#dot whiskey

[vkmliquor]

Top 5 Tips for Identifying the Best Indian Whisky Brands

India's whisky market has flourished over the years, with a wide range of brands that cater to diverse palates. Whether you're a seasoned whisky enthusiast or a newcomer looking to explore Indian whisky, knowing how to identify the best brands is key to a delightful experience. Among these brands, DOT Whisky stands out as a prime example of excellence. Here's how to identify the best Indian whisky brands, with DOT Whisky leading the way.

Examine the Craftsmanship Behind the Brand

   - What to Look For: The quality of a whisky often lies in the craftsmanship. Brands that take pride in their production process, from selecting the finest grains to aging in the best barrels, are more likely to offer a superior product.

   - DOT Whisky Insight: DOT Whisky which is one of the best whiskies in Delhi exemplifies meticulous craftsmanship. Each bottle shows a careful process that honors tradition and welcomes new ideas, ensuring a smooth and refined taste that stands out in the crowded Indian whisky market.

Consider the Heritage and Legacy

   - What to Look For: A brand's history can be a good indicator of its reliability and quality. Brands with a long-standing reputation often maintain high standards to preserve their legacy.

   - DOT Whisky Insight: Though relatively new, DOT Whisky has quickly built a reputation for quality. Its dedication to high quality and new ideas has positioned it as a brand to watch, bringing a fresh yet authentic approach to Indian whisky. 

Pay Attention to Flavor Profiles

   - What to Look For: The best brands for whisky offer distinct flavor profiles that cater to a variety of tastes. Whether you prefer something smoky, spicy, sweet, or smooth, the range of flavors can tell you a lot about the brand's versatility.

   - DOT Whisky Insight: DOT Whisky offers a balanced flavor profile that appeals to both traditionalists and modern whisky lovers. Its rich notes of caramel, subtle spices, and a hint of oak make it a versatile choice for any occasion. 

Evaluate Consumer Reviews and Feedback

   - What to Look For: Customer reviews offer a real-world perspective on a brand's quality. Look for consistently positive feedback on taste, value for money, and overall satisfaction.

Identifying the best Indian whisky brands involves examining craftsmanship, heritage, flavor profiles, recognition, and customer feedback. DOT Whisky has all these qualities, making it a standout choice in the Indian whisky market. Whether you're enjoying a quiet evening at home or celebrating with friends, DOT Whisky is a brand that promises to deliver a memorable experience every time. Cheers to discovering the finest that Indian whisky has to offer!

[ashes-in-a-jar]

Lol everyone freaking out about tmagp's new episode and I'm losing my absolute shit because of today's double update of breaker whiskey

[beezyland]

You want me to believe Peg has never stepped away from a party to see Whiskey alone, mid-vape break, pensive? You can’t tell me Peg would not approach this new addition orbiting the disruptors like another puzzle and discover the calculated grift beneath the pretty, empty-headed persona and think, she’s smarter than she presents herself, which surely means less fires (figurative and literal) to put out, oh, I could fix her.

You want me to believe Whiskey has never found herself mid-conversation with Peg who talks too much and too desperately, and didn’t think about kissing her just to shut her up? How novel an idea. Kissing someone because she wants to, not because Duke insisted. So she does kiss the silly personal assistant in the even sillier bucket hat. It’s inconsequential. It’s Whiskey’s choice and, oh, secret little flexes of autonomy can be so addictive.

Maybe Post-Glass Onion, Helen inspires them to quit the game lest they end up like their intermediaries. Maybe they go out and try to live the best they can, not for someone else, but themselves and maybe they do that together.

Maybe Post-Glass Onion, they tell themselves and each other, we can play the game better and smarter. We can do that together. Maybe they trade in one codependent relationship for a new one and continue the cycle, grift within the system, reap the benefits until it breaks one or both of them and their relationship along with it.

[anachronistic-falsehood]

im just thinkin about yesterday and how qpac and qcellbit both reacted to the concept of a prison being set up. cellbit said it was necessary to act as an intervention and help someone get better and pac said it was a necessary punishment for troublemakers. there's something to be said here about how they both view their time in prison and how it eventually changed their views on wrongdoings and consequences but i don't know how to put it into words THERE'S SOMETHING HERE

[luxpenumbra]

where are my aftg fics with titles from bodyguard beyoncé. where are they. they couldn't catch you / and they never will / sometimes I hold you closer / just to know you're real. andrew-coded i tell you where are they

[theflyingfeeling]

Aleksi avoided Olli’s name today when someone asked something about like ”Is Tom Ford perfume the one Olli hates” he just read it like ”Is Tom Ford perfume the one….yes”

oof well-spotted, anon, it's been a while since we had a good ol' why did Aleksi stop reading that question mid-sentence hyperanalysis 👀

currently taking y'all's guesses on why he did! my best one is that Olli indeed used to hate it, but doesn't anymore... 😌💞

[micamicster]

I hate that post about good vs bad country music because why are we pretending like the ‘alcoholism rules!’ genre doesn’t contain some of the best music ever made

[giftideasfromaycaramba]

[scealaiscoite]

⋆˚࿔ prompt sets of three 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

write a piece featuring - in any capacity you can think of - all three things depicted in the given prompt!

¹⁾ a polka-dot bikini, a throw blanket and a pint glass

²⁾ a sliotar, a flat tire and a thunderstorm

³⁾ a teakettle, a fresh bruise and rosewater

⁴⁾ a chipped enamel bathtub, a blue sweater and basil leaves

⁵⁾ howling gale winds, an inflatable paddling pool and an oil lamp

⁶⁾ a fresh buzzcut, pink bubblegum and rolling tobacco

⁷⁾ gas station bandaids, a cellophane-wrapped bouquet and muddy footprints

⁸⁾ a lipstick print, skinned knees and stained-glass windows

⁹⁾ a busted streetlight, green olives and a teak countertop

¹⁰⁾ gun oil, red lace and an old armchair

¹¹⁾ a fresh tattoo, a sacristy, and guilt

¹²⁾ a corner booth, sweet patchouli and a wallet

¹³⁾ donuts, orange juice and a jail cell

¹⁴⁾ a cold red bull, shaking hands and broken traffic lights

¹⁵⁾ new graves, a busted headlight and silver rings

¹⁶⁾ handcuffs, brightly coloured building blocks and fir trees

¹⁷⁾ a shortwave radio, takeout containers and a bare lightbulb

¹⁸⁾ broken windows, waist-high grasses and lit matches

¹⁹⁾ orange segments, divorce papers and a front porch

²⁰⁾ horror movies, steaming showers and cold bedsheets

²¹⁾ brazilian lemonade, a split lip and daisy chains

²²⁾ a red convertible, a priest’s collar and dogtags

²³⁾ a corner office, parking tickets and greyhound races

²⁴⁾ bitten lips, army fatigues, and coca-cola

²⁵⁾ old wives’ tales, creaky stairs and cherry lipgloss

²⁶⁾ smooth whiskey, greying hair and warm hands

²⁷⁾ hospital food, full moons and a reconciliation

²⁸⁾ exes, candy wrappers and a twin bed

²⁹⁾ a rural motel, a pocket knife and iodine

³⁰⁾ a dirty martini, a dressing gown and blood under fingernails

³¹⁾ slept-in braids, a lamplit office and an explosion

³²⁾ blueberry pancakes, a restraining order and the taste of rum off someone’s lips

³³⁾ farmers’ market peaches, burnt coffee and houseplants

³⁴⁾ a late text, faded jeans and lightning strikes

³⁶⁾ desert air, zinnias and chocolates

³⁷⁾ an old truck, freshly turned earth and a tv dinner

³⁸⁾ wedding rings, wildfire and wrought iron gates

³⁹⁾ a hostage situation, evergreen trees and a pierced tongue

⁴⁰⁾ unripe strawberries, bitter wine and a kitchen table

⁴¹⁾ a head laid down in a lap, green tea and a break news announcement

⁴²⁾ a fire alarm, a flower-patterened apron and an ajar kitchen window

⁴³⁾ a jar of jam, two shots of vodka and a stack of car manuals

⁴⁴⁾ techno music at 4am, knitted jumpers and a broken watch

⁴⁵⁾ a green silk scarf, a pan of burnt food and the trunk of a car

⁴⁶⁾ bound hands, a crescent moon and laughter

⁴⁷⁾ a winter coat, a heatwave and fresh mangos

⁴⁸⁾ a thrift store sofa, a highrise apartment building and creaking floorboards

⁴⁹⁾ missing teeth, a house half covered in ivy and cheap beer

⁵⁰⁾ undeveloped camera film, stomach kisses and cigarette smoke

[vkmliquor]

Unveiling the History of Whiskey Making in India

The history of whiskey making in India is a rich mix of tradition and innovation, combining old techniques with modern craftsmanship. Among the standout names in this evolving industry is DOT Whisky, a brand that has quickly made a significant impact. This blog explores the history of whiskey in India and highlights how DOT Whisky fits into this storied tradition.

Whiskey production in India began during the British colonial period, when the British introduced their own distillation methods to the subcontinent. Initially, the focus was on creating spirits that could cater to the British palate, leading to the establishment of several distilleries across the country. These early whiskeys were often blended with imported malts and grains to adapt to local tastes.

As India gained independence, the whiskey industry started to evolve, focusing more on creating unique Indian styles and flavors. During the post-independence period, there was an increase in domestic distilleries and a growing interest in producing premium whiskey. Today, India is a hub for top Indian whiskey brands.

The Modern Era: Innovation and Craftsmanship

In recent decades, Indian whiskey has gained international recognition for its quality and unique characteristics. Modern distilleries have embraced both traditional and innovative techniques to create whiskeys that reflect the diverse flavors of India. The focus has shifted to not only producing large quantities but also ensuring exceptional quality and taste.

DOT Whisky: A Contemporary Success Story

Amidst this evolution, DOT Whisky has emerged one of the best brands for whisky in India. Despite being relatively young at just three years old, DOT Whisky has quickly established itself as one of the best whiskeys in Delhi. This success is a testament to the brand's commitment to quality and craftsmanship.

The DOT Whisky Approach

As one of the best Indian whiskeys, DOT exemplifies the modern approach to whiskey making in India. Despite being a new brand, its expertise in the art of aging is clear from the carefully selected barrels and careful maturation process. This dedication produces a well-balanced whiskey with a nuanced flavor profile featuring rich oak, subtle spices, and a hint of sweetness.

The Impact of DOT Whisky

DOT Whisky's rise to prominence is significant not only for its quality but also for its role in showcasing the potential of Indian whiskey on the global level. By blending traditional methods with contemporary practices, DOT Whisky has set a new standard for excellence in the industry. Its success demonstrates how Indian whiskey can compete with the best globally while maintaining its unique identity.

The history of whiskey making in India is a fascinating journey from colonial times to the present day, marked by innovation and tradition. DOT Whisky brand in Delhi represents the culmination of this rich heritage, offering a modern take on a classic spirit. As the Indian whiskey industry continues to grow and evolve, DOT Whisky stands as a shining example of excellence, proving that Indian whiskey is not just a part of the past but a significant player in the future of global whiskey.

Cheers to the past, present, and future of Indian whiskey, where every sip tells a story of tradition, innovation, and craftsmanship!

[areyouwell]

Logan x angel!reader where the reader had to get medical treatment after a mission because her angel wings (that are apart of her mutation) were burned and partially damaged after battle, and Logan comes in to check up on her?

Tattered

Pairing: Logan Howlett x F!Mutant!Reader

Word count: 10K

A/N: first request! so i definitely took some creative license with this... i sort of just kept adding scenes and ideas but this concept was so fierce boots i couldn't help myself. hope this is what you have in mind <3 i have also elected, from now onwards, not to use warnings on my fics unless there's explicit content in which case it will simply just have MDNI in red.

I don't have a taglist for like, oneshots or requests rn so lmk if anyone would like to be added :)

“Watch your six, Icarus!” Scott’s voice crackled from your earpiece as you swooped over the battlefield, the feathers in your wings fluttering in the wind. Glancing behind back, you realised why Scott had alerted you, three drones tailed you with six red dots seeking out your presence. Fuck, this wasn’t good. Why did nothing ever go right? Why were there always fucking complications?

You tucked your wings in tight against your back as you joined the rest of the team inside the Blackbird. You’d always been conscious of how much room you often took up, and whilst your mutation was your pride and joy, it was a common occurrence to feel a little self conscious when trying to cram multiple people into a tight space. You never occupied any of the seats in the cockpit, your wings wouldn’t allow it, and it was never comfortable for you anyway, the way they would shift and bend at unnatural angles meant you’d constantly be shuffling around to stop the awkward ache in your shoulder blades.

Icarus. That was your name. Well, not your name, but that’s what they called you on account of your gleaming golden feathers. You thought it was a little mean, to be honest. You had no intention of flying too close to the sun anytime soon, but alas, you were stuck with it, and over time, you’d come to appreciate it. They weren’t far off anyway. You did have grand ideals, and dreams to become something more than just a freedom fighter. You wanted to change the world and make it a safer place where humans and mutants could live in harmony. You knew a lot of the hard graft was political, and Hank was doing wonders for mutant reputation, but you still would like to contribute something other than stopping mutant slave trades and taking down illegal, anti-mutant organisations. 

That was the mission today. Some hate-crazed fuck had been building some kind of drone that could target the mutant gene. Kind of like the sentinels from years ago, but they’d been discontinued.

Thank fuck. 

The muscles in your shoulders tensed slightly as Ororo and Logan finally joined the rest of you, deep in conversation about the inevitable upcoming battle. You tucked yourself further into the wall, cursing lowly as you hit your head against the steel. 

Your relationship with Logan was… complicated, to say the least. The two of you instantly clicked when you met, finding yourself at ease with his gruff, surprisingly playful demeanour. You guessed he must have felt the same, since you noticed he would often seek you out during breaktimes, or take the seat next to you during meetings, sending you looks whenever Scott said something particularly leader-ish. You’d have to bite back a smile and attempt to keep your serious composure, lest anyone would think you weren’t taking the meeting seriously. 

And then there was the night things shifted between you. It was late, possibly early hours of the morning. Your muscles ached from being unable to find a comfortable position to sleep in, the beds not exactly being tailored to suit those with extra limbs, and with a huff of irritation, you’d given up to head downstairs and fix yourself an Irish coffee. And whilst there was a serious lack of Irish whiskey in the school, you knew Logan had a bottle of bourbon hiding somewhere in the cupboards, out of reach for most of the younger kids. 

You’d managed to clamber up onto the counter, perched precariously on the edge as you rifled around the top shelf, pulling down various unused cooking equipment before you finally came across the liquid gold. With a triumphant smile, you reached in further to wrap your fingers around the neck of the bottle, delicately pulling it from the depths of the cupboard. Only, it was stuck. 

The screw top kept scraping against the top of the cupboard, and you grit your teeth as your fruitless yanking sent pots and pans clattering against each other. You seriously didn’t want to wake anyone only to have them come down and find you up on your knees, balancing on the thin space of the counter, elbow deep in the top cupboard and frantically pulling at a bottle of whiskey. Fuck knows what kind of an impression that would give, but it certainly wouldn’t have been the correct one. 

Flaring your wings for balance, you completely misjudged the tips of your wingspan, knocking over an empty can of baked beans and sending it rolling onto the floor with a loud, deafening clang. You froze, attempting to quiet your breathing whilst you waited for the telltale sound of footsteps or the annoyed slam of a bedroom door. But your intense listening found nothing, the halls of the school blissfully quiet as you loosened your held breath. 

Nothing. Everyone was still asleep.

You turned your attention back to the stubborn bottle, this time trying to gently manoeuvre it around the baking bowls and saucepans, teasing it from the small little hiding place like you would a scared child. 

“Come… on.” You hissed with effort, finally freeing your vice from its trap with a final, harsh tug. Only, it was a little harsher than you’d have liked it to be. You grabbed the handle of the cupboard to your left to hold your balance, only for the door to swing open and provide absolutely no stability whatsoever. 

You felt yourself fall backwards with a frantic, whispered curse, swinging with the cupboard door, and resigned yourself to the sore back you’d get from falling to the floor. Or, at least, you would have fallen to the floor, if it hadn’t been for the sudden appearance of a warm palm at the centre of your spine. 

“Rough–” 

You yelped at the unexpected voice behind you, you entire body jumping as if you were shocked by a socket. 

“Stop screaming, it’s me,” Logan soothed with no small degree of subdued amusement. “Rough night?”

It wasn’t like he was asleep, more like dozing when he heard the soft padding of footsteps pass his door and head down the stairs. Knowing it was you, he assumed you’d just woken up thirsty and were heading down for a glass of water. His assumption proved incorrect when the clattering of pans and the clang of something hitting the floor broke the steady silence, and curiosity won over when he decided to investigate just exactly what it was you were doing. 

What he wasn’t expecting was to find you clinging onto the cupboards for dear life, his bottle of whiskey clutched in one stubborn hand and your other gripping the open door of the shelf next to you. And it was pure instinct to lunge forward and steady you before you fell to the floor, though in the following moments, he convinced himself it was purely because he didn’t want you to wake up anyone else.

“What?” You asked in bewilderment, turning your head to see his brow raise at the bottle you had in your white knuckle grip. How the hell hadn’t you heard him? You’d stayed silent for at least five minutes before resuming your attempts to pull the bottle out. How the hell had he managed to still creep up on you?

“It’s two in the mornin’ and you’re makin’ a grab for whiskey. So, rough night?” He asked again, moving his hands from your back to your waist, steadying you as you clambered down from the countertop, and he did his best to ignore the feeling of your warm skin seeping through the thin nightshirt you were wearing. At least you were wearing shorts. Though, he counted that as both a blessing and a curse. 

He liked you. Despite trying to gaslight himself otherwise, there were times when he truly couldn’t deny it. And this time was one of them. You looked a little dishevelled, hair slightly frizzy and out of place from tossing and turning, and it was one of the rare times he’d seen you without any makeup on. You never wore a lot, just enough to accent your already glowing features and cover any blemishes he thought you had no reason to feel self-conscious about. 

You were so perfectly yourself, it was tricky for him not to fall in love with you.

Not that he had, of course. This was just a surface-level crush…

Yeah. Totally.

“You uh, yeah, you could say that. One of those nights, ya know?” You offered a small, slightly dejected smile, and his heart bled slightly. He knew. More than he could say, he knew exactly what you were talking about.

“You plannin’ on drinking yourself to sleep?” He asked with wry suspicion as you leaned against the counter, placing his bottle next to the kettle you still needed to flip on. 

“The opposite, actually. Wanted to fix myself an Irish coffee. Seeing as I’m not sleeping tonight, might as well stay up.” You shrugged, finding the willpower to turn away from him and grab the ground coffee from the lower cupboard. Thankfully, it didn’t put up the same kind of fight as the bottle. 

It was getting increasingly difficult to ignore the electricity humming from where his hands were still against your waist, though his grip was lighter than when he’d helped you down. It truly wasn’t decent to detail the things you were thinking at that moment, and you had to force yourself to think of unsexy things. 

“We have a mission in two days and you’re pullin’ an all-nighter?” He asked, his brows pinching in badly concealed concern. Your heavy sigh did nothing to quench his worry.

“What’m I supposed to do? You try sleeping in a bed that’s too small with wings that stretch to either side of the room,” You huffed, flicking down the switch on the kettle and spooning a good two heaps of coffee grounds into the cafetiere. “Doesn’t matter what position. On my back or my side, shit’s so fucking uncomfortable it almost hurts.” 

“Why not sleep on your front?”

You snapped back to look at him, eyes hardening to steel. “No. Never sleep on my front.”

You’d said it with so much force he almost reeled back. There was a story there, there had to be, for you to clap back at him with such a bite there was no way it was just a personal preference. You hadn’t really told anyone about your life before the school, but from the bare snippets he’d heard from Charles, it wasn’t exactly how anyone would describe as happy. And there was fear behind that steel. Vulnerability. 

Logan sighed, leaning across you to flip the switch back up, stopping the kettle from boiling. You gaped indignantly, and before you could ask him just what the hell he thought he was doing, he spoke before you.

“Sleep with me.”

You choked, eyes blowing wide with shock. “I… what?”

Logan rolled his eyes, unable to tame the crooked curl of his lips at your complete one-eighty from irritation to stupefaction, even the feathers of your wings had puffed out slightly. “Not like that, freak,” although I wouldn’t be opposed. “Just… for company. Might help, s’all.” He offered quietly, and a blanket of realisation settled in your chest. He was awake too. It had only just occurred to you. He hadn’t been sleeping. He didn’t even look like he’d been sleeping. And it made more sense in your head for him to offer if it was something that could benefit both of you. 

It seemed highly unlikely he was offering just for you. Right?

“You sure? Don’t wanna like, intrude on your space or anything…” 

“Not intrudin’ if I offer,” he reasoned, and you guessed you couldn’t argue with that. With a heavy sigh, you looked back to the bottle of whiskey you’d fought wars to obtain, realising now that the whole cupboard situation had been for nothing. 

“All that effort,” you pouted comically, and Logan huffed a smile.

“I’ll put it somewhere easier next time. C’mon.” He nudged you before grabbing the bottle and returning it to the top shelf. You cursed his stupid height and the fact that he wasn’t down earlier. He could have retrieved it for you with so much less effort. But at the same time… if he had…

You wouldn’t be where you are now. 

You followed him back up the stairs, taking a left to the door only a few down from your own. You didn’t quite know how sleeping in the presence of someone else would help, but you were not about to say no to sleeping by his side. It wasn’t like this was something you’d thought about. At great length. And in great detail.

And this certainly wasn’t a scenario he’d entertained far too many times to count. 

Though upon seeing the double bed, that same self-conscious feeling reared its ugly head. There was no way you weren’t going to disturb him. You could barely find comfort in your own bed of the same size, let alone trying to sleep with someone else taking up space. You hesitated in the doorway, and Logan turned back to you, his head quirking to the side. 

“You ‘kay?”

“Yeah… s’just– are you sure I’m not gonna disturb you? Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I take up a bit more room than other people…” you extended your wings in emphasis, barely able to stretch them to half their wingspan before the side of the closet and the wall stopped you. Logan breathed a soft smile, and you felt yourself shrink slightly. 

“I’ll be fine, just get in.”

You huffed in resignation, tucking the feathers close into your back and crossing to the other side of the bed, unable to stop thinking about how ridiculous this was. You really should just get the fuck over yourself and go back to your room. How tricky was sleeping on your front anyway? Maybe this time you wouldn’t wake up with a panic attack and you were just being dramatic this whole time. You were fine. It really wasn’t that deep. You didn’t want to disturb him just because you couldn’t get over some stupid fucking fear. This was–

“Christ, I’m not even a telepath and I can hear ya thinkin’. It’s fine, sweetheart. You’re fine.” He implored, throwing back the covers for you to take up the space next to him, but you continued to hesitate. “You want a written invitation or somethin’? Get your ass in bed.”

“Alright, jeez…” you pursed your lips to stop yourself from smiling at his smartass comment, keeping your wings firmly against your back as you shuffled beneath the covers by his side, careful not to take up too much room. Your shoulder started to cramp up slightly, but there was no way you were about to release the tension in your muscles until you were sure he was asleep. 

Pulling the covers up to your neck as best you could, you scooted down until your head hit the pillow, shifting in yet another attempt to ease the ache in your back. You hadn’t noticed he’d turned on his side to face you until you looked back ahead and were suddenly met with his flat look of exasperation.

“Seriously?”

“What?” Your voice raised into a pitch of innocence, and Logan barely managed to suppress his eye roll of sarcasm. 

“The point was for you to be comfortable.”

“I am comfortable!”

“As comfortable as someone would be whilst constantly tensing, yeah?”

“Logan, if I don’t, you’ll wake up with feathers in your nose.”

He snorted a laugh, and you giggled slightly along with him. “You look ridiculous.”

You gaped in mock offence. “Hey!”

“Come ‘ere…” in one swift movement, you were dragged from your position on your side, and he turned the both of you until you were settled on his chest. Panic swirled in your mind as your back was exposed to the room, until a steady hand soothed your racing pulse against your spine, in the space between your wings. You felt comfort dampen your anxiety, breathing deeply into the dip between his collarbone and neck, exhaling a shaky breath. You let the seconds tick by, expecting yourself to start gasping rapidly at any moment. But the longer your heart stayed settled, the more you realised this might actually work. “Y’okay?” He asked quietly, and you nodded against his chest.

“Yeah… just surprised. Usually, I’d be thinking I’m about to die by this point,” you half-joked, and though you couldn’t see him, Logan’s brows pinched in empathy. What the hell had happened to you before joining the team? Finding the school? His fingers slowly grazed through the short, fluffy feathers at the base of your wings, carding through the stiff joints. He watched in mild amusement as you shivered slightly, those feathers puffing out and shuddering at his touch. He lightly dug his fingers into the hard muscles around the joint, and you had to clamp your mouth shut to stop yourself from sighing in release. You hadn’t realised just how much strain it was to constantly keep them tight against your back, and whilst it had proven useful to build up the muscle, it had also resulted in some nasty knots. 

Achingly slowly, your wings started to relax, heavy, hollow bones coming to rest across his body, wingtips grazing the floors on either side of the bed as you blanketed the both of you in a soft, warm embrace. Your eyes started to grow tired, lids drooping with each gentle caress of his fingers across your back. 

“Sleep, angel. ‘M here. You’re safe.” He whispered, and you didn’t have the energy to contemplate the fact he’d just used two new pet names for you. If you weren’t so damn tired, your insides would have exploded with butterflies by now, but the siren call of sleep lulled you into a sense of security, and with his steady heartbeat your lullaby, you gave in to the soft pull of rest. 

That was the night things changed between you. The day after he would barely leave your side, sticking by you throughout the morning, taking the seat next to you in the pre-mission meeting that same evening, sending you quick glances that he’d cut short whenever your eyes met. And it was the same when he entered the Blackbird, with you tucked tight against the wall. His eyes found you instantly, lips carving into a gentle smile, his hand falling to your shoulder as he walked past you. You savoured the touch, missing the contact when his hand fell back to his side, still deep in conversation with Ororo. 

“Do you want to fly above us, Icarus? Might be more comfortable,” Scott asked from where he’d taken his seat at the front of the jet, his head turning back to look at you through his glasses. You knew what he meant. There was only so much room in the Blackbird, and despite your best efforts, you were taking up a considerable amount. You took a moment to think, weighing up your options. And whilst you loved the freedom of flying, you couldn’t help but think it was a backhanded way of asking you to stop taking up so much room. He may not have meant it that way, but that’s just how it felt. 

“Uh, sure. Yeah, might be better…” You mumbled with a shrug, trying in vain to stop the hot shame from flushing your cheeks. 

Logan’s jaw tensed, his teeth grinding together, the sound resonating through his skull. He’d been trying so damn hard to get you to loosen up about your wings. And whilst he found it difficult to properly articulate just how gorgeous he thought they were, he thought he was finally making some progress after the last two days. So the way Scott insensitively asked you to fly instead of taking the jet wound him up. 

“Only if it would be better for you. Don’t do it just cuz ya think it’ll be more comfortable for everyone else,” he ground out with a pointed look to Scott, whose brows furrowed in brief confusion before his mouth fell open in horror.

“Shit, no that’s not what I meant! I just thought–”

“It’s fine, Scott,” you tried placating the panicking Cyclops. “I need to stretch them out before the mission anyway.” You smiled a liar's smile, hoping he wouldn’t see through the façade and into your genuine hurt before turning on your heel to head back down the ramp. You managed to make it roughly halfway before a hand caught your arm, stopping you short. 

“You’re not doin’ this cuz of these, right?” Logan asked, gesturing to your wings with his head, his eyes searching your expression as if he was looking to peer right through you. You offered him the same smile you gave Scott, and whilst it worked to settle Cyclops, it only served to broaden Logan’s concern. 

“Nah, I really do need to stretch them out, feeling kinda stiff today so it’s not a problem.” You said brazenly, shrugging off his concerns with faux confidence. You knew it didn’t work when his expression didn’t shift, his hand tightening slightly around your arm. You sighed, defeated. “It’s fine, Logan. Everyone’ll be more comfortable like this anyway, myself included. I won’t feel like I’m–”

“If you finish that sentence with ‘in the way’ I’ll throw you off the jet myself.” He borderline growled, and you tensed your jaw in slight irritation. Couldn’t he just let you have this? Couldn’t he just let you do this one thing to make everyone’s lives more comfortable? Why did he have to be so damn stubborn?

“Just… drop it, yeah? I’ll see you guys when we get there.” You bit, almost snatching your arm from his grip and continuing down the ramp, crouching low when you reached the bottom and launching into the skies, your wings beating hard as cold wind whipped your face. All Logan could do was watch you go, regret piercing his chest as the sound of your wings receded into the night sky. 

And that was how you found yourself already airborne when Scott’s voice crackled through your earpiece, the low hum of those three drones on your tail like the toll of death, the rapid beeping of target systems an accompaniment to the symphony. Tucking one of your wings in tight, you fell into a sharp stoop, panic rising in your chest as they followed you down. The hissing release of metal combined with the sudden roar of a rocket told you at least one of them had fired on you. You flared your wings, catching the air like a feathered parachute as you levelled out quickly, the missile shooting past you and into the ground below. The heat from the explosion fanned your face as you whipped around the wreckage of a building, those three drones still hot on your trail.

Logan looked up as you soared above, his claws drenched in blood as he yanked them out the helmet of some unfortunate soldier who’d made the mistake of thinking he could take on The Wolverine. His heart raced in his throat as those six dots wouldn’t stray from your body, drones expertly following your manoeuvres, mimicking every duck and dive, narrowly missing the corners of buildings and rising flames. Ororo’s voice crackled in his own earpiece, her tone frantic. 

“Icarus you gotta shake them!”

“NO SHIT!”

He almost winced at the panic in your voice, snapping back at Storm in a way he’d never heard you do before. Casting a quick glance to his surroundings, he saw Scott with his fingers braced on his glasses, beams of white-hot energy streaking the battlefield as he picked off one guard after another. 

“Scott!” He called, his legs pounding the ground as he ran over, slicing through the gut of a nameless, faceless soldier who stood in his way before he jogged to a stop. “Think you can get a clear shot?” He asked, his words rushed as his gaze returned to the skies, another explosion booming bright before you raced around the corner of the main building. 

“They’re moving too fast and it’s too much of a risk.” Scott called back over the din of battle, the crackle and boom of thunder overhead striking the earth with expert precision as Storm unleashed yet another bolt from the clouds above. A little too close to you for comfort. 

Logan’s breath caught in his throat as you levelled out, those tenacious six red dots still focused solely on your racing form, your wings beating and dipping with every expert manoeuvre as you once again swooped from sight. But it still wasn’t enough. 

“Lead the shot.”

“What?”

“Lead the damn shot, Scott. She’ll be comin’ back round, it’s a pattern. Just do it.” He almost pleaded, his voice cracking slightly. He knew you only had precious seconds before those missiles would fire again, and you couldn’t outrun them forever.

You crested back around the ruins of the facility, and it was only due to his enhanced sight could he see your confidence wavering, your jaw tense with concentration, though your eyes were blown wide with panic. 

The beep of the target systems increased rapidly, before blending into one long note. And it was like time came to a slow crawl. A puff of silver gas erupted from the base of the drone, a pinpoint missile dropping from the small hold to hone in on your location before Scott had a chance to take it out. 

Switching targets, Scott moved his head to the side slightly, leading the shot as Logan had said, the beam of pure, red and white hot energy shot from his glasses, quick as a blink. And for one, blissfully ignorant moment, Logan thought they’d succeeded.

But the missile was too close. The moment the pure energy collided with the steel casing, a ball of furnace orange flame and thick black smoke lit the sky. Before you had time to think, searing agony jolted your back, hellfire burning your shoulders and wings as you were thrust forward, losing control of your trajectory. Panic gripped your heart as you tried in vain to regain your altitude, but your wings weren’t responding. The stench of burning feathers and flesh singed your nose as you went down, caught up in the explosion between Scott’s beam and the missile. 

Wind roared in your ears, whipping your hair as you descended, flailing and spiralling, to the ground, trees and ruin rising to bring your fall, and your life, to a sharp end. 

“STORM!”

“ICARUS!”

Two indistinguishable voices exploded in your ears, deafening you over the din of death. You knew this was most likely it. This was most likely the end, but you felt numb peace as the wind kept you company, wrapping around you almost like a blanket as you braced your arms against your chest, pain splitting your body and mind as the open rooftop of a ruined house ripped through your suit and flesh as you struck the ground, knowing nothing more than darkness.

“No…” Logan whispered, his entire world coming to an abrupt halt as you descended past his line of vision, a cloud of black dust rolling from the wreckage of a home. You weren’t dead. You couldn’t be dead. He was moving before he’d even registered it, racing across blackened bodies and charred remains of structures. His throat tore with repeated cries of your name, pushing past collapsed beams and splinters of wood, shoving aside wrecked furniture and broken decor before he saw you.

Lifeless.

In a pool of your own blood. 

Your leg lay in an unnatural angle, your wings charred and broken, your wrist twisted in a way he knew it really shouldn’t be. His blood turned to ice in his veins, face blanching as he couldn’t see the rise and fall of your chest beneath the shrapnel and dust covering you. A jagged wooden spike protruded from the dip between your shoulder and your chest, the entry wound somewhere on your back.

He had to check if you were still alive, but he couldn't move, finding himself frozen in place. He couldn't lose you. Not when he was finally putting the foundations down for your relationship. He couldn't lose you now… 

But seeing your body broken like this… there was no way you could have survived that fall, even with Ororo’s help. She tried to slow your descent too late, a gust of wind appearing from nowhere to catch you just a second after she should have. Maybe you’d still be alive if she'd succeeded. Maybe you’d still be here if he hadn't asked Scott to shoot those fucking drones.

Maybe…

“Fuck! Icarus! Icarus can you hear me?” Storm rushed past him, followed by a horrified Cyclops, and if Logan could focus on anything other than your twisted limbs, he'd see the overwhelming sense of guilt on his face. 

Ororo pushes off the splinters of wood and debris from your body, her movements hurried yet careful, terrified of moving you too much. She placed two trembling fingers against the side of your neck and waited. 

And waited. 

And waited…

Logan thought the moment would never end, silence blanketing the ruined room as the three of them could do nothing but watch, Jean quietly placing a hand on Scott's shoulder. 

“There's a pulse!” Storm cried, a sob of relief erupting from her throat as Jean rushed forward, her hands ghosting the top of your body. 

You were alive. Alive. How the fuck had you survived that? There was no way you could have survived that. You fell from over two hundred feet, how the fuck–

“We need to stabilise her. She's lost a lot of blood and it hasn't stopped. Can you tell what the damage is?” Storm turned to Jean, hoping her telekinesis could find something, anything that would provide more information. 

“Broken ribs, her lung is punctured, I think she's bleeding internally and we can’t remove this or she’ll bleed out… I can't do shit out here, we need to get her back to the school. Now.” Jean's voice took on a tone of authority, spurring Scott back into action, but Logan was still paralysed. It was only two nights ago you were sound asleep on his chest, only yesterday he couldn’t stand being further than two feet from you. 

Logan…

You were alive, but how long for? Was he just given false hope, only to lose you on the way? On the operating table? How much longer did you have? How much longer did he have?

“Logan…”

He wanted to blame Scott. Fuck, he wished he could blame Scott. But the truth was, he asked him to take them out. He was the one who asked if he had a shot. He was the one who coerced him to take it. Would you have been okay? Would you have been able to shake them on your own? Had he single-handedly brought on your fall?

“LOGAN!”

Logan blinked rapidly, eyes burning from how long he was staring, unblinkingly, at your broken body. Numbly, he tore his gaze from you and over to Ororo, and though her brows were pinched in concern, her eyes were hard with determination. 

“I know, but if we wait any longer, we’ll lose her. Think you can clear Jean a path?” She glanced pointedly to the rubble somewhat blocking the doorway, and it took him another second before forcing his body to move, nodding wordlessly to Ororo’s orders. He wasn’t usually one to just mindlessly obey, but he wasn’t able to think straight at the moment and was honestly thankful for the others taking charge. 

He was strong at the best of times, but self-hatred fuelled his arms to work overtime, shoving away impossibly large beams and collapsed part of the wall before there was a clear path for Jean to levitate you through. Your smouldering wings dragged along the ground, tattered and torn, gathering dust and grime along the bloodied tips. Only now had could he get a glimpse of your back, the worst of the damage caking your shoulders and wing joints in blackened crimson. Feathers had burned away, leaving your mutation raw and weeping. You didn’t know what he was talking to Ororo about on the walk to the jet. You didn’t know he was asking her if you had a favourite food, or colour, or flower. You had no idea he’d planned to officially ask you out after the mission. 

Now you might never know.

Scott slowly approached him, looking as if he were in a state of complete shock, replaying what went wrong over and over again in his head. All it took was one glance, and Logan didn’t even need to see his eyes to know they were buried in remorse. He wanted to be furious at him, but he couldn’t. He wanted to be beside himself with desperate anger, but there was nothing to be angry at him for. This wasn’t Scott’s fault…

It was his. 

The ride back to the mansion took days and also five seconds, Jean doing her best to keep you stable whilst Ororo took the pilot’s seat, Scott being in no shape to fly anything. Logan found himself too terrified to touch you as if the slightest movement could worsen your condition. In the silence of the ship, he could hear your haunting, rasped breaths, slow and shallow. The stench of charred flesh and boiled blood made his stomach clench, but not as much as the wounds across your body. He forced himself to look at them. To look at what he’d done to you because of his choices. Forced himself to sear every weeping burn, every broken bone, every blood-soaked bandage into his memory. Your wings, which once held so much majesty and beauty, now lay in tatters, and he had no idea if they would grow back. Would you ever be able to fly again? Logan didn’t know if he’d be able to look himself in the mirror if he’d taken that from you too. 

“She’s going to be okay, Logan. She’s stabilised for now and the Professor already knows the situation. Hank’s on standby and Charles has called in a favour from a surgeon. She’ll be in the best hands possible when we get there.” Jean attempted to comfort him, all the while focussed on keeping you stable from any turbulence and making sure your wounds didn’t worsen. 

“I did this…” he whispered, uttering the first words since watching you fall. Speaking his thoughts into the thick silence, the rest of the team cast glances at each other, Scott running a hand through his hair.

“No… I should have trusted your judgment. I hesitated. Fired too late. You can’t blame yourself for this…” He hissed, dragging the hand from his hair down the side of his face. 

“You both did what you could,” Ororo offered from the cockpit, her eyes still focused on the clouds ahead. “If you hadn’t done anything, she’d be dead by now. Those drones weren’t going to give up and she couldn’t shake them. She’s still here because of what happened, not despite it.” 

Logan couldn’t find the self-compassion to believe her. His eyes still trained on the scattering of feathers beneath where Jean suspended you from the ground. He wearily raised his head when the redhead called his name, her features soft with understanding. 

“Come here,” she gesture him over with a nod of her head, her hands still hovering over your body. Logan hesitated before rising from his seat, to stand by your side, across from Jean. “Place two fingers against the side of her neck,” she instructed, and his breath hitched, eyes darting from your unconscious face to Jean. “You won’t hurt her, just do it.”

Inhaling sharply, Logan softly brushed your hair back from your neck, gently placing two fingers against your pulse point. There he felt the slight, slow thump of your heart still beating. The realisation was enough to bring him to his knees, not caring about the sharp bark of pain as he struck the steel floor. He knew you were alive. Ororo had said as much, but to actually feel you, to feel the evidence of you’re still beating heart, broke through the dam of self-hatred.

His hand cautiously skirted up your jaw to rest against the side of your cheek as he pressed his forehead into your hair, his breath shuddering with the effort to keep himself from falling apart. He didn’t care that he could taste blood and dirt when he softly kissed the side of your head. Didn’t care that now everyone knew how he felt about you. His thumb lightly caressed your cheekbone, smoothing the grimy skin beneath your eye. 

You hadn’t left him yet. You were still here. 

“She’s alive, Logan. And we’re gonna keep her that way,” the conviction in Jean’s eyes was almost enough to settle his heart, but he knew the twisting worry wouldn’t loosen until he saw you open your eyes, your wounds healing, your wings bright again.

Everything ached. Everything. You felt as if you’d been hit by a bus, only for the bus to reverse back over your body, and hit you again. Your wrist barked with sharp pain when you tried to shift, your eyes still closed against the bright lights behind your lids. Something tight was almost cutting off the circulation to your left leg, and inhaling too deeply caused your chest to convulse in agony. The steady beep of a heart rate monitor helped you count roughly how many seconds you’d been conscious. You tried to think back to what could have happened, only to find the last thing you remembered was stooping in a low dive with three drones tailing you. There was an explosion at your back and–

You were falling. 

You’d fallen.

So much for not living up to your name…

With a hissing wince, you cracked your eyes open, only to instantly screw them shut at the sharp burn of bright lights unfamiliar to your retinas. How long have you been out? How did the mission go? Was everybody okay? Was Logan okay? 

With renewed determination, you attempted to open your eyes again, gritting your teeth as you blinked through the burn of adjustment. You knew this ceiling. You knew this table. From your first ever visit to the school, you’d been taken care of in this very room. You groaned slightly, exhaustion already taking its

 toll on your weary bones. Any attempt to move yourself resulted in agony spiking up your spine, white-hot pain cresting through your shoulder blades. Panic gripped your heart as you attempted to move your wings, only to find resistance. Turning your head with a sharp gasp, your eyes welled up with new tears seeing your torn, tattered feathers bound in bandages, held suspended by a sling from the ceiling. They were still attached, so there was that, you supposed, but it had been a long, long time since you’d seen them in this condition. 

You glanced down the bed to find your leg wrapped in a cast, held aloft from the mattress. Your wrist too seemed to be encased in white. You turned your neck to the other side with the intention of gauging the damage to your other wing, before your eyes widened at who you saw, head bowed asleep, in the chair next to your bed. 

Despite yourself and your situation, you couldn’t stop your lips from pulling into a fond, soft smile as Logan snored lightly. He looked truly exhausted, his hair mussed from how many times he’d run his hands through it. You didn’t think it was possible to adore him any more than you already did, but here you were, finding your heart growing three sizes at the sight. 

The doors opposite you slid open, Jean striding through with a clipboard and a thin pair of glasses perched on her nose. She stopped dead when she looked up from her notes, almost dropping her pen to the floor when she registered the fact you were awake. Silently, you placed a finger to your lips, before pointing over to the exhausted Logan in the chair. She smiled with a fond nod, 

Keeping her footsteps light, she crossed the medical bay to take a look at the readings on the screen, before crouching down next to your bed, her eyes focusing on the bandages across the bend of your wing. 

“He hasn’t slept since we got back. Storm had to force him to eat something yesterday. And he hasn’t stepped foot outside this room.” Jean explained, keeping her voice to a low whisper.

“How long’ve I been here…?” you asked, unable to raise your voice louder than a low whisper. Your throat scratched with every word, and you hadn’t realised just how thirsty you were until now. 

“A week and three days. I’m going to slowly reintroduce food into your stomach before taking out the IV, okay?” 

You barely heard the rest of her sentence. A week and three days? That was a little longer than you were expecting, to be honest. 

“Wait… Logan hasn’t slept in over a week?” You managed to rasp a little louder, your chest lurching with concern. That wasn’t healthy for anyone, even someone who could regenerate as fast as he could. No wonder he was utterly spent. 

And it was as if your voice were like an alarm clock. One moment your hushed tones were accompanied by the soft snores of the man in the chair, the next his eyes shot open, your whispered name the first words on his lips. 

Turning your head back to him, your breath caught in your throat. There was a hurricane of emotions swirling in his hazel eyes. Relief, guilt, fear, joy, remorse. A cocktail of feelings clouded his eyes and you wished you had the energy to cup the side of his face and reassure him you were alright. 

Logan’s exhausted haze cleared instantly upon hearing your voice, seeing your eyes open for the first time since he watched you plummet to the ground, and it took a moment for him to realise he wasn’t dreaming. Because he had dreams of this. In the rare moments he physically couldn’t keep his eyes open, his mind would either take him back to your fall or fabricate the moment you woke up. But wherever his dreams took him, he would always wake up with the tight ache of guilt constricting his chest. His waking moments he would spend thinking about what he would say to you if you woke up, planning out a meticulously crafted apology, but everything he wanted to say instantly flew out the window upon actually seeing you awake. 

“Hi…” you whispered, voice still raspy from disuse. And it was your weary, worn smile that tore at the chains around his soul. He couldn’t respond, as if he were the one who’d been lying unconscious for the last two weeks. 

Jean, sensing the tension in the room, stood from her crouched position by your wing, clearing her throat a little before tucking the clipboard flat against the crook of her elbow. 

“I’ll be back in a bit to check up on you and bring you some food.” She murmured, but you barely acknowledged her exit, too fixated on Logan’s expression of disbelief. 

The doors closed as Jean took her leave, blanketing the two of you in a charged silence, the both of you waiting for the other to talk first. 

“Logan I–”

“I’m so sorry, it–”

So naturally, of course, you both spoke at the same time, before falling into another equally uncomfortable silence, once again stuck in the purgatory of waiting for the other. You held your tongue this time, nodding to him with the smallest movement of your head. 

“You’re okay…” he breathed, almost to himself, as if having to remind himself again that this wasn’t in fact a dream. You were awake. You were talking. You weren’t lying lifeless with only the steady beeping of medical equipment to keep him company. Your eyes were open, looking at him with something he was struggling to discern through his addled mind. 

“I’m okay,” you responded softly, watching his features morph from self-hatred to pure relief. He shifted in his seat, head hanging low between his shoulders as he took a shaky breath, and you could see the slight shudder of his shoulders.

“I–” he started, before cutting himself off with a sharp inhale, clamping his teeth together as he struggled to raise his head again. “I thought I lost you.”

Whilst it was nothing but the softest admission, you felt spiderwebs crack through your heart, wanting nothing more than to reach for him, if only your bones didn’t feel like lead. He continued to keep his head low, his hands wringing together between his knees. “It was ’my fault. I didn’t know what to do. You couldn’t shake em and they were closin’ in and Scott wasn’t fuckin’ listenin’ an’–”

“Logan,” you interrupted as loud as you could, your throat tearing at the sudden strain on your voice, causing you to wince slightly. Your hiss of discomfort finally prompted him to raise his head, half standing from his seat to instantly be by your side should you need anything. “I’m okay. Or, I will be. My wings’ve seen worse, and my body will heal with time. I’m okay.”

He searched your face for any sign of deception, any indication that you were just saying this to spare his feelings, or stop him from spiralling into the well of self-hatred once again. He knew it wasn’t the time to ask, but his mind subconsciously filed away that nugget of your past for a later conversation, too focused on the fact his search came up short of anything he was looking for. 

“You’re okay…” he repeated, settling back into the chair by your bed. His eyes fell to your twitching hand, and with a gentleness only reserved for you, his fingers intertwined with yours, bringing your knuckles to his lips. “You’re okay.”

Your heart skipped a beat or several, and you were mildly concerned about setting off the heart rate monitor your abdomen was connected to. You don’t think you’d ever had this many wires connected to your body in your life, not even when Charles first found you. Nobody knows what had happened that day apart from him, and you refused to speak of it. 

“What do you remember?” Logan asked, pressing the back of your hand against the scruff of his cheek, as if desperate to feel you. Your brows furrowed for a moment, your quick trip down trauma lane before you opened your eyes yielding nothing of much use.

“I remember the drones and the targeting dots. I remember one… fired, I think, and missed,” you struggled, screwing your eyes shut in a vain attempt to jog your own memory.  “Uh– then there were two more? One missed and the other exploded before it hit me, but I was caught up in the blast radius. I remember falling and I remember the pain, but that’s about it…” You opened your eyes to find Logan’s expression have shifted once again back to remorse. He really thought it was his fault… didn’t he? “I couldn’t get them off me, Lo’.” You offered quietly.

“I know.”

“I wouldn’t be here if Scott hadn’t fired.”

“I… I know.”

“Logan, you saved my life.”

He placed your hand back on the bed, and you instantly missed the warmth of his palm. “I almost got you killed. I almost lost you. We could have worked somethin’ else out. Storm could’ve–”

“And what if she couldn’t?” You prompted gently, your brows creasing with empathy as you watched him try to wade through the implications of your question. 

“That’s not– I almost–”

“Almost, Logan. Almost. But you didn’t. I’m here. So please stop acting like I’m dead because I might start believing you.” You tried to sound as stern as you could whilst being physically and emotionally drained, and whilst it may have sounded a little weak, Logan knew what you were trying to do. 

He ran a hand through his messy hair which was in desperate need of a wash. Although so were you, you could only imagine. “I didn’t want our last conversation to be an argument.” He murmured, and you sighed as heavily as you could whilst not being able to inhale very deeply. 

“So melodramatic,” you joked with a half-smile, and it took a moment of his eyes scanning your face before his shoulders slumped, huffing a singular laugh through crooked lips. 

“Maybe a little…” he looked up at you through lidded eyes. “Fear doesn’t come naturally t’me. But I don’t think I’ve been more scared than when I was watchin’ you fall, knowin’ I could do nothin’.” 

You finally mustered the strength to reach for him, and he clasped your outstretched hand between both of his like a prayer. You considered for a moment what you would have done had your roles been swapped. If you were so helpless to save him from almost certain death. If you were forced to watch in nearly slow motion as the object of your heart was being ripped away from you and you were powerless against it. Because this was something more than a crush, more than admiration. You loved him. It wasn’t a sudden lightbulb moment, but rather a slow realisation of admission. You loved him. Irrevocably. Possibly irresponsibly. But certainly undeniably. 

“You don’t have to be scared anymore. I’m not dead. I’m not going to die. It’s gonna take time, but I’m okay. And I’m going to be okay.” You implored, and you could almost watch the cogs turning in his head, working on believing you and realising the truth of the situation. 

You. Were. Alive.

He nodded silently, finally accepting what everyone had been trying to tell him for almost a week and a half now. His thumb grazed the tendons of your wrist, the delicate caress sending shivers down your scarred spine. 

“How’re you feeling?” He asked though he couldn’t help thinking it was the most stupid question in the world. 

“Like I just fell over two hundred feet after being blown up.” You responded dryly. Ask obvious questions, get obvious answers. 

Obviously. 

“That checks out.”

“Thank you, Doctor Wolverine.”

How you’d managed to almost die and yet maintain your humour was a mystery to Logan, but it simply added to all the reasons he was completely taken with you. You were easily one of the strongest people he knew, in spite of your own self-consciousness. The way you felt about your wings had already proven that. They were the greatest source of your diffidence, and yet you often said how incomplete you would feel without them. He saw how you battled, every day, between loving and hating them. Not many people did, but he did. 

Perhaps that was because, to him, you were the focal point of every conversation. The spotlight in the room. The brightest star in the sky. Not only did he see you, but he saw you. 

That was when he remembered your words from earlier. ‘My wings’ve seen worse…’   

“What did you mean?”

“When?”

“When you said your wings have been worse. What did you mean?” 

Logan knew he’d struck a nerve when your wry humour dissolved from your face, and he watched you withdraw back into your own mind, another silence creating a barrier between you. It was another mental battle. He could see it. And he could only hazard a guess that you were struggling between opening yourself up to whatever traumas you’d experienced in the past, or staying closed and comfortable. 

“This world is cruel and cold to people like us…” your voice was barely audible, and despite his enhanced hearing, Logan found himself shifting closer, drawn in by your siren’s whisper. “I was always jealous of people who could hide their mutation. Or mutations that didn’t take on a physical appearance, anyway. Because hiding something like phasing or shapeshifting is easy. Hiding a pair of giant fucking wings? Get’s a little harder when not everyone around you is very accepting…” you were being vague on purpose. Taking yourself back to the day Charles found you was never easy, and it was this exact reason why you kept this to yourself. Only he knew what happened, and Jean was the only other one who’d seen your condition. 

Logan fought the urge to run his fingers through your feathers, slightly worried it would hurt you more than it would soothe you, since most of your secondary feathers had been burned away or torn off, and the exposed ligaments had been covered in bandages. You took a breath before you continued. “The neighbourhood where I lived wasn’t exactly high-end, and less than welcoming to mutants. I used to listen to a lot of music when I left my apartment, it helped to drown out the insults and hatred but uh, it also prevented me from hearing anyone following me.

“It was stupid. I was tired and forgot to lock my fucking door before I fell asleep that night. Such an idiot. And I paid the price. I can’t really remember exactly when it happened, and it’s all sort of a blur to be honest. I never saw their faces either, and I only knew they were there when they shoved a gag between my teeth and held me down, jeering about me being a disgusting mutant, the usual bullshit…” you trailed off, your words sticking to your throat like molasses as you recounted possibly the most traumatic moment of your life. Narrowly holding the top spot after recent events. “They uh, tried to sever them. My wings. Used a carving knife or a paring knife, hell it could have been a butter knife for all I knew. But it hurt. And I couldn’t fight them off. I probably still have the scars. They were barely attached by the time they were startled by something and took off.”

Logan placed his hand against your cheek, gently smoothing away the stray tear sliding down the side of your face with the pad of his thumb. 

“That’s why you don’t sleep on your front?”

“That’s why I don’t sleep on my front,” You affirmed with a timid nod, and Logan felt his heart clench painfully. He always wondered where your intense passion for making the world a safer place came from. “At least,” you continued quietly. “Until you.”

His eyes widened a fraction, and it wasn’t hard to piece together what you meant. The night, two days before the mission. That was the first time you’d slept on your front since Charles and Jean found you all those years ago. That was why you mentioned it. That was why you were so adamant about it. 

Your vulnerability was taken advantage of and used to further the cycle of hatred and violence. 

“Sweetheart…” 

You couldn’t bear to hear the slight break in his voice, the horrified empathy creasing his brows. “So yeah. That’s what I meant. When I said they’ve been through worse. So actually, this really isn’t all that bad. They’ll recover. They did last time. Might be a while before I can fly again but I think I’m okay with that for a while, not sure I want to–” your rambling was cut short by the sudden decrease of proximity between the two of you. Was he always this close? Or had he shifted? Had you simply not noticed? Too lost in your second trip down trauma lane in the space of twenty minutes? You could feel his steady breaths fanning your cheeks.

“You’re safe. With me. An’ nothin’ like that will ever happen again. ‘M gonna look after you, angel. Promise.” His eyes flickered from your gaze, down to your lips, and back up in a silent request, and your body answered for you. Your eyes fluttered closed, heart igniting at the first graze of his soft lips against yours, the pain in your back forgotten as your skin prickled with shivers. 

The moment he felt you lean up into him as much as you could, Logan gasped through his nose, his fingers skirting up the side of your neck, pausing to feel your pulse before continuing to brace his palm against your jaw. He wanted to feel you, in any way he could and in any way you would let him, your lips dancing with his languidly. And through the salves and disinfectant, through the blood and the grease, the smoke clinging to your hair, he could just smell you. Amber and wood oak swirled through his senses, and he didn’t think it fair that you smelled like a fucking autumnal forest. 

You tried to push yourself up further toward him, a fresh wave of yearning hitting you like a fall from over two hundred feet, but your ribs barked in sharp protest, and you flinched back with a harsh hiss, your features scrunching in pain.

“Easy there, angel. ‘M not goin’ anywhere.” He breathed, and whilst you could detect genuine concern in his tone, there was also a hint of smug satisfaction.

“Sorry… got kinda carried away.” You clamped your lips together at his soft chuckle, finding immeasurable comfort in the way his thumb smoothed along your under-eye.”

“Been wantin’ to do that for a while…” He murmured against your lips, and you drew back as far as you could without jostling your back too much.

“Really? How long?”

“Round a year or so.”

You blanched. “A year!?”

“Give or take a few months,” he shrugged, unable to tame the delicious grin pulling at his lips. 

“And you didn’t think to do anything?” You asked incredulously, eyes flicking between his, unable to decide just where they wanted to settle. 

“Inappropriate in the workplace.” He shrugged nonchalantly, and your eyes widened further. 

“We live under the same roof! This isn’t just a workplace.”

“Potato pot-ah-to.”

“No! Potato potato. It’s the same thing!”

He raised a sly brow. “Didn’t see ya pull back, angel. How long’ve you wanted this then?”

You clamped your lips shut, your face a picture of false irritation as he turned your own accusations back onto you, a triumphant glint dancing in his eye. “Thought s’much.”

A huff brushed his chin, though you couldn’t tame your guilty smile for long. Yes, he was absolutely right. You’d wanted to do that for far longer than you cared to admit. And the phrase ‘good things come to those who wait’ couldn’t ring more true. Though you couldn’t help thinking they should change the phrase slightly. 

‘Good things come to those who nearly die’. Yeah, that sounded more accurate. 

Your head lulled against his hand, a tugging wave of exhaustion pulling at your mind, your eyes feeling heavy with sleep. It was strange. Usually, you found it so difficult to find rest, tossing and turning until you simply couldn’t take it anymore. But not in his presence. Not when Logan was with you. 

He hummed a soft, fond smile of understanding, pulling the chair closer to the bed so he could still be near you. Pressing his lips to your forehead, you sighed in contentment, your hand holding his arm in a soft grip, silently asking him not to go anywhere. But you didn’t need to. He had no plans on leaving you anytime soon. 

“Sleep, angel. ‘M here. You’re safe.”

[arcanefox207]

Sleepy Joel Miller - TLOU S1

I went B&W with this set because it was so damn dark and the colors I was just not feeling it. I like the moody vibe this gives anyways. You like this? Want more B&W or just normal? Maybe it can inspire for smut (and tag me if it does so I can read it!!)

🧡 Please use and enjoy my gifs as you please! Reblogs appreciated🧡 Gif requests are open!

G I F N O T I F I C A T I O N S | G I P H Y

Tagging my besties that tolerate my perpetual Joel Hole nonsense @magpiepills @for-a-longlongtime @legendary-pink-dot @exquisiteserotonin @pink-whiskey-woman

@youandmeand5bucks @redhotkitchen @sparklefarts38

[anachronistic-falsehood]

i am shaking and i am nauseous this fatigue is killing me and i am one hundred percent certain it is rapid kidney disease and i will have to go through a shit ton of treatments and shit and then surgery to get a new kidney this is going to be my life now i am sure and i am resigned to it but god i do not want it to happen

[mayajadewrites]

my type: shouta aizawa x dancer! reader

✦ synopsis: you're a dancer at a club that a certain erasure hero frequents every night after patrol. he's never talked to anyone before, until one night you decide to change that.

✦ content warnings: unprotected sex, creampie, strippers

✦ relationships: aizawa x fem!reader

ao3

Every night, at 2AM on the dot, Pro Hero Eraserhead lingers into the club. You started noticing about 2 months ago when he would come in, order a few beers, and just watch.

He never got dances, though many, many dancers have asked him if he would like one. Even for free.

You've kept your distance from the raven-haired man, his yellow goggles pushed up against his hair. He seemed like bad news, and you wanted no parts.

During your stage time, you noticed him in the crowd. He wasn't in his hero uniform though, so maybe it was his night off.

Why was he here on his night off?

He exuded mysteriousness.

Your outfit tonight was all black - a black bikini with a mesh long sleeve crop top over it. You wore black metallic shorts that gave little to the imagination, with platform black heels.

You took your normal walk around the club, saying hi to some of your regulars and chatting with your fellow dancers.

Eraserhead with sat at a loveseat, his legs spread in the cockiest way.

"Have you ever given him a dance?" You asked one of the dancers. "Eraserhead."

"No, but GOD do I want to." She turned to look at him, biting her bottom lip. "He's so sexy. But he just comes here to drink I guess."

"Why not go to a bar then?"

"Girl I don't know. Why don't you ask him." She gently pushed between your shoulders to his direction.

His eyes were already locked on you as he sipped his drink.

They never left you once he locked eyes with you.

"Well if it isn't my favorite Pro Hero." You sit down next to him in the loveseat.

"Hello." His voice was deep. Deep as fuck. Not what you were expecting from a man who has never said one word in here.

"You know, I've seen you around." You crossed your legs - your thick thighs on display. "None of the girls have danced for you, though."

"I don't want any of them." He turned his head to take a sip of his drink, which looked like whiskey.

"Why not? They're gorgeous and can dance really well."

"Not my type."

"So what is your type, Eraserhead?" You lean into his space more, giving him a nice view of your tits.

"I prefer thicker women." He eyed your body up and down. "Ones that wear all black." He set his cup down on the table in front of him. "Ones that have the fattest ass I've ever seen."

"I've been here every time you were, so why didn't you say anything? Or ask for a dance?"

"What's your name?"

"My name here Rogue."

"Well, Rogue, every time I've wanted to you're already with someone and then you leave since the club closes at 3. I get here at 2."

"Tonights your lucky night then, hm?" You drag your nails along his black pants, stopping at his thigh. "Is that why you came here on your night off? To see me, Eraser?"

"Call me Shouta."

"Shouta." You repeated, your heart racing. He smelled like a mixture of musk, vanilla and cedar wood. His scent filled your nostrils as you moved your body just an inch closer to him.

"How much for a dance?" He pulled his leather wallet out of his pants pocket, revealing crisp bills.

"A private dance is $300."

"Heres $600." Shouta handed you the bills. He leaned in, his lips just grazing your ear. You grabbed his hand and lead him to the private rooms, which have a loveseat, LED lights, and a coffee table.

His hand is large and veiny, but soft and gentle, contrary to his appearance. You gently push him down onto the loveseat, watching his legs spread as he fixes his pants, most likely due to his erection.

You place your hands on his thighs as you start to move with the beat of the song that's on. Shouta stares at you, swallowing your entire figure with his eyes. You turned around and bent over to shake your ass and thighs, his lips parted just enough for you to tell he was enjoying this. Really enjoying this.

You ran your hands up and down your curves, his eyes focused on your thick, plush thighs as you danced.

You turned around to face him once more as you settle yourself into his lap - straddling him.

Your arms drape over his shoulders as you grind your hips on top of him, your clothed core soaked. You wonder if he can feel it.

His hands remained on the sides of his legs as you danced on him, refusing to give you the satisfaction you so desperately want.

Shouta's raven hair was beautiful and you needed to have your fingers in it. You wanted to feel the strands of his hair intertwined with your fingers.

He's just staring at you as you move, waiting to see what you do next.

You're becoming impatient. And annoyed that he isn't giving you the validation that you're chasing from him. You're usually confident - after all, this is your job. But Shouta is different.

You place your dainty hands on his chest and you can feel his muscles through the fabric. God, what you would do to see what's underneath.

"Handsy are we?" Shouta finally spoke, his voice smooth like velvet.

"Eraser." You sighed as you hooked your ankles onto his leg.

"Shouta."

"Shouta," You pressed your palms into him. "I-I want,"

"Use your words." Shouta grabbed your chin with his thumb and index finger. "My quirk isn't mind reading."

Why was he making you so tongue-tied?

"I want you to touch me." You flipped your hair to one side as you spoke.

"Show me where." He put his hands up in front of you so you can grab them. "Put them where you want me to touch you."

You almost let out a whimper as you pull one hand to your the front of your neck, the other on your aching cunt.

Shouta's facial expression didn't change though. He still looked serious. Still barely looked like he wanted to be there. You moved his hands again, one to your breast and the other on your ass, to which he couldn't help but squeeze gently.

"Can I show you were I want to touch you?" Shouta leaned into your ear, his breath dancing on your skin. You nod, eager to feel him touch you at his own accord.

He mimicked where you placed his hands, but dragged his hands from your ass to your thighs. This man is definitely obsessed with thighs and would do anything to get in between yours.

"Let's get out of here." You leaned into him, your lips almost touching.

"Meet me in the parking lot."

-

You walked out into the cold night air, scanning the parking lot to find Shouta. You're wearing an oversized black hoodie with black biker shorts and slides.

You spot him leaning against his car with his arms crossed, looking sexy as fuck.

"You might look more gorgeous like that." He opened the passenger door for you before speeding off to your destination.

He wasted absolutely no time grabbing you once you were in his space. His apartment is clean and dark when his hands found your waist, pulling you into a frenzied kiss.

His lips felt hot on yours as his hands snuck under your hoodie, pressing his cold hands onto your soft stomach. "You're so beautiful, you know that?" He whispered against your lips as his moves his hands up to your tits. "I've thought about you for 2 months. Every. Day."

"Now you wanna talk?" You smirk as you bury your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer to you. "You were so quiet at the club."

"There was only one person I wanted to talk to." He growled as his lips attached to your neck. You threw your head back as he found your sensitive spot, kissing and sucking on your skin.

He then moved back to your lips, his large hand wrapping around your neck gently. You felt his fingertips slightly squeeze as he kissed you so sensually that you thought you were going to come right then and there.

Your pussy ached for his touch. A whimper escaped your throat as he kissed you, unable to say more than two words.

"Bed, please."

"You're so needy." Shouta pulled away from you and grabbed your hand. He pulled you into his room and practically threw you on the bed. He pulled his shirt over his head, revealing his chiseled physique. He's fucking beautiful.

You laid on your back as he crawled over you, his lips finding yours again. You let your hands explore his body - fingertips over each and every muscle. He pulled his hair into a bun as he kissed you, making sure nothing was in his way. Not a hair could ruin this sight.

"Off." He pulled on the hem of your hoodie. You obeyed, pulling the fabric over your head and revealing your lacy bra.

He dipped his head down to your chest, kissing your skin gently. His lips felt even hotter on your skin now.

"Shouta, please."

"What did I tell you about using your words?"

"I want you inside of me. Right now." You whine as you wrap your arms around his neck. "I can't wait anymore."

Shouta was silent as he dipped his hand inside your shirts, his middle finger finding your soaked cunt. He smirked as he pulled the finger out, staring at the almost glittering arousal on his fingertip.

"So wet for me already." He pushed the finger into his mouth, tasting you. "You want me right now, pretty girl?"

You nod as you kick your shorts and thong off. You help him with his belt and other barriers to his cock. Your fingertips danced on the elastic of his boxer briefs when you felt his hard cock through the fabric. Fuck, he's big.

"Go ahead." He watched you as you pulled his underwear down, his cock slapping against his abdomen. Your eyes grew wide at his size, but you're also nervous about him fitting inside of you.

You spread your legs, watching Shouta line himself with your soaking cunt. You feel his fat tip graze your slits, a moan leaving your mouth.

"Shh, my neighbors will hear." He smirked as he slowly pushed his tip inside of you. "Wouldn't want them to think I have some loud, inconsiderate brat in here." His muscular arms caged you in as he kissed your lips to ease his cock sliding inside of you.

"F-Fuck." You moan as you feel the entirety of Shouta Aizawa. Even though you're soaked, it's still work to get him all the way inside of you. "Shouta, you're so big."

"I know, baby." He pressed his hand to the back of your head, pushing you up to kiss him. "You're taking me so well."

Your eyes roll back as he gains his rhythm, his thrusts slow and deliberate. "That's right, pretty girl. Take my fat cock." He pushed himself inside you until the hilt, his balls hitting your ass.

Your gummy walls swallowed him once you got used to his size, clenching against his cock. In a frenzied kiss, your lips attached to his as he buried his cock into you.

The room filled with the lewd noises of your bodies and sinful moans. You could listen to Shouta moan all day.

"Rogue." He moaned, caressing your cheek.

You told him your name. Your real name.

"Don't call me Rogue ever again." You kiss his lips again, slipping your tongue inside. His pace quickened as he kissed you and you could feel yourself getting close.

Shouta must've felt your cunt clenching him because his large, calloused hand dipped to your clit, rubbing circles gently.

"Shouta, fuck!" You moan loading as he massaged your sensitive nub.

"Be quiet." He used his other hand to cover your mouth as he rubbed your clit and thrusted into you. "I don't need a noise complaint."

He kept his hand on your mouth as you began to lose control of your body. You closed your eyes as you swear you saw stars, the taste of Shouta's skin on your lips as he pushed his hand against your mouth.

"Mmm." You moaned, dragging your fingernails down his back. His strokes started to become sporadic, so he took his hand off your lips. You were coming down from your high as he was just approaching his.

"Fuck, baby, this pussy was made for me. You know that?" His breath was labored. "I could fuck you every day and never want another pussy. I'm gonna get you out of the club and take care of you." He pushed himself inside you once more, layering your gummy walls with his seed.

You both had to catch your breath from the life altering orgasms you just had. Shouta's skin was shiny from the sweat, some face framing pieces of his hair that fell out of his bun are sticking to his face. You pushed them behind his ear gently, kissing his lips.

"You're gonna take care of me, Shouta?" You smile as he kisses you back.

"Mm, yes." He pulls his cock out of you. You whimper from the loss of contact, not ready to be without him inside of you. "You'll make a pretty little housewife."

[reallyromealone]

Okay. So I know you said I can request more Hazbin Hotel content, but I have multiple ideas! Like maybe Angel Dusts little brother comes to visit, and everyone sees how protective Angel is of him. Especially since he appears to be on the more innocent side. But the reason for his visit is because he's recently engaged to oue favorite duck man maybe? (Cue to literally everyone freaking out over the announcement. Especially Charlie and Angel)

Title: weddings

Fandom: Hazbin hotel

Characters: hazbin hotel ensemble

Fic type: story

Pairings: Lucifer x reader

Warnings: male reader, reader insert, fluff

Notes:

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

Angel was confused when he saw his brother walk in, dressed in soft and cute clothes "dusty?" (Name) Called out as the tall spider demon practically rushed towards (name) "what're you doing here?" He fretted over his brother, he always worried over him as he was a little ditzy "you haven't been hanging around shady people have you?"

The others looked confused as angel checked over his brother who smiled at him sweetly "no! I'm actually here to invite you to my wedding!" (Name) Beamed as angel looked startled "who?!" Who tricked his sweet brother who didn't even deserve to be in hell! (Name) Swooned slightly at the thought of his fiance "oh he's really nice! We have lots in common!" (Name) Said dreamily "he's also super strong! He's gonna be here soon! He Knows someone here!"

What?

Now he was real confused.

"Baby!" (Name) Squealed as... Holy shit.

"Dad?!" Charlie was incredulous as she saw her father get hugged by Angel dusts brother, the taller spider demon cuddling the king of hell "dusty! This is him! Luci this is my brother!" (Name) Introduced happily as Lucifer connected the dots, Charlie met (name) a few times and was happy her dad found love again but how she didn't connect the spider demon to be angels brother.

Charlie and angel were shocked to say the least as they were both technically related now as (name) and Lucifer sat on the couch, Lucifer letting (name) cuddle him "we met when I was singing at the club! He gave me the cutest little duck! And we hit it off ever since!" He gushed as everyone processed that Angel was now technically royalty by association.

"I'm glad you're happy, bro" angel said softly as (name) beamed, the white spider thankful (name) could be kept as safe as possible.

When the two left Charlie and angel looked at each other and just processed the ordeal.

"Huh, never thought I would see the day they both were quiet" husk said teasingly as he poured them each a glass of whiskey.

[unholyhelbig]

Oversight one shot request - Nat and reader dealing with the aftermath of an argument that got heated, nat realising she was wrong which is rare for her and having to try and make it up to reader

Title: The Sword and the Stone [An Oversight Oneshot]

Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanoff

Summary: Reader and Natasha get into a heated argument when Reader starts to doubt her true purpose in Natasha's life.

Warnings(PLEASE READ): angst, threats of drowning, light threats, implied sex, horrible grammar- I don't proof read.

[a/n: yeah, I really don't know what this is. Life has been so hectic lately and I'm so exhausted. Someone put me out of my misery and make sure I never have to go back to South Carolina ever again.]

Check out the full Oversight universe

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven

The black wax seal on the three-hundred-dollar bottle of whiskey had left a filmy residue against the mouth of the glass. It gave the warm drink an oaky edge that helped you swallow it down. The first sip had burned through your nostrils and down your throat until it lit a fire in your belly. The second seemed to extinguish the first.

You’d kept drinking until there was a pleasant buzz across your skin. You’d rolled your pantlegs up to the middle of your calves until the fabric was constricting and swished your legs around in the dark water of the pool. The scent of chlorine mixed dangerously with the bergamot undertones of the alcohol.

The moon was full and gave you a full encompassed view of the backyard and the edge of the lake lapping at the rocky shores. If you squinted, you could see the dots of red and green as buoys molded to the tides. Fishing boats navigated their way to the docks, their rumbling alerts shaking your chest.

You lifted the crystal glass to your lips and took a deeper gulp. It was warm and unpleasant but eventually ebbed to a cynical type of comfort. You placed the glass to the side and worked your fingers numbly through your hair. They ached incessantly. Your body wasn’t built for this anymore.

There was a soreness to your jaw and the underlying taste of metal that coated your throat. Before you’d walked into your shared home, the redness had started to grow a nasty, ugly purple. I’d certainly be swollen in the morning, even if you had pressed a bag of frozen peas to it.

It was a cycle. A vicious one that you’d endured for the past ten years. You were a blade in Natasha Romanoff’s toolkit. To the city, you were a composed and elegant viper; deadly when you bit but often found wrapping yourself around the arm of Eve. The crowd parted for you. Politicians groveled and clients smiled uneasily, in a scared sort of kindness.

With a groan, you laid yourself back on the patio stones and stared up at the stars. They pockmarked the sky in constellations that threatened to spin until they turned to lines of warbled light. You’d had too much to drink, and too little to eat. You’d lay here until the light in your bedroom flicked off and you could sneak in smelling of booze.

Of course, you heard your wife approaching.

When you’d first met Natasha Romanoff, you were enveloped in eternal darkness, beaten within an inch of your life. The sound of her footfalls in heels beat against your eardrums and had caused you to jerk your head up with dizzying quickness.

Now, you could pick up noise of her bare feet padding delicately against dew-soaked grass and then leaving uneven prints against the stonework. Her scent was inky and doused in sandalwood. Something that typically brought you a wave of comfort served as a catalyst for nausea.

“If you’re going to get drunk on a Tuesday night, darling, maybe an expensive bottle of whisky is not the right avenue.”

“Mm,”

The hum tickled your throat. Natasha had lowered herself to the edge of the pool next to you, delicately dipping her feet into the warm water. Her perfectly manicured fingers pressed cooly against your forehead before carding through your hair. You sighed contentedly and leaned into her touch before you registered that you were supposed to be mad at her.

“It works all the same. I’ll replace it.”

“No need. It was a thoughtless gift from Leland Owlsley after he behaved like a prick. It’s been aging for nearly a decade now.”

You made a noise that was akin to a whimper. Maybe you had underestimated the strength of the drink. Not that you would ever admit that to Natasha. You became malleable when you were drunk, and who better to work forgiveness out of you than your wife?

You draped your arm over your eyes, slurring out “Do you know the legend of Excalibur?”

Natasha scoffed, and when she didn’t give you a verbal answer, you peaked over your arm, finally getting a look at her. She was in nothing but her silk robe, the emerald green a sharp contrast to her pale expanse of skin. It had been years, and she still rendered you speechless.

She relented and shook her head, full attention trained on you. Often, you would dive into the books that lined the walls in Natasha’s study. They were leather-bound and filled with different mythos that she hadn’t read herself.

Sometimes, you would regale her with the stories of fantastical worlds that stuck with you. Of dragons that heaved heavy helpings of fire, and sea serpents that brushed their gills along the ridged edges of boats. Natasha would curl into your side, her ear pressed against your bare chest as your words lulled her into sleep.

“The blade was said to be forged with the blood of seven dragons. Each one breathed a green fire that was hotter than brimstone, and stronger than the very core of the earth. The blade, it wasn’t meant for just anyone. It may be mighty, but it’s nothing without a guiding hand.”

You hilted yourself up until you were resting all of your weight on your elbows, the rocky patio digging into your bones and stinging enough to keep you focused. Natasha had turned her head, resting her cheek on her knees and blinking slowly at you.

“For centuries, the blade was wedged in stone. Though many men tried and tried again to dislodge it, the sword would only budge for someone who was worthy, and that was Arthur Pendragon. The two worked together for decades, warding off evil, and protecting a kingdom that eventually, they came to rule.

“Arthur was considered the greatest king in Avalon’s history and served until he became too old to do so. Excalibur was not meant to be wielded by another, nor buried beneath the earth with it’s master. So, Arthur set off on his longest journey yet.”

Natasha swallowed hard. Her fingers twitched, eyes glowing under the pale light of the moon. She looked ethereal, and the snake in the pit of your stomach coiled tighter with want. You were meant to be upset with her, but the tenderness in her posture gave away her vulnerability.

“He used the last of his strength to travel across the kingdom, through vast forests, dark caverns, and steep cliffs until he crawled his way to the edge of the lake of youth. Now, stories start to differ here. But, in each, Arthur returns to sword to the ladies of the lake, determined to protect his old friend. The only one that’s ever stuck by him.

“Some say Arthur took the hand of a young siren and allowed himself to be led into the cold water. Others proclaim that he disintegrated into dust when the hilt of the sword left his hand. Either way, he was never seen again, and neither was the Excalibur.”

Some of the warmth from the whiskey was wearing off and a chill had settled against your bones. Your fingers itched to pour more of the dark buttery liquid into the glass. Natasha had moved them from your grasp with all the subtly of a god.

So, in turn, you focused on the glassy look in her eyes and willed yourself to sit up, swallowing the oaky taste in your mouth. The world spun around twice before stabilizing on the done light at the edge of the pool.

You felt a lump form in your throat, outweighing the heated effects of the alcohol. You made it a habit not to cry in front of your wife, and she rarely ever gave you a reason to. But the tensions had been swirling wickedly for months now.

“Nat,” you whispered, “sometimes I feel like I’m just your sword.”

The argument had broken out on the way home from the city. The night was a certain type of darkness that allowed the milk-white stars to shine through. It was balmy and the air conditioner whirred enough to curb the dampening interior.

You knew it was stupid to let a small thorn in your side rip and tear at your flesh until a gaping hole was left in it’s place. Your knuckles were throbbing, and a pack of peas were pressed against your jaw where a hit had landed.

You’d stepped in front of Natasha and grabbed the handle of a steak-knife and aimed it towards the ground. Your wife hadn’t even blinked, and you had no doubt that she would have misdirected the attack from the charge herself.

It was easy to strike fear into the dishwasher that reached towards whatever he could find in an act of defense. You grasped what little hair he had on the back of his head and held him under the soapy water, letting the sanitizer cling to your lungs with it’s citrus edge.

You’d gotten the money like the good loan shark you were and Natasha had pressed her fingers to the small of your back in acknowledgement before swaying off the car. You’d exited through the back, dripping with bubbles.

There were times when the weight of being Natasha Romanoff’s wife weighted you down like a pile of bricks. She was a good partner within the walls of the house. She’d pull you against her front and lean her head against your shoulder, her cold fingers wandering under the fabric of your shirt.

There were expensive bottles of wine, and perfect cuts of meat. Quiet nights where you were tangled under the covers, whispering soft nothings. Louder nights where your back was arched and stars danced across your vision.

All of this changed when you moved past the threshold of your cultivated life. You’d married Natasha knowing good and well that her family, your family, was going to be dysfunctional. The ledger for the Romanoff’s dripped a cherry red.

You were meant to be her sword, her Excalibur. You stood a few inches behind her, arms tucked behind your back and stare cold with disinterest. Though, you paid apt attention to each movement her company made.  

Years before, you had been nothing but a waitress with a high pain tolerance. You’d let Natasha mold you into the weapon that you were, and most of the time, you were content with this arrangement.

The scent of bergamot tickled your throat as she moved closer with disquieting patience. She’d withdrawn her feet from the pool and straddled your center. Her weight was familiar, but the tenderness in her stare was often hidden by her walled disposition.

You grunted, staring up at the sharp curve of her jaw and the slight flush against her cheeks. She’d been in the sun today, freckles giving her away. Her nimble fingers brushed a strand of hair behind your ear and played with the gold charm in the center of your necklace.

“Darling, you know the problem with that legend?” You shook your head, hands going to the familiar place on her hips. “The Excalibur was crafted long before Arthur was around to wield it. The fates saw him fit because of the amount of care, and love he had for the sword.”

A sigh escaped you, “I thought you didn’t know the legend.”

“Oh, everyone knows the legend.” She danced her fingers against your collarbone, your body betrayed you with goosebumps and a suppressed shiver down your spine. “But I will be the first to admit that I’ve been unfair to you.”

You blinked up at her in shock, stilling your movements. Natasha Romanoff was as stubborn as they came and never admitted to being wrong. There were moments where she tentatively agreed to a different course of action, or quietly concluded that Clint would take the lead during situations that required a softer touch.

“While I am in constant awe of your ruthlessness, I am well aware that the woman I married has a soft touch. You were a waitress bringing in tips with your dazzling smile, after-all.” Her fingers were brushing dangerously close to the hem of your pants. You felt your muscles contract under her. “I apologize, moya lyubov', for making you feel as if you are nothing but a weapon. To me, you are so much more. To me, you are everything.”

Her words became whispered against your jaw in the slightest of warmth. Your pulse thudded against your throat and her tongue pressed close to the rhythm. You groaned softly and arched upwards. Your entire body was flushed with arousal.

A salacious moan escaped her. “Do you forgive me, malyshka?”

“Mm, you’re playing dirty, Nat.”

God- you’d forgiven her even before she had uttered the words of apology. Now that her perfectly curved fingers were pushing past the waistband of your pants, you were ready to rush out whatever she wanted to hear.

“Perhaps. I mean what I say, the mere thought of you being unhappy shatters me.”

Her lips were everywhere, plush as she kissed against the corner of your lip, breathing out apologies between each nip. Natasha trailed down your jawline, your pulse-point and the curves of your chest. Her breath was molten as if fanned against your skin.

Suddenly serious, she pulled back, bracing her hands on your shoulders. She held you down with little effort, strength pulsing through her exposed muscles. You swallowed the dryness in your throat and let out a shuttered whine.

“It was never my intention to make you feel inadequate. You may be deadly, molded under my hand to protect this family with everything you have, but first and foremost, you are my wife. We’ll make sure everyone knows it. But first, I need to hear you say it.”

“Say it?” You felt the pressure build in your chest, her palms digging into your collarbone. It was a satisfying sting that made you writhe under her heavy hand, you narrowed your eyes. “Really? Right now?”

Natasha flushed, pulling herself into a sitting position. “Not that, y/n. Don’t start something you don’t intend to finish.”

“Oh, you mean forgiveness. Kinky.”

“krasivo, pozhaluysta”

She wouldn’t dare beg in anything less than her native tongue. Natasha’s voice was gravelly, her eyes boring into yours with a desperation that usually was reserved for silk sheets and hazy mornings. You hated seeing her like this, clawing for affection that she so rarely asked for. Your heart seized, and you maneuvered yourself until you were in a sitting position, holding her flush against you.

Natasha tucked her nose against the small of your neck and nothing short of nuzzled you. Her disposition had crumbled and her fingers wicked into the fabric of your shirt. You held her close and listened to her breathing as it mingled with the shift of water.

There were moments, few and far between, when the calls got too close, where she would do this. Just sit and embrace the sound of your heartbeat. She kept her ear against your chest and counted the minutes. You carded your fingers through her hair and embraced her amenability.

You lifted her chin until her eyes met yours, reflecting the sweeping of the chlorine saturated pool. Her bottom lip was jutted out in an almost pout. You resisted the urge to kiss the expression off her face.

“I forgive you, Natty.” You whispered against her lips, “I’ll be your Excalibur.”

Natasha scoffed and closed the minute distance between you both. The kiss was soft, her lips tasting of the lingering liquor on your own. Her arms encircled your neck, tongue begging for entrance. You felt a frown on her features, she suddenly pulled back.

“Are you insinuating that you’d rather be with a lady of the lake?”

“Nat,” You groaned, dropping your head.

“No, no, I can totally take you to the wharf if you want the other woman.”

“There is no other woman, it was a metaphor.”

“You could have chosen a metaphor without a siren, and you know it.”

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