#Pit River Falls

[rabbitcruiser]

Pit River Falls, CA (No. 1)

The Pit River is a major river draining from northeastern California into the state's Central Valley. The Pit, the Klamath and the Columbia are the only three rivers in the U.S. that cross the Cascade Range.

The longest tributary of the Sacramento River, it contributes as much as eighty percent of their combined water volume into the Shasta Lake reservoir; the junction of their Shasta Lake arms is 4 miles (6.4 km) northeast of Shasta Dam. The main stem of the Pit River is 207 miles (333 km) long, and some water in the system flows 265 miles (426 km) to the Sacramento River measuring from the Pit River's longest source.

The Pit River drains a sparsely populated volcanic highlands area in Modoc County's Warner Mountains, passing through the south end of the Cascade Range in a deep canyon northeast of Redding. The river is so named because of the semi-subterranean permanent winter homes and large 'sweat houses' that the Pit River Tribe dug, and their pit traps for game that came to water at the river.

The river is a popular destination for fishing, fly fishing, and rafting in its lower reaches, and is used to generate hydroelectricity in the powerhouses below Fall River Mills where the Pit and Fall rivers join, and at Shasta Dam. It is also used extensively for irrigation and conservation purposes.

Source: Wikipedia

[robnikmeria]

Something so fun about nik is how frighteningly protective he is. Especially when he reunited with Robb / Nym post red wedding. Someone says something he perceives as an insult to them and that person is on their back with his boot pressing down onto their throat until Robb tells him to back down…

[u-friend-or-ufo]

The Bay City Rollers should have done one of those terrifying PSA back in the 70's...Boy oh boy they are sure...something...

[planet4546b]

i dont have any art ideas so im just gonna type up a post about my iterators cause ive been thinking about them.....elo has the iterator version of not having telomeres and knows that he likely is unable to die, his superstructure grounds have been constantly growing (hes like a lobster) through a mix of mysterious means and purposed organisms that are sorta building uselessly but most of those areas are completely nonfunctional. theyre starting to creep towards rivers but i havent decided what river's deal is in the present day. glass went offline a few cycles ago but no one really knows what happened to her and she burned bridges with elo, rivers, and iggy before this so none of them are really trying to figure out what happened to her (fish is the only one who cares, they were the closest but they don't have the resources to do anything about it).

iggy was an extremely recent, 'experimental' model that had a ton of novel systems, and after xyr near-complete shutdown, fish started building a ton of connections straight into xyr experimental power systems to prolong their own life (iggy's can is literally collapsed on top of fish's after long term damage from the seismic event that dropped fish into the pit, theyre in physical contact which is both Extremely unlikely and, in this case, convienent). iggy's 'death' may or may not have been from natural causes and may or may not have been as a result of a scheme between wtg and fish (wtg had a specialty in purposing organisms, which surely has nothing to do with all that!). so elo and fish are the only two left alive and they hate each other the most !

[ierotits]

once again I have a bruised ass cheek :(

[veunho]

Friendly reminder that Minecraft animals, cows especially, have a really complex soul... that yearns for death. so if you ever think that leaving them unattended for five minutes on a cliff will be fine, THINK AGAIN

[ireadvintage]

🍒 An Excerpt from Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin 🍒

"Giovanni had awakened an itch, had released a gnaw in me. I realized it one afternoon, when I was taking him to work via the Boulevard Montparnasse. We had bought a kilo of cherries and we were eating them as we walked along. We were both insufferably childish and high-spirited that afternoon and the spectacle we presented, two grown men jostling each other on the wide sidewalk and aiming the cherry pits, as though they were spitballs, into each other's faces, must have been outrageous. And I realized that such childishness was fantastic at my age and the happiness out of which it sprang yet more so; for that moment I really loved Giovanni, who had never seemed more beautiful than he was that afternoon. And, watching his face, I realized that it meant much to me that I could make his face so bright, I saw that I might be willing to give a great deal not to lose that power. And I felt myself flow toward him, as a river rushes when the ice breaks up. Yet, at that very moment, there passed between us on the pavement another boy, a stranger, and I invested him at once with Giovanni's beauty and what I felt for Giovanni I also felt for him. Giovanni saw this and saw my face and it made him laugh the more. I blushed and he kept laughing and then the boulevard, the light, the sound of his laughter turned into a scene from a nightmare. I kept looking at the trees, the light falling through the leaves. I felt sorrow and shame and panic and great bitterness. At the same time—it was part of my turmoil and also outside it—I felt the muscles in my neck tighten with the effort I was making not to turn my head and watch that boy diminish down the bright avenue. The beast which Giovanni had awakened in me would never go to sleep again; but one day I would not be with Giovanni anymore. And would I then, like all the others, find myself turning and following all kinds of boys down God knows what dark avenues, into what dark places? With this fearful intimation there opened in me a hatred for Giovanni which was as powerful as my love and which was nourished by the same roots." Scene art of Giovanni and David walking the Boulevard du Montparnasse created by the talented @emilypaik​. Commissioned for Tumblr by Vintage Books in celebration of the James Baldwin Centenary.

[moonlight-prose]

nameless as a river undiscovered underground

a/n: i really wish october could last longer than a few weeks, because i simply want to keep writing spooky stories and logan fics. i keep posting them late, but i'm doing them last minute (bad i know). this one is more a drabble than a fic, but i loved the idea of logan and his leather jacket. especially the thought of him loving you wearing it.

logan promptober: day eighteen - leather jacket

summary: his leather jacket remained a tie between your love and his. the weight of it, the smell of your intertwined scents, all revolved around a relationship he never thought would happen.

word count: 1.2k+

pairing: logan howlett x f!reader

warnings: EXPLICIT SO MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY!!, p in v sex, reverence, love, fluff, the soft vibes of logan being in love.

You were clad in his leather jacket—swallowed by the heaviness of it—the first time he kissed you. In the rain a mile out from the mansion, beside a broken down car and cell phones that wouldn't work. He'd never seen true beauty until you smiled at him. Drenched to the bone, laughing, and luminant in the dark of a night gone wrong.

At one point in the past, he swore to himself he was safer never falling down that unknown pit. That heart devouring thing that made his insides twist and heart turn inside out. It terrified him. Knowing he could one day lose it all in the blink of an eye—become a shell of himself without the presence of another. Solitude kept him safe, kept him from causing destruction to innocent people hell bent on showing him love.

But then he kissed you.

Mid laughter, with eyes still alight in that angelic glow, Logan Howlett put his heart on the line and pressed his lips to yours. The rain pelted your faces in a cold icy wave of brutal weather. Yet neither of you cared. You dug your hands into his hair matted down with too much water and dragged him close enough to give life to that ache in his chest.

You kissed him without conviction. Instead putting your faith—your entire being—on the steady beat of your heart that echoed loudly in his head. The heat of your mouth, the wet slide of your tongue, killed him on the spot. He was a dead man walking—a corpse without a soul.

All because you decided to steal it away with a grin before kissing him once again.

The leather jacket became a comfort in your relationship with a man who ran hotter than a radiator. He didn't need the heavy weight of it, but he liked it. The color, the detailing, the story encased in the frayed thread that lined the insides.

You still remember discovering the small polaroid kept in the inside pocket, tucked away from sight yet pressed to his heart. It was you. Dressed up for the very first time. Storm took the photo on a whim, Logan stole it from her study two days later. You'd later ask him about the messy heart drawn on the bottom white strip—a scribble of the word sweetheart placed underneath.

He turned fifty shades of crimson the second you brought it up, but the photo still remained in place. Stuck to his body whenever he wore his jacket—a familiar piece of his heart whenever you wore it instead.

Tradition was embedded in the stolen item of clothing. The way he draped it over your shoulders on nights out, the times he spent bundling you up when you conveniently forgot your own sweater in his bedroom. You'd burrow your face in the collar, breathing in the musk of his cigars. He'd drop his head against his shoulder at the fragrant scent of your perfume still stuck to the lining.

Each of you placed your mark on the fabric, intent on leaving small reminders of who wore it last. But his favorite memory still remained in the pocket that still held a little rip on the outer edge—the time he clawed at it to grasp you close until the audible echo of destruction turned pain into laughter.

"You're gonna be the fuckin' death of me," he grunted, fingers sharply pressed into the bare skin of your hips.

You smiled, half lidded eyes glazed over in a cloud of darkened lust. "I thought the Wolverine couldn't be killed."

"That wasn't for you to test."

"Can't say you don't like me like this baby," you sighed, leaning back against the kitchen table placed in your very own house.

A home shared with him.

The cracked groan brought satisfaction right to the top of your chest—love beating its own drum in the depths of your body. Logan came home early to a welcome surprise of you in his jacket...and nothing else on. The plan was to get dinner, go walk the city to find a bit of romance tucked away in the corners of cafes and the lowlights of bars.

Neither of you made it to the car.

"It'll smell like you," he gasped, dragging his cock through your dripping cunt. The head nudging against your clit with each stroke. "I'll smell like you."

"Logan–" You clawed at his shoulders, lifting your hips in the hopes of enticing him to move. To put you out of your misery and slide home.

"It'll drive me crazy." A messy kiss overflowing with the love you felt flicker to life in your chest was pressed to your lips. Messy and needy and filled with the soft moan of his gravelly voice.

You sucked his tongue into your mouth, grinning at the brittle sound that cracked at the base of his throat. "Now you know how I feel."

Sinking into you felt like home. The hot slick grip of your walls clamping down around his cock broke something in the back of his mind. A wire that connected common sense with intellect. He watched it unravel before his very eyes—your lips coated in his spit curling into a grin. A smile that left him breathless and begging for more.

You were rapturous. The embodiment of what he believed hope looked like; the light at the end of his cracked and unstable road.

"So fuckin' pretty," he muttered, his eyes flickering between where he thrusted into you and your breasts covered by his jacket. "Should dress like this all the damn time."

"I'd get cold," you laughed, slinging an arm around his neck.

"You got me to keep you warm."

A harsh thrust sent you higher up on the table, pulling free a high pitched moan that sunk into his skin with a warmth that bloomed towards his chest. He wanted to pour out each emotion and watch you drink it down like the ichor of the gods. The life he led before suddenly felt as if there was a purpose to all the suffering he endured—all the pain that still lingered in phantom wounds long since healed.

You were the purpose he sought.

The person he was always meant to find.

He'd do it all over again if given the choice as long as you were there waiting for him—holding out a hand to bring him home.

You came with a garbled shout of his name, your walls sucking his cock back into you to keep him close. Each stunted thrust lit a fire in his body, his hands gripping any bare part of you he could reach as you fell back against the table. Your eyes glazed over and your mouth parted in a silent scream.

A few more sharp thrusts and he followed you quicker than he expected—practically toppling onto your body as he fucked his cum deep. Enough to have it spilling out and coating the inside of your thighs. He was half tempted to drop to his knees and clean you up, but the tight grip you had on his shoulders kept him in place. The close proximity of his body all you craved in the rolling aftershocks of your orgasm.

"All mine?" you whispered, still gasping for breath.

He smiled, lips brushing across yours. "All yours sweetheart."

This was how he loved you.

Thoroughly, harshly, yet with every part of his being.

[blondejellykitty]

₊ ♡ ˚⊹ I'll be there on their side ₊ ♡ ˚⊹

୨୧ multi demigod x goddess reader ୨୧ the goddess of heroes and the protector of demigods was thought to be a mere myth and that was how she preferred it to be, until the time came when she could no longer stay away. a/n: (1.8k words) my first fic posted !! the title is from 'i bet on losing dogs' by mitski. the ending isn't exactly how i wanted but that's okay :)

Mortal children are told myths just the same as demigods. Usually mortal parents will tell them said stories to help themselves parent them like Jack Frost, to remember to put your jacket on or Santa Claus who won't show unless you behave well.

Parents of demigods however tell them for the child's benefit. Many legends aren't told but are taught at camp, once again to protect the demigods. Very few stories are able to be told without alerting any unwanted attention.

The entirety of the fall of Kronos from Zeus' beginning to his victory and the story of his earliest children. All revolving around Zeus in his prime, probably to keep himself ego inflated and unfaded.

Nevertheless this is another story that circulates the young ears of all demigods. The legend of the protector of demigods. Much is lost to time of the story but not even time himself can rip the hope that the lost goddess can give to the young heroes.

Very few things shocked the Olympians anymore, not in this century anyway. Of course Kronos and Gaea rising was one thing and Percy Jackson himself was another but the whispers from their children that after two titan wars sightings of their lost protector was becoming more frequent seemed to truly shock them.

After a few millennia of no contact from the goddess more than a few gods had assumed she simply faded quietly but now it seemed that wasn't the case at all.

It started as a mistaken identity.

With the son of Poseidon, Percy Jackson had thought she was nothing more than a helpful nymph.

Although the poison from the pit scorpion that Luke Castellan gave him was more than enough of a reason for Percy to not fully take in the figure in front of him.

He could faintly make out the outline of her dress but even that went blurry as quickly as he could blink. After struggling to get to the river in the middle of the deserted forest, he called for help, anyone's help.

So she answered.

In a daze of pain he recalls the feeling of being carried much like his mother used to do when he’d trip and hurt himself. He would have felt embarrassed but with a fading pulse he just mumbled best he could thanks to the tender nymph before his vision was lost to darkness.

After he’d recovered, Chiron told him if he'd been found any later he'd have been dead.

Thirty seconds, he thought.

After he had told everyone, everyone meaning Annabeth about Luke, he went back out to said woods to find the nymph who had helped him.

All he found was a few river spirits nearby who told him that no nymph went that close to the border that day. He’d made the river spirits promise to let him know if the mysterious nymph came back, she never did.

But nonetheless Percy remembered, and held thanks to the helpful nymph.

Mistaken identity shifted to a hallucination.

The son of Hermes, Travis Stoll had sworn himself to secrecy under the impression he'd have imagined the whole encounter.

An embarrassing thought he often let himself drift back to on more than one occasion. It had started when he and Connor had been setting up traps in the woods for the next capture the flag game.

They'd been out there all afternoon, they decided to turn back for curfew, best to not tempt the harpies when he'd tripped on a lodged rock in the ground and managed to roll down and crash into a further down tree.

A thick root from the tree he'd fallen against impaled his side making his shirt and the dirt around him to turn a dark red colour. The sight of the root appearing out his side Connor ran towards camp faster than he'd ever seen him run during their pranks yelling for healers and for Chiron.

When he'd think back on it he wasn't sure if it was the quiet of the forest or the numbness of his body but dark spots began to invade his vision and he couldn't help but embrace them without caution.

Until the most beautiful woman came out from behind a nearby tree, rushing towards him in a fuzzy blur. Her elegant hair falling past her face almost making a blanket of warmth and safety around the two of them.

She was the most stunning thing he'd ever seen. Better than the full moon, the sunrise and sunset. Better than the ocean or a flower. He could hear her softly speaking to him but he couldn't make out the words.

He didn't know how long he'd been staring in awe at the woman. Travis was sure he'd be red with embarrassment if all his 'red' wasn't currently bleeding out of him.

He looked over towards where he heard his brother's frantic voice getting closer to him. The sight of him and a few cabin 7 campers not far behind him did well to ease his own worry. He looked back for the woman but she was gone.

He doubted if he'd seen the woman but shook it off as nothing more than pain induced illusion.

Then from a hallucination to a mortal.

The son of Hades, Nico di Angelo should've known better than to assume that anyone who approached him was 100% mortal.

After spending more time in the demigod world he realized that mortals don't ever come over to talk to demigods, or maybe that was just his problem.

Nevertheless even mortals can see some kind of underworld aura around him even if they don't understand what they're seeing.

Which makes it all the more irritating that his younger self didn't realize the woman who helped him was probably not entirely mortal. He could still remember it so clearly, she was after all one of the few at that time that had been kind to him.

He had spent the night searching for an entrance to the underworld, his father had told him in a dream a few nights prior that it was in the area. He also mentioned that it was supposed to be easier to find for children of his.

Well that turned out to be crap.

Nico had spent all day and now late into the night walking around New york city trying to find a specific street corner. He was tired and hungry but most of all angry.

He called off his search once his eyes started to sting. Finding a bus stop bench to rest at. He pulled his knees to rest his head against. Tears stung his eyes more than his fatigue when a smell of food wafted near him.

Lifting his head he saw a woman, dressed in a cozy cardigan, the beige kind a mother would wear. She was carrying a bag, he could faintly make out the logo of the logo of a restaurant he remembered passing on the contains inside.

She never spoke but her eyes almost made him cry, a look of care and worry. one he'd imagined his own mother having from the stories Bianca would tell him.

She leaned over and rested the beg softly on the bench next to him, he could feel the heat from it warming her leg. He asked her who she was and why she'd given him her food but all she did was smile and ruffle his hair like Bianca used to do.

He could feel his tears roll down his neck as he watched her keep walking down the street until she eventually walked out of vision. He was just glad someone was kind to him.

Even if it was just a friendly mortal.

Then from a mortal to a mother.

The son of Hermes, Chris Rodriguez couldn't believe he could see his mother in the middle of the haunted Labyrinth.

It had been Luke who ordered him to go into the traumatizing maze and he'd done it willingly, so eager to help his older brother for the cause of getting revenge, justice, to be noticed.

But as most things in Chris's life it had gone horribly wrong. He couldn't even remember most of the horror he'd seen in there, the human brain forcing him to forget just so that he can move on from it all.

But one of the few things that stuck with him was the memory of his mother. Now, he knew it was completely impossible his mother, who'd died just helping him to get to camp, was in the labyrinth with him but his vivid recollection of those moments left little doubt.

He remembers leaning against one of the ever shifting walls, ready to give up on getting out for good.

When he felt a warm hand on his shoulder, he recalls not even flinching from it because of the calming ease it put him in, he could feel himself slurring his word and frantically almost magically speaking but it wouldn't reach his ears.

He had a light aura around her, and a gentle smile as she carefully lead the way through the twists and turns of the darken maze.

He relives the memory as best he can, he could still hear the faint whispers from her mouth, promising she wouldn't let him go and that it would be alright soon.

In hindsight that was something his mother would never do, his mother cared for him not was anything but emotional.

Part of him likes to think that Thanatos had lost her soul for a moment and she'd come to help when he most needed her.

He was just glad that someone had helped him because he hated the thought of what had happened to him if they hadn't.

Finally from a mother to a mourner.

The son of Jupiter, Jason Grace was the lost goddess' last straw.

Too many had already lost their lives in wars fought in seemingly vain. No matter how she felt for them nor how she longed to help them, rules were rules as the King of Olympus loved to remind everyone.

But when the fate meddled day approached and her sweet kind hero had perished, some rules were to be broken in order to do some good.

The day Jason Grace died was a day every demigod remembers, they felt the sadness draped over both camps and everyone in them.

Even demigods who had never even met the fallen hero were mourning him with such intensity.

The lost goddess knew it was because of her her grief was spilling into their own lives, her sadness swallowing them up with it.

Part of her wanted to stop, knowing it was affecting the little heroes but another darker part wanted it to spur them into action, she wanted it to make them want change.

But look how that had turned out the first time. As much as she wanted to change she settled for a medium, she’d change and she'd do what she was meant to.

Help the young heroes live and thrive, no matter the cost to any other immortal in her way...

[amyzworldds]

Part Two: From Classmates to Soulmates

Masterlist | Part 1

Y/N, a vibrant solo artist, and Wonwoo, the reserved Seventeen member, share a bond that blossoms from high school friendship into something deeper. Her chaotic energy clashes with his quiet nature, but their connection—full of teasing, cat photos, and unspoken sparks—grows through years of laughter and challenges, proving opposites can be inseparable. Pairing: Wonwoo x reader Genre: Fluff

The internet was buzzing. Fans who’d once flooded Y/N and Wonwoo’s old posts with “bestie goals” emojis now noticed the silence. No more candid stories of Y/N crashing Seventeen’s practice, no more Wonwoo lurking in the background of her vlogs. Instead, her feed was full of Jaehyun—laughing on Star Buddies, sharing smoothies, posing with peace signs. Hashtags like #Yaehyun trended, while #WonYN faded into memory.

Y/N saw the speculation but brushed it off. They’re just bored. It’s fine. But it wasn’t fine. Wonwoo’s absence left a hole—his dry texts, his rare replies. He’d gone cold, and she felt it like a winter she couldn’t shake. She’d catch glimpses of him on Seventeen’s lives, his quiet smile unchanged, but his eyes seemed... distant. Angry, even. At her? At himself? She didn’t know, and it killed her.

Wonwoo wasn’t oblivious either. Every Jaehyun story she posted twisted the knife deeper. He’d scroll past, jaw tight, hating how he’d let her slip away. Why didn’t I say something? He was mad—at her for pulling back, at himself for not stopping her, at Jaehyun for being there when he wasn’t. His members noticed too. Mingyu’s teasing about “Yaehyun” stopped after Wonwoo snapped at him one night. “Drop it, Gyu.” The room went quiet, and no one brought her up again.

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Y/N and Jaehyun grew closer, bonded by Star Buddies and late-night chats. He was sweet, attentive, everything a friend should be. But every time he laughed at her jokes, she’d think, Wonwoo would’ve rolled his eyes. When he let her ramble, she’d miss Wonwoo’s sarcastic “Are you done?” Jaehyun was great, but he wasn’t him. And that realization hit her hard—she didn’t just miss Wonwoo as a friend. She loved him. Not the safe, platonic kind. The kind that made her chest ache.

Jaehyun, though, was falling. He’d light up when she texted, save her favorite snacks, linger a little too long when they hugged. Y/N didn’t see it—or maybe she didn’t want to. She was too busy gaslighting herself into thinking her heart didn’t belong to a certain bespectacled introvert.

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One chilly autumn evening, Jaehyun texted Y/N to meet at a park near Han River. She showed up in a oversized hoodie, her hair messy from a long day, expecting a casual hangout. They sat on a bench, eating kimbap from a convenience store, laughing about their latest episode where Y/N accidentally tripped into a foam pit.

“You’re a walking disaster,” Jaehyun teased, handing her a soda. “How do you survive?”

“Pure luck,” she grinned, nudging him. “And good friends who save me from myself.”

He smiled, but it faltered. The air shifted, and Y/N’s stomach twisted. She knew that look—too serious, too soft.

“Y/N,” Jaehyun said, voice low. “I need to tell you something.”

She froze, chopsticks mid-air. No. Please don’t.

“I like you,” he said, eyes earnest. “Like, really like you. I thought maybe you felt the same, but... I just had to say it.”

Her heart sank. Jaehyun’s confession hung between them, heavy and fragile. She liked him—his kindness, his laugh—but not like that. Never like that.

“Jaehyun...” She set the kimbap down, voice trembling. “You’re amazing. Really. But I... I like someone else.”

He blinked, processing. Then, with a sad smile, he asked, “It’s Wonwoo, isn’t it?”

Y/N’s breath hitched. She hadn’t said his name, but Jaehyun knew. She always mentioned Wonwoo—how he’d hate this spicy snack, how he’d love that stray cat they saw. It slipped out, and she never noticed until now.

She looked away, cheeks burning. “I... I don’t know.”

But she did. Admitting it to herself felt like jumping off a cliff—she loved Wonwoo. Not just as her best friend, but as the one who made her world brighter, louder, better.

Jaehyun chuckled softly, masking the hurt in his eyes. “It’s okay, Y/N. I see it. You light up when you talk about him.” He paused, then added, “I’ll be here, you know. As a friend, or... if you ever change your mind.”

Her throat tightened. She hated hurting him—Jaehyun, who’d been nothing but good. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Hey, don’t apologize for how you feel.” He stood, brushing off his jeans. “It’s getting late. Let me drop you home.”

“No, I... I wanna stay here a bit,” she said, voice small. “I’ll be fine.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Text me when you’re home, okay? And don’t overthink this. I’ll be alright.”

She forced a smile as he left, but the moment his figure faded, the dam broke. She buried her face in her hands, tears spilling. She’d hurt Jaehyun, and worse, she’d hurt herself by pushing Wonwoo away. This park—it was blocks from his and Mingyu’s place. The realization hit like a wave, and before she could stop herself, she pulled out her phone.

Her thumb shook as she dialed Wonwoo. It rang once, twice, then—

“Y/N?” His voice was low, cautious. Weeks of silence, and now this.

She opened her mouth, but all that came out was a sob. She couldn’t stop—tears, guilt, everything pouring out.

“Y/N, what’s wrong?” Panic crept into his tone. “Where are you?”

“The p-park,” she hiccuped. “Near your place.”“Stay there. I’m coming.” The call ended abruptly.

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Wonwoo didn’t think—he just ran. Heart pounding, shoes slapping pavement, he cut through streets until he reached the park. The night was cold, but he barely felt it. All he could hear was her crying, echoing in his head. She’s hurt. She needs me.

He spotted her on the bench, shoulders shaking, face buried in her knees. His chest ached—anger at himself, at her, at everything fading into worry. He slowed, catching his breath, and approached.

“Y/N.”

She looked up, eyes red and puffy, mascara smudged. “Wonwoo...”

Her voice broke, and before he could say anything, she stood and threw herself into his arms, hugging him like he might vanish. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed into his jacket. “I’m so sorry I stopped talking to you. I didn’t mean to—I just—”

He froze, then slowly wrapped his arms around her, one hand resting on her head. “Hey, slow down. Why are you crying?”

She pulled back, teary eyes meeting his. “I hurt Jaehyun. He... he likes me, and I told him I don’t feel the same. It hurt him, and it hurts me because I hate hurting people, but I can’t pretend I like him when—” She stopped, biting her lip.

Wonwoo’s heart thudded. When what? But he didn’t push. Instead, he brushed a tear from her cheek, his touch gentle despite the storm in his chest. “You didn’t mean to hurt him. You were honest. That’s enough.”

She shook her head, clinging to his sleeve. “It’s not just that. I messed up with you too. I pulled away because I was scared, and now you’re mad at me, and I don’t blame you, but I—” Her voice cracked. “Do you still want to be my friend, Wonwoo? Please?”

He stared at her, something breaking inside. Mad? He wasn’t mad—not really. He was terrified of losing her, furious at himself for letting it get this far. Her question, so small and raw, undid him.

“Y/N,” he said, voice soft but firm. He cupped her face, wiping another tear with his thumb. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She blinked, lips trembling. “Really?”

He chuckled, a low sound that warmed the cold night. “You think I’d let you ditch me that easily? You’re stuck with me, chaos and all.”

She laughed through her tears, a shaky, relieved sound, and hugged him again, burying her face in his chest. “I missed you so much.”

“Missed you too,” he murmured, resting his chin on her head. His heart screamed to say more—to tell her how her distance gutted him, how Jaehyun’s name in her stories felt like a punch, how he loved her in a way that wasn’t just friends. But not now. Not when she was hurting.

They stood there, her sobs quieting, his arms steady around her. The park was silent, save for the rustle of leaves, but to Y/N, it felt like the world was right again—Wonwoo was here, and that was enough.

For now.

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Y/N and Wonwoo were back to their old rhythm—or close enough. The park reunion had patched the cracks in their friendship, and Y/N, true to form, dove back in with double the chaos. She was a whirlwind again, flooding Wonwoo’s phone with texts, voice notes, and photos of every stray cat she’d spotted during their months apart.

One afternoon, she barged into Seventeen’s practice room, arms full of convenience store snacks. “Wonwoo! Guys! I got jjajangmyeon-flavored chips and those weird gummy worms you like!” she announced, dumping the haul on the floor.

Wonwoo, stretching nearby, raised an eyebrow. “You bought the whole store again, didn’t you?”

“Only the good stuff!” She grinned, plopping beside him and launching into a story about her Star Buddies taping. “So, I tripped on a rope during this obstacle course, and Jaehyun caught me, but I still faceplanted into a pile of balloons. Balloons, Wonwoo! I looked like a human piñata!”

He chuckled, patting her head absently. “Sounds about right. You’re a walking disaster.”

She stuck out her tongue but leaned into his touch, unbothered. The members exchanged glances—Hoshi’s smirk, Jeonghan’s knowing nod. Wonwoo was smiling again, his quiet warmth back. Y/N’s energy filled the room, and he soaked it up like he’d been starving for it.

Later, as they sat eating, she scrolled through her phone, shoving it in his face. “Look at this cat I saw yesterday! Orange, fluffy, total Wonwoo vibes. I named him Glasses Jr.!”

“Stop naming things after me,” he muttered, but his lips twitched, and he zoomed in on the photo. “It’s cute, though.”

“Right? I have, like, fifty more. Hang on—” She swiped through her gallery, narrating each cat’s imaginary backstory while Wonwoo listened, nodding like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Mingyu leaned over to Vernon, whispering, “They’re back to normal. Thank God. Grumpy Wonwoo was getting old.”

“Normal?” Vernon snorted. “They’re one step from holding hands and calling it ‘friendship.’”

--------------------------------------------------------------

But normal wasn’t quite normal. The spark was back—stronger, brighter. It was in the way Y/N’s laugh made Wonwoo’s chest tighten, or how her arm brushing his sent a jolt through her. Their hugs lingered a beat too long, their smiles carried a weight they didn’t name. When she’d fall asleep on his shoulder during movie nights, he’d freeze, afraid to wake her but memorizing the moment. When he’d adjust her scarf on a chilly day, she’d blush but pretend it was the cold.

The members saw it—Seungkwan’s eye-rolls, Dino’s not-so-subtle “Just date already!” when they bickered. Even fans noticed, old #WonYN clips resurfacing with comments like “they’re soulmates, fight me.” But neither dared speak it. Not yet.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Then, in early 2020, a storm hit. A blurry photo surfaced online—Wonwoo at a café, a girl leaning close, laughing. The caption? “Seventeen’s Wonwoo spotted on a date!” Fans exploded, some defensive, others shipping the “mystery girl.” It spread like wildfire, and Y/N saw it before Wonwoo could explain.

She was at her dorm, scrolling Twitter, when the photo popped up. Her stomach dropped. The girl was pretty—smiling, casual, someone who looked like she fit his quiet world. Y/N’s mind spiraled. Is he seeing someone? Did I miss my chance? The thought of him with someone else—someone not her—stung more than she’d expected.

She didn’t text him. Didn’t call. Instead, she pulled back again, slower this time. No practice room visits, no cat photos, no late-night rants. Her texts became polite, short. “Busy today, talk later!” She hated it, but the fear was louder than her heart.

Wonwoo felt the shift immediately. Her silence was deafening—worse than before. He’d scroll through their old chats, her absence a weight he couldn’t shake. The rumor? He barely cared about it until he realized she did. And he hated himself for not seeing it sooner.

--------------------------------------------------------------

One evening, fed up, he grabbed his jacket and headed to her place. No plan, just a need to fix this. When he knocked, Y/N opened the door, her hair in a messy bun, eyes tired. She didn’t smile—just stepped aside and shuffled to her couch, curling into a blanket.

“Hey,” he said, closing the door. “You’ve been... quiet.”

“Just busy,” she mumbled, staring at her TV. It was off.

He frowned, sitting across from her. “Y/N, what’s going on? You’re doing it again—pulling away.”

She shrugged, picking at her blanket. “I’m fine, Wonwoo. You don’t have to check on me.”

“Bullshit,” he said, sharper than he meant. She flinched, and he softened, leaning forward. “Talk to me. Please.”

Her eyes flicked to him, guarded. “I saw the photo. You and that girl. Everyone’s saying you’re dating.”

He blinked, then groaned, running a hand through his hair. “That’s what this is about? Y/N, it’s not true. She’s a friend of a friend—Seungcheol’s, actually. We were at a group hangout, she went to the bathroom, and some fan snapped a pic. That’s it.”

She bit her lip, unconvinced. “It looked... real. You were smiling.”

“Because she told a dumb joke!” He laughed, exasperated. “I wasn’t on a date. I wouldn’t—” He stopped, heart pounding. The words were there, heavy, begging to spill.

Y/N stood, crossing her arms. “Wouldn’t what, Wonwoo? It’s fine if you’re seeing someone. You don’t owe me anything.”

He shot up, frustration boiling over. “I wouldn’t date someone if it wasn’t you.”

She froze, eyes wide, breath catching. “What?”

He stepped closer, voice low but steady. “You heard me. I don’t want anyone else, Y/N. I never have. It’s always been you.”

Her heart raced, the room spinning. She’d spent months—years—burying this, convincing herself it was just friendship. But here he was, saying it, and it unraveled everything. “Wonwoo, you... you can’t just say that.”

“Why not?” He closed the distance, eyes searching hers. “I hate this—watching you slip away, pretending I’m okay with it. I let you go once, and it was the worst mistake I’ve ever made. I’m not doing it again.”

Tears pricked her eyes, but she laughed, shaky. “You’re an idiot. I pulled away because I was scared—scared I’d ruin us. I love you, Wonwoo, and not just as my best friend. I’ve loved you for so long, and it terrified me.”

He stared, processing, then broke into a soft, disbelieving smile. “You love me?”

“Duh,” she sniffled, poking his chest. “Why do you think I was such a mess about that stupid rumor?”

He caught her hand, pulling her into a hug. “We’re both idiots,” he murmured into her hair. “I love you too. More than you know.”

She melted into him, clinging like she used to, but this time it was different—raw, real. “So... what now?”

He pulled back, brushing a tear from her cheek. “Now? We stop being dumb. Be with me, Y/N. No more running.”

She laughed, loud and bright, the sound he’d missed most. “Deal. But I’m still sending you cat pics.”“I’d be pissed if you didn’t,” he said, and when he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, the spark they’d danced around for years finally caught fire

--------------------------------------------------------------

The past years was a soft kind of chaos for Y/N and Wonwoo. From their high school days—her loud chatter breaking through his quiet world—to their confession that finally set their spark ablaze, they’d built something unbreakable. Now, as lovers, they were a study in contrasts that somehow fit perfectly. Wonwoo, once allergic to skinship, melted under Y/N’s touch. Y/N, always a clingy whirlwind, was now extra—draping herself over him like a human blanket, stealing his hoodies, and demanding his attention with a pout that could topple empires.

Tonight, they were at Wonwoo and Mingyu’s shared apartment, a cozy space cluttered with gaming gear, Seventeen merch, and Y/N’s stray hair ties. Mingyu was off filming some solo schedule, leaving the place to them. Wonwoo was glued to his gaming setup, headset on, fingers flying across the keyboard as he battled in some online match. Y/N, sprawled on his bed in one of his oversized shirts, was... less than thrilled.

“Wonwoo,” she whined, kicking her feet against the mattress. “Did you hear what I said? So, at the studio today, they tried to make me do this weird choreography, and I was like, ‘I’m a singer, not a contortionist!’ I swear, I almost fell on my face.”

“Mm,” he mumbled, eyes locked on the screen. “Cool.”

She huffed, sitting up. “Cool? That’s it? I could’ve broken my neck, and you’d still be like, ‘Nice, babe.’”

“Yup,” he said, clicking furiously. A victory screen flashed, and he leaned back, smirking. “Got ‘em.”

Y/N glared at the back of his head, then at his gaming PC. If that thing were a person, she’d have words. Harsh ones. “You and that computer are in a serious relationship. I’m just the side chick.”

He snorted but didn’t turn around. “You’re dramatic.”

“And you’re ignoring me!” She flopped back, staring at the ceiling. “I’m literally right here, looking cute, telling iconic stories, and you’re out here marrying your keyboard.”

“Five more minutes,” he said, already queuing another match.

That was it. Y/N had enough. With a theatrical groan, she rolled off the bed, snatching his blanket and—most importantly—Foxdungee, the Miniteen character plushie she’d gifted him last Christmas. “Fine! If you’re gonna be like that, I’m taking your kid and leaving!”

She stormed out, blanket trailing like a cape, Foxdungee tucked under her arm. Wonwoo’s room fell quiet, but he was too deep in his game to notice—yet.

--------------------------------------------------------------

In the living room, Y/N flopped onto the couch, cocooning herself in the blanket until she was a burrito of pettiness. She hugged Foxdungee tight, its little glasses and fox ears squishing against her cheek. “Your dad’s the worst,” she muttered, glaring at the plushie. “All he does is play that stupid game. What about me, huh? I’m fun! I’m adorable! But nooo, he’s too busy being a nerd.”

She grabbed the remote, scrolling through streaming options. “If he wants to ignore me, you’re my date now, Foxdungee. We’re watching Barbie: Princess Charm School because it’s a classic, and you deserve culture.”

The TV lit up with Barbie’s sparkly world, and Y/N settled in, narrating to the plushie like it was a person. “See, Blair’s got dreams, just like me. And she doesn’t need a dumb gaming boyfriend to shine.” She giggled at a scene where Blair tripped, then sighed. “Okay, maybe I trip like her too. Don’t tell your dad.”

Halfway through Barbie’s makeover montage, the room felt... too quiet. No keyboard clicks, no Wonwoo muttering about “lag.” Y/N’s pout deepened. She missed him, even if he was a distracted nerd. She hugged Foxdungee tighter, whispering, “He’s probably still playing. Jerk.”

--------------------------------------------------------------

Wonwoo, meanwhile, had noticed the silence. His game ended, and the absence of Y/N’s voice hit like a dropped beat. No chatter, no giggles, no dramatic sighs. He pulled off his headset, glancing at the empty bed. When did she leave? Guilt crept in—he’d been deep in his zone, but he hadn’t meant to ignore her.

He wandered into the living room, pausing at the sight. Y/N was a blanket burrito on the couch, Foxdungee clutched like a lifeline, laughing at Barbie outwitting a villain. Her hair was a mess, his shirt dwarfed her, and she looked so adorably grumpy that his heart did a flip.

“Hey,” he said, leaning against the doorway.

Y/N glanced up, spotted him, and—petty queen—rolled her eyes before turning back to the TV. “Oh, look, Foxdungee, it’s your dad. Too bad we’re busy having fun without him.”

She hugged the plushie tighter, muttering loud enough for him to hear, “At least you don’t ignore me for pixels.”

Wonwoo bit back a laugh, her sulky vibe too cute to handle. He crossed the room, crouching in front of her so she couldn’t avoid him. “You’re really mad at me over a game?”

She refused to meet his eyes, chin tilted up. “I’m not mad. I’m thriving. Me and Foxdungee are having the best date ever. Right, buddy?” She wiggled the plushie’s arms, making it “nod.”

He chuckled, low and warm, and her resolve wobbled. That laugh—her kryptonite. “Y/N,” he said, voice soft, “I’m sorry. I got carried away. Didn’t mean to ditch you.”

She finally looked at him, pout still in full force. “You said ‘five minutes’ an hour ago. I was telling you about my day, and you were like, ‘Mm, yup.’ I’m not a podcast you can half-listen to, Jeon Wonwoo.”

He winced, rubbing his neck. “Fair. I was a jerk. But you know I love your stories.”

“Do you?” She hugged Foxdungee closer, eyes narrowing. “Because your computer seems to get all your love.”

He grinned, leaning closer. “Jealous of my PC? That’s a new one.”

“I will fight it,” she huffed. “I’ll smash it with a hammer and dance on the pieces.”

“Please don’t. It’s expensive.” He reached out, tugging Foxdungee gently from her grip. “And stop stealing my kid to make me jealous.”

She gasped, grabbing for the plushie. “Foxdungee chose me! You don’t deserve him!”

They tussled lightly, laughing until Wonwoo let her win, Foxdungee back in her arms. He sat beside her, pulling the blanket over both of them. “Truce?”

She side-eyed him but scooted closer, resting her head on his shoulder. “Maybe. But you’re on thin ice, mister.”

“Noted.” He wrapped an arm around her, fingers tracing circles on her arm. “What’s Barbie up to? Catch me up.”

Her face lit up, and she launched into a recap, voice bright and chaotic. “Okay, so Blair’s at this fancy school, right? And there’s this mean girl, Delancy, who’s totally jealous—”

He listened, nodding like it was a TED Talk, and she melted into him, her earlier grumpiness fading. This was them—her loud, him quiet, but always tethered. Wonwoo, who’d once flinched at hugs, now craved her closeness. He glanced down at her, eyes soft. How did I get this lucky?

The movie played on, but Y/N’s narration slowed, her head heavy on his chest. “You’re comfy,” she mumbled, nuzzling closer. “Better than Foxdungee.”

“High praise,” he teased, kissing her temple. Her hair smelled like his shampoo, and it made his heart do stupid flips. “Sorry I got sucked into gaming. I’ll make it up to you.”

“You better,” she yawned. “I want breakfast tomorrow. Pancakes. With chocolate chips.”

“Deal.” He pulled the blanket higher, tucking her in. “But you’re not allowed to hog the syrup again.”

“No promises,” she giggled, voice fading as she drifted off.

Wonwoo watched her sleep, her lips parted, Foxdungee squished against her cheek. Barbie’s credits rolled, but he didn’t move, just held her closer. The world could wait—this moment, her warmth, her chaos, was all he needed.

--------------------------------------------------------------

an: Hello! I've been receiving requests, hehe. Please bear with me—I'm a bit busy right now, but I'll get to them all. Just drop your requests, and I'll write them one by one hehe. I hope you like this! I feel like something's missing here, but yeah, HAHAHAH

[rabbitcruiser]

International Water Fall Day

International Waterfall Day is celebrated every year on June 16 to celebrate these magnificent and scenic beauties. Waterfalls are found all around the world and are incredibly important to the local communities living around them. The cascade of water is not just a wonder for the eyes but they also have a majestic quality to them that’s indescribable. Imagine trekking for miles, drenched in sweat and beaten down by the sun, only to finally walk through a clearing and look up at the sky to see what looks like water pouring from the heavens.

History of International WaterFall Day

A waterfall is usually defined as a point in a river where the water flows over a steep drop. As there are many types and methods used to classify waterfalls, what constitutes a waterfall continues to be debated. Despite being such an important part of human lives and history, waterfalls have not been very much researched, although Alexander von Humboldt did write about them in the 1820s. There is no name for the specific field of researching waterfalls but it is popular to describe studying waterfalls as ’waterfallology.’

European explorers used to document the waterfalls they came across. In 1493, Christopher Columbus wrote about Carbet Falls in Guadeloupe, which could be the first waterfall Europeans recorded seeing in the Americas. However, Geographer Brian J. Hudson suggests that it was uncommon to specifically name waterfalls until the 18th century.

This trend of, specifically, Europeans naming waterfalls is following people’s increased scientific focus on nature at the time, the rise of Romanticism, and the increased importance of hydropower due to the Industrial Revolution. However, European explorers would often ignore the names native peoples had originally given these waterfalls in favor of a more ’European’ name. For example, Scottish physician and explorer David Livingstone named Victoria Falls after Queen Victoria, even though it was already known as Mosi-oa-Tunya by the people native to the area.

Waterfall exploration continues to this day. Waterfalls are visited by people in droves mainly because they make great tourist sites; it is not just because they are beautiful, but also because they are relatively uncommon.

International WaterFall Day timeline

Late 1600sNiagara and Saint Anthony Falls

Belgian missionary Louis Hennepin visits North America and provides early descriptions of the Niagara Falls and Saint Anthony Falls.

1884“Waterfallology”

Geologist William Morris Davis, known as the "father of American geography," writes and publishes an early paper on waterfalls.

November 16, 1933Jimmy Angel Spots the Angel Falls

American aviator Jimmy Angel flies over the waterfall now known as Angel Falls, while on a flight searching for a valuable ore bed.

March 9, 2006The Exploration Continues

The Gocta Cataracts,  a perennial waterfall with two drops located in Bongara, Peru, is first announced to the world.

International WaterFall Day FAQs

How do you survive falling over a waterfall?

Jumping off a waterfall is dangerous and can be fatal. However, if you find yourself in the unfortunate situation of tripping over one, these steps might help: Take a deep breath while you’re still in the air; go over the falls feet first and jump out and away from the edge; cover your head with your arms; start swimming as soon as you hit the water to avoid hitting the rocks at the bottom and continue downstream, away from the falls.

What are the most popular waterfalls?

Waterfalls found on all continents serve as popular tourist sites. Some of the famous ones in the world are Niagara Falls, Victoria Falls, Angel Falls, Yosemite Falls, Jog Falls, Iguazu Falls, and Sutherland Falls, among others.

How are waterfalls formed?

Waterfalls are formed when the riverbed suddenly changes from soft to hard rock. Rapids are created where a fast-flowing river cuts quickly downward through a bed of hard and soft rocks. The quicker erosion of the soft rock beneath the hard rock results in the hard rock to be elevated above the stream bed.  Afterward, a vertical drop will eventually (after many, many years) begin to form as more of the soft rock gets eroded.

International WaterFall Day Activities

Visit a waterfall

Admire them from home

Explore exotic places

Fill up your car and drive to your nearest waterfall for a lovely day out. Make a picnic out of it by inviting your friends and family!

Appreciate the beauty of waterfalls from the comfort of your home by hanging their pictures around your house and watching tourism videos on YouTube. Post pictures on your social media to share these wondrous sites with your friends.

Visit other places if you can’t make a trip to a waterfall. Use this day as an opportunity to satisfy your wanderlust and appease the travel-hungry explorer in you!

5 Facts About Waterfalls That Will Blow Your Mind

Angel Falls is extremely tall

There are thousands of waterfalls worldwide

Niagara Falls is very clean

They can be loud

They can  freeze over

Venezuela’s Angel Falls is the world's longest waterfall at 3,212 feet, with the water turning into mist before it hits the base of the waterfall.

There are still many waterfalls in the world that have yet to be recorded and named, leaving the list of waterfalls in the World Waterfall Database to be incomplete.

The water in Niagara Falls is so clean that it can even be used as drinking water.

The roar from the famous Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe is so loud that it can be heard from 25 miles away.

Some waterfalls freeze for at least part of the year,  leaving mountaineers able to climb them to practice and test their skills.

Why We Love International WaterFall Day

They’re beautiful

They have religious significance

They’re important sources of power

Waterfalls are popular tourist sites for a reason. They’re beautiful and can have an amazing de-stressing and calming effect on you. Who wouldn’t want to visit a place like that?

People in different cultures also attach religious significance to waterfalls in their regions. ‘Misogi,’ which means ‘water cleansing’ in Japanese, is a popular Shinto practice in Japan where people stand under a waterfall to purify their souls.

Hydroelectricity can be generated from naturally existing waterfalls, although most hydroelectric plants generate water from man-made falls. They are made by building dams, thus restricting the natural flow of the river into channels where the water can power turbines.

Source

[multific]

In the Shadow of the Hunt

Yautja x Reader

Warning: Smut

Summary: Trained to outlast any Predator, you never expected to earn the respect and heart of one.

You were doing fine until something far worse than the Yautja entered the territory.

The creatures were not natural.

Mutations, maybe. Bloodthirsty beasts designed for something else's war.

You heard the Yautja before you saw him, you heard clicks low in the trees, that faint hum of cloaking tech.

At first, he was your death sentence.

Now he was your only chance.

It started with a standoff.

You had your knife drawn, back to the river, as he de-cloaked in a shimmer of light and metal.

Eight feet tall, heavy with muscle, body scarred and worn from a hundred battles. His mandibles clicked as he studied you with a curious expression.

You should have attacked.

Instead, you lowered the knife.

"Common enemy," you said slowly, keeping your voice low, hands spread open. "You can kill me later. But right now we both have bigger problems."

He tilted his head sharply, as if weighing your words. His wrist-blade retracted.

It was the beginning.

You learned to communicate through simple gestures at first.

Pointing. Nodding. Grunts of acknowledgement.

He didn’t speak human languages, but he understood survival, a universal tongue.

You nicknamed him R'thok in your mind, it sounded close to the snarling sound he made when introducing himself.

In turn, he began to call you a series of low clicks that almost sounded affectionate.

When you saved him, dragging his heavy body out of a pit trap, using your last medical kit to seal his bleeding side, everything changed.

He touched your wrist afterwards.

A careful touch. Not demanding and not threatening.

Grateful.

Respected.

At night, you camped near each other.

Not too close but close enough that you could hear his breathing.

He carved strange symbols into the dirt. You answered by sketching your own.

A new language bloomed between you, drawn in sand and mud.

Safe.

Danger.

Hunt.

Stay.

And sometimes he would leave you little offerings, cleaned bones from his kills, scavenged tech scraps, a strange fruit you had never seen before.

His way of caring.

You started smiling more around him.

He noticed.

His mandibles twitched into what you thought might be a grin.

The first time you touched him was after another ambush.

One of the mutated beasts had cornered you.

Its claws had ripped through your shoulder, blood hot down your arm.

R'thok tore it apart with a roar that shook the trees.

You stumbled. He caught you.

Huge clawed hands, shockingly gentle, cupped your body and kept you from falling.

You pressed your forehead against his chest without thinking, panting.

"You… you’re warm," you whispered weakly.

He made a rumbling sound, almost like a purr.

Without words, he hoisted you up, carrying you like you weighed nothing, and set you down in the shelter of a hollowed tree.

When you woke later, the wound was stitched neatly, and R'thok was there. Watching. Guarding.

Yours.

The final fight was brutal.

The leader of the beasts pinned R'thok first.

You had a split-second decision: save yourself, or save him.

You didn’t hesitate.

You drove your knife into the creature’s eye, grabbing a discarded plasma caster and blasting it at point-blank range.

The thing screeched and died.

You turned to R'thok, chest heaving.

He was staring at you in a way he had never before.

Not as prey.

Not as an equal.

As something more.

He leaned down, his clawed hand brushing your cheek. You shivered, not in fear, but at the intensity in his gaze.

When he pressed his forehead gently to yours, you understood: it was a vow.

Among his kind, that meant something deeper than any words.

A bond. A claiming.

Love.

You closed your eyes and pressed back.

Yes.

Months later, after the rescue teams came and went, after you chose to disappear from your old life, you lived among the stars.

In a hidden place where Yautja and humans met in secret.

Where no hunt ruled your days anymore.

Only him.

Your mate.

Your hunter.

Your heart.

The ship thrummed around you, metal walls glowing faintly blue with low light.

You sat on the narrow sleeping platform in R'thok's quarters — if they could even be called that. Everything was raw, functional: weapon racks, a table of trophies, pelts spread across the floor. The air smelled like steel, blood, and something warmer... him.

He stood before you, massive and still. His armour stripped away, leaving only thick, scarred skin that shimmered faintly in the low light.

His golden eyes softened as he looked at you.

You got up slowly, your pulse a wild drumbeat. You barely came up to his chest, but he bowed his head to you, patient, waiting.

Waiting for you to make the move.

You reached up, fingertips brushing the hard line of his jaw. His skin was warm, surprisingly soft over the brutal strength beneath. His mandibles twitched, a low, almost uncertain rumble rising from his chest.

"R'thok," you whispered.

You didn’t need to say more.

The bond between you crackled like a live wire.

With a low groan, he caught your hand and drew it to his mouth. His tusks brushed your knuckles as he breathed you in.

And then, so slowly it made your head spin, he pulled closer.

You felt the heat of him.

His massive hands slid down your sides, claws grazing lightly over your hips, your thighs, as if memorising every inch.

You reached for the woven cords across his chest and tugged.

He growled low, a sound of approval and need, and helped you, stripping the cords away.

He was all muscle and old scars.

A living weapon who had chosen you, knelt for you.

He bent, pressing his forehead against yours again, the sacred gesture of his people, and you swore you could feel his heart hammering as wildly as your own.

Your fingers traced the thick cords of muscle over his shoulders, his chest, sliding lower.

His body shuddered under your touch.

When your hands grazed the hard line of his abdomen, he snarled low, catching you at the waist and lifting you as easily as if you weighed nothing.

You gasped, but he was already carrying you to the furs on the floor, laying you down with impossible tenderness.

Hovering above you, he hesitated.

He brushed your cheek, your throat, your racing pulse.

Are you sure? - his eyes asked.

You answered by grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him down.

The kiss was clumsy at first, Yautja mouths weren’t made for it, but he learned quickly.

Pressing his mandibles against your skin, nipping lightly, tasting you.

His scent wrapped around you, wild, electric, addictive.

Your clothes came off in pieces, discarded into the dark.

When you were finally bare under him, his gaze raked over you with a hunger that was almost reverent.

He touched you like a treasure, each brush of his massive hands making you ache.

He was careful as he explored you.

Mapping every sound you made, every shiver, every sharp intake of breath.

You gasped when his hand slid lower, between your thighs, and he paused, snarling softly in warning, in need. 

Telling you he would go slow.

You wrapped your arms around his thick neck, anchoring yourself to him, and whispered against his ear:

"I'm yours."

He froze.

Then he roared and surged against you.

The first push of his made you cry out, he was so big, you could feel every inch.

But he was gentle, trembling with the effort to hold back. Giving you time to adjust and grow used to him.

You clutched at his shoulders, at the ridges of his back, moaning into his skin.

He rocked into you slowly at first, every movement careful, deliberate. Worshipful.

But soon restraint gave way to need.

His pace quickened, driving deeper, and you met him eagerly, rising to meet each thrust.

It was overwhelming. Consuming.

You felt the bond between you ignite — something ancient, primal — not just physical, but something deeper.

As you shattered beneath him, you felt him follow, his body locking tight against yours with a desperate, broken snarl.

He didn't let go.

Not even after.

He curled himself around you, protective and fierce, his breath hot against your neck.

One massive hand covered your belly. His way of marking you.

You lay there, panting, stroking the side of his face with trembling fingers.

"Yours," you whispered again, kissing the corner of his mandible.

A deep, vibrating purr answered you, the sound of utter devotion.

You closed your eyes, safe for the first time in what felt like a lifetime.

Not hunted.

Not alone.

Chosen.

Loved.

Forever.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[heyitspapayaontop]

I'll Be There For You

Request: 🌺

Pairing: Oliver Bearman x WEC Driver!reader

Themes: Minor angst with fluff<3

Warnings: Ferrari winning Le Mans <3 (CADILLAC PLEASE WIN THIS YEAR.)

Summary: In which you lost Le Mans while Ollie was in Montreal for a race and he refuses to let you cry on your own.

The Cadillac driver didn't have time to take off her helmet before the tears fell.

The lights at Le Mans were brutal—too bright, too sharp, shining down on a podium you weren’t standing on. Ferrari had taken it. Again. And this time, you’d made it to the final stint. You had a real shot. You had the lead. And then the car sputtered in pit lane, just once, just enough.

P2. Not even five seconds in it.

And you didn’t want to hear the interviews or the noise or the celebration that wasn’t yours.

So you called him.

Ollie answered on the second ring, still in the Haas hospitality suite in Montreal. His curls were damp from the post-quali rain, face tired from media duties, but the second he heard your voice—broken and trembling—he sat up straight.

“Hey, hey,” he whispered. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

You sniffled, voice small. “I lost, Ollie.”

He paused. “You came second at Le Mans, love. That’s not losing.”

“I was leading with twenty minutes to go,” you choked. “I let them down.”

“You didn’t let anyone down,” he said firmly. “You raced your heart out. Everyone saw it.”

You didn’t answer right away. He could hear you breathing, uneven, trying so hard not to cry harder.

“I just… I really wanted this one.”

“I know,” he whispered. “I know, baby. I’m proud of you. So, so proud of you.”

There was silence, soft and heavy, and then you barely whispered, “I wish you were here.”

That’s all it took.

The next morning, before most of the paddock in Montreal had even had coffee, Ollie was on a flight to France. No press. No fuss. Just him, hoodie pulled up, headphones in, watching the clouds blur past the window as he counted the hours until he could hold you.

By the time he got to the circuit, you were still in your post-race fireproofs, sitting on the pit wall with your arms wrapped around your knees, looking more like a ghost of yourself than the fighter he loved.

You looked up when you heard footsteps.

And then froze.

“Hi,” he said simply.

Your lip quivered. “You’re—how—”

“I told you I’d be where you needed me.”

You ran to him like the ground burned, and he caught you without a second thought, wrapping you up in his arms, your face pressed into his shoulder.

You were crying again, all the tears were back and falling into his hoodie.

He just held you, rubbing your back whispering sweet nothings.

“You tried, Love. You tried.”

: - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - :

The next morning Ollie had never looked more serious in his life.

Sitting on the hotel balcony in a hoodie and sweatpants, his curls still messy from sleep, he had one hand around a mug of coffee and the other holding his phone to his ear.

“Pierre, I need your help,” he said, quietly but firmly.

There was a pause, and then— “Bearman?” “Yeah.” “It’s 6:42 in the morning.” “I know,” Ollie whispered, glancing back through the hotel window to where you were still asleep, curled up under the white sheets. “But it’s important.”

Pierre sighed dramatically. “Is this about your car?” “No.” “Your quali?” “No.” “...Are you dying?” “No!” Ollie hissed. “I need a place to take her for breakfast.”

Pierre went silent.

And then, “Ohhh.”

“Yeah.”

“She cried, didn’t she?”

Ollie smiled softly, eyes flicking back to you. “A river.”

Pierre’s voice softened too. “She deserved that win.”

“I know.”

“You showing up was good.”

“I want to do more.”

Pierre was quiet for a moment. Then: “Okay. There’s a bakery in the old quarter. Not touristy. Locals only. You’ll want a table in the back—sunlight comes through the window just right. Tell them Gasly sent you. They’ll know.”

Ollie blinked. “Why do you know that...? ”

“Because I’m French.”

“You’re too French.”

Pierre smirked through the phone. “You’re welcome, mon gars. Let her feel soft this morning. She gave the world everything yesterday.”

Ollie smiled, something warm blooming in his chest. “Yeah,” he said softly. “She really did.”

By 8:30am, you were in one of Ollie’s oversized sweatshirts, hair still a little messy, blinking in the soft morning light as he led you down a quiet cobblestone street, hand in yours.

“Where are we going?” you asked, cheeks still puffy from the night before.

“Somewhere only Pierre would know,” he said mysteriously.

You squinted. “You called Gasly?”

“I needed the inside scoop. I’m on breakfast duty. Don’t question my sources.” He grinned.

And when you reached the tiny café tucked between a flower shop and a bookstore, when you sat in the sunlit back corner, hands wrapped around warm mugs, buttery croissant melting on your tongue…

You smiled.

Just a little.

And Ollie relaxed. Because you were smiling again.

And that was everything.

: - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - :

A/N: THIS IS ONE OF MY MANY FICS TO BE POSTED IN THE NEXT FEW DAYS!! I had a finals test this morning!

[itscalledastrategyfred]

I'll Be There For You

Request: 🌺

Pairing: Oliver Bearman x WEC Driver!reader

Themes: Minor angst with fluff<3

Warnings: Ferrari winning Le Mans <3 (CADILLAC PLEASE WIN THIS YEAR.)

Summary: In which you lost Le Mans while Ollie was in Montreal for a race and he refuses to let you cry on your own.

A/N: This is from my main @heyitspapayaontop, I write there mostly!!

The Cadillac driver didn't have time to take off her helmet before the tears fell.

The lights at Le Mans were brutal—too bright, too sharp, shining down on a podium you weren’t standing on. Ferrari had taken it. Again. And this time, you’d made it to the final stint. You had a real shot. You had the lead. And then the car sputtered in pit lane, just once, just enough.

P2. Not even five seconds in it.

And you didn’t want to hear the interviews or the noise or the celebration that wasn’t yours.

So you called him.

Ollie answered on the second ring, still in the Haas hospitality suite in Montreal. His curls were damp from the post-quali rain, face tired from media duties, but the second he heard your voice—broken and trembling—he sat up straight.

“Hey, hey,” he whispered. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

You sniffled, voice small. “I lost, Ollie.”

He paused. “You came second at Le Mans, love. That’s not losing.”

“I was leading with twenty minutes to go,” you choked. “I let them down.”

“You didn’t let anyone down,” he said firmly. “You raced your heart out. Everyone saw it.”

You didn’t answer right away. He could hear you breathing, uneven, trying so hard not to cry harder.

“I just… I really wanted this one.”

“I know,” he whispered. “I know, baby. I’m proud of you. So, so proud of you.”

There was silence, soft and heavy, and then you barely whispered, “I wish you were here.”

That’s all it took.

The next morning, before most of the paddock in Montreal had even had coffee, Ollie was on a flight to France. No press. No fuss. Just him, hoodie pulled up, headphones in, watching the clouds blur past the window as he counted the hours until he could hold you.

By the time he got to the circuit, you were still in your post-race fireproofs, sitting on the pit wall with your arms wrapped around your knees, looking more like a ghost of yourself than the fighter he loved.

You looked up when you heard footsteps.

And then froze.

“Hi,” he said simply.

Your lip quivered. “You’re—how—”

“I told you I’d be where you needed me.”

You ran to him like the ground burned, and he caught you without a second thought, wrapping you up in his arms, your face pressed into his shoulder.

You were crying again, all the tears were back and falling into his hoodie.

He just held you, rubbing your back whispering sweet nothings.

“You tried, Love. You tried.”

: - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - :

The next morning Ollie had never looked more serious in his life.

Sitting on the hotel balcony in a hoodie and sweatpants, his curls still messy from sleep, he had one hand around a mug of coffee and the other holding his phone to his ear.

“Pierre, I need your help,” he said, quietly but firmly.

There was a pause, and then— “Bearman?” “Yeah.” “It’s 6:42 in the morning.” “I know,” Ollie whispered, glancing back through the hotel window to where you were still asleep, curled up under the white sheets. “But it’s important.”

Pierre sighed dramatically. “Is this about your car?” “No.” “Your quali?” “No.” “...Are you dying?” “No!” Ollie hissed. “I need a place to take her for breakfast.”

Pierre went silent.

And then, “Ohhh.”

“Yeah.”

“She cried, didn’t she?”

Ollie smiled softly, eyes flicking back to you. “A river.”

Pierre’s voice softened too. “She deserved that win.”

“I know.”

“You showing up was good.”

“I want to do more.”

Pierre was quiet for a moment. Then: “Okay. There’s a bakery in the old quarter. Not touristy. Locals only. You’ll want a table in the back—sunlight comes through the window just right. Tell them Gasly sent you. They’ll know.”

Ollie blinked. “Why do you know that...? ”

“Because I’m French.”

“You’re too French.”

Pierre smirked through the phone. “You’re welcome, mon gars. Let her feel soft this morning. She gave the world everything yesterday.”

Ollie smiled, something warm blooming in his chest. “Yeah,” he said softly. “She really did.”

By 8:30am, you were in one of Ollie’s oversized sweatshirts, hair still a little messy, blinking in the soft morning light as he led you down a quiet cobblestone street, hand in yours.

“Where are we going?” you asked, cheeks still puffy from the night before.

“Somewhere only Pierre would know,” he said mysteriously.

You squinted. “You called Gasly?”

“I needed the inside scoop. I’m on breakfast duty. Don’t question my sources.” He grinned.

And when you reached the tiny café tucked between a flower shop and a bookstore, when you sat in the sunlit back corner, hands wrapped around warm mugs, buttery croissant melting on your tongue…

You smiled.

Just a little.

And Ollie relaxed. Because you were smiling again.

And that was everything.

[darkdemeter]

BY THEIR LEASH

⚤ Wanda Maximoff x Werewolf! Female Reader Mafia stuff — mention of death — alcohol consumption (like a lot) — 18+ SMUT, MINORS DNI — Porn with plot? — lesbian sex — threesome — may be some grammar errors and such — slight bondage — little bit of muscle/stomach riding if you squint your eyes, turn your head that way... — I think that's it? ✎ 4.3k

↳ MASTERLIST | ↳ TAGLISTS ────────────────────────

  An expensive investment. A broad term to use for a werewolf broken in by the system at a young age. But it’s true. 

  Alexander Pierce, the finance manager and ringleader as a whole, did all he could to break you in, and to say he did is an understatement. He exceeded the limits you once believed you had and once you were ready, he put you out in the field to garner your reputation. 

You had no limits. Ruthless in your endeavour to complete whatever task was required of you, prepared to do whatever it took, your peers could only look at you with both fear and admiration. 

When all was said and done, you were given your collar, then sold through the underground hub for criminals: the black market. 

  That’s when you learnt in the span of the few minutes that the auction lasted for, that you were either a trophy to those of the higher class of crime, or a very wanted source of security and war. From black funding operators that had their hand in the military’s pit on the hunt for a war hound, to the gangster overlords who controlled territories in the differing states and countries, requiring some form of high end security, there was a very rapid increase in the price they were each willing to pay. 

  At a total of twenty-five million, your collar and services were sold to Mr. Tony Stark. From the sleek fit of a light grey, three piece suit and bright pink tie, Stark had a brighter outlook on the window of his underhand activities. He was the type that lounged back in the severity of his criminal dealings.

Unlike his fellow company who each wore darker palette suits of either navy blue or jet black. He stood out for sure as his auburn tinted glasses did little to hide the one question on his mind: Was his money well spent?

  Well, to say at the very least, you wouldn’t be here tonight if you weren’t worth every single cent he spent on you three years ago. 

  Thinking about the memory now, this is a different tone entirely. Dark and neon is how you remember the black market scene, stalls and cube stores with an assortment of supplies anyone in the business would need, whether that be for the amateurs - which were the usual target customers - or the smaller businesses which belonged to small cluster gangs. 

  The big time runners had designated storehouses to spare where they obtained their supplies, and ran other dealings and hand-offs in and out of private rooms in the clubs. 

  Here, the scene is warm, lavish and made for those who seek the comfort in living in marble halls and pristine white pillars, short cut grass and elaborate parties such as this one. 

“Shit, this party is awfully chipper for someone who died last week,” you huff, eyes scanning the crowd from the smooth, darkly polished bar, which you incidentally found very comfortable to lean back on when told for the hundredth time, “Just sit tight, just a little bit longer.” 

  You didn’t have the time nor patience to sit around getting older by the damn minute. Thankfully, Tony put his card behind the bar so that meant an endless river of drinks. Because you needed the alcohol. A lot. 

  Not a moment too late is your glass refilled with your refreshment. And not too soon after is it halfway downed.

  “Please, Y/N,” sighs Steve from your right side, arms folded over his chest, navy blue suit straining just a bit too tightly against his body, “have some respect for the Maximoff family. They lost their only male heir to a deal gone wrong. They need our support.”

Your shoulders rise with a particularly deep inhale before falling lax, you swirl the sliver of whiskey left in your glass and with a jerk of your wrist you finish it. Ice rattles in your glass as you shimmy it, indicating you need another refill and pronto. 

  “People live, people die. You cross someone and you get shot in the back. It happens.” 

  “He was gunned down in the streets with a fucking machine gun, Y/N. You consider that a mere shot in the back?”

  You shrug in response to Sam’s question with a pout of your bottom lip. “Pietro thought he was the shit. That’s what got him killed by Rumlow.” 

  Sam runs a hand over his face, now distressed by the lack of sincerity you show for the grieving family. “For fuck sake…”

  In the three years of your loyal work to the Stark family and those of his brotherhood - his allies - your colours shone through immensely to reveal a shining personality. Excluding the fact you’d become something of a playful rogue with the women. 

  You simply chalk it up to your animal magnetism. Something that leaves them wanting more whenever in the presence of your company.

  In fact, that was how Tony came to own unclaimed establishments and clubs in the boroughs, ones he wasn’t able to get his hands on before, but after he had you as a playable card in his hand, you provided club goers the relief of being harassed and drinks being spiked. Territorial take over schemes from rival gangs were second guessed when they saw you watching over the joint.

  The after hour visits for your libido were just the perks. But you left a lot of lustful and broken little hearts in the wake of your work. 

  For a werewolf, you were always assumed to be a means of security, and that much was true. Didn’t mean it excluded you from taking on other odd jobs for the families from time to time. Debt collection, assassinations, tailing and blackmail ops, the list is endless. 

  When Steve casts a hardened stare your way, you mockingly raise your hands up in surrender. 

  “Alright, I’ll offer my condolences to the heiress, but I ain’t weeping at her feet for her brother who got himself into that mess because he thought he was too big for his own shoes.”

  “Just behave yourself, alright? The last thing we need is the entirety of Europe at war with us.” You roll your eyes and salute the captain. “Yessir.”

  You bring the glass rim to your lips and draw a small gulpful of your renewed liquor, the fiery taste rolls over your tongue, you savour it to keep your sanity intact lest you go insane from the waiting. Where was the heiress? 

  “Well, well, I thought I wouldn’t see any of you again. Especially you.” Your head, as well as those of your group, direct their gaze to the new voice. The corners of your lips twitch up and you flash her a wolfish grin, chin tilting up slightly in your relaxed position against the bar. You looked like a cat happily laying in the sun. 

  “Miss Romanoff,” each of the men greeted with a nod of their heads. You, however, pat your thigh as an invitation for her to sit. “I had work to do the next morning.”

  “Mm, that’s what you tell the other girls, I’m sure.” You clap a hand to your chest with a wince. “You wound me, sweetheart. If I had the chance, I would have stayed.” 

  She hums but it’s obvious she doesn’t believe you by the rise in her brow. 

  Natasha Romamoff is a hard fish to catch. One of the more established families that control practically the entirety of Europe, alongside the Maximoff family, the two were partners and crafting an empire strong enough to stand on their own without any dire need for support. 

  Yes, her family had prior dealings with the brotherhood. The Starks, Wilsons, Barnes and Rogers and more, whether to collaborate on a bigger criminal project to the smaller portioned deals. Smuggled goods and weapons, blackmail intel deliverance, international bribery to keep the feds off your backs.

  But she never committed to joining forces. 

  You suppose it’s a good power move on her part. She doesn’t have to abide by any of the family creeds, in the end, you’re all loose ends that may potentially be severed if need be. She had the ball in her court and the mysterious Maximoff heiress. 

  Even your animal magnetism wasn’t enough to charm her into joining forces with Stark and his powerhouse of families, but they were surely enough to charm her into a wild one night stand. 

But as you told her. You had work to do. And now she appears to spurn you with her eyes and cruel words, but still entertains your flirtatious advances and indulges the empty space of your thigh.

  For a well respected mob boss such as herself, she definitely liked to play it risky; dressing included. 

  Last you saw her, she was dressed in a more professional manner. But here at this funeral party, whatever the fuck it was, she chose to wear a black, spaghetti strap cocktail dress that’s short enough to be skimming the mid of her thigh. The slit riding the dress up higher is just plain dangerous. 

  She’s facing you, back arched and arse resting on the cliff of your knee. Your clawed hand supports her at the small of her back. Her perfume is strong and complimenting, a sweet bouquet of lavender which rolls over the exposed tops of her breasts from her even more exposed neck. Her plump, red lips move in a way that’s hypnotic. “So I hear you’re going to be a bargaining chip for Wanda Maximoff.”

  “Where’d you hear that?” you scoff with a flick of your chin. 

  “I have spies who whisper to me,” she answers with a swift quirk of her brow. 

  Of course she overheard the news. She then chuckles softly, and all eyes watch her with a level of suspicion. “She won’t take any deal you offer her. She’s determined to steer clear of your little gang wars over in the states.”

  “Rumlow killed her brother and he has bases around our territories. Wouldn’t she appreciate the extra hands in catching the rat?” Bucky poses the question with a dark brow angled high and clenched jaw, the muscles in his cheeks flex harder when Natasha offers no affirmative response; a mark to hopefully land you in the door and good graces with the heiress. 

  “You really think she wants a guard dog?” 

  “Hey,” you growl with a wrinkle of your nose, fangs on the precipice of baring at her. How she used the term in a condescending manner made the fur beneath your skin bristle. Sam claps a hand to your shoulder, somehow able to sense the seething anger within you. 

  “We just want to help. Offer support for her loss and bring Rumlow down.”

  “No. You want a foothold in Europe. And I’m sorry but…” She looks you up and down, drinking in the sight of you and you know she can see you without your clothes on. “You’re not going to cut it, babe.”

  She turns her body to make her getaway but you don’t let her slip away just like that. She gasps and looks to you with a furrowed glare when your arm circles her waist and tugs her back until she’s flush against you, the men in your company watch with trepidation of your next course of action.

  “I will cut it because whether she wants to admit it or not, she needs us.”

  Natasha’s eyes, true to her fashion, darken with a challenge. “You’re wasting your time. She’ll get Rumlow herself.”

  “And if Rumlow plans to get her first?” For a moment you see the doubt cross her face. “That’s where she needs me.”

  “Tony Stark.” Each of the men turn to the voice behind them and their once cool and collected selves turn rigid, nervous under the power one woman can hold so absolute, her green eyes scan each of their faces before they land on you. 

  You finally look and meet her stare, still holding Natasha against you even as she tries to push away from you. 

  “Unhand her,” the woman commands with an accented tongue. 

  At first, you wanted nothing more than to play this out a little, see what makes this woman tick. But both Tony and Steve look at you, silent in their order, you sigh heavily and release Natasha. Once you do, she wastes no time in joining Wanda’s side with a bow of her head. 

  “I hear that you wished to have an audience with me.” 

  Wanda is the sole survivor of this ordeal. Her parents were assassinated two years ago and now her brother was killed. This is the stressed matter at hand, her empire could crumble to the ground, all that hard work put into the grave because she’s being so fucking stubborn with this deal.

  “I will not sign my family, nor any of my shares, to Stark Industries. Enough have I done to keep you out of the hands of law enforcement. I will handle Rumlow myself.”

  This isn’t how any of you hoped this would go. The grief has made her stronger than before. It wasn’t exactly you were waiting for the chance for her to have a weak spot and try your luck, but you all had thought she might even be at least a little desperate for extra help. 

  Natasha’s face says it all: I told you so. You can only roll your eyes and resume with what you’re doing. Refilling your empty glass with more liquor. You’ve yet to scratch the surface of being tipsy. 

  “Miss Maximoff, we only wish to help you. All we ask in return is that you grant us some territory to work with for our trade deals as payment, for support lent to you to catch Rumlow.” Steve is calm in his approach to reason with her, but if anything, her raised hand indicates her refusal, unswayed by the honey of his words. Your tongue rolls the rounds of your mouth, each time measured by your impatience as you slowly circle around the dealings table, unable to find yourself comfortable against the stiffened wood of your seat. 

  “You do realise that you’re asking for more than your so-called ‘support’ is actually worth.” You blink several times, the blow of it a downright attack on their egos. 

  “No, I want something more.”

  “And I want alcohol to affect me so I can sleep well at night,” you mutter to the glassy rim against your bottom lip. Wanda’s eyes flicker to you, bearing down a sinister glare. “Excuse me?”

  “And we were just about to suggest that very thing!” Tony interjects with a grin, eager to utilise his card, his Ace Wolf as he liked to call you. He gestures to where you stand now at the table’s other end.

  She directs her eyes to look you up and down slowly, gaze polished with keen observation. She hums thoughtfully before she looks to Natasha. 

  “E atât de bună?”

  The red haired chuckles and sitting back in her chair, chest heaving with a breathy sigh, she nods. 

  “Exceptional de bun. Cu o limbă ca asta…”

  Bucky shifts in his seat, a hollow whistle on his lips over the exchange of heated words, and you flash a grin at both women. The words of foreign tongue, however, pass over the heads of the other men, their eyes looking to either you or Bucky only to be answered with a shrug, but knowing that look in your eyes, they can take a good guess as to what’s being discussed. 

  With another passing frame of time, both women pull away from their engrossed conversation. “I’ve been made aware that you intend to bargain your wolf to me,” she says, once again letting her sight fall on you. 

  “And if that is the case, and what I have been told…” She trails off momentarily, finding to correct herself in the midst of something you can smell very clearly on her - or rather between her legs. “Then I’ll accept.”

  Each man present in the room is given pause to revel in the stun before them. Wanda Maximoff, the heiress of Europe’s biggest family, accepts their deal. All at the price of you. 

“You’ll have your answer by tomorrow, Mr Stark,” Wanda says, standing from her chair, she beckons you to follow with a kink of her fingers. One by one and following in unison, their eyes turn to you as you shuffle back on your heel with shrug your shoulders and fanged grin.

  “Animal magnetism, boys.”

  Wanda’s heels bound a steady beat as she wanders over to the foot of her bed, making an elegant show of swaying her hips and drawing your attention to her form. From behind, Natasha slips the dark suit jacket from your shoulders. Tosing it aside, her hands play the form of an enchanting guide, ushering you forward while tracing the hidden curves of your muscles. 

  “As per courtesy, Miss Maximoff wants the first claim.” 

  You huff in reply, “And you?”

  Natasha hums softly and plucks your belt loose from your trousers. “I have you two, I won’t go unsatisfied tonight.”

  Tilting your head to view Wanda who stands idle, fingers playing with the lining of her dress above her breasts, you stalk towards her, her back arching under your touch with a breathless whimper, you trail the zip of her gown down slowly. Falling around her ankles as a fabricated halo, she turns suddenly and your lips collide together in hunger.

  She sinks down to the bed, laying back until her hair fans around her, spreading her legs apart. That feverish hunger boils within your blood, running it hold and thick, the fur beneath your skin bristled in your excitement as you take care to roll the sleeves of your skirt to your elbows. To your knees, you’re brought to the sight of her soaked underwear, the dark patch evidently giving away just how badly she required you between her quivering thighs. Natasha’s hands rake through the length of your hair and scratches at your scalp, earning a low purr of pleasure to rumble in your chest. 

You lean forward and all it takes is a single inhale and you’re let loose of your chain of control, claws shearing the fabric that dares to confine her awaiting cunt any longer. She gasps upon contact, your lips smothering her moistened, slick lips and she gives a deep-noted moan, arching her hips up, your hands wrap around her thighs to drag her to you more. 

 She tastes like the fine wines of heaven, a forbidden savour on the tongue that which you greedily lap, your eyes close as you succumb to the wolf’s hunger, tongue lapping heavily at her clit.

  She whines and cries, breath hot and light in her lungs as her nails rip into the sheets to no damaging avail.  Natasha hovers above, watching on in her own longing and desire. She dips a hand beneath the hem of her dress, aside she pushes her own soaked panties and delicately dances her fingers over the sensitive bulb with a keening breath you hear catch in her throat. 

  Natasha leans down low until the scape of her breasts brushes against your shoulder blade, lips a tantalising thing and moving sinfully to mouth, “I’m touching myself to you.”

  “Watching you please her is making me so wet, Wolf.”

  “Make us both cum.”

  You growl deeply and Wanda’s body visibly shudders in response to the wild vibrations that course through her abdomen, shaking her whole and off centre, her hips begin to jerk as she nears her climax. Both women mingle in their euphoria and your own core comes to life, sparked by the noises they make in unison, an orchestra of pleasure. Suckling and licking at her core, she cries out and the lips of her pussy shrink around absence and she sighs in bliss. In tandem, Natasha moans loudly from behind and you feel her body press against you as her hand works hard as fucking her fingers into her cunt, the sound of slick and skin melding together addicting.

  “You weren’t… kidding, Nat,” she says between laboured breaths. 

  Slowing your advances, you finally pull away with a sigh, her juices glistening on your lips. Wanda looks at you and her cheeks flush at the sight before Natasha’s other hand forces your attention to her. Her lips connect with yours and her tongue darts over the bottom of yours, tasting Wanda with a delicious sound that you swallow. 

  After she pulls from you, she then shares a look with Wanda and the two of them grin. “Shall we reward her?” 

  “I think she’s been a good girl.”

  Oh, how the wolf loves that. Praise for a job well done you can hardly suppress your proud smirk. Buu before you can do much else, Natasha pushes you and your knees are knocked out from beneath you, Wanda having rolled to the side only to follow Natasha’s lead as they both halfway straddle you, otherwise keeping you pinned to the mattress below. 

  Together they peel away your dress pants, giggling and muttering to one another in that alluring tongue, your mind in a haze to catch barely a sentence shared between them but you gained awareness of what they intended when they each stroked their tongues over your stimulated pearl. 

  “‘Sh–shit!” you hiss sharply and your hips buck, the two women giggling at the sight of you writhing. 

  They give no further warning as they duck down. Their mouths work together against your clit, suckling it to draw pathetic whines from that deep part inside you dare not let anyone see, their voices trespass the air with betraying praises that speak only of teases and their tongues lap at the slick of your pussy that clenches at the attention. Your hands grapple the sheets and tear hard, the damage unnoted and not cared for. 

  “Girls– fuck!” you groan at the rise in your core, oh so ready to reach that climactic end that you have been denied for the past several weeks. It’s not too long that your first release has you whining, the nois a higher pitched sound that does slowly in broken notes as you cum, the girls moaning and allowing their lips to graze one another as they lapped and sucked you. 

  Wanda is the first to make eye contact and move towards you, her leg swoops over to fully straddle your stomach, in her hands is your belt. She rips the centre of your shirt apart, buttons flying to discarded corners of the room to be mere pebbles of disregard.

  You see the way her eyes drink in the sight of your toned muscles, the pinky tip of her tongue darting over her wet lips. 

  She adores the way you tilt your head to the side, a curious whine on your lips. “I’ve always wanted something on a leash. May I?”

  You don’t particularly care for the way her question hits a mark submerged deeper into your heart, reaching for something you denied was there. Dignity. Usually people just took from you and you came to accept that. Expect it. 

  You nod up at her and she fixes the belt around the column of your neck, the leather cool against the blazing heat of your skin, but something inside you flutters. Quickly, you push it down. 

  Natasha moves into the same position behind Wanda, your larger size very much able to accommodate both of them, Natasha trails light kisses along Wanda’s shoulder as she fastens the belt and gives an experimental tug. A soft grunt hitches in your throat in retort and you flash her a grin, the sharpened points of your fangs perched against your bottom lip. 

  “The wolf never let me tame her, Miss Maximoff.”

  “Oh, she just needed some reassurance,” Wanda replies gently with a smile. For a moment, you wanted to believe her words were sincere. Your hands run along Wanda’s thighs until they reach her hips and with a roll forward, she grinds her pussy against your torso, feeling the defined muscles press and tense against her, bringing her to moan under her breath. Natasha drapes a hand over your own to roll and pinch Wanda’s swollen clit, her eyes finding yours.

  “Watch her,” she commands breathlessly and you do so, amber glows in fluorescent pulses as Wanda biomes slick with her arousal. The fine artistry of their bodies moving together as they roll and grind against you, you cannot help but reach a hand up, claw catching the thin silk of Wanda’s bra and severing the contraption into two, letting it fall and reveal her plump breasts; her nipples erect. 

  Wanda circles an arm behind her and behind Natasha’s head, her back arching to the pleasure she becomes lost in, and you purely enjoy the show above, admiring the glow of sweat collecting on their skin, groaning as their slick covers your stomach as they ride you. The hand working Wanda’s clit speeds up and then slows, teasing the heiress, she gives you a sly grin. 

  “Do that thing with the claws,” she says and Wanda’s eyes open, as if awakening from her bliss and becoming enlightened with wonderment. 

  “W-what thing?”

  “I’ll show you.”

  You sit by the bed, elbow propped up on the chair’s arm with a glass in your grasp, imagination lost in the reverie of last night’s events with a smirk carved into your mouth. Both women lay wrapped together, bodies nude and pressed up to each other as they continue to sleep. You surely tired them out. 

  Thankfully and mostly dressed when Tony came wandering in, the band of his fellow brothers staying just beyond the room’s threshold, though it still didn’t make to hide the snarl creeping up your throat as the sudden intrusion. You take a sip of your drink as Tony scans the room, gaze flickering between the two women and you who bares an illuminated glare at him.

  “What the hell happened last night?”

  “We got her affirmative answer on the deal,” you answer with a raise of your glass in cheers before downing the last of your drink.

THANKS FOR READING!

✎ a note from the author, Long overdue, finally knocking this one out before it gets retired to permanent draft status ughhhh... *proceeds to fall face first in tired raccoon*

on this issue's taglist, we've got: @alexawynters @alyciaddict @simpforlizzie @literaturedog @maladaptive-daydreamz @mathxa @blackbirdv98

[felassan]

The Slightest Ones bard song:

Arlathan fell so deep onto the ocean floor

Dalish elven lore:

"It is said that the Tevinter magisters used their great destructive power to force the very ground to swallow Arlathan whole"

The Adventures of the Black Fox by Gaston Gerrault:

"The stories all agree that, at some point, the Black Fox disappeared: He and his fellow adventurers voyaged into the heart of the Arlathan forest seeking the sunken city of the elves and never returned"

Solas dialogue:

"Imagine [...] palaces floating among the clouds."

Codex entry: Vir Dirthara: Homecoming

"a city of glass spires so deeply blue they ache. The city's outskirts are wrapped in lakes of mist, and figures stroll along the pearly, glowing strips as if they walked on solid ground [...] other elves walk below a river churning along an invisible shoal in the air."

Tevinter tries to mimic some ancient elvhen magic and Minrathous has a floating castle.

Location in Dragon Age: The Veilguard -

Arlathan Crater: one, two, three

Definitions of "crater":

- a landform consisting of a hole or depression on a planetary surface, usually caused either by an object hitting the surface, or by geological activity on the planet - a bowl-shaped pit that is formed by a volcano, an explosion, or a meteorite impact

Was the city of Arlathan a floating city kept aloft by ancient elvhen magic in a way that was intrinsically dependent on the presence of the Fade, and when the Veil was erected, with that tie severed it crashed to the ground like an asteroid? Did the ground swallow it whole? When Solas created the Veil, in that reshaping of reality was it physically spacetime-displaced deep into the heart of the Fade? When he made the Veil, did it "fall" (warp) into the Deep Roads like the elven library found by Genitivi in Genitivi Dies in the End? Did it fall to the bottom of the ocean? Did it fall into the other ocean, the Fade (the "Waters of the Fade", "the sea of dreams", the "emerald waters", "vast oceans, containing not water, but memories")? The Fade sort've reflects reality and is shaped by dreams, so is The City [by this I mean The Golden/Black City] the Fade-mirror-image or echo of Arlathan as opposed to literally physically it? the wild and fun thing about Dragon Age is that more than one of these things could be true at once.

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