi, too, echoes a polite greeting, and introductions are exchanged.

“Hello.” Gojo-san bows slightly, courteously. The movement is refined and elegant, and Aoi finds herself staring a bit at the other girl. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Gojo-san will be staying with us in the Butterfly Estate for a while,” Shinobu-sama informs them. “She… hasn’t trained with a cultivator before, and there are certain gaps in her knowledge that Oyakata-sama would like me to fill in for her. We also need to send a missive to the Swordsmith Village; she’ll also need a nichirin blade.”

Aoi blinks.

… How in the world had Gojo-san killed a demon, then?! And Upper Moon Three, no less?

“Is there something special about a ‘nichirin blade?’” Gojo-san asks.

Aoi stares at the girl, then turns incredulously to Shinobu-sama.

“… Yes,” Shinobu-sama says. “They’re special blades forged with crimson iron sand and scarlet ore, from the Sunlight Mountain. Decapitating a demon with such a blade will kill them, instead of allowing them to regenerate from their injuries.”

Gojo-san’s expression does not change. But for some reason, Aoi gets the impression that the other girl isn’t very impressed.

Shinobu-sama seems to realize it too, because she lets out a small huff. “Although… from what I understand, the weapon that you used to kill Upper Moon Three wasn’t a nichirin weapon, was it?”

“No.” Gojo-san tilts her head slightly. Then, proceeds to reach inside the sleeve of the kimono she’s wearing, and pulls out a… knife? “I used this.”

… Isn’t that just a normal knife? The kind that’s used in regular households and the like?!

Aoi looks at the knife, then looks at Gojo-san, and swiftly comes to a decisive conclusion:

She’s utterly terrifying.

[the-kr8tor]

More Minotaur Hobie! X reader because I'm feeling funny. Btw Reader here is mostly undisclosed whether they're a demigod, mortal or etc. so you do you with your imagination honestly;

And as you stand in front of him, he already waits for the words he knows will come out of your mouth just as everyone who's seen him previously said: monster.

“...you're…”

And before he knows it he replies at the same time as you;

“Hideous”

“Gorgeous”

…And he stands there baffled. You would've had the time to try and attack him with how long it takes him to actually do or say anything. And yet you stand there admiring him with a softened gaze and a warm smile, excited to meet the man of the myths and legends you've dearly loved ever since you were younger.

Every night your father would tell you the same story. Yet he never made Hobie out to be cruel for his actions, he wasn't a monster in your father’s tale. Instead he was but a creature, but a man as any other. You look him over in all his glory, noticing the bruises, the scars, his eyes and how they dance over your form with untold anger and sadness.

He doesn't raise his voice at you any more. Seeing no point in fighting someone who clearly has no wish to. Not with the way you're looking at him, it makes him feel bare, vulnerable, if anything it only further upsets him about how he looks. Instead, he backs away, finding himself wanting to flee your emotions and kindness. His heart and soul aren't used to kindness.

“Wait- please. I just want to know you.” And your voice is just as tender as your expression and gestures. He hates it, oh gods how he hates it. He stays still, wearily letting you approach him as he stares at you, his form tense as he wonders when you'll hit him. When will you raise your weapons at him? When will you tell and scream and run away?

And yet you don't, in a small and innocent tone slowly asking him a few questions about himself. Making sure he knows he truly doesn't have to answer them if he doesn't wish to as you sit down in front of him. A sign of blind trust. A sign you truly want his time more than you want his end.

And so he stays standing up as he stares at your form, he stays standing, he has to be or else you'll think he isn't strong and might try something against him. And Hobie slowly starts answering your questions, being careful to not reveal any weak spots. And to your pleasure you listen to his words and voice.

There's always something soothing about someone who's stronger than you yet speaks to you like you're nothing but a fragile glass statue. He knows his strength, how easy it is to actually get rid of you if he so needs to. But eventually after a few hours of conversation he sits down with you. Having needed time to convince himself and you that you won't attack him in any way possible.

You who wears no fine clothes, no dreadfully heavy armor, you barely have any on, only a dagger at your side which you haven't bothered to even try reaching for. There is no need for it, not with a friend. And Hobie is your friend, at least he has been in his own way while you were but a child. His stories made you feel less lonely as you had been estranged with society all your life.

He feels it too, the slight similarities. How two hurt doves are now in the same nest trying to make home in a small budding friendship. And he waits for it anxiously. Wondering if you might turn out to be a praying vulture. But you never bare your claws to him, gentle with everything you do and say. Your jokes, your laugh, your smile…as time passes by he starts to feel better. He has someone finally. Is it foolish thinking perhaps? Maybe he's not seeing right. But then you hold his hand, no one's ever done that before. No one else would dare to. And yet you do. And you take his monstrous hand in yours and hold it as if it has meaning.

-🪦 wow actually mildly proof reading what a thing (I barely did)

In that darkened room, he finds his light 😭😭

Ngl i was trying very hard not to shed a tear while reading this 😭 you wrote this so well and in just a few words you made me feel both of their emotions 😭 ly this was so good

[everysongineverykey]

and for my next trick i present... my Grand Tv People Freakout Extravaganza!!! *falls to the floor weeping violently*

[dutybcrne]

Love the idea of Kaeya having a kid that looks damn near entirely like his partner save maybe their eyes

[coweye]

The Worst Logan

Logan Howlett x Reader!Loganverse| smut | 5.8k words

Summary: You are the deceased-anchor-being-Logan's lover, having found yourself with Laura in the void, you navigate meeting the variant of the love of your life. Sweet dick kicking angst with gratuitous smut, cause we all know Logan eats pussy like a CHAMP. 😤

This is self indulgence at its finest, but it had be to done. 7-years ago, the movie Logan broke something within me that has finally been fixed! 🤠💕

Warning: Explicit - smut. canon death, depression, angst, spoilers for Logan / Wolverine and deadpool, cunnilingus, unprotected p in v, creampie, all the good stuff. 18+

The first time you see him again, the new him, the other him you mean. It’s in the cave accompanied by a man who talks far too much.

You recognise his voice in an instant when the mouth finally allows him to get a word in edgeways. His voice. 

You’ve heard it nearly every night for the past seven years. It's a few octaves deeper than you remember and filled to the brim with vitriol but it's definitely his. The realisation that your memory has been warped by time is a blow to the gut but you continue towards the sound all the same.

When finally you round the corner Logan stands before you in all his glory. For a moment you are rendered utterly unable to form a single sentence as he leans against the wall, a bottle of bourbon in his palm and adorned in yellow and blue.

Your mind can't reconcile this figure as the man you buried. He has the same sneer, the same broad shoulders, he even has the same stance - but Logan, your Logan, would rather die than wear that garish yellow suit and admit to being the hero he always was. 

His nose flares in what you believe to be recognition as he smells your presence, you allow your powers to retreat and reveal yourself. As your invisibility ebbs away Logan snarls in surprise as the talkative man in red gasps theatrically and begins jumping on the spot. 

Your fears are proven well founded when your eyes connect with his across the room, instead of the love and recognition, you find only open hostility and rage.

Your heart had bulldozed all logic, you were in the fucking void, of course it was a variant.

This Logan looks younger; his hair not so grey, his face unscarred and his eyes not so tired. 

This not-quite-Logan stares right back at you seemingly ill at ease with the stranger who is currently taking an inventory of his face. 

“Logan, that's them. It’s X-23 and Y/N, the one’s I told you about.” You graze your palm along your daughter's back in support as you come to stand beside her. 

“Her name is Laura.” It’s a knee jerk reaction; your correction. Your girl wasn’t the sum total of an experiment, she was her own person with her own thoughts and feelings, not a weapon to be utilised. 

The Wolverine’s gaze darts between the two of you, it’d be comical if you didn’t feel like you were about to regurgitate your lunch. They land on Laura, and linger there for a few moments, before they return to you, it's as if he’s trying to find you in her features. 

You barely hear the man you will later come to know fondly as Wade Wilson, question how you all ended up in the void.

“There was a knock at the door TVA sent me here, saying my world was dying … and I never even got the chance to fight for it.” Blade explains remorsefully. 

“They sent us here because they knew we’d put up a fight.” You utter distractedly, finally breaking your staring contest with Logan as he takes a swig from the bottle he’s currently white knuckling. 

“People like us don’t go quietly, TVA knows that so they took us out.” Elektra attests.

“The answer is yes, I’m in.” Wade declares.

“In what?” Blade questions bemused by the man in red. 

“A team up, you me, me you, all of us together, lets get the fuck outta’ here.”

“Don’t listen to him, he’s a fucking liar!” Logan growls, furious at the other man. 

“It was an educated wish!”

“HA!” The loathing behind it makes you pause, he was so angry. 

The heat in his voice, the resentment, it burns you. You supposed even your Logan had his fair share of rage.  

When he arrived at the mansion all those years ago, fresh faced and wild, you had adored him even then, though Logan was far too preoccupied with Jean to notice the torch you carried for him back then.

It was ironic that It had taken the utter annihilation of the X-Men to bring you together. Charles’ accident had left the two of you as sole survivors. Over the years in hiding your ability to mould force fields managed to keep the worst of the effects of Charles’ seizures at bay, but Charles Xavier was one of the most powerful telepaths to grace the earth and your powers had limits. 

Those years were some of the darkest and yet the best of your life, you found yourself growing to love the man the world called The Wolverine.

You realise you’ve entirely tuned out Wade’s rousing speech and have spent the time analysing the man wearing your love’s face currently gargling bourbon though your name pulls you out of your reverie. 

“Laura, Y/N? What’s it gonna’ be girlies?” 

“Lets fucking go.” Laura agrees heartily, you simply nod still dazed. 

“YES! LET’S FUCKING GO!” Wade shouts back fist pumping. 

“You’re all fucking dead.”

Much later in the evening when the sun has finally set you seek him out. When you come across the father and daughter duo before the campfire you hold back, your skin slowly begins reflecting light, fading from vision as you call upon your powers to hide in the treeline. 

They both needed this and it wasn’t something you were about to get in the way of. They talk for a little while, before they part ways, both a little teary. Laura nods your way despite being unable to see you as she heads back to the cave, her nose just as keen as her fathers. 

So it shouldn’t surprise you a few moments later when you hear Logan's voice call across the clearing.

“You gonna’ stand there all night, Bub?” The man sounds utterly exhausted. 

You say nothing in response, only dismissing your powers and revealing yourself as you advance. You take Laura’s seat at the fire, not quite having the courage to look at him just yet. 

“You hear all that? Should mind your own damn business.” You remembered this Logan well, the one aching for a fight, desperate to shed his vulnerability and bloody his fists. 

“I didn’t hear a thing, Logan.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, you haven’t had to gentle parent The Wolverine in a while but it’s like riding a bike. “I wanted to let the two of you talk, she needed it and I think maybe you did too.”

“What do you fuckin’ know.” He growls dismissively, swigging from his bottle of what now appears to be scotch. “You can skip the speech and go back up, I’m not looking for company.” 

“I’m not here to tell you what to do, Logan.” Finally, you look away from the fire and find his eyes fixed on you, you swallow the lump in your throat before you speak. “I just wanted to see you.”

“See me?” He questions incredulously. “Well, keep the change, bub. Good night.”

Despite your smile at his words, you can’t help the tears that begin to cloud your eyes. Your mind and your heart have been locked in a constant battle since setting eyes on him. This man by all rights is Logan. The man you have mourned relentlessly and yet in every way that matters he isn’t.

“It’s like seeing a ghost.” Is the only explanation you can give him, his response is a stoic cheers with his bottle before he takes a deep gulp. 

Finally either his curiosity or the alcohol gets the better of him as he questions. “You her Mother?” 

“Yes and no.” His stare doesn’t leave your face as he waits for you to elaborate. “Her biological mother was a woman from Mexico City that the fuckers in the lab exploited, all we know is that she disappeared after giving birth. After … you … after everything that happened in North Dakota…” You trail off.

Your voice is suddenly thick and your words get stuck in your throat as you try to make them form. It's utterly embarrassing as you feel the traitor tears begin to form. 

A bottle of Johnny Walker enters your field of vision from where you sit staring at your clasped hands in your lap. Startled, you glance up to find the Wolverine standing before you, casting an impossibly large shadow as he holds out the bottle.

You accept the offering from his gloved hand, your fingers grazing his in the transaction as you take a swig or two (or three) before passing it back. He looks thoughtful when he places his lips on the place where your own had just lingered, as he retakes his seat. With amber courage coursing your veins, you continue. 

“She was all I had - if not for her, I-.” You wipe your nose, staring back into the fire. If it was a struggle to meet his eyes before, it was impossible for you now.  “I just couldn’t see the point in being alive anymore if everything just slowly gets stripped away; the X-Men, then Charles and then Lo-” 

You don’t know it, but you’re preaching to the fucking choir with your words. It was rare to find a soul, going through the exact same torture as yourself. Logan found himself softening to you, it was as involuntary as it was unwelcome, but he couldn’t help it as you described a battle so close to the one he fought daily. 

“-she reminded me what I had to live for. Laura she is fierce and so fucking kind; she is everything I loved about him.” You cut your trauma dumping to a swift end as you remember yourself. “So no, to answer your question. I’m not her biological mother, but she’s my daughter in every way that counts.”

Silence reigns for a moment as neither one of you knows what to say to the other. 

“You loved him?” Logan’s voice is deeper than before when he speaks the sentence. You raise your eyes from the fire to find his for the first time since you began monologuing. They’re filled with something you can’t quite name.

“I did.”

Logan seems to contemplate this, mulling it over as he continues drinking. Finally, he seems to reach some sort of conclusion.  “You should get some sleep, big day for you tomorrow.”

“Can I stay here … with you for tonight?” The words slip out before you really even mean them to. Tomorrow you might be going to your death and the ghost of the love of your life is here alive and real, what do you really have to lose?

Logan does a double take, not quite expecting those to be the words that leave your lips. “I’m not him, Darlin’.”

“No, I suppose you’re not.” You sigh, “but could you please just hold me whilst I sleep, James?”

A huge part of you expects him to tell you to fuck off back to the cave and leave him to his booze fueled pity party. However, against all odds, he doesn’t do that. 

Logan simply lifts the half full bottle of scotch to his lips and downs every last drop. He’s a little unsteady on his feet when finally he stands up to his full height and turns towards the blankets he’s laid out on the ground. 

“Fuck it.” He growls and drops himself like a sack of potatoes onto the pile with little regard for his own body. You’ve certainly had nicer invitations into his bed but when he waves you over with a lazy gesture, you can’t help but hurry before he changes his mind. 

Before you know it you’re tucked into Logan’s side. His gloved hand doesn’t quite seem to know where to go, more accustomed to brutality than tenderness these days as it hesitates for a moment suspended in the air. After some careful consideration he delicately places it on the dip in your waist securing you to him. 

Logan’s breath is uneven, though he’s doing his best to seem unaffected by your closeness. It has been years since someone has touched him with such easy affection and the way your body curls around his own as if it was created to do just that is driving him crazy. 

You are completely at ease with him, you trust him so entirely it almost breaks his fucking heart. Logan's stomach is heavy with something he can’t name, you fucking terrify him. Yet, he doesn’t move because you feel so fucking good as he holds you. 

It's scary, you realise, how easy it would be to pretend this was your Logan as you melt into his embrace. He smells exactly the same as you bury your face in his neck, the roughness of his beard feels the same pressed against your forehead. 

This Wolverine’s arms are a little fuller and his chest a little firmer, but he still holds you the same. You make a decision to not focus on such difficult philosophical concepts as variants and the morality of switching out your Wolverine. You decide to live in the moment, to just enjoy the furnace of his body keeping you warm and his arm encircling your waist protecting you from the world, it’s so easy to pretend that this was your Logan, so you do. 

And you fall asleep quicker than you have in years.

It is still night when you awaken, it's not quite dawn but the fire has burned out to a low smoulder. You’re not sure what has awoken you from the best sleep you’ve had in a long while, that is until you feel the arms wrapped around you and the sleeping Wolverine holding you in a death grip against his chest, his half hard appendage digging into your hip. 

Everything is still hazy; you’re floating in that sweet spot between waking and dreaming, you forget about North Dakota and, god forgive me, Laura. 

You’re back in your bed at home and Logan is holding you.

There's no my logan, new logan, old logan. 

He’s just Logan. 

You bury yourself deeper in his neck. 

It’s only for a moment though before it all comes flooding back and the agony overwhelms you like a blade to the gut. 

Instantly tears flood your cheeks as you shake from your silent sobs. 

“...Y/N?” Logan's voice is thick with confusion and sleep, his grip has loosened somewhat to allow you to breathe but he doesn’t release his hold on you. “What’s wrong darlin’?” 

That affectionate name is the last nail in the coffin it fucking ends you. 

All teary, and regrettably maybe a teensy bit snotty, you lean forward and kiss him. Kiss isn’t the right word but it’s your intention. Your lips touch one anothers before he’s pulling away and holding you back. 

“Y/n… Darlin’ you don’t want this… I’m not-”

“But you are Logan. You’re him just as much as he’s you.” Your hands rise to his jaw, running your finger along its familiar sharp edge. “You’re Logan.”

“Y/N… I’d be taking advantage…” His voice is firm yet gruff as he tries to inject reason into the conversation. As usual being the good guy he’s constantly telling everyone he’s not. 

“I am so goddamn sick and tired of being sad, please Logan.” This time when you capture his lips, he doesn’t rear back. You’re not sure what’s going through his mind, but his self control seems to snap within him as he begins returning the kiss in earnest.

Logan’s tongue swipes along your bottom lip begging entry, entry you swiftly allow. You’re breathing heavily through your nose as he plunders the depths of your mouth, exploring your mouth with his quick tongue. 

Deciding to make the next move you push yourself up, throwing a leg over him to straddle his lower stomach. He’s lifted the top half of his body to ensure he doesn’t lose your mouth, your teeth clash slightly with the movement and you can’t help a bubble of nervous laughter.  He pays it little mind though as he swallows the noise, his hands coming to rest on your hips. 

Instantly, you grind your hips downward on the growing bulge that lurks below. Logan lets out a deep groan at the friction and his hands on your hips raise to the bottom of your tee in response, his thick hands tugging at it requesting your permission.

Nodding, you pull back causing him to groan at the loss of your hot mouth on his. Though it's only for a moment as the second the tee is over your head, he’s back on you, only it's your bare neck he’s lashing with affection now.

Logan breathes in deep your scent mixing with the heady aroma of your arousal. He’s nipping and licking along the smooth skin, soothing his bites as quickly he makes them. It's the animal instinct within him, telling him to devour you entirely; make you his. 

“Logan…” You gasp, your eyes are clenched shut in pleasure as he bucks his hips upwards into your jean covered centre.  

Logan pulls back to take you in, writhing above him in the moonlight, you’re fucking beautiful, though the flash of familiar metal between your breasts catches his eye, unable to stop himself, he catches it in his fist. 

Dog tags; his old dog tags.

‘LOGAN’ is etched into the aged metal and they’re warm to the touch from living beneath your shirt over your heart. 

The realisation hits him like a freight train, not only was he loved by you, but for his other self to have given you these, he fucking loved you. 

He’s not sure why it didn’t occur to him before, that the other him was as devoted to you as you were to him. He’s not entirely sure how to feel about it, but he twists his hands, careful not to snap the metal string, but using it to pull you close. 

For the other dead Logan, the hero he’s heard so goddamn much about, he decides he’ll give you the treatment you deserve. 

As if you weigh nothing at all he flips you onto your back, his hands dropping the dog tags and falling to the waistband of your jeans. His dexterous hands undo the button so quickly, that your trousers are peeled from your legs before you know it, leaving you in an unimpressive unmatching set of underwear beneath his roaming eyes. Though Logan couldn’t give a fuck as he groans at the sight of your body exposed to him. 

Logan begins by kissing down your stomach before his hands linger on your black panties, he can't help but grin at the tiny barely there bow in the middle of them; you’re like a gift all wrapped up for him. 

His eyes lift to meet your own as he begins sucking at the fabric that's keeping your pussy from him, it's already damp with your arousal and by the time he finishes, absolutely sodden with his saliva.

“Logan, please…” you whisper desperately as your hands find his ‘tufts’ for a lack of a better word. They were new, but you liked them, plus they now seemed pretty functional. 

He takes only a moment to remove his gloves, before they return eagerly to your body. Those thick hands traverse the planes of your thighs, they’re quick in their passing as they make their way up to the waistband of your panties, he hooks them over his thumb and reveals your soaking core to his hungry eyes and he’s right back to wanting to fucking devour you, and boy, fucking does he. 

Enthusiastic, would be the word, earth-shattering would be another - the word to describe how Logan eats pussy.

Logan without much preamble dives into your centre, his tongue slips into your hot wet heat, lingering for a moment on your clit, circling it reverently before he dips that talented tongue inside of you. His nose knocks against your clit several times, each more delicious than the last as he utterly devours your pussy. He moans, grinding his hips into the dirt and readjusts pulling you closer, his thick muscled arms locking under your thighs as you buck against his mouth. 

You're a complete goner the second he slips a single long thick finger inside of you. 

“Fuck, Lo, I’m gonna-” 

“Come, baby... I got’ya.” He mumbles into your pussy. And fuck me, he does. He carries on lapping at you all the way through your orgasm, drawing it out of you like the pied fucking piper of pussy. It feels like you’ve been falling for hours by the time you finally come down, only Logan doesn’t allow you any reprieve before he’s back to lashing your clit with his quick tongue. Your hands find those faux ear tufts once more and he groans as you pull on them a little more sharply than you intend in your shock, in answer Two fingers bury themselves deep inside of you.

“One more.” He’s negotiating orgasms, but you have no qualms as he rubs his nose side to side with affection against your sensitive bud. His tongue and nose moving in pace with his fingers, currently fucking in and out of you. 

It's when he scissors those thick long fingers inside of you, hitting that spongy spot within you that makes your back arch. 

Your top half has left the ground, he grunts in annoyance, suspending your hips back to his mouth at the angle he likes. Those deep hazel eyes meet yours from between your thighs, crazed and animalistic, driven wild with arousal as he eats your pussy with gusto.

It's that image that thrusts you over the edge once more, your back hitting the ground as your body seizes, thrusting your hips against his mouth. 

Without any preamble a third finger joins stretching you deliciously. The hand not currently fucking you, leaves your hip to caress your stomach stroking the flesh there, not quite able to reach your breast. 

“Lo… fuck… yes… right… right fucking there.” You cry as he draws your second orgasm of the night out, only when you tug at his tuft due to overstimulation does he acquiesce and pull back, only of course, after cleaning up your gaping desperate hole. 

He sucks his fingers clean as he sits back on his knees, his cock thick and tenting against the yellow bottoms of his suit. Your arousal has soaked through his beard making his chin slick, he wipes it with a single swipe with the back of hand though, it does very little for his sodden chin. 

Tired of not touching him, you sit forward grabbing at his belt. It's a difficult contraption that confounds you, though Logan is far too wound up to find any humour from it. 

 He replaces your hands unbuckling the thing before finding the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head. 

There, finally in all his glory, he is exposed to you and you’ve never been a religious woman, but Mary mother of fucking christ, he is gorgeous. Logan’s chest is fucking… transcendant to behold, it's like he’s been sculpted by god herself, the light isn’t the best out of here, but you hope to god you don’t die tomorrow simply for wanting to take your time and lick each and every single one of those muscles on his stomach. 

Its your turn to leap forward onto your knees and join his mouth with yours, he tastes distinctly of you and his chin is still sodden, but you couldn’t give less of a fuck, you love the fact your desire is still marking his skin. 

Your hands trace the firm abs at your disposal, before dipping into his now open trousers and underwear to find him rock hard. 

If his physique impressed you, you had a big storm coming, because his cock was a fucking resplendant beauty and it was plain to see from the swelling Logan really liked eating pussy. 

Your fingers barely touched as you pumped him, once twice, spreading the copious amounts of precum along his shaft.

“Fuck.” He grunts into your mouth. You lean down, positioning yourself to take him in your mouth, though he stops you in your tracks grabbing your shoulder. “No sweetheart, I want your pussy.” You clench around nothing at his filthy words, this man will be the fucking death of you. 

You reach behind you and free your tits from their confines, another moan leaves his throat as he pushes you backwards. On his hands and knees he’s deliberate with every move as kicks the bottoms of his suit off as he prowls towards you.

Finally, he’s in between your legs naked as the day he was born. His hands are on your breasts, exploring the new plains exposed to him, playing with your nipples alternating between sucking and twirling them between his fingers. 

So lost in his skilled hands, you barely notice when one disappears to line himself up, it's a shock, the sudden intrusion, but not an unwelcome one as he thrusts himself forward and as deep as he can go. 

You moan his name into his ear, doing your best to keep your volume down.

He has prepared you well, you’re so worked up that he slides home through your tight slit. The sheer size of him means it's a stretch that borders on uncomfortable, but the second his hand finds your clit you’re clenching around him and grinding forward, desperate for more. Unable to control himself, his claws extend, he grunts pulling you close and thrusting them down into the ground. 

“Fuck, you’re tight.” He grunts into your neck, where he's busy lavishing the flesh once again with bites. Your neck is going to be black and blue tomorrow, but you can’t find it in you to give a single fuck.

The two of you are so fucking close his bare skin so deliciously hot against your own, but you want more, you need more.

Logan pulls his hips backwards, pulling out of you until only the tip remains before slamming home and spearing you wide open his cock. Your moans blend together as you lose yourself in each other's bodies.

Logan is worked up from eating your cunt, so it doesn’t take long for the sensation to hit him.

“Fuck, where do you want it?” He grunts into your neck, as his hand descends to rub quick circles on your clit. He pulls your ass up, making sure to hit the spot inside of you that makes your toes curl.

You know he’s teetering on the edge, desperate to make you cum before he does. 

“Inside - come inside me, baby.” You whimper into his neck as he pounds into you reaching your deepest recesses with his thick cock, his hammering, it’s unforgiving with his enhanced strength but it pushes him deeper into spots you couldn’t have imagined. He groans at your words, sounding every bit the wounded animal he is. Your shared groans and the sound of his balls slapping against your ass as he takes you again, and again is all that can be heard in the clearing. 

Finally as he joins your lips in a kiss, you come hard on his cock. Clenching around him as your body writhes uncontrollably. 

Logan adjusts his hold on your thighs, now he uses your body, drawing out your pleasure but ultimately chasing his own. The pace is fast as he grunts and groans erotically into your neck, he fucking growls as his hips stutter against your own, and you know you should be more careful, but the thought of him cumming inside you has you gripping his cock like a vice once more. You give him a tight sheath to come in, and he pumps you fucking full of his cum and its a big fucking load. Logan thrusts a few more times, pushing his seed deep inside of you as he claims your mouth once more.

You run your hands through his hair as he lets his body fall against yours, he’s supporting his own weight, thank god, you don’t think you could handle his muscle, let alone the adamantium skeleton. He’s still sheathed inside you as the two of you revel in the closeness.

The silence stretches on for an amount of time you can’t quite quantify. The two of you take in your surroundings, listening to the quiet of the forest, until your breathing has finally calmed down. 

Logan lifts himself up on one arm, and pushes your hair back from your face. You stare at him in the moonlight for a long moment, unable to help yourself as you trace his familiar features. His strong nose and the curve of his brow, your finger dances along his flesh. 

Logan’s eyes close, so touch starved he basks in your affection. 

“I-” Logan goes to speak, before you drop your finger on his lips.

“It’s okay. Whatever happens tomorrow, happens. I’m okay with it.” You smile at him, there's a chill to the air but you’ve got your Wolverine warming you up. “I just wanted one night to be about something other than death.”

He takes your hand from his lips and kisses along the back of it and up your wrist, though It's a slippery slope as he hardens inside of you again. 

Logan manages to pull two more orgasms out of you before dawn.

When your time has run out, the two of you finally dress, not wanting to be found in a compromising position. Logan curls his body around yours and buries his face in your hair as he spoons you from behind. 

Just when you’re just on the cusp of sleep, he finally speaks into the night. Logan opens up about his world tearfully, instantly you reach your hand down, finding his own thicker one resting on your belly and you intertwine your fingers with his. He tells you of the mutant hunting as you draw comforting circles on the back of his hand, it's not much, but it's more than he’s ever had whilst reliving his worst day. When he has finally bared his soul, the two of you fall back into silence. 

After what has been an emotionally, not to mention physically taxing night the two of you finally fall asleep if only for a few more hours, two incredibly damaged souls offering one another comfort.

It’s later in the morning when you finally awake. The sun has risen that much is clear but you're slow to awaken from your comfortable position in Logan's arms, his warm strong body coiled against your back fighting off the worst of the early morning chill, his face still buried in your hair as he snores peacefully.

There’s a sensation niggling at you, you think it's what woke you up in the first place; you can’t shake the sensation of being watched. 

Lazily you open your eyes, only for your heart to drop to your asshole when you find Wade Wilson about 10-inches from your face lying on his side, his head supported by his hand.

“Mornin’ sleepy head, have a good night?” You can hear the smile in his voice. 

“AGH!”  Unable to stop both your cry of fear and your fight or flight response in progress, you throw yourself backwards, your powers activating of their own accord, and slamming your body into Logan’s chest. He startles awake, with the telltale ‘snikt’ of his claws extending as he orientates himself, his arm coming out to block you from the threat, despite not being able to see you. 

After your brain catches up, you call your power back, but Logan doesn’t do the same, keeping his claws out seemingly ready to slice up his not-so-best friend. 

“Get the fuck outta’ here, Wade.” Logan growls harshly at the other man, his voice is filled to the brim with hatred.

“Hmph - this is what I get for acting altruistically. I thought a good stress relieving bone in the woods with your cherie amour would really sort out that bee in your bonnet, but you sir are just a very unpleasant man and I’m worried that-”

“WADE.” This time Logan’s voice is a threat as he shouts at the man. You place a hand on his muscled arm to steady him. Though he may have stopped your heart with his antics, Wade isn’t doing anything particularly outrageous.  Logan shakes your hand from his arm and allows his claws to retract as he stands. 

“Thanks for jumping to my defence there, Y/N. Great to meetcha bt-dubs, huge fan.” You’re disoriented from the wakeup call but you shake the hand he offers you.  Honestly, you’re still trying to process the head-fuckery of the past day, so you don’t have a quick response for him, though the mouth doesn’t seem to mind as he continues. “That mean lil’ lady is asking for ya’. Thought I’d come and check you and big yellow weren’t still bumpin’ uglies. Didn’t want her to see you and Papa going to town on each other's fun parts.”

“Uh - Thanks… Wade?” 

“That’s me.” He theatrically begins bestowing multiple kisses on the back of your hand he still had in his grasp, which you retract gently. “Oh, and we’re done.”

Pushing yourself up, you go to stand though Logan offers you his newly gloved palm. You lock your fingers around his and the two of you stand together, inches apart and your fingers still intertwined, neither quite sure what to say to the other. Wade’s ‘awh’ over your shoulder shatters the moment and he drops your hand instantaneously. 

After a beat or two Logan leans forward, placing a single solitary kiss on your forehead. “See ya’ around, bub.”

“Where’s my smooch, Logie-bear?”

“Go fuck yourself, Wade.” He calls as he walks around, Logan doesn’t look back as he heads off into the forest. 

You still had faith he’d turn up for the fight, Logan always turned up when it counted and you knew this time would be no different. 

“Hate to see him leave, but love to watch him go.” Wade sighs linking his arm with yours. 

“Mmh, You can say that again.” You agree with the clown watching Logan’s ass as he walks away, you swear you see his step falter thanks to his impeccable hearing, but he doesn’t turn back. 

The two of you turn and you begin walking back to the cave arm in arm with the strange man to prepare for the assault on Cassandra’s lair when Wade finally asks the question you know he’s been dying to ask since meeting you “So, Y/N just between us girls… how big is it?”

LOGAN TENDER HAIR TUCK SUPREMACY RISE. I'll use it in every fic, don't think I won't.

Thanks for reading xxx

Graphics by my pal - @saradika-graphics 💕

[kbwrites]

Heated Waters

synopsis: being married is hard, being married without seeing each other is even harder.

⚝ content: Hiromi Higuruma x F! Reader, nsfw, bathtub sex, fingering, Hiromi neglects his wife, but boy does he make up for it

⚝ wc: 1.9k

“Yeah we do it pretty much every day.”

Satoru said, taking a leisurely sip of his water. His pale face alight with mischief, a shit-eating grin across his lips. His three coworkers stared at him in (jealousy) disbelief.

Suguru was the first to break the silence, wanting to save face “Everyday is a bit much, isn’t it, Satoru?”

Satoru chuckled, his blue eyes glinting with amusement as he watched his friend squirm. "What about you guys? How often do our married friends get it in?" His gaze flickered to Nanami, who cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses, his eyes fixed on the steam rising from his coffee cup.

“Twice a week, I suppose…”

Satoru's smile widened, clearly entertained by the responses he was drawing out. He then turned his attention to the oldest among them, Hiromi Higuruma, who was carefully straightening his tie, a subtle attempt to avoid eye contact.

“What about you, Higuruma?”

“Your wife, (Y/N) is a little younger than you, right? C’mon Higuruma-San…She a total freak?” Satoru teased.

Hiromi's jaw tightened, a flicker of irritation crossing his features as his grip on his coffee cup tightened. He took a slow, measured breath, his voice strained but controlled when he finally spoke.

“Please don’t talk about my wife like that.”

But Satoru, ever the instigator, didn’t back down. “It’s just us guys riiggght? And I can’t lie Higuruma, you’re one lucky guy. (Y/N) is a catch.”

Nanami nodded in agreement, as did Suguru, though both seemed to sense the discomfort growing in Hiromi. The older man could only sigh, his shoulders sagging under the weight of the conversation.

It was true—you were everything he could have ever wanted in a partner. Beautiful, intelligent, kind-hearted—his perfect match. If heaven existed, Hiromi was certain you’d be the only one worthy of it.

But long nights in the office, and early mornings preparing for court would take a toll on any relationship. The truth was… Hiromi hadn’t touched you in over a month. By the time he came home—you were fast asleep, and weekends were spent running the mountain of errands you couldn’t get to during the week. You loved each other of course, but it was hard. A month without feeling the warmth of your husband's hands all over your skin was starting to weigh heavily on both of you.

“You don’t have to answer Higuruma-san..” Nanami chimed in, sensing his elder colleague’s discomfort.

“Over a month.” Hiromi exhaled, the truth slipping out before he could stop it.

The room fell silent, the weight of his words sinking in.

“WHAT?” Gojo audibly gasps. “Your wife looks like THAT and you haven’t f—”

Suguru swiftly cut him off with a well-placed elbow to the chest. “Satoru… leave Higuruma alone.” The long-haired male warns. “Still, that is surprising.”

“I know I know..” Higuruma pinches his bridge. He wanted nothing more than to have his wife under him… on top of him. But the endless stream of work kept him trapped in a cycle of exhaustion. “I’ve been so busy I can’t even remember the last time I actually spoke to her properly.”

Suguru offered an apologetic smile. “Sounds like you need a break.”

“Sounds like you need some puss—” Nanami quickly elbowed Satoru in the chest before he could finish his sentence.

Hiromi shook his head, letting out a dry chuckle as he ran a hand through his dark locks, clearly frustrated with himself. “I appreciate your concern, guys, but I don’t see how I can take a break right now. I have so much work to do, and I’m the only one who knows how to handle all of it.”

“Higuruma-San. Satoru will take care of the paperwork for you.” Nanami suggested with a deadpan expression.

“HUH?” Satoru blurted out, clearly caught off guard by the sudden assignment.

“Yeah,” Nanami continued, ignoring Satoru’s protest. “It’s not like he actually does any work around here anyway.”

Suguru smirked, nodding in agreement. “That’s true. You might as well make yourself useful, Satoru.”

Before Hiromi could protest, the trio moved in unison—Suguru grabbing Hiromi’s briefcase, Nanami steering him toward the door, and Satoru sighing dramatically as he resigned himself to the task.

“Are… are you boys sure about this? I don’t want to burden you–”

“Nonsense! Go home and take care of your wife!”

Hiromi placed his briefcase by the door, his tie feeling suddenly too tight around his neck. He loosened it with a sigh, running a hand through his hair as he glanced around. The familiar scent of home greeted him. It was comforting yet bittersweet, a reminder of all the moments he had missed. The living room was tidy, the soft hum of the dishwasher running in the kitchen. You had clearly been busy, taking care of the house as you always did, even when he wasn’t around.

“Honey?” Hiromi calls out to you, his voice echoing slightly in the stillness.

Frowning, he shrugged off his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair before making his way down the hall. As he approached the bathroom, he noticed a faint light seeping out from under the door, accompanied by the sound of water gently lapping against the tub.

He hesitated for a moment, then slowly opened the door.

The sight that greeted him made his breath catch in his throat. There you were, reclining in the bathtub, your eyes closed, head resting on the edge as steam rose around you. The soft glow of candles illuminated the room, casting a warm, serene light over your features.

You looked so peaceful, so beautiful—that it almost hurt to look at you. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly as he took in the sight, but the guilt and longing only deepened. How long had it been since he’d taken the time to appreciate you like this? Since he’d been able to just… be with you?

You opened your eyes, gaze meeting your husband as he leaned against the door frame.

“Hiromi?” you murmured, your voice soft, almost questioning, as if unsure whether he was really there or just a figment of your imagination.

“Hey Honey…” his voice equally soft, as he took a tentative step closer. The warmth of the room seemed to wrap around him, melting away some of the day’s stress.

“You’re home early.” You muse, looking at him as you rested your arms on the tub. He doesn’t respond, just walks towards you with purposeful steps.

Hiromi stares down at you with half-lidded eyes.“The guys decided I need a break.” He paused, his breath hitching slightly as he continued, “Can I join you?” A playful smirk tugged at the corner of your lips.

“Only if you take off your clothes this time.”

A dry chuckle escaped his lips as he unbuttons his dress shirt, letting each article of clothing fall to the tile floor. As he finally sheds his boxers before settling behind you. You exhaled softly, the tension you’d been holding onto for weeks dissipating as you sank into your husband’s embrace.

Hiromi didn’t waste a moment, his lips finding the sensitive skin of your neck, placing lazy, lingering kisses along the curve where your shoulder met your throat. His breath was warm against your skin, his kisses slow and unhurried, as if savoring every second, every inch of you.

His hands weren’t idle either, tracing gentle patterns along your stomach, moving upwards to cup your breasts with a tenderness that made your breath hitch. He nipped lightly at your earlobe, his voice a husky murmur, “I’ve missed you… more than you know.”

“Missed you too ‘Romi..” Your voice trembling as the almost foreign heat began to pool in your core.

Deft fingers teased your nipples, rolling and pinching—eliciting a soft moan from your lips as your body arched into his touch. Your hand reached back, tangling in his dark locks, pulling him closer as his lips traveled down to your shoulder, his other hand snaking under the water to your aching cunt.

“ahhhh… s-shitt..” You cry out as Hiromi’s fingers slowly circle your swollen bud. His touch light, teasing.

“Thirty-two days… I’m so sorry m’love.” He mumbles into your shoulder as he slips a slender digit into your entrance. Your walls flutter immediately around the intrusion, as he gently pumped into you.

He adds another finger, curling up to the spot he had neglected all those weeks. He extended his thumb to rub your clit. You arch your back against him, feeling his cock twitch against your ass.

“Hiro…” you moan, reaching behind for him, but he bites down lightly on your shoulder.

“Not yet, pretty girl, want you t’cum first okay?”

He whispers as he feels your gummy walls clench around him.

He speeds up his ministrations, digits stuffing your cunt as your pussy throbs and squelches. Your whimpers echo around the tiled walls, water lapping around your bodies.

You feel the pressure building as each thrust of his long fingers brush against your g-spot.

“g-gonna cum!”

“Cum f’me sweetheart please—god… need it so bad.” Hiromi mumbles as he pumps even faster.

“a-ahh!” you cry as you reach your high, walls clenching as you cum on your husband’s hand. He removes his fingers from you, moving to gently circle your clit as you come down from your orgasm.

You both stay there for a moment, your heavy breathing the only sound occupying the space, mingling with the gentle slosh of water against the porcelain tub. Hiromi’s arms wrapped securely around your waist, pulling you closer.

Slowly, he lifted you, the warm water swirling around you both as he maneuvered you to face him, settling you on his lap. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, your knees pressing against the cool sides of the tub.

You straddled Hiromi, your bodies now fully aligned, chest to chest. Your husband's dark, half-lidded eyes bore into yours, his expression a mixture of raw need and unspoken tenderness. He let his hands rest on your waist for a moment, thumbs tracing gentle circles against your damp skin as he took in the sight of you.

“I don’t know how I’ve stayed away from you for so long…” his voice breaking slightly as if the admission pained him.

Your breath hitched as you shifted slightly in his lap, feeling the tension between you intensify. Hiromi’s hands slid up your sides, his touch deliberate and slow, leaving a trail of heat in their wake as his lips finally found yours. The kiss was deep, full of hunger that had been simmering between you both for far too long.

His grip on your waist tightened as he deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours in a dance that left you dizzy with need.

Breaking the kiss, Hiromi leaned his forehead against yours, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

“I won’t make that mistake again.”

Without a word, he rose from the tub, lifting you effortlessly into his arms. Water cascaded down your bodies, pooling at your feet as he carried you toward the bedroom, his lips trailing wet kisses down the side of your neck.

He laid you gently onto the bed, your back sinking into the soft silken sheets, but Hiromi didn’t waste any time. His gaze darkening as he climbed over you, his body hovering just above yours, his eyes drinking you in like a man starved.

“I’m going to make up for every second I’ve missed.”

[fumiliar]

the epitome of a gentleman. as you stared at the blonde man in front of you, carrying someone's grandma's groceries. you were in awe.

"you've got a good man woman," the grandma who was holding onto your hand smiled. "reminds me of my own, he's at home right now."

"oh, is he sick?" you asked, as the grandma laughed.

"no, we're very healthy! it's just i wanted to do something special for him, i mean, after 50 years of marriage, he's done so much for me," she reminisced her younger days.

"actually, your husband looks like the younger version of mine, you too, i used to look like you! before the age manifested on my face," the grandma started searching inside her purse, finally pulling out a photo of young her. "see."

as you stared at the photo, it was her and her husband holding hands, she was beaming with a smile, while her husband's lips only showed a slight curve. and she was right. from the hairstyle, to the eyes, to the lips, almost everything was identical. "ken, you've got to see this!"

"why love?" he stopped in his tracks, turning around to head back to you. "what's got you both smiling?" he peaks over, seeing the photo you were holding in your hands. "i don't remember taking a photo like that."

"it's not us silly. it's her and her husband!" you lightly hit as his chest, as you and the grandma both burst into laughter.

"scary," kento's mouth forming a slight 'o' as he stared at the picture.

"anyways, my house is right up ahead, i don't want to take up more of your time!" the grandma tried taking the grocery bags from kento, earning a stern no.

"no, we're happy to help you out. we'll bring it to your house."

as you finally reached the grandma's house, she took the grocery bags inside, shouting a 'thank you' and a 'wait a moment'. she came out with a batch of freshly baked cookies, her husband slowly following her.

"take some! my treat for all the help," she nudged the pan closer, you took one cookie as your husband took another. you looked at each other, telepathically counting before you both took a bite at the same time. it was the best cookie you've ever tasted, it was like home.

"this is so good!" you stared at the grandma with heart eyes, as you could see a slight shade of red slowly creeping up to her cheeks.

"she's the best baker ever," you heard a low voice, coming from her husband. he walked over to put a hand over her shoulder, "please come over for dinner sometime, as a way of thanks for helping my dear wife."

you immediately nodded, as you exchanged numbers and goodbyes. kento's arm slowly snaked around your shoulder as you walked away from the house. he pushed your body closer to him, making sure you were touching each other.

"they remind me of us ken," you muttered.

"yea...they do. i guess in every lifetime, i'd always choose you."