#and rolled right off a sheer cliff

[letorip]

somethin’ stupid

“and then i go and spoil it all, by saying somethin’ stupid like ‘i love you’”

===+++===

pairing: wednesday addams x reader

summary: even knowing that your relationship with wednesday is one huge grey area, you can't help the words that come tumbling from your lips one night while on an expedition together.

warnings: blood, violent attack scene, angsty pining, mentions of sex, fear of the dark

word count: 4.2k

A/N: first post, kinda nervous. honestly pumped to start posting on here after being somewhat new to writing. will try my best not to suck.

===+++===

It’s only after you meet Wednesday Addams for the first time that you understand why storms are named after people.

In the near five months total she had been in your life, she had quickly climbed to the top priority, and you found yourself trapped in her rain bands, tugged under her dark, swelling tide and drawn to less direct ways.

Now and likely until the very end of time, you followed her through the forest, peeking around each passing tree and shining your flashlight into the dark. It was a knight's sword for you, and you held it like a weapon so as to ward off evil spirits or howling beasts. Only, half of the time it ended up being a squirrel.

It seemed antithetical, to walk into the pitch black forest that had killed several hikers and injured Eugene, -or more the big ass creature inside it had, but Wednesday had never cared much for what made sense, and you knew better than to argue with her.

The rain continued to fall around the both of you, splattering against the hood of your rain coat and rolling down your sputtering lips, tracing your nose on the way down. If Wednesday was at all affected by the rain, she hadn't let it show yet. Not that she let much show, that was.

You shivered from a sudden gust of cold, wet wind rushing over your knuckles from where they white-gripped the rubber wrapping of your flashlight. "Are we almost there yet?" You asked, squinting into the trees. "I have to get up early tomorrow."

There was no possible way Wednesday could know where she was going in the sheer amount of darkness fended off by a flimsy Acebeam, but she pushed through like she did. Maybe orienteering was just part of the outré magic she always carried with her, or at least that's what you figured it probably was. In another life she had been a cheerful girl scout, though you knew better than to suggest that aloud.

The same could not be said for you, who was an utter idiot about directions and probably would have driven off a cliff by now without the use of a GPS. Wednesday had once said you wouldn't be able to find your way out of a cardboard box, and offensively, she was probably right.

It didn't make sense why she chose you of all people to bring along, then. You had no special strength or sight, and virtually no knowledge on how to investigate a murder, especially the serial kind. The only ability you had allowed you to read thoughts and minds, though you never dared read Wednesday's, even when you itched to know what she was thinking.

Despite feeling more like an achor dragging her boat down, almost every evening, at around the same time after dark, she showed up on your doorstep to tug you off to some dangerous place.

Maybe you were secretly hoping for a reward of some sort. She often indulged you as such, lips like a heroin shot directly to your veins, powering you through the day as you watched the clock tick away into night anticipating the next rush. Enid was right. You were whipped for her.

"Your protesting doesn't make the journey any shorter," she replied, turning with the dark look that always lurked in the back of her eyes.

You knew the movements well: when she glared, her eyes lowered slightly and her mouth tensed. One could not help but watch in awe, storing the memory for later. Or, at least those ‘whipped’ for her couldn’t. She spun back around to face forward, your flashlight pointing over her shoulder into the brooding dark.

The rain only seemed to come down harder from there, punishing you both for slogging through the mushy leaves when sane people would be indoors. But Wednesday would not settle until she found Arcadia.

You cleared your throat, uneasy with the ensuing silence.

"Where are we even going, Wednesday? We've been walking forever," you said, looking down at the pale grey rocks as you stepped over them. You were grateful for being clever enough to remember hiking boots.

"We're finding evidence," she replied. "I was informed of a suspicious cave out in the forest, and-" Wednesday's words came rushing to a halt as her foot clipped the rock in front of her. She stumbled a bit, and you threw out an arm to her back, there if she needed something to steady herself on.

It was uncoordinated and it was clunky at best, and Wednesday was far from appreciative. She jolted back from your touch as if you had stung her, glaring as harsh as ever. "Sorry," you said. "I didn't want you to fall." The tips of your ears had begun to burn again, upon realising you were made the fool for another time in a row.

"You should have," said Wednesday, walking ahead. "It simulates dropping dead." Of course, on you, such a statement did not have the desired effect. Whereas most would have replied in shock or disgust, you laughed. Out loud, right at her. The gall. She whipped back to you, perplexed and annoyed by the noise. "Have something to share?"

You grinned. "You can act cool all you want, but if you had actually landed in the mud, you would have been pissed." Her expression went from glare to glower impressively quickly, though you took great glee in the fact she didn't try to dismiss it.

Anyone who had just met her would have been terrified, but you knew that look meant she hated just how much you were right. Wednesday's moody eyes lowered to your jacket, as if she was looking for an insult to sling in response.

"Why are you yellow?"

You blinked, then shrugged. "Because for someone so intelligent I'm the only one who remembered a raincoat."

"The beast will eat you wether you're rained on or not," she replied reasonably.

You blanched at this. It was apparent the possibility had never crossed your mind. "It eats people????"

Suddenly the darkness of the woods only seemed to worsen and the rain seemed to come down even harder, as if life was laughing at the terror it was causing. You had never been one for haunted houses, and you decided in that instant that this was far worse than any haunted house you had ever been to.

Wednesday shrugged, and you were far from put at ease by that. She glanced at you up through mischievous lashes, entirely knowing what she was doing and enjoying every sadistic moment of it.

"I suppose we may find out tonight. I should offer up you, the yellow highlighter, first. You have longer bones than I do, and I'm sure it would appreciate a snack, after-"

"Ha. Ha."

As surprising as was Wednesday's capacity to joke, you knew that's all it was. Such falsehoods could not be exposed to the public, and she would rather die than admit she cared for anyone. That was her secret. You knew to keep it well.

It had been weird to see Wednesday attempt comedy at first. Often times you still thought she may be dead serious. But on these nightly expeditions it seemed she could joke freely. Sometimes she kissed you freely. You just had to know she didn't do it for you. She told you constantly, just to be sure.

From in front, Wednesday trembled from a sudden angry breeze and you watched her, sighing and tugging off your raincoat. You tossed it over her shoulders wordlessly; Wednesday didn't acknowledge it either. She put one arm in, then another, but didn't pull the hood up, and you rolled your eyes. "Pull the hood up, Wednesday. Don't be stubborn."

"I'm fine," she shot back, tone sharp and piercing to any sort of armour you could have put up. But even that didn't make you buy it.

"Your hair is like, stuck to your forehead, Wednesday. Just pull up the hood part."

"I don't even want to be in this dreadful thing, why would I want more of it on me. It's yellow."

"It's keeping you warm."

"I'm allergic to colours."

"Well then I guess it's great you brought a black one- oh, wait! That's right! You didn't."

She blinked at you unappreciatively, but your unimpressed expression made her give in, and she begrudgingly did as she was told. With a hood now over her, shrouding her soft hair from the harsh rain, you felt a bit better about her being out in the cold. After a moment she grumbled, messing with the sleeves. "Why are your arms so freakishly long?"

You didn't answer, biting back a response that included the word 'short.' It would have been entirely unproductive and probably earned a rock thrown at your head. Instead, you focused on the small row of houses you could see on a road in the far distance.

Their windows were small, warm boxes in the dryness, as opposed to the pouring, angry storm only a heathen of some sort would be caught in. It looked the same as it had the week before when you had passed the same area with Wednesday, and you recognised the same lamp that sat in the same spot of the same window on the second floor. It hadn't moved even an inch and neither had the flowers in the pot sitting next to it.

You hummed, "I love streets like those. It looks so warm and comfortable. I could be out here forever and it would still be the same warm place."

"Poetic," Wednesday dryly replied. Poetry had never seemed to move her much, beyond the grim ones from Poe about death and despair. She had tried to teach you about it once, during an impromptu "study session," which was what Wednesday usually called hunting you down after class and sticking your head between her legs.

It was the very first time she had let you stick around after, and the more and more often she let it happen, the more you felt yourself allowing for false hopes. Of course, accusing her of growing fond was a way to end up in an early grave and you knew better.

It had been a whisper, really, what she said with your head resting on her stomach, arms against the skin of her thighs. You were both sweating, terribly so, and then came, "years of love have been forgotten, in the hatred of a minute." It was only a whisper, and you weren't even sure Wednesday had spoken it into existence. But you looked up, and she was staring down at you, eyes unreadable. Her mouth was tensed into a grimace; a symbol for words unsaid.

"What's that?" You asked, leaning your head back.

She had shook her head. "It's Poe. He founded the school."

"I know who Edgar Allan Poe is, Wednesday. I meant what you were saying."

She looked away to the window, like eye contact then would have doomed her. "I'm not sure." It was a lie, and you knew it, but you couldn’t scan Wednesday’s thoughts and it was the first time she had let you stay propped up against her. You knew better than to ruin that.

"Why do you like that kind of poetry, anyhow? It's awfully depressing."

"It's a reminder," she replied, eyes still away and tone flat. "You and I will be in the ground someday, or maybe I will be in the family crypt. 'As you are now, so once, was I.' And other such ruminations. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust." Her gaze sliced back to you, as if she were gaging your reaction. "Either way, we're doomed."

You hadn't known what she meant by that, and you still didn't know, walking through the forest. She spoke in riddles, and it was impossible to know if she wanted you to decipher them or leave them as they were. Her vagueness with emotions was her armour, maybe.

Wednesday was usually cold and efficient and exact, in a way you could appreciate. You were far warmer, and though you seemed to constantly trip over yourself, patiently waiting for any sort of warmth to be returned, she stayed with the same chill that kept you close enough to bring comfort to her fingers, but never close enough to make her melt.

"When we get there, I want you to stay outside and keep watch. Don't come inside with me, I want to look around alone. If you hear anything or any noise or thoughts over the rain, give me the signal I trained you on," said Wednesday, looking through the bowers and thread veins of roots so as not to trip again.

"You're not my boss, Wednesday, and I'm not your henchman," you said, the words spilling out in annoyance. You hated when she went into work mode. She looked over at you, eyes giving an intense challenge.

"What am I then?"

You rolled your eyes at this. "Like my hobby, at best." It wasn't true, and both of you knew it.

"Do you kiss and sleep with all your 'hobbies,' then?" Wednesday's eyes studied you.

"Maybe," you shrugged. "I don't really kiss and tell." Actually, you hadn't kissed anybody since she had made out with you two days prior, and you hadn't kissed somebody other than her since she had first kissed you two months ago.

You knew, though, that Wednesday had done similar peregrinations with the normie boy, Tyler, from town who worked at the Weathervane. Sometimes you wondered if she put her lips on his, too. Other times, you couldn't help wondering if either of you really mattered to her.

She had said no when you asked her that once before, but slow danced and made out with you immediately after answering, at the Rave'N, so your confusion was understandable. It was like she both hungered for you and hated you for it at the same time, and you knew getting thrown around like that wasn’t what you wanted. But if it gave you her, even for a brief moment, you were all too eager.

From behind the both of you, you heard a branch snap, spinning around as the rain poured. There was nothing visibly there; your stupid flashlight didn't reach out that far and no moving through the brush could be heard. "Did you hear that?" you said to Wednesday, freezing completely. She nodded, but did not seem phased even slightly, turning to watch your terror with an eyebrow raised.

“Likely an animal," said Wednesday.

You were still frozen to the spot, staring into the dark as fear screamed at you to run away. “Are you okay?” she asked, puzzled.

You shook your head, sticking your hand out towards her. “No.” It was a question that needn't be asked. Wednesday examined your fingers closely, like she was contemplating if it was a bad idea, but then grabbed your palm and held it tightly in hers, locking the digits in with her own and squeezing it gently. It was an immediate comfort and you unfroze, Wednesday pulling you into the dark.

===+++===

"Your obnoxious coat is warm...thank you." She seemed to spit the last part out with a bit of reluctance, but you appreciated it nevertheless. For around the last half mile, you had been getting rained on instead. Droplets dripped from your hair, rolling down your cheeks and over your lips before dribbling from your chin.

"You can keep it for a while. Until you get your own, I mean," you said, absentmindedly playing with the flashlight. You would rather die than admit you were nervous aloud. Luckily, it didn't seem you needed to.

She stopped short at your words, grabbing your collar roughly with her hand and balling it between her fingers. It was harsh and it was passionate, like Wednesday always seemed to be in flares. Her mouth crashed into yours, teeth clinking together, toes poking into the mushy ground so she could even reach your face.

Unfortunately, it was over as soon as it began, and she pulled away quickly, walking away and leaving you behind, panting awkwardly as your mind began to spin. She was all too much, everything about her. You couldn’t stop yourself. "I love you,” you blurted out.

From the way she whipped back to you, it hadn’t been nearly quiet enough. Silence seemed to echo through the clearing, even in the raging storm around that pounded into trees and pooled in mushy puddles. She stared at you, and all you could do was stare back. Wednesday stomped back over, cheeks red and dark eyes shining with an unusual capriciousness. “What?”

You shook your head. “Nothing. Talking to myself.”

But she didn’t believe you. In previous attempts by you to draw out any indication of her affections, she could blatantly ignore it or change the subject without answering. Now, she was frustrated by how you always wore your heart on your sleeve. And this time, how your words demanded she do the same.

“What did you say,” she demanded. “Tell me right now, or I’ll-“

“I said I love you, Wends,” you cut her off before she could make a threat. God, she stared. She stared and stared and stared at you with her eyes in the dark, looking like she would be the one to read your mind and not the other way around. The humidity of the rain was suffocating you, but the powerful wind filled your lungs with air again, in a vicious, heaving cycle.

She took a small step forward, tilting her head up at you like she was inspecting you up close. “You don’t mean what you say.”

"I really wish I didn't, but I absolutely do." Your tone burned with a relieving candor, and Wednesday's eyebrows furrowed, before she backed away again. Your flashlight turned towards the ground, lowering your face into shadow.

"I told you, I don't want anything more from you," she said. "You're spoiling what we already have." She seemed more agitated than anything, but you stood your ground.

"But I feel like there's more here, Wednesday. I know I'm not crazy, you can feel it too. So I don't know why you're being all tough, when I just want to take care of you. That's all I've ever wanted."

"Learn to want for something else then," she argued back. "We can't work, we won't, I-"

"Why?"

"I told you why," she replied, crossing her arms. "Years of love-"

"No no, none of that bullshit you know you want to confuse me with. Just lay it out, plain and simple."

She bit her mouth shut, then narrowed her eyes at you before giving a huff. "Have you been reading my thoughts?"

"What?" Your forehead creased into lines, staring at her intently. "You know I don't."

"I don't know if you're aware, but I see you, in my visions sometimes. I actually think about the same one often, when I'm with you."

"What am I doing, then?" You asked, feeling a sickness come to your stomach. You didn’t know what future event you would be up to, but you could guarantee Wednesday you would stop yourself from hurting her.

“You’re being killed. By the beast.”

“…Oh.”

“You’re running far away, being chased. I see you get tackled or hit, and you fall into the dirt. Then I see your face being slashed over and over again by a creature, and you appear to bleed out on the floor of a forest.”

“Wednesday, that won’t come true.” You tried to assure her, but a small hand came forward, covering your mouth, shushing you. The gentle palm pressed against your soaked lips, fingertips ghosting the lines of your cheeks.

“I would hate you for it, dying. What I hate even more is that your closeness to me is likely what causes this. I don’t love you, (Y/n). I can’t. Stop trying to make me. It’s only pitiful and painful for the both of us.”

You reached up for her hand, pulling it away. “But how do you know it’s definitely you that ruins it? What if it’s something else, or what if it’s you saying no?”

“Because as painful as it is, I’m certain I break your heart if I indulge you.”

“Wednesday,” your voice shook a bit. “You’re breaking my heart right now.”

“This,” she said, “This is why I cannot give you more than I already have. I’m not my parents, (Y/n). Can’t you just be happy with our current relationship? You always try to complicate things. Like a stupid little puppy.”

You took a step back like a wounded animal. “What? You’re being mean.”

“Maybe if I am it'll get through to you. We won’t work, and if we don’t try to make it work, I won’t end up breaking your heart, and you won’t run away.” Her speaking volume was getting louder now.

“That’s a stupid plan!” You said raising your voice.

“And you’re a fool!” She said back. “I’m trying to protect you and take what I can get at the same time."

"You're hurting me."

"You're hurting yourself. I keep pushing you away. Stop coming back."

You frowned, feeling your face grow hot. "I come back because I care, and I know you care too."

"Caring for you gets me nowhere. You're doomed, (Y/n). I'm trying to protect you, so do us both a favour and get as far away from me as possible. Don't let me pull you back."

"Wednesday, I-"

"Go, you idiot." You swallowed her words. She was still wearing your yellow raincoat, looking at you with the most steely expression you had ever seen. You stepped forward in silence, only the mushing of the leaves filling the space between you. You unwrapped the armband of the flashlight from around your wrist and extended it out to her.

"Here. For the cave." She blinked at you, then she took it. Without another word, you did as you were told, stepping off into the dark and pulling against the magnetic field. With your ability to break past her facades turned off, you couldn't see the deep regret that wormed its way into her stare, watching your back retreat into the tree line.

===+++===

It only took around five minutes for you to regret not having the flashlight. The storm had turned to complete and utter chaos, and you could hear thunder and lightning booming and cracking against the night sky. Everything was so much darker than before, and it seemed to grow up and out like a giant ladder, turning to shadow and fog a few feet in front of you.

Part of you was still mad at Wednesday. Knowing she was scared for you didn't make it any of an easier pill to swallow. Neither did knowing you would likely die soon.

The looming question still sat unanswered, weighing down the wrinkles of your brain and cozying up at the mantle of your thoughts. Would it be weeks? Months? If she never ended up catching it (though that was very unlikely) how many years would you have left?

From behind you, you heard a branch snap again. You spun, looking around. An animal maybe. Then, you heard footsteps. They were big, though not an animal. Maybe it was Wednesday. She wore thick shoes often, with heavy soles.

It was only with the sudden realisation that there was no flashlight with the figure coming towards you, that your eyes began to widen and a chill shot up your spine like a spooked animal. It only took the dropping of your telepathic cancelling to fully realise what was about to happen.

KILL. KILL. KILL.

The monster's thinking was thunderous and loud, and it reverberated within your skull as you turned to run. You stomped your foot into the swampy ground, running the fastest you felt you ever had. KILL. The forest seemed to blur, rushing past you as you fled through the trees and smacking at branches that sagged in your way.

KILL. You heard the footsteps now, coming up quickly. They sounded huge, and with every bound you could hear greenery get smushed behind you as the beast moved through it. KILL. You had no idea how close it was behind you, but there was no time to look either. In one rush, you found yourself back in a stoney quarry, and in the far distance illuminated a KILL. streetlight standing over a mountain road.

You ran towards it, face scratched by a branch in the process as you forgot to swipe it away. The wood KILL. connected with a stabbing pain, piercing your lip as you ran, but you didn't so much as wince. "HELP!" You yelled KILL. out, trying to catch any attention as you ran for the pavement, and you were almost there. KILL.

You were too slow. A set of long, pointy claws latched onto your back, sinking into the skin and ripping you down with a yelp, throwing you to the ground. Your back slid into the tree with a sickening crack, and pain seemed to freeze your body. KILL.

Standing over you was the muscular, horrifyingly disfigured body of a towering creature, its eyes shining with violent zeal. It lowered with a clicking growl, eyeing your heaving, bleeding body and sneering. KILL. KILL. KILL.

Your eyebrows furrowed, blood spilling from your lips. In a single instant, you knew who it was, digging past the monstrous yells to the real thoughts of the boy underneath. "Tyler?"

Its claws sunk into your stomach, and everything went dark.

===+++===

a/n: a part two maybe? idk, i'm no rocket scientist. anyways, this is my very first post, so, here we go i guess? excited to start this and grateful for anyone who reads this. i tried to spellcheck but if it isn't perfect please please please let me know, i would fix it immediately.

[blank-potato]

Pretty Lips

Pairing: Lochlan Ratliff x Reader 

Summary:

Your mystery man was calling, but he was the last thing on your mind. Your thumb hovers over the screen, ready to hang up, when Lochlan’s hand gently wraps around yours, steadying it.“Answer it.”“Are you crazy?”Lochlan leans back, laughing at the sheer recklessness of his own suggestion, eyes glinting with challenge. You were clearly starting to rub off on Lochlan, and you didn’t know if that was a good thing. “And put it on speaker.”Or You’re Lochlan’s reckless best friend, and you convince him to “borrow” one of his dad’s cars. He does it, but when he finally gets you alone, you’re distracted by some guy blowing up your phone, and he won’t have anyone stealing your attention.

Tags/Warnings: 18+ smut, oral sex (female receiving), fingering, implied sex, phone sex (kinda), car sex

WC: 3.4K

A/N: Thought of this while listening to Pretty Lips by WINEHOUSE and after rewatching Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. Also, this wasn’t supposed to be smut, but I guess I can’t help myself. Next Lochlan fic I post will probably be fluff, but anyways, enjoy jealous Lochy

✮⋆˙✮⋆˙✮⋆˙

“Let’s steal one of your dad’s cars.”

“Are you crazy?”

If you didn’t do anything, Lochlan would just stay standing still. Or at least that’s what you thought— it was more like Lochlan didn’t stop you, you’d run off a cliff. 

“It's just sitting here. Everyone's asleep, and it's ready for the taking. Aren't you a man who takes what he wants?”

“Not really.”

“Lochy,” you whine, and he laughs, a smile spreading across his face.

“You really want me to?” he asks, eyes softening like melted honey.

You nod, and you know he'd do anything to make you happy. He disappears for a moment, and when he comes back to the garage, he's twirling the keys to his dad's expensive vintage car on one finger. 

You pull him in and kiss his cheek, “I love you, Lochlan!”

And you were so excited, you didn’t notice the way his face flushed when you did. The slight hitch in his breath, the way his lips curled into that shy, crooked smile he reserved just for you, even if you were too oblivious to catch it.

Both of you leave the garage, driving through the quiet streets of his neighbourhood, a thrill already buzzing beneath your skin.

You leave the suburbs behind and glide along the motorway, a little too slowly for your liking.

“Faster!”

“You do realise there’s a speed limit.”

“Yes, we’re on the motorway and going at 50 miles an hour. Go faster, for me?” You tilt your head with a pout, and he’s already sighing, easing the accelerator until you’re pushing 75 in a 70.

You smile at him, delighted that he’d break the law for you, and he’s just happy you’re smiling. You reach over and roll down the window, letting the cool air rush in. As you lean out the window, your face against the wind, eyes closed and laughing, you shout over the roar, “This is why your mother hates me, isn't it?”

“She doesn't hate you.”

He pauses and scratches the back of his neck, searching for the right words.

“She doesn’t hate you a lot… anymore,” he adds with a lopsided grin, glancing at you from the corner of his eye.

“You don't need to protect my feelings. She's just trying to protect the youngest and cutest member of the Ratliff family.”

You pinch his cheek, smirking. “She doesn't want me to corrupt you.”

“Watch it, I’m driving,” he laughs, swatting your hand away gently, but there’s no real warning in his voice.

“Then turn off at this exit, we can find somewhere to chill,” you say, rolling the window back up, and he nods, flicking the indicator on moments later.

The two of you pull up to a quiet parking lot of a supermarket, half-lit by the soft glow of a street lamp.

“Wanna go to White Castle tonight? It's close by and it should be on ope–” 

You're interrupted by a text… and another… and another. Your phone’s buzzing nonstop in your lap. Lochlan glances over as you check it, his face calm but his jaw tight, trying to hide his curiosity at who could be texting you at 11 p.m.

“Who is it?” he asks. His nosiness often got the better of him, but he’s the youngest sibling; it’s in his nature.

“No one important,” you reply, locking your screen, but he doesn’t look convinced.

Another text comes through, one that makes you laugh without meaning to. Lochlan felt the uneasy jump in his chest. He didn’t like it when you were distracted, liked it even less when someone else was making you laugh right in front of him. That was his job. 

“You can tell me. Is it a guy?” He questions again as he looks out at the empty parking lot, tapping his finger on the wheel as he tries to distract himself.

“Yeah, but it’s just casual,” You reply quietly, still typing a reply.

“So you guys have…?”

Lochlan didn't need to finish the sentence, and in all honesty, he didn't want to.

“A few times.”

“Oh.”

The car gets quiet, completely silent as tension settles in, his jaw clenching even tighter. You look up just in time to see Lochlan with a rare serious look on his face, eyes fixed on the windscreen, but his mind clearly somewhere else.

You reach over, poking his cheek gently, bringing him back to his senses.

“Are you jealous?” you ask, teasing but soft.

“I’m not…” he replies, too quick to be convincing.

“You so are. Well, let’s get this over with. Ask your questions.”

He fidgets with his hands for a moment before finally looking at you.

“Is he good at it?” Lochlan asks, his tone flat, unreadable.

“At what?” you ask, even though you already know.

“Sex.” The word leaves his mouth in a deadpan, as if it were the most casual thing in the world.

“Oh… I wasn’t expecting you to just…” Your words trail off, flustered. He always asked questions; he was curious by nature, but he was rarely this direct.

Your sex life wasn't exactly glamorous. The guy you were hooking up with was alright, more just someone to pass the time with, but it was nothing special. Not to mention when he’d go down on you, it’d last a minute before he was done. Foreplay wasn’t his forte. 

“What doesn’t he do for you?”

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think Lochlan was a mind reader.

“Really?”

“I’m your best friend, you can trust me with anything.”

And he was right. Lochlan was your ride or die. He’d been there when you needed him most, and you’d been there for him just the same. From late-night breakdowns and family issues (he had plenty of those) to passing colds back and forth because you could never stay away from each other, you’d weathered it all together.

If there was anyone you could talk about this with, it was him.

“He doesn’t really eat me out. He starts, but I never finish. It’s no biggie—”

“I’ll do it.”

There’s a long pause as you look at Lochlan like he’s insane. There’s no hint of hesitation or doubt, just quiet, steady resolve.

You can tell he’s completely sincere, and it’s written all over his face, like he’s begging you to let him do this.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I’ll do it. I’ll eat you out, and I’ll do it better than he can.”

He moves closer, his voice low and certain, leaving no space for doubt.

Lochlan puts his hand on yours, his touch warm and steady, grounding you even as the tension coils tighter between you. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, slow and deliberate, like a silent question, waiting for your answer. Your eyes fall to his lips, his pretty, downright beautiful lips, making your heart thud in your chest.

“Lochlan…” you whisper, unsure whether it's a warning or a plea.

“Please, I’ll do anything you want me to, whatever it is that’ll make you feel good.”

He’s desperate to prove himself to you. He would rather risk everything, his pride, his heart, than just sit back and lose you to anyone else.

“We’re friends, best friends…” You mumble, almost like reminding yourself.

“Exactly,” he cuts in softly, “and best friends help each other out, take care of each other. Let me take care of you. It won’t change anything, I promise.”

You consider it for a moment, heart racing. You knew Lochlan wasn’t as experienced as you were, but there was something sincere, almost endearing, in the way he offered himself so openly.

Maybe this could be a learning opportunity for both of you.

“I’m down. Just remember, nothing changes between us.”

“Understood.”

The two of you wait a moment in nervous anticipation, the air heavy with unspoken feelings, before Lochlan finally makes the first move, his hand sliding to rest against your waist, steady and sure, yet gentle.

Slowly, inch by inch, the distance between you closes until your lips finally meet in the middle. This wasn’t the first time this had happened. 

You and Lochlan had kissed before, but only once, during a sleepover at his place back in middle school. Saxon had pulled him aside and told him to kiss you, insisting he couldn’t let his little brother start high school without having been kissed. So, of course, Lochlan did it. It was both of your first kisses, the kind of moment you never forget.

It was sweet and shy, both of you unsure, the awkwardness mixing with a strange, thrilling anticipation. 

This was a very different kiss.

He was hungry for you.

It was passionate, but slow. He had been waiting for this for far too long and didn't want it to ever end. His lips were soft as expected, moving sloppily against yours as the kiss deepened like you both couldn’t get enough. Just when you think your brain’s caught up to your body, he takes your bottom lip between his teeth and tugs on it, slowly releasing as you pull apart. You didn’t know who or what had taught him that, but you were thankful. 

A buzz from your phone sends both of your heads snapping towards it, hearts still pounding, breaths heavy in the thick silence. Your mystery man was calling, but he was the last thing on your mind. Your thumb hovers over the screen, ready to hang up, when Lochlan’s hand gently wraps around yours, steadying it.

“Answer it.”

“Are you crazy?”

Lochlan leans back, laughing at the sheer recklessness of his own suggestion, eyes glinting with challenge. You were clearly starting to rub off on Lochlan, and you didn’t know if that was a good thing. 

“And put it on speaker.”

Feeling compelled to obey, your fingers hesitate for just a second before you swipe to accept, answering the call with a nervous, “Hey...”

“Why have you been dodging my texts?” The guy’s voice pours from the speaker, smooth but kind of whiny, which you never noticed until now. 

“I’ve just been…”

Suddenly, Lochlan’s hands are on your shoulders, trailing a finger slowly down your neck, sending a shiver through you.

“Busy,” you say, voice lower than intended, breath catching as his touch lingers.

“Well, get ‘un-busy’, you should come over.”

His voice is insistent, almost whiny, as Lochlan peppers your neck with soft, teasing kisses that make your knees weak.

“No, no, like I said, I’m busy…” You say, trying to keep your voice steady, even as your breath hitches.

“You can’t be too busy for me.”

You close your eyes, Lochlan’s hands sliding around your waist, pulling you gently closer. Delicate fingers climb up your body, making you shiver. You glance down, catching your breath, only to see his hand had already disappeared under your shirt, slow, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world.

Every touch, every brush of his fingers, was a tease. Keeping you balanced on the edge, strung between wanting and waiting. And all you could wonder was how he was so good at it, how he knew exactly how to make you fall apart.

“You should get in the backseat,” Lochlan whispers, his breath hot against your ear.

You both clumsily clamber into the back, hearts pounding, hands fumbling, moving as quickly as you could, like you were running out of time. It’s a mess of limbs and heat as you both work to pull off your jeans, tangled in one another. You start to pull off your shirt when—

“Hello? Baby, are you still there?” the other guy’s voice cuts through the speaker.

You freeze, breath caught in your throat.

“Answer him,” Lochlan murmurs, that dangerously, sweet smile spreading across his face. You’d never be able to trust it again.

You reach over and pick up the phone, out of breath, trying to steady your voice. “Y-yeah, I’m still here.”

“Well, as I was saying…”

The words drift into the background, muffled and meaningless, as your eyes lock with Lochlan’s. The guy on the phone keeps talking, but you’re sure as hell not listening. Not while Lochlan's taking off your panties, and pulling you to his mouth.

“W-wait...” you gasp out, barely able to catch your breath, your hands gripping at his arms for something steady.

From the phone, the voice cuts through the haze.

“Baby, what is going on with you? Are you even listening?”

“I-I am, I swear,” you stutter out, your voice trembling just as much as the rest of your body.

Lochlan doesn’t have to say a word, his touch was doing all the talking. The way his lips brush against your thighs, fingers still drawing lazy circles against your skin, it was as if he was daring you to lose focus all over again.

He licks at your pussy lightly with an outright cruel smile on his face. He knew you wanted to beg; it was on the tip of your tongue, but you couldn’t let it slip, effectively holding your moans hostage. He smiles up at you one more time before delving in, and eating your pussy like it’s all he’s ever known. 

Watching him was a quiet kind of torment, he was perfect. His eyes closed in concentration, every movement deliberate, giving you everything you needed. Then, as if he were trying to end you, he looks straight up at you through his eyelashes, eyes dark, half-lidded, and full of intent. Like a siren trying to lure you to your own undoing, completely at his mercy with every flick of his tongue. And it was beautiful, the way he was working tirelessly to massage your clit without ever taking his eyes off you.

Little did you know, he had thought about this a million times, jerked off to it even. Being able to taste you on his lips as he makes you squirm. It felt too good, to make you feel good and he'd be damned if he missed a second of it.

You grip his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands without thinking, and you can see him smile. He leans into your touch, as if begging you to pull him further. His hand rests on your stomach, holding you down when you try to squirm away. Pressing down harder when he starts sucking on your clit, anticipating the way your body would jerk. 

“I can't…”

“Yes, you can. Please… for me?” His eyes were wide, almost pleading, like a sweet, innocent lamb, full of vulnerability.

He rests his cheek against your thigh, the image of him nestled there looking so comfortable, messing with your head. It felt so right, the weight of his presence, the softness of his touch, it felt natural even though thinking about your best friend this way, even though it was the last thing you should be doing. 

You can almost imagine what it’d be like to wake up to see him kissing your thighs, the morning light casting a warm glow across his face as he gently pulls you closer, his lips soft against your skin. Then he’s start licking desperately at your pussy through your soaked panties, and fuck you through an orgasm with his fingers. Those thoughts alone make you vulnerable to whatever he wants you to do, and you don’t mind one bit. 

“Y-yeah…for you.”

“Are you with someone?” the guy asks, his voice distant through the phone.

But you don’t bother responding. The words stick in your throat, lost to the flood of sensation as the gates break loose and you finally give in to the pleasure Lochlan’s giving you.

“Come on, let him know how good I’m making you feel,” Lochlan says before getting back to work licking at your folds, and starting to stretch you out with his two fingers. 

You moan uncontrollably, your legs twitching as Lochlan holds them open, refusing to let them close even if you tried. He adds a third finger, hitting your spot over and over again, making you curl and shake. Your forehead rests against his, your breaths tangled, shallow and unsteady.

“You’re so amazing, taking my fingers like this,” he whispers, voice low and coaxing, as he guides his fingers in and out of you. 

“Who are you with—?” The voice cuts off, and your eyes snap open just in time to see the screen go dark, Lochlan’s thumb lifting from your phone.

He’d hung up on him.

“He doesn’t need to hear what happens next,” Lochlan says, his voice low and certain. “He doesn’t deserve it.”

The way he says it stops you cold.

And in that moment, you know. You know exactly what he needs, what he’s been aching for all along. You lean in, close enough that your words are just for him, and you decide to give him what he’s been so desperately needing to hear. That you’re choosing him, want him, and you need him more than you’ve ever needed anyone. 

“You’re so much better than him,” you whisper, your breath hitching with every word.

His response is wordless; he buries his face against your neck, kissing and lathering your skin in open-mouthed kisses, slow and hungry, each one leaving you weaker than the last.

“No one can touch me the way you can.”

“Keep saying that,” he moans against your skin, voice rough, almost desperate.

And you flood him with praise, every word making his grip tighten just a little more. Your fingers thread through his hair, tugging gently as you grind yourself closer against him, chasing every ounce of friction you could steal.

“Wanna cum for you and only you,” you whisper, your voice soft but filled with certainty. He whimpers against your skin in response, a sound so raw and needy, like he himself didn’t even realise how much he needed to hear you say that.

Your bodies move in sync, perfectly matched as he brings you closer and closer to the edge, to that blinding release you’ve been chasing all along.

“Lochy, I’m gonna—”

You don’t even finish your sentence. His lips crash into yours, swallowing the words the moment they leave you, just as your body finally gives in.

You cry out against his mouth, your body spasming with wave after wave of your orgasm, his hands holding you steady through every shudder. You stay there for a moment before going limp in his arms. He lays soft, tender kisses on your skin as you come down, your body still trembling, as you look up and around at the interior of the car, your thoughts hazy but content. All you could see was Lochlan. Even behind your closed eyelids, every time you blinked, he was there. How he looked, how he felt…You wanted to replay it in your mind forever.

And of course, as you come back from your near-out-of-body experience, he’s there for you. Taking care of you like a good best friend does after eating you out so good you’re scared no one else could ever compare. After making sure you were okay, he pulls back slightly, his expression innocent but carrying a hint of a smile, like he’s quietly proud of the way he’s ruined you. Seeing his pretty lips covered in your slick made you go wild, and you knew you could go again at a moment's notice. When he goes to wipe his face, you stop him as quickly as you can.

“Let me,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper as you lean back in, your breath catching in your throat.

You press your lips to his, tasting yourself on his lips as you reach up and tug on his hair. And you’re happy to say it makes him moan, almost endearing in how pathetic it is. 

“So, I guess we should—” he starts slightly dazed from the kiss, but you quickly interrupt him. 

“We’re not done yet. Let’s see if you’re better at fucking me than him,” You say eyeing the obvious bulge in his pants, there was no way you were letting him get away with giving you a mindblowing orgasm with nothing in return. He was far too selfless, and you were more than willing to give him some much-needed relief. 

You pull him back on top of you as you fumble to get into his jeans. Even though you both promised it wouldn’t change anything, you’d be naive to believe that. 

Main Masterlist || The White Lotus Masterlist

[hannibals-favourite-meal]

Caught at the last second with Clark Kent?

.⋆｡The Fall｡⋆.

Clark Kent x plus size reader

Faced with a choice between you and Lois, Clark has to decide who lives and who dies

Warnings: angst, fear of heights, literally a life and death situation guys, unrequited love (maybe), vivid imagery of drowning, kind of ambiguous but happy ending (you’ll see) WC: 1.1k

6k Follower Celebration Bingo

Library- @hannibals-favourite-meal-library

“Isn’t this a predicament Superman? Your ex-lover and your best friend in such precarious situations, across the globe from each other. You’ll only have time to save one of them.” The LEDs of the monitors behind Luther seared into Clarks eyes but he refused to look away. Already his muscles were tensed, ready to dart away at any moment. “I wonder which one you will choose, I know which one I would.” 

Luther smirked, eyeing the monitor that clearly displayed your panicked face as you struggled against the chains wrapped tightly around your soft body. “She is quite the fighter, isn’t she?”

“Why are you doing this Luther?” The man rolled his eyes, finally turning to look at Clark.

“Why wouldn’t I? You are a nuisance, self-righteous, and aggravatingly nosy. If I kill one of them, and I will, I think you’ll learn your lesson. So, here we are. Lois Lane, the only woman you have ever loved, suspended over a cliff somewhere in Europe,” Luther gestured to the image of Lois, her head raising as his voice repeated over the feed and Clark realised that they could both hear what was happening, “and your best friend. The woman who has never stopped supporting you, somewhere in the Pacific with an anchor attached to her, I’m sure you can imagine what her fate is.” The man had the audacity to laugh then, as your expression fell and you stopped struggling.

“You don’t have to do this Luther. Just let them go and I’ll spare you.” 

Lex hummed. “You know, you’re right. This is quite boring by my standards, let’s shake it up.” Suddenly, a ground of masked men surrounded you, briefly blocking the camera before there was a scuffle and the feed cut off. Before Clark could react, another camera turned on, showing the criss-crossing metal beams of a crane as cables in the background shifted in the high winds. “Give them a minute, would you? Not all of us can move so quickly.” 

“I’m going to rip you apart, molecule by molecule.” Red creeped into Clark’s vision, slowly casting a haze of rage over everything.

“Now, if you kill me, you won’t get a hint as to where your women are. So be a good boy and watch. Ah, there she is.” Two men had you by your arms as they dragged you through the crane’s walkway, your eyes squeezed shut. Clark knew how badly you hated heights, descending into panic attacks if he even mentioned taking you out on a flight. His chest burned with fear. “And now, we have a level playing field. So, who are we picking?”

Your chains were thrown onto the edge of the structure, almost out of the camera’s line of sight, the huge iron anchor balancing treacherously by your feet. 

“Kal!” His eyes darted over to the second monitor where Lois was now fighting against a pulley that was quickly tugging her towards a sheer cliff face. Only her hands were bound by thick rope but he knew that as soon as her full body weight pulled on it, the rope would snap. 

“What’s the hint?” He snarled, ripping his gaze back to Lex Luther who was now beaming.

——————

The cold wind was like knives against your exposed skin, cutting into every nerve on your body. You desperately prayed that you would go numb soon, not wanting your last moments on this Earth to be ones full of pain. Your nails bit into the palms of your hands as another gust of wind made the crane groan and sway. It was all you could do not to scream.

Yet you kept your mouth firmly shut because you knew that if you said or did anything now, it would only feed into Clark’s guilt. He was going to pick Lois and you wanted to give him peace of mind. You forced your eyes open to watch the sunset. Your death would not be quick, even with the dizzying height, it would not be enough to kill you. Instead, you would be dragged to the depths as salt water filled your lungs and your screams forcefully ripped from you.

You wouldn’t blame Clark as you sank, you hope that you could instead think about his smile as the dim light above you disappeared into the blue.

You would not tell him that you loved him, refused to leave that weight on his soul when he already carried so much pain within him. But you would imagine a life with him, a kid, maybe two in a small townhouse somewhere quiet, as the pressure and cold consumed you. 

Lois’s voice crackled through the intercom by your head, distorted and warped. A band of fear wrapped tightly around your chest, pressing down harder than the metal chain keeping your arms pinned to your sides. You forced yourself to breathe in the salty air, knowing that it could be your last.

“I’ll be ok Clark, don’t worry about me. Just be happy, that’s all I’ve ever wanted for you.” And as the sun dipped below the horizon, you let your eyes shut again, your entire body relaxed. “I’ll be ok.”

Metal scrapped against metal. You were pulled forwards. 

The wind screamed.

You could see the vivid blue of his eyes.

You were weightless.

You could hear his laughter.

The chains rattled.

You saw the moment you met him; the rain around you, a single umbrella between you.

The sound of waves crashing was getting closer. 

He was always so kind, so warm. You never knew a man better than him. 

Gravity slammed into you, knocking a pained cry from your lips. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” Warmth enveloped you as something crashed into the ocean, droplets of water splashing against your ankles. Your cheek was pressed against something hard as a loud, frantic beating filled your ears. “You’re safe.”

Soft fabric wrapped around you, soothing the burn of your skin. Shakily, you reached up, your limbs stiff and aching. “Clark?” With all the strength you had left, you opened your eyes.

You were barely 5 feet up front the ocean swell, a hazy ring of bubbles below you was the only indication that something had been dragging you down at all. Clark was indeed there, holding you tightly to his chest as a huge abandoned oil rig loomed behind him, half of it on fire. His eyes were wide, fearfully examining every inch of your body before his shoulders drooped and he sighed in relief.

“No broken bones or internal bleeding. Thank god.” His lips descended onto your forehead, pressing kiss after kiss to your cold skin.

“You picked me?” He pulled away only enough to look into your eyes. 

“I always will.” A hand cupped the back of your neck, drawing your face upwards. Your lips parted as he glanced at them. “I will do anything to keep you safe.”

And as the fires behind him, Clark finally kissed you, washing away the smell of blood and screams of pain that he had inflicted upon those who took you from him. No one would ever hurt you again.

DC Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Join my taglist!

All works

@im-a-slut-for-fluff @alexxavicry @ravenwings73 @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @silverfire475 @psychadelichues @mvyalx @faefanatic @evansqueen54 @anamiad00msday @th3sloth @princess76179 @Lanielagenev @luvvvjada @Lucypaulette @midnight-shadow-va @mooniequeen @slutfor-fictionalmen @km-ffluv @black-rose-29 @minedofmoria @relatednative

DC

@snedhdh @blackhawkfanatic @8bookishworm8 @honkytonkbabe @kobaltdragon  @amarillyssnowdrop 

[yandereonepieceimagines]

I really like how you write them! Can I have Akainu, Crocodile and Doflamingo being outsmarted? With a sea prism cuff.?

----------

But of course! And oohhhh, I see exactly what you’re trying to do. :P

I absolutely love the idea. Especially with Doffy involved! He’d be all over that, in his own unique way, of course.

By the way, the lampposts are reinforced with diamond cores. So, it’s pretty much impossible for many to break out of those restraints right away.

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

Warning! Hinting at NSFW!

Donquixote Doflamingo

The cliffs of Coral Spine Bluff on the north side of Stone Huts Island overlooked the sea in a sheer drop, framed by bursts of crashing waves below. It was a popular lookout spot. Scenic and peaceful. At least, until today.

Now, silence ruled.

A crowd had gathered just beyond the edge of the bluff, wide-eyed and unmoving, and with their breath caught in their throats as they looked upon the bound man at the cliff's edge.

And not just any man.

Donquixote Doflamingo.

Tall, imposing and with a lean chest wrapped in pink feathers and exposed muscle beneath, he stood with one wrist shackled to a titanium pylon by a sea prism stone cuff. Even in restraint, his presence was downright monstrous. An apex predator frozen into a moment of stillness. You had moved in a blur, barely quicker than his reflexes, ducking under the sudden arc of his arm as he'd tried to grab you. His fingers had grazed your shoulder, just enough to remind you how close you'd come to being caught. Your heart thundered, your pulse roaring in your ears, but you didn’t stop. You slipped in just close enough to snap the cuff shut around his left wrist, feeling the faint tremble of risk replaced by a sharp burst of control.

The sunlight glared off his signature shades, but nothing could mask the slow, devilish curve of his grin.

You had done it. Somehow.

Your chest still heaved from the effort of the confrontation. Your hood was up, cloak fluttering behind you in the wind as you retreated down the path. Your ship was already prepped to take off. The town below buzzed with disbelief, but you didn’t linger long enough to revel in the shock of the citizens. You had no intention of staying to bask in this temporary moment of victory.

Not with him.

Not when his presence still clung to the back of your mind like a thread you couldn’t shake off.

You hadn’t said anything to him. No parting words. No quips. Just the snap of the cuffs and the immediate sprint toward the docks. Your instincts screamed louder than any triumph.

He didn’t thrash. He didn’t snarl, either.

He only watched. Unmoving. Still.

That was until you reached the ship’s deck and looked back.

His head tilted slowly, sunglasses catching the sunlight. That smile; the kind that made your skin crawl and spine freeze, widened into something amused and sinister all at once.

And then came his voice. Low. Drawling. Playful. A velvet threat soaked in something warm and terrible.

"You are only delaying the inevitable."

Your blood ran cold, and the words sunk into your chest like an anchor. The sea breeze stilled. The air itself stopped moving.

You could’ve sworn even the gulls fell silent in that moment.

The space between you and the bluff stretched wider with each second. And yet his presence loomed even larger. Like it had taken root in the very air.

He fed on the unease like it was foreplay. The tension in your shoulders only deepening his pleasure.

His smirk widened just a fraction more. Slow and deliberate. As if savoring your reaction was more satisfying than any physical retaliation. His head tilted slightly further, as though admiring you from afar. Like a toy that had just slipped out of reach but not yet out of his control. And just for a heartbeat… So brief it might have gone unnoticed… He trembled.

A subtle shiver rolled through his shoulders. Frustration. Hunger. That instinctive, possessive rage restrained just enough to keep him still. It made what he said next feel even more unsettling…

"The next time restraints are used," he purred, voice laced with thick innuendo, "it will be in my bed. You'll be the one trembling then.~"

That laugh. Slow. Drawn out. Soaked in anticipation.

"Fufufufufu!~"

The sound echoed off the cliffs, riding the wind like a haunting promise. Every villager present flinched.

You turned away without a word, the air tighter around your chest than ever before. The sails caught, the ropes strained and the ship creaked to life.

But your pulse didn't settle.

Not when you could still hear him.

Not when you knew he meant it.

Sakazuki Akainu

The docks of Stone Huts Island buzzed with tension, and the usual bustle of merchants and fishmongers were reduced to whispers and wide eyes. Just off the plaza, near the storefronts shaded by awnings and lanterns, a titanium lamp post now bore a new, very jarring addition.

Admiral Sakazuki Akainu was chained to it.

One wrist locked tight in sea prism stone. The restraint bit into his skin, veins twitching with controlled fury. His crimson uniform, now dusted from the scuffle, still clung to his massive frame like armor. The Justice kanji on his cloak’s back looked more ominous than noble now.

His jaw was clenched, the hard lines of his face locked in a snarl that simmered with rage and something far more sinful.

You had done it. You had actually done it.

Your cloak billowed in the sea breeze as you made your way toward the ship waiting at the end of the dock. Your steps were steady, but your heart was racing. You were still recovering from the sprint, the gamble. You hadn’t expected it to work. Not with him. But you had struck in that narrow window, when his guard was just low enough. The risk had nearly cost you.

Even in the thick of it, he hadn’t used his Devil Fruit powers.

You knew he could have scorched the stone beneath your feet or turned the air itself molten. But he didn’t. Not here. Not with civilians present. And certainly not with you in reach. He didn’t want to hurt you. No. You realized now. Not even close. That restraint wasn’t just physical. It was personal.

And that gave you just enough time to act.

You had ducked under his reach and snapped the cuff shut around his wrist, retreating in the same breath. It had been close. Close enough that your back had nearly broken out in a sweat at the heat of the proximity. One more second, and you’d have been in his grip.

But now?

Now he stood like a volcano forced into stillness. Surrounded by townspeople too afraid to speak and too transfixed by the rare sight of an Admiral subdued.

“You think anyone else gives a damn about you?” Akainu barked suddenly, his voice sharp but composed. Measured in a way only a Marine could manage in public. “You think any of them know who you really are?”

Locals flinched, some unsure of what he actually means, a few backing away as his voice cut through the plaza like heat. But he didn’t look at them.

He looked at you.

“You just do not get it,” he growled, eyes narrowing beneath the shadow of his cap. “I’m the only one who sees you. You can run. Hell, you can chain me. But it won’t change that.”

He didn’t shout it like a threat. He meant it. Every word.

And you knew better than to mistake these words- that kind of obsession, for anything else.

You reached the gangplank. One hand gripped the railing. But something inside made you pause.

And when you turned back…

There it was.

Not the cold, cruel sneer of an Admiral known for incinerating pirates.

It was that smile.

A heated grin. Deep. Hungry. The smile of a man shackled not just to a post, but to the thought of you. His gloved fists clenched tight at his sides, and though rage still shimmered behind his eyes, it warred with something much more dangerous. Something that flushed across his cheeks in a soft, unsettling hue.

A blush.

High on his cheeks, stark against the weathered bronze of his skin, it stood out like a brand. You hadn’t known Akainu could blush. Not a man built of lava and law. But there it was. Undeniable. And it made the hunger behind his eyes all the more disturbing.

You stared back. Just for a moment. The ship rocked beneath your feet, the wind curling around your cloak, but you stayed rooted in place. Drawn to the sight of him. Not out of victory, but from the chill crawling up your spine.

In that moment, you understood exactly what he was thinking.

He wasn’t only angry because you had gotten away.

He was also thrilled that you’d dared to get close and defy him in the way that you did.

You hadn’t escaped.

You had ignited something deep, volatile and entirely yours.

And now it was only a matter of time before it came roaring back for you.

Sir Crocodile

The sun bore down upon Stone Huts Island, its tightly packed stone houses casting compact shadows across the winding alleys that twisted toward the busy port. This wasn’t some desolate battlefield. This was a vibrant hub, full of noise, motion and oblivious normalcy. And that was precisely why Crocodile had chosen it. Word had placed you here, long enough to act. He would strike in a place you'd never expect to be vulnerable. In plain sight.

But he miscalculated.

The sharp clink of sea prism stone cuffs broke the salty breeze as Crocodile released a guttural snarl, his left wrist locked tight, the second cuff coiled around a titanium lantern post. The metal barely groaned beneath the sudden strain. His instincts had fired instantly the moment you'd lunged. He saw it coming, but too late. His abilities, stripped by the sea prism stone, couldn’t activate fast enough to slip free, to ensnare you in turn. You were a blur. He’d almost caught you. Almost reversed it all.

Instead, he was bound.

His fur-lined coat slipped from his shoulders in the clash, falling into a heap of fabric and dust at his feet.

For a split second, fear had surged through you. Getting that close was like leaping into a lion’s jaws. His sheer size, that suffocating presence… Every single part of him screamed danger. But the instant the cuff snapped into place, that fear evaporated, replaced by a cold, relieved certainty.

The trap had worked. He was locked. And his rage surged, thick as cigar smoke in his throat.

He bared his teeth for only a second. A flash of untamed hatred. His heavy-lidded eyes, burning beneath thin, furrowed brows, locked right on you. The long scar across his nose looked even more severe in the tightness of his glare. Strands of black hair had slipped from their slicked-back hold, framing his face in disarray, and he looked like a man one twitch away from snapping everything around him.

At his feet, his cigar lay crushed beneath his boot. His golden hook, gleaming and inert, gave a useless twitch. He could still flex it, but it had been neutralized. Useless and mocking in the light.

Curious townsfolk had gathered and formed a nervous semicircle along the edge of the plaza. Locals. Dockhands. A child tucked behind a merchant’s leg. No one spoke. No one dared. Even bound, Crocodile exuded the weight of a monster. A Warlord subdued, but far from defeated.

They knew better than to look too long. Better than to speak.

And still, he smiled.

Not the slow, amused smirk of confidence.

This was thinner. Tighter. Sharpened into something almost venomous. You hadn’t merely escaped. You’d outplayed him. Lured him in. Outmaneuvered him where he was supposed to have every advantage.

Anyone else would already be dust for less. But you weren’t just anyone.

His eyes tracked your ship as it slipped from the docks, sails rippling in the wind. There you stood at the bow, composed beneath the deep hood of your cloak. You always hid your presence. Since the very beginning. Even now, as you drifted out of reach, you kept your distance cloaked.

But just as you turned away… Just as your head tilted back to face forward… It happened.

A flicker.

The ghost of a smirk. Small. Involuntary. Not for him. Not meant to taunt. Just a brief curl of satisfaction you didn’t even know you let slip.

He didn’t flinch, but his jaw locked hard and a muscle beneath his scar jumped. His shoulders coiled with renewed rage, the cuff biting into his wrist as he tested it again, knowing it was useless.

Not because of your guts. Not even because you’d caught him. But because of that smirk.

The unintentional insult. The accidental reminder that you had beaten him. And worse… You didn’t even mean to rub it in.

Your scent still lingered faintly. The moment you had locked him in place played over and over in his mind, each replay feeding the gnawing ache in his lower gut. Desire twisted inside him.

You hadn’t just won. You had stirred something.

He didn’t crave your blood. He never had. But what he always wanted from you ran even deeper now. Slower. The fire in your eyes. The edge in your voice. He wanted the look you’d give when the game turned. The moment of realization, not from afar, but close. Very, very close. From behind closed doors.

Next time, there would be no second chance.

It wouldn’t be a chase. It would be a claiming.

And when he caught you, because he would …. He wouldn’t stop at just metaphorical chains.

He would tether you to him, in every way.

Let the villagers remember this day. Let them tremble at the sight of a Warlord restrained.

This wasn’t defeat. This was obsession, bared for all to see.

And you had made him want.

[claramelooo]

Heyy! My dear! I'm so excited for the Christmas! So, leave in the comments (or send me an anon quest, if you feel more confortable) any scenes, moments or something you really want to see between Wanda and R. Maybe Santa will realizes your desires...

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Warning: +18, NFSW, Blood

Paring: Mommy Wanda x Brat fem reader

Summary: Being at Wanda's home can be very...intense.

Read here: Prologue | Part 1 - Predator | Part 2 - The Prey | Part 3 - On Your Knees | Part 4 - The Spider | Part 5 - The Lamb

VELVET CHAINS

Pure Crimson

It was a sunny afternoon, so hot that you could see the heat haze blurring the landscape. You were at Wanda's house while your parents were in Greece. Not that you minded staying away from them—you had been distant for so long that you'd forgotten what the word "family" even meant.

The days at the Maximoff household had been an emotional rollercoaster. The environment was both warm and intimidating, and you were still adjusting to the unique dynamics of that family.

Your relationship with Billy and Tommy started off hesitantly, like strangers crossing paths in neutral territory. On the first day, while Wanda was busy in the kitchen and Vision was lost in his own thoughts, you sat on the living room couch, trying to look casual as the boys played with Lego pieces scattered across the floor.

Billy was the first to break the ice, shy but curious. “Do you like Star Wars?” He asked, holding up a small Lego spaceship, waiting for a response that might bridge the gap.

“I do! But I don’t really understand spaceships. Do you?” You replied, leaning forward with genuine interest.

His face lit up with the kind of enthusiasm only kids can show. “I’m the best spaceship builder in the galaxy!” He started explaining in detail how he had constructed each part, and soon Tommy joined in, adding comments about the spaceship's imaginary speed.

The initial connection was timid but quickly grew over the following days. You realized the way to earn the twins’ trust was to genuinely care about what they loved. They didn’t need grand promises or long speeches—just someone who truly wanted to spend time with them.

On the second day, Tommy challenged you to a video game match. “Bet you can’t beat me,” he teased with a mischievous grin. You accepted the challenge, and even though you weren’t very skilled, you played with enthusiasm. Tommy laughed so hard when you pressed the wrong button and sent your character tumbling off a cliff that tears rolled down his cheeks.

“You’re terrible at this!” he exclaimed, but there was no cruelty, only joy. And when you finally managed to win a round—by sheer luck—the two boys cheered for you like you had just won a trophy.

That same day, while Wanda was baking strawberry pie in the kitchen, you decided to help Billy with a school art project about national folklore figures. He was frustrated that his drawing wasn’t coming out the way he wanted. “I’m never going to get this right,” he grumbled, nearly crumpling the paper.

“It doesn’t have to be perfect; it can be unique,” you said, picking up the pencil and showing him how to add simple details to turn what seemed like a mistake into something creative. “See? It’s all about perspective.” You gave him a bright smile, and he looked at you with genuine admiration.

A particularly vulnerable moment sealed their trust. Tommy had hurt his knee playing soccer in the backyard—a nasty scrape. While Wanda was busy elsewhere, you cleaned his wound carefully, speaking soothing words. “You’re a warrior, Tommy. This is nothing for someone as strong as you.” He smiled through his tears and held your hand as if finding strength in it.

That night, as you were getting ready for bed, Billy called out to you. “Y/n, you’re like the big sister we never had.” Tommy agreed, and the two hugged you tightly before heading to their room.

From that moment on, it was as if an invisible bond connected you to them. They sought you out for everything—from playing games to asking for advice. More than that, they embraced you as part of their lives, and you realized that, in some way, you needed them as much as they seemed to need you.

Vision, however, was a different challenge. Always polite and courteous, but there was something about his demeanor, the way his eyes seemed to analyze your every move, that left you uneasy. Perhaps it was the contrast with Wanda, whose gaze seemed to devour you, while Vision’s felt like judgment.

One afternoon, you found him in the kitchen, organizing documents in a folder while sipping coffee. When you walked in, he glanced up briefly, offering a polite but cold smile.

“Good afternoon,” he said, his voice controlled.

“Good afternoon,” you replied, unsure.

Silence quickly settled, heavy and awkward. You searched for something to say, anything to break the invisible wall.

“The boys are excited about tonight’s dinner,” you commented, referring to Billy and Tommy, who had insisted you help pick the menu.

Vision simply nodded, his expression unchanged. “They grow attached easily,” he remarked, emotionless. “Especially to people… different.”

You felt the insinuation but had no time to respond before the sound of Tommy and Billy’s hurried footsteps echoed down the hallway.

“Y/n!” Billy exclaimed, running up to you with a huge smile. “Look what we made!”

He showed you a colorful drawing of you, him, Tommy, and even Wanda sitting around a large dinner table. In the corner of the paper, Vision was there too, but noticeably outside the circle.

“You’re part of our family now!” Tommy said, laughing as he clung to your side.

You couldn’t help but smile. “I love it, Billy. It’s amazing!”

“It really is,” Wanda said, walking into the kitchen with an amused expression as she looked at the drawing. “It seems you’re stealing their hearts.”

Tommy hugged your waist, looking at Vision with a mischievous grin. “We love you. Are you going to live with us now?” the boy asked, his eyes sparkling.

“Tommy,” Vision said firmly.

“What?” The boy asked innocently.

You crouched down to Tommy’s height, a gentle smile on your face. “I can’t, sweetheart. I already have a home...” you replied, awkwardly trying not to stumble over your words under Vision’s intense gaze.

Tommy pouted, but Billy quickly approached with another drawing in hand. This one showed you holding what seemed to be a tray of cookies, surrounded by the twins. “This is you, taking care of us. Because you make the best gingerbread cookies in the world.”

“Billy, I just helped! You guys made the cookies,” you laughed, knowing it wasn’t true—you had done everything from the dough to the baking. The twins had only decorated, but you’d say anything to see their smiles.

“It doesn’t matter! You’re the best helper,” he declared confidently, as if it were a universal fact.

Across the room, Wanda watched the scene with a soft smile. Her eyes shifted between the twins and you, as if capturing every detail of the moment.

“It’s true, Y/n,” Wanda said warmly. “You have a way with them that even I can’t compete with.”

Tommy quickly shot back, “Of course not, Mom! We love you too. But it’s different.”

Wanda raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms as if feigning offense. “Different how, exactly?”

Billy was quick to defend. “You’re the boss of us! But Y/n makes things feel more fun.”

Wanda’s laughter filled the room, a carefree sound that seemed to brighten the entire atmosphere. She glanced at you, her eyes a mix of amusement and admiration.

Vision, however, seemed out of place. He cleared his throat, drawing the twins’ attention. “Boys, you know family is a... fixed concept. One shouldn’t create expectations based on...”

“Don’t start, Dad,” Tommy interrupted, rolling his eyes dramatically.

“Yeah, we know how we feel,” Billy added firmly.

You looked at Wanda, expecting a more severe reaction, but instead, she was smiling indulgently. “They have strong opinions, Vision. Perhaps we should accept that Y/n is important to them.”

Vision hesitated, his discomfort clear, but he didn’t respond.

Tommy took the opportunity to hug you again. “So that’s it. You’re part of our family now.”

You laughed, touched by his sincerity, and looked at Wanda, who gave a small nod, as if silently confirming what Tommy had said. The warmth in your chest at that moment was indescribable but undeniably real.

Billy grabbed your hand, pulling you along. “Come on! Let’s play!”

You didn’t have a chance to resist as he and Tommy led you to the living room, leaving Vision and Wanda behind.

In the living room, the boys showed you their game cards, taught you crazy rules only they understood, and laughed until they fell over as you tried to keep up with their energy.

In the middle of the game, Tommy flopped onto the couch, tired, and looked at you with shining eyes. “You’re not leaving, right?”

“Not anytime soon,” you said, ruffling his hair.

Billy approached and gently took your hand, his expression unusually serious. “Mom has never seemed this happy before,” he said quietly.

The words hung in the air, heavy with an unspoken weight. You looked at him and then at Tommy, your heart tightening in your chest. They were such sweet kids, their affection for you so pure and genuine that it stirred something deep within you—a mix of gratitude and protectiveness.

Moments later, Wanda appeared in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame. Her presence filled the room effortlessly, and when your eyes met hers, there was an intensity in her gaze, a possessiveness barely masked by her enigmatic smile.

“It’s good to see you all getting along so well,” she said softly, her voice carrying a warmth that made your stomach flutter.

“She’s the best!” Tommy blurted out enthusiastically, and Billy nodded in earnest agreement.

“Yeah. She really is,” Wanda echoed, her words laced with an edge of certainty as her eyes lingered on you. Her smile deepened, enigmatic and knowing, as though she saw something in you that even you hadn’t recognized yet.

You couldn’t help but laugh, a light, genuine sound that filled the room. A warmth spread through your chest, a comforting sense of belonging. For the first time in days, amidst all the uncertainties, it felt like you’d found your place—at least with the twins. And, perhaps, with Wanda too.

[...]

The house was silent, save for the soft ticking of a clock on the wall in the living room. Wanda lay on the bed, but sleep felt like an ever more distant possibility. Vision’s steady, peaceful breathing beside her only highlighted the contrast with the storm raging in her mind.

You were there. In the room next door. So close that she could almost feel your presence, like an electric current humming through the walls.

For the third time, Wanda rolled over, burying her face into the pillow, trying to convince herself not to think about you. But the harder she tried to push the thoughts away, the more vivid they became.

She could recall every detail—how you bit your lower lip in concentration while helping the boys with their homework, the laugh that made warmth bloom in her chest, the shy way your eyes met hers when you tried to mask your nervousness. It was unbearable how much you had invaded her thoughts, staking a claim on every corner of her mind as if it all belonged to you.

Wanda sighed, feeling her heartbeat quicken. This wasn’t just desire; it was something deeper, something that made her feel both vulnerable and invincible. It was a sweet yet corrosive obsession.

“Why do you do this to me?” she murmured into the darkness, her voice a whisper tinged with frustration.

Her fingers clenched the sheet as a dangerous idea began to take shape in her mind. It wasn’t unreasonable, she tried to convince herself. Just a quick check to make sure you were okay. That was perfectly justifiable, wasn’t it?

But deep down, she knew it was a lie. The truth was, your proximity was driving her mad. Every second without seeing you felt like torture. The image of you, likely curled up under the blankets, your face serene in peaceful sleep, was almost irresistible.

With a sudden motion, Wanda sat up in bed, sharp enough that Vision mumbled something incoherent in his sleep. She cast a quick glance at him, but he remained in a deep slumber. Perfect.

She knew this was dangerous, that it crossed any reasonable boundary. But you were so close, and Wanda couldn’t fight the pull anymore. Not when the thought of having you felt so… inevitable.

Quietly, she slipped out of the bedroom, her bare feet making barely a sound against the floor. She hesitated for a brief moment in front of your door, her hand hovering over the handle as anticipation and longing swirled in her chest.

When she finally opened the door, a soft, almost predatory smile played on her lips as her eyes found you.

“Wanda?” your voice was lower than you intended, almost a whisper.

She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she moved closer, each step heightening the tension in the room. When she reached your bedside, she leaned down, her face coming so close to yours that you could feel the warmth radiating from her.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she murmured, her voice low and husky, almost a groan.

You swallowed hard, struggling to find the right response. Wanda’s smile deepened, but there was a hunger in it, something that made your breath catch. Before you could think, she leaned closer still, her lips brushing against yours so lightly it was almost imperceptible.

“You’re in my head,” she whispered against your mouth, her breath warm and intoxicating. “Your scent is everywhere in this house.”

The air between you felt heavy, charged with an unspoken intensity. And in that moment, everything else faded away.

Your heart raced, and you tried to say something, but the words caught in your throat. Wanda didn’t wait. Her lips pressed against yours—firm, demanding—and you felt the full force of her presence in that kiss.

There was urgency in her touch, a hunger that had clearly been restrained for far too long. Her hands rose to cradle your face, holding you exactly where she wanted.

You felt trapped, but it wasn’t a trap you wanted to escape. When she pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, the intensity in her eyes sent a shiver racing down your spine.

“I needed that,” she murmured, her lips still so close to yours that it was hard to breathe.

“Wanda…” you began, but she silenced you with a finger against your lips. “Vision is in the next room,”

“Shh,” she whispered. “Tomorrow, you can think about whatever you want. But right now… right now, you’re mine.”

Before you could respond, she kissed you again, and all the tension, all the air seemed to vanish from the room.

Her lips were warm and soft, but there was more—something raw, a palpable hunger, a need that felt as if it might consume you whole. The kiss started firm but quickly deepened, turning more explorative. Her tongue brushed against yours, pulling a sigh from your throat, a sound that seemed to ignite something primal in her.

Wanda’s hands slid from your face to your waist, her fingers pressing into your skin through the thin fabric of your clothes. Your body responded instinctively, every nerve tuned to her presence. Heat pulsed through you, mingling with the adrenaline that made your heart pound in your chest.

She pulled you closer, so close you could no longer tell where you ended and she began. The urgency in her movements was intoxicating, yet there was a tenderness, a sense of restraint as if she were testing the limits.

Your hesitant hands rose to her shoulders, clutching the soft fabric of her pajamas. Wanda let out a low sound, somewhere between a moan and a sigh, and the sheer intensity of it left your legs feeling weak, even though you were lying down.

When she finally pulled back, it was only far enough for you to catch your breath. Her eyes remained locked on yours, dark and glowing with a mix of desire and an unshakable sense of control.

You tried to speak, but your voice failed, your mind still spinning from the sensations. Wanda tilted her head, a slow, knowing smile spreading across her lips, as if she understood exactly what she was doing to you.

“You feel it, don’t you?” she murmured, her voice low and husky, sending shivers cascading through you.

Before you could respond, she kissed you again, slower this time, almost reverent. It was as though she were leaving an imprint, marking every part of you, making herself impossible to forget.

She’s undeniably beautiful.

"Take off your clothes." She demands, and you're jolted back to reality. Her eyes pierce into yours, holding a glimmer of something you can’t quite place. You want to know more about her; you feel so off-balance. To avoid a disapproving look, you immediately take off the nightgown and wait for further instructions as she slowly walks around you.

The way the woman moves, the way she looks at you, reminds you of a panther stalking its prey. Wanda eyes you from head to toe, assessing you. She's behind you, and you can feel her gaze roaming over your body. Chills run up your arms in anticipation of what’s coming next, and the urge to turn around and face her is hard to suppress. "Lie down, Dekta. Mommy's going to take care of this."

You shiver at how close the words are whispered against your neck, internally chastising yourself as heat builds in your core. It feels like you're waiting for your own demise as her green eyes scrutinize you once more. You’ve never felt more like prey.

You hate how passive it feels. Your body is tense with the uncertainties this night will bring, not going unnoticed by the older woman. "Sweetheart…" now her voice is soft, just like the Wanda from earlier. "You're so tense." She brushes your face with her fingertips, noticing your shivers.

"I… I've never done this." you murmur softly—a mix of fear and shame. Wanda feels weak seeing you so vulnerable. Giving you a calm smile, she lowers her hands to stroke your forearm—a soothing gesture. "I know, my sweet. We don't have to do anything you don't want." Wanda lies on top of you, resting her head in the curve of your neck—her breath tickling your ear. "I just want to show you… how good this can feel."

She leaves a trail of kisses on your jaw, down your neck, to your collarbone—making you let out a shaky breath. “Do you trust me?” And there it was, that question again.

“I do, Mommy.”

Wanda's hands take on a life of their own—stroking you, squeezing and massaging your curves, making you need her more and more.

Needed for her touch.

She wanted you to get used to being touched like this, she wanted to get you ready to beg for her and for her hands.

Wanda's mouth and hands leave you inert—all the stimuli she was presenting to you took you to another dimension. Your pussy hurt, and you started to feel the need to ease it.

“Wands…” your voice came out shrill, as if you were slowly dying. The woman's warm lips worked on the back of his neck, biting and sucking passionately on the spot.

“Hmm, what’s up, little girl? Do you want to say anything to mommy?”

Wanda moves away from your neck to look at you—making you miss the heat applied to the area. As you look at her, your heart skips a beat to see the expression of pleasure on the woman's delicate face—flushed cheeks, swollen lips, and her bangs were messy—sexy and even wild.

With a little courage, you steal Wanda's lips for yourself—surprising the woman who decides to let you command the kiss, encouraging her confidence to blossom in her personality, like a flower that grows with the help of the sun.

Wanda would be your sun.

“H-it hurts.” you confess softly, with a husky voice—throwing your hips up, making your hot core rub against Wanda's thigh.

“I know, Dekta. I know… “ she murmured with difficulty, feeling the stickiness of your precious pussy sliding down her thigh with ease. “Mommy will make it go away, yes?” Wanda felt insane, at that moment, she would give you anything you wanted.

“Mommy…” you mumbled, equally crazy.

The woman, upon hearing this delicious title, began to lower her body until she was face to face with her sweet pussy. It was possible to see the stain of her juices wetting her panties. Letting out a shaky, excited breath, Wanda leans in closer to smell him—sweet and spicy, like sandalwood flower.

Wanda's few sexual experiences were never intense, always filled with normality. She hadn't married as a virgin, but still, all the men that came into her life didn't do justice to you.

The woman's unsteady hands cling to her thighs, squeezing for some comfort—she had never done this, after all. When the bittersweet taste reaches the taste buds of her tongue, Wanda moans and pushes her head against her pussy.

“Mmm…” She moans with her mouth working on her clit. Wanda seemed to have discovered a new world, one she didn't want to leave.

“Oh, please…” The enveloping tongue made circular movements, making you reach the edge, perhaps faster than normal. "Mommy!"

You shouted, making Wanda give you a dirty look.

“Be quiet!” She slaps your cheek, which tingles all over your face, warming you up even more—and which makes you push even harder against Wanda, offering yourself to her like a flower in full bloom.

“It’s hard… It’s so good.” your rolling eyes only showed Wanda how much of a stupid little bitch you were who couldn't follow a simple command. “I need… more!” Your voice came out in a drawn out, needy whine.

Wanda growls against your coochie, her focus never wavering. “What else, little one? More of Mommy’s tongue, sucking and licking that needy little bud of yours until you cry?” She asks, her voice muffled by her flesh.

“Or maybe it’s Mommy’s fingers you’re craving, plunging deep into that tight virgin pussy.” The woman's broken voice brought words that provoked you in a way that made you reach levels of pleasure you never imagined.

“Tell mommy what you need to scream her name like the stupid slut you are.” You roll your eyes when you hear such degrading words.

“I don’t know… it’s weird, but it’s so gooood!” Your only reaction—or instinct, is to rub yourself against her even more. In cruel sadism, Wanda stops the stimuli abruptly, making you let out a frustrated groan.

“Ask, pet. If you want to get what you want, learn to ask for it…” She hummed, as if it was just a game for her.

You huffed, no patience for games.

“Your fingers, I want your fingers inside me.” Your honesty hit the woman like a punch. And certainly witnessing Wanda falter at just your words did things to her ego.

Wanda positions her finger well, first, massaging, making you feel it. As soon as her middle finger finds your entrance, you tense against her.

“Shhh, dekta, it’s okay..." She whispers against his forehead, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“Will it hurt a lot?” Your lower lip trembles, her tone seems to seek a reassurance that only Wanda could offer.

“Just a little…” She promises you, looking deep into your eyes, and you nod, giving permission.

At first glance, the finger inside you seemed to burn, tearing you open and opening you up for Wanda to use that little hole as she pleased. You heard the woman growl against your mouth, then kiss you savagely.

Wanda, as excited as you, begins to rub herself against your sex while still thrusting inside you and feeling your finger being chewed completely by your hot flesh.

“So tight,” she growled, as she ground against you and bit your lip.

“Greedy little girl. Do you want mommy’s pussy?” You nodded without thinking twice. “You’re a vessel for my pleasure, a stupid little toy for me to use and abuse… and you love every moment of it, don’t you, little slut?” The woman's words dripped with promises of a corrosive, dangerous, dark desire.

You nod and push your hips even further—both for the friction of your pussies, but for Wanda's finger that is sinking even deeper into you.

“Mmm, yes… just like that, you filthy slut.” The woman's nails dug into her waist, creating half-moon marks. “Oh. Honey, mommy is almost there…” She moans wildly, taking her finger out of you—bringing you a feeling of emptiness.

The pussy rubbing was genuinely delicious. A unique place in the world that you two never wanted to leave. But it's when Wanda bites your nipple that makes you moan loudly and come hard—so hard that Wanda can swear when she feels your pussy tremble against hers.

Wanda falls on her side, desperately searching for breath. You think it's funny and laugh softly. The woman just arches her eyebrow.

“The problem is… I’m already an old lady. I don’t have much energy left!” Wanda’s excuse only made her seem even more adorable in your eyes.

“You’re beautiful.” You kissed her nose, letting your affection flow through the small gesture, offering her as much comfort as you could muster.

Wanda exhaled, a sound somewhere between exhaustion and contentment, as she shifted in bed to face you. Her hair was messy, her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes glimmered with a warmth that made your heart melt.

“Beautiful, huh?” she repeated, a soft smile curving her lips. “I think you’re just buttering me up so I’ll bake you more cookies.”

You laughed, finding her pout irresistibly cute.

“I’m not buttering you up; I’m just being honest,” you replied, your tone steady but tender.

She shook her head, a quiet laugh escaping her as she slid her arm around your waist, pulling you closer. Your bodies fit together so naturally, as though you were crafted for this moment, for each other.

“You’re trouble, you know that?” Wanda murmured, her voice tinged with humor and a depth of affection so profound it made your eyes sting slightly.

“Good trouble or bad trouble?” You teased, your fingers tracing lazy circles on her shoulder.

“Good,” she answered without hesitation, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Too good.”

For a while, silence settled between you, a comfortable stillness broken only by the steady rhythm of your breaths. You took in every detail of her: the elegant curve of her jawline, the gentle slope of her lips, and the way her lashes brushed against her cheeks like delicate whispers of her exhaustion.

“It’s all okay, you know?” You murmured, your voice soft, almost a whisper.

Wanda’s brow furrowed slightly. “What do you mean?”

“With us,” you clarified, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “You don’t have to overthink or worry. I’m here. With you.”

Your words seemed to catch Wanda off guard, her smile softening into something vulnerable and raw. She looked at you as if she wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words. Instead, she cupped your face with both hands, her thumbs brushing gently over your cheeks, her touch impossibly tender.

“You have no idea what that means to me,” Wanda finally said, her voice low and brimming with emotion.

“Then show me,” you whispered, leaning in to meet her lips once again, this time in a kiss so calm and intimate that it felt like sealing an unspoken promise between you.

When you finally broke apart, Wanda let out a deep sigh, as though releasing a weight she had carried for far too long. She drew you into her chest, her arms wrapping around you protectively, as though she wanted to keep you there forever.

“Sleep now, my angel,” she murmured, her lips brushing against your forehead as she held you even closer.

And so, you closed your eyes, your heart warm and full, certain that, in this moment, you were everything Wanda needed.

But as she watched your lashes flutter closed, her gaze shifted. Her hand, once tenderly cradling your face, now caught her attention—a deep crimson stain painting her fingertips. Blood. Your blood. Your purity.

Something primal and dark ignited within Wanda—a force that she couldn’t resist. Slowly, obsessively, she brought her fingers to her lips, tasting every drop as though savoring a forbidden fruit.

The warm, metallic tang of blood spread across her tongue, and instead of disgust, a raw, guttural moan escaped her lips. It was pleasure, unadulterated and feral, coursing through her with an intensity that made her tremble.

Her eyes glowed faintly, a flicker of something inhuman breaking through the surface. It wasn’t just about the taste or the act—it was about possession, about the irrevocable claim she had laid upon you.

The room was cloaked in silence, save for the sound of her labored breathing, low and almost animalistic. Her fingers, still stained red, moved over her lips, cleaning away every last trace. Her body quaked, not from fear but from the euphoria of knowing you were irrevocably hers.

Wanda leaned over you, her eyes tracing your serene features. You looked angelic, but to her, you were an angel wrapped in shadows—a contradiction so alluring it drove her to madness.

With trembling fingers, she gently touched your lips, the faintest smear of crimson left behind. Her touch was tender, reverent, yet stained by the chaos swirling within her.

“You don’t even know, do you?” She whispered, her voice barely audible but laced with a dangerous kind of adoration.

And as the night deepened, Wanda’s obsession with you solidified into something unyielding, something that would burn brightly, consuming everything in its wake.

Mine,” she whispered, the sound barely coming out but carrying a possessiveness that made the air in the room feel heavier. “You are mine now. In every way.”

~*~

Wanda got more intense after watching Twillinght New Moon....

UNREVISED CHAPTER

Tag List <3

@trindad2k @vyvvycg @rosekjsses @3liyuh @indentity0018 @beggingonmykneesforher @trying-to-do-good @bees-for-brains

@eternallyconfuzed @ctrlaltedits @jazzyxqzl @sheriffhaughtearp @i-luv-w1men

[pedge-page]

Joel Dealing with Wife: The Duck Dilemma, Resolved

Joel Miller x F! Reader

not necessary to read but here's Part 1

Summary: Joel explores new ways to get the Ducks out of the Miller house once and for all

- - - -

When Joel wakes up, there's a blurred yellow fuzz thing—a fucking duck—standing on his chest, staring down its brown and yellow stained bill right along his own snout and directly into his soul.

"Dinner," he grunts with a sneer.

The little duckie utters an unbothered quack and hops off to the side. If only to its death over the cliff of his bedside edge. Only not so, for Sarah, who's standing by his side of the bed, scoops her up safely in her careful grasp. She leans on her tip toes and kisses Daddy on the cheek, and then holds the duck expectedly to his face with her big beady round baby eyes.

He grits his teeth, his chest grumbling with contained annoyance. 

His daughter, the light of his fucking life, only leans closer to him, Duckie held high with expectant gleam. Letting out a quick sigh, he makes quick work to peck its fluffy little self on the forehead. 

And one by one, he does so for all 6 ducklings she raises up to his lips carefully. He’s kissed more duck heads than he’s ever wanted to in his whole life now. 

She sets the last one down on the floor and walks away, a trail of 6 duckies following her with their aide to side waddles.

How she and you came up with the names Eenie Meenie Miney, Pickles, Pringles, and Presto, he will never ask. They all look exactly the same but somehow Sarah can tell them apart. 

Although, Sarah has called them EE, MEE, My, Picole, Pingle, Pwesto.

God Bless her.

“This one is Pringles—no wait that’s… that’s uh. Eenie? Wait Meenie?” You’re holding three in your arms, lifting them closely, trying to find the identifiable marks you’ve used as cheat sheet to remember them. Failing miserably. 

“Pwesto!” Sarah clarifies, stomping her foot and taking her baby duck back into her arms. They always nibble at her ear lobes, causing the little child to erupt into giggles.

“She’s making it up, I swear. She doesn’t know which ones are which…” you whisper to Joel.

“Just admit you can’t keep track of your hoard of children you keep bringing into this house.”

You frown. “I want 12 more kids from you. So lift your skirt and get to baby stuffing,” you say snakily, slapping his ass.

He sips his coffee with massive bags under his eyes as two ducks sit on top of the stove.

Some thoughts, albeit as brilliant as they are, would get him sent straight to hell. Like the one swimming in his brain at the opportunity right now.

He glances to the left, then right, then slowly reaches for the gas igniting knob along the stove top. Directly below the unsuspecting ducklings…

Threatening growls come from the floor below. He rolls his eyes and backs off with his hand in the air to show retreat, as fearsome Mommy number 2 (3?) Spoon here comes to save the day.

“Ya used to be on my side, lady,” he hums to the dog.

And it’s true. Spoon didn’t know how to react at first. She went from single pet baby sitting a little girl to being swarmed by 6 freaky little two footed flap flaps, the weirdest looking puppies she’s ever seen. When they crowded and yapped incessantly around her, she kept picking her feet up and backing up to avoid them, but they all just kept coming at all angles all over. At one point from sheer curiosity, she hesitantly puts one in her mouth.

 Sarah screamed at the top of her lungs and pointed to Spoon accusingly.

 "Yes good Spoon! That's good girl!" Joel claps quietly. He knows you two wouldn’t blame innocent Spoon if she accidentally ate a duck or half dozen. 

Unfortunately, Spoon does not like the sensation of the duck eating out her extra snack crumbs sitting in her teeth, instantly spitting the little guy out like a bowling ball. She jumps on the couch to avoid the rest, and they all flail helplessly trying to reach her. 

By the next day, Joel prayed maybe Spoon decided she wanted a late night duck-goulash and had swallowed his 6 new problems. Instead, you found the ducks nested tightly against Spoon’s body, sleeping into her heated belly like her own little babies.   "Cmon girl not you too,” Joel says, but Spoon growls at him  when he tries to take them away. She doesn't mind when they yap and tap, just lies down with them peddling all over her body and head, sighing in defeat.

"Did we just make Spoon a mom of 6 overnight?”

 Duck Duty has taken over the house 24/7. 

When Joel goes to the shower, pulling back the curtain, there's duckies paddling in the tub.

He has to empty his shoes before stepping in them because, lo and behold, a damn duck is in there.

There’s more frozen pea bags in the freezer specifically labeled for each duck than he can fit his pizza pockets in there.

“THATS IT!” He barks loudly when you and Sarah are tucking the ducks in his bed sheets for a movie night.

You all, including Spoon and all the duckies, go quiet and look up. 

Except, instead of finishing a statement, that is it. Joel storms out of the room the next moment, leaving you all sitting speechless.

Two seconds later you turn on the TV and all eyes focus on the screen to resume your movie night like normal.

-

Joel disappears in the garage for 3 days. You called Tommy asking if he was going to work, but Tommy told you he had called to let everyone know he would be unattainable for the weekend. Absolutely NO ONE was to disturb him. You could hear sparks and saw blades flying in the garage, heavy banging and all kinds of construction going on. Maybe you should be a little concerned. He hasn’t done anything else but this. 

You rub your hands together, braving the knock on the garage door. Maybe you had gone too far with the ducks. Was he preparing to build himself a new house to live away from you all? A death trap for the ducks to fall into?

A new wife???

You tighten your ass cheeks and raise your knuckles.

The door swings open before you can pound. A sweaty, dirty, musky, saw dust covered Joel Miller, with messy slick hair, flannel and low hanging jeans complete with his decades old tool belt greeted you with gritted teeth.

“S’done,” he says plainly.

“W-what’s done?”

He takes your hand and leads you out. “Sarah! Ducks! Fall in!”

Sarah hops off her chair that she was braiding her doll’s hair. As she follows behind you, all 6 quickly growing Duckies  follow behind her like a pre-school hand holding chain.

You all round out the now empty garage and towards the backyard gate. He opens it and shoves forward.

Part of the backyard and side of the house has been transformed into a Duck Oasis Paradise. A custom built duck house with heating lamps, fresh bedding and smoothed wood adorn the area, with a water fountain and splash pad of fresh water constantly rippling their own little Duckie pond/pool. Each duck has its own feeding station, and even custom bed slots with “Eenie, Meenie, Miney, Pickles, Pringles, Presto” hand painted for their own bunks. There’s a raised mini bed for Sarah to lie in with a canopy so they can cuddle and watch projector movies outside. Joel had even installed a side door that leads into the garage if absolutely need be they MUST come inside once again. Everything is painted to Sarah’s princess house liking, and she is able to sit inside the and play around the area while it maintains its Duck-necessities.

As if she had just met the real Santa Clause, Sarah screeches excitedly and runs around with the ducks to explore their new home.

Joel’s hands are on his hips, smirking proudly at your reaction.

Your mouth is on the floor. When the FUCK?? HOW the fuck??

“You thought I was gonna cook em’ didn’t ya?” He boasts.

“I —wushhshh pshhh—N--ta—nmmm-pshhh.” You don’t have words to try to deny it. 

“Ah huh.” He points to his cheek … well, cheekily. “C’mere and give it ta me.”

Inserted, you grip his face, turn him to face you, and plant your entire mouth on his, swallowing his lips and his entire body if you could.

He grins and kisses you back. 

“When are you going to put this much effort into putting another baby in me?” You tease while curling his hair.

He’s left quite shocked, and is about to suggest the two of you stow away while the kids are occupied until—

Sarah runs up like she’s about to pole vault and launches herself into her Dad’s arms for the biggest hug a todler can muster. Joel bends down to his knees to return her kisses.

And that would have been it, were it not for the duck that’s immediately in her hands, held right to his cheek.

“Ugh,” he groans with rolled eyes. He holds it all in as Sarah lifts them to nibble at his beard stubble in a duck fashioned kiss, each getting a turn to clean his facial hair.

You clasp your hands together, beaming at possibly the greatest man the earth had ever put out.

She runs off with the ducks following to go play with their new land.

“2 adults. 1 kid. 1 dot. And 6 ducks…” he says, referring back to your previous comment. “That ain’t enough for ya?”

“12.”

“12…?” Were you serious about 12 kids????

“Ducks,” you state plainly, avoiding his eyes.

“Wh—what, are they all pregnant?” He asks incredulously.

“No…” you lock your fingers together, sealing side to side in the way Sarah does when she’s admitting to doing something horribly wrong. “I thought you were going to eat these ones… and I didn’t want Sarah to be sad and so I … maybe… it’s actually really funny, Joel.”

“YOU BOUGHT—SIX—MORE—DUCKS???”

“Ohh oh no!” You shake your head, as if hoping to dissipate the steam billowing from his ears. Though it’s almost like he knows it’s not any better. “Um… it’s way worse… I bought 12 more ducks. So that’s 18 total,” you smile widely with fearful yet innocent eyes.

Joel sits straight up in bed, his heart hammering and sweat persperating along his entire skeleton.  He clutches his heart, remembering to breathe in the night air, grounding himself in his surroundings from the nightmare. You’re sound asleep at his side, peaceful as ever.

He tosses the blanket and darts off to Sarah’s room. His girl sleeps just as innocently as you, with her teddy clutched under her arm. Lying atop her fuzzy pink decorative rug is Spoon, who raises her head curiously at the intrusion. He does a quick search, but nothing else moves in the room.

Joel runs to the backyard, foregoing any shoes. Despite no evidence in the house, he doesn’t get his hopes too high. He flips on the lights of the duck barn (which was not a dream), and braceshimself.

While he would have liked to have seen 0 flat footed peddling little yellow shits, a mere 6, and ONLY 6, ducks rest in their designated bed, tilting their head at him staring them down.

He wipes the sweat from his forehead and takes a relieving breath.

“Thank fucking duck.”

- - - -

Taglist : @harriedandharassed @lola8888673 @its-nebuleuse @zliteraturehoe @merz-8 @joeldjarin @pascalscoffin @pedroshotwifey @ghostslillady @innerpersonunknown @missladym1981 @mrsoharaxx @survivingandenduring @milla-frenchy @cockykookiee @fairytale07 @daddy-din @pedropascalsbbg @spookyxsam @somehopeatlast @millercontracting @pedrostories @mishala005 @theoraekenslover @animez96 @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @puduvallee @cassiecasluciluce @loohoop @himboelover @callsignwidow @wintersquirrel @peekyourinterest

[forkshighschooler]

Chapter 4 — Heat and Hunger

Summary: After days apart, you feel the growing ache of the bond. The connection is making you restless, unwell. A storm crashes through the coast, and in the chaos, Paul appears half a second away from phasing and barely holding it together. He tells you the pull to be near you is overwhelming. You touch him, breaking down a barrier between you both, but he begs you to leave before he loses control. You don’t know what’s worse: the danger… or how much you want him despite it

Part 1-Part 2-Part 3-Part 4-Part 5

You didn’t see him for two days.

After everything he’d told you—about imprinting, about wolves, about the thing that now existed between you—Paul disappeared.

You didn’t realize how used you’d become to sensing him. The quiet was different without his presence tugging at the edge of your thoughts. You tried to convince yourself you were grateful. That distance meant freedom. That maybe he was finally giving you space.

But it didn’t feel like space. It felt like absence. Like a light had flickered out in a room you hadn’t realized was lit.

And worse, that pull inside your chest had started to ache.

You didn’t want this. You still didn’t believe in soulmates, in destiny, in imprinting. But your body was betraying you—yearning, restless, like it was searching for something just beyond reach. You’d wake up with your sheets twisted around your legs, heart pounding, skin warm like you were on the verge of fever.

The bond hadn’t just started to grow. It had begun to burn.

⸻

It all broke the night of the storm.

La Push was no stranger to heavy weather, but this one rolled in with a violence that made the trees groan under the pressure of wind. You’d just closed the cart early, rain chasing away the last few customers, and started walking home through the forest path behind the cliffs—shorter, quicker, and usually safe.

But the forest wasn’t safe tonight.

The air was charged, heavy with something wrong.

You walked faster, boots splashing through puddles, breath fogging the air. Lightning cracked in the distance, followed by the low growl of thunder—and then a sound that didn’t belong.

A howl.

Not far off.

You stopped in your tracks.

Then—a roar.

Something massive slammed through the underbrush to your right. Trees shuddered. Branches snapped. Your heart launched itself into your throat.

Another growl. Louder. Closer. And then—

Paul.

Not in wolf form. Human. Barely clothed. Half shifted. His body was heaving, chest rising and falling with ragged gasps. His hands trembled. His eyes—blazing gold—met yours and widened.

“Go home,” he said, voice rough and guttural.

“Paul—what’s happening?”

“I said go. Now.”

But you couldn’t move. He stepped into the clearing, rainwater streaming off his bare chest, his body shaking violently. You’d never seen him like this—wild, unhinged, like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s the bond,” he gritted out. “It’s getting worse.”

The air between you throbbed like a heartbeat. The storm raged on, lightning flashing overhead.

“I can’t be near you right now. I won’t risk it.”

“Risk what?”

He closed his eyes like it physically hurt him to say it.

“I’m not safe when I lose control.”

Something in your chest twisted—fear, yes, but not just fear. Understanding. And something even more dangerous: compassion.

“You followed me.”

“I couldn’t stop myself,” he hissed. “I felt you panicking. I thought something had happened. But now that I’m here, it’s worse. I can barely—”

His breath caught. He stumbled back, a tremor rippling through his limbs.

“Paul—”

“Don’t come near me!”

But you were already moving.

You didn’t understand it. You just needed to reach him.

You crossed the space between you and put your hand on his chest.

His skin was hot—burning, like touching a fire. He flinched but didn’t pull away. His whole body shook beneath your palm.

“Why does it feel like this?” you whispered.

“Because I’m trying not to lose you,” he choked out. “And I’ve never cared about anyone enough to feel this kind of fear before.”

Lightning struck somewhere behind the cliffs. The world flashed white and then returned to darkness, the storm howling around you both.

His eyes searched your face. Wild. Devastated.

“I told myself I wouldn’t do this,” he said. “That I’d give you time. That I’d let you walk away if you needed to.”

You swallowed, unable to breathe properly with him so close.

“But now that I know what it feels like to have you near me,” he said, voice low and broken, “I don’t know how to go back to before.”

And then he stepped back.

The loss of his warmth was immediate—painful.

“Go,” he said again. “Please.”

You didn’t move.

“I’m scared of what this means,” you admitted. “Of what it’s doing to me.”

His eyes softened through the pain.

“You think I’m not?” he said. “I haven’t slept in days. I’ve nearly phased in front of people. The pack had to hold me down last night just so I didn’t come tearing through your front door.”

Your breath hitched.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you said.

“I know,” he replied, voice raw. “But we have it. You can hate it. You can fight it. I won’t stop you. But I’ll always be here when you need me.”

He turned, muscles tight, back shaking with restraint, and stalked into the trees.

You stood there long after he was gone, heart racing, rain soaking through to your bones—unsure if what you felt was relief… or regret.

Disclaimer:

I do not own Twilight or any of its characters. All rights belong to Stephenie Meyer. This is a work of fanfiction written for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended.

[moonselune]

Hi Selune! Been reading and enjoying your work for ages.

I was wondering if you could do Jahiera and Minthara discussing the party and random things over wine in a hot tub, maybe with Karlach to make the tub hot. I would love it if it was a minthara who was going out with Karlach like she was learning about her partners idol for karlach as well.

Got a bit off track but yeah, I want to see the older ladies of the party gossiping over wine and having a bit of banter if thats alrighty :)

awe hellllllssss yeahhhhhhh

The spring was nestled in a secluded grove just outside Rivington, half-wild and steaming from beneath a mossy overhang. By all rights, it was little more than a mineral pool heated by the earth’s breath—but now, thanks to one grinning infernal engine, it had been transformed into a boiling, burbling oasis.

Karlach was the first to cannonball in, arms flung wide, her splash sending hot water over the edge.

“Hot Spring time!” she crowed, her engine hissing cheerfully under the surface like a kettle on the boil.

Minthara, ever poised, had entered with narrowed eyes and a mild sneer that had only grown slightly amused as she settled in beside Karlach, glaring at the bubbles as if they were personally offensive. Jaheira, laughing softly, had followed with a grace Minthara would never admit she admired, her goblet of wine held aloft with casual dignity.

Now the three of them reclined against the smooth stone edge, the steam curling around their shoulders, skin glowing in the fire-lit mist. A bottle of deep red wine sat uncorked nearby, and Jaheira had begun pouring into mismatched mugs, apparently unconcerned by the lack of proper goblets.

“So,” Karlach said, eyes gleaming as she leaned forward toward Jaheira, voice full of barely-contained glee. “Be honest. Was it true what they said? That you took down a tyrant with a handful of rebels, a wolf companion, and sheer willpower?”

Minthara rolled her eyes. “Karlach.”

“No, no, let her talk!” Karlach splashed enthusiastically. “She’s Jaheira. I had this woodcut of you growing up, you know—stood on a cliff with your staff in one hand and fire in the other, cape billowing like a badass. You looked like you could punch a dragon.”

Jaheira gave a warm, amused snort and took a sip of her wine. “I think the artist may have taken liberties. I don’t own a cape.”

“You should,” Karlach declared. “You’ve earned a cape.”

Minthara’s lips twitched, almost a smile. “You sound like a girl with a schoolgirl crush.”

Karlach leaned back against the stone and grinned shamelessly. “Hey, I didn’t say I was over it.”

Jaheira chuckled, brushing damp curls back from her face. “You’re flattering an old woman.”

“You’re not old,” Karlach said fiercely. “You’re seasoned. Like an enchanted blade.”

That got a real laugh out of Jaheira—low and rich and full of something far too rare these days: joy. “You’re ridiculous.”

“She’s always like this,” Minthara muttered, shaking her head, though the fondness in her tone betrayed her. She reached out beneath the water and found Karlach’s hand, fingers intertwining with practiced ease.

Karlach glanced over, caught Minthara’s eye, and softened. “Only for people who matter.”

Jaheira watched the exchange quietly, her sharp gaze turning curious. “And how are the two of you faring? I admit I didn’t expect to see Minthara of all people gritting her teeth through romantic affection.”

Minthara gave her a dry look. “It’s... new. Intolerably warm.”

“I’m right here, babe,” Karlach said, elbowing her gently.

Minthara raised an eyebrow. “Precisely.”

Jaheira smirked. “You’re more like me than you think. Gods know I had to learn how to let someone hold my heart without drawing blood.”

There was a pause, the warmth of the spring seeping into their bones, the quiet between them not uncomfortable, but thoughtful.

Karlach leaned forward again, voice softer now. “Did you ever think you’d still be here? Still fighting, still leading people? I mean, I always thought heroes burned bright and vanished. But you—you’re still here.”

Jaheira looked into her mug, turning it slightly in her hands. The firelight cast shadows in her eyes.

“I thought I’d be long gone,” she admitted. “But life has a way of keeping you rooted when you least expect it. There’s always someone else to protect. A cause that needs more blood than you can give.”

Karlach nodded slowly. “You make it look like it’s worth it.”

“It is worth it,” Jaheira said, firmly now. Then her gaze flicked to the two of them. “Especially when I see how far we've come. Who we’re allowed to love. Who’s strong enough to keep choosing it.”

Minthara, uncharacteristically quiet, shifted slightly. Her hand remained in Karlach’s. She didn’t speak, but the rare softness on her face said everything.

Karlach looked at both of them—at her childhood idol, at the drow woman beside her whose love still made her chest feel too small—and said simply, “This is the best thing I never thought I’d get to have.”

A little drabble for y'all. Hope you enjoy it! - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

[immeasurablesaladagere]

Bad Math

(note for my followers with requests going, I'm pretty burnt out of House atm. I will get to requests when I can, but getting back into writing for me and also my life stuff will take priority over them.)

-----

Word Count: 3948

Summery: Episode 3 of Double Life. Martyn regresses after accidentally killing himself and Cleo but is afraid to say anything. It turns out he doesn't have to, because Cleo can feel all of it.

-----

Cleo jolted up in her bed, a fresh rush of respawn-fuelled adrenaline coursing through her veins. She hissed through her teeth as moving shot painful pulses through the newly reformed muscles of her legs and back. 

“Martyn!” She seethed to no one, “Oh my god, you stupid—“ That idiot had just killed them both! What in the world was he thinking!? The soul string around her finger burned with her anger and she didn’t bother to stifle it. She wanted Martyn to know that her blood was absolutely boiling. She got a dull pang of something like guilt back before he shut that down, because of course he would. She rolled her eyes.

Her joints ached as she stumbled out of bed and out the front door, but she pressed on. Her items would despawn if she wasted time, and she wasn’t going to lose all of her hard work on top of a life. 

The cliff was treacherous, at least a 20 block sheer drop with mobs everywhere, and she cursed Martyn under her breath the whole miserable shuffle down to the riverbed. By the time she reached solid ground her muscles were throbbing and a small hoard of zombies were clawing at her feet. She felt the pinch of phantom fingers on her forearm, Martyn’s silent complaining, and she pinched right back. He’s done this to himself. He was lucky she wasn’t letting these zombies have a little nibble. 

Some of her items were washed up on the rocks, coated in watery pink blood and muck, but the rest were floating amongst the drowned on the riverbed, not worth getting if she wanted to stay alive. She scooped up what she could and began the climb back to the top. Several of her items were missing, her food and armour were lost to the silt, which meant even if Scott could lend her something to wear she’d have to go back to the bloody caves in the middle of the night. 

At the top of the cliff, Martyn’s items lay scattered in a pile where he died. Part of her wanted to leave his things to rot, maybe kick them down into the river, but instead she begrudgingly dumped them into a chest for him to retrieve. She couldn’t have him dying again because his armour despawned, even if the idea of inconveniencing him brought her a sense of sweet satisfaction.

Buzz. Her communicator vibrated against her hip, and she pulled it out. 

<ZombieCleo fell from a high place trying to escape InTheLittleWood>

<SolidarityGaming> WHAT

<PearlescentMoon> OOOOOO

<Impulse> Soulmate kill? O.o

<Smajor1995 whispered to you:> You okay?

<Tango> LOL

<Rendog> rip

And of course nothing from Martyn. No explanation, not even a fake apology. Cleo huffed.

<You whisper to Smajor1995:> Fine. Got my stuff back

<You whisper to Smajor1995:> Most of it. My armour’s gone

Martyn hadn’t shown his face yet, which was probably for the best. She might just beat the stuffing out of him if he came around for the next while. A part of her wondered why she hadn’t seen him yet, if not just to get his stuff back before running off again, his tail tucked between his legs. She stared across the chasm to his heart tower. From where she was standing she couldn’t see him in the windows or moving around on the ground. 

<Smajor1995 whispered to you:> Do you want me to help you mine? I think I’ve got a spare set of boots too

<You whisper to Smajor1995:> Yes that would be great thanks

The walk to their strip-mine was short, but in sopping wet clothes and coming off a respawn  it felt like a slog. Thankfully she made it without running into any mobs, and Scott met her at the entrance to the mine, pickaxe in hand and a concerned look on his face. “You alright, Cleo?”

She ran a hand through her hair and sighed. “Fine, just… frustrated.” 

Scott nodded sympathetically and made an after you motion to the mine. Cleo lead them down the tunnel system until they found untouched rock, which wasn’t too far, and set up a crafting table and a couple furnaces.

They worked in an unusual silence. Typically their time together was comfortable and full of banter, but it was hard to find something to talk about besides the glaringly obvious. She could almost feel how badly Scott wanted to pry and know every little detail, ever the gossip he was, but it was clear that he was determined not to from the near-constipated look on his face.

Cleo smirked. “Out with it then, ask me what happened,” She said, resting her pickaxe over her shoulder and leaning against the wall, “I know you want to. Although, I can’t really say I know myself.”

“Why did he kill you?” And wasn’t that the million-dollar question. “I know we’re not on good terms, but I didn’t think he’d do something like that. Not even Pearl has gone that far! And she’s crazy!” 

Cleo snorted, “I’ll tell you why, because he’s selfish! I don’t agree to a truce and he shoves me off a cliff!” She turned back to her pickaxe, punctuating every angry syllable with a swing. “Because he can’t just survive on his own. Ee’s like a parasite! Nagging on and on, and that weird tower he’s got in the ravine? Oh my gods—!” She was ranting, but it felt good to vent her frustrations to someone who wasn’t terminally dense and obsessed with the idea that ‘he’s your soulmate, you have to make up!’. What nonsense.

“And now we’re down a life, and I’m going to be stuck picking up after him because it’s always me, isn’t it? And it always will be! He’s just going to go running about willy nilly and I’ll have the consequences!” She swung her pick down with more force than was probably necessary, crumbling a pocket of lapis into dust, “He’s like a toddler!”

Suddenly, speak of the devil and he shall appear, there was a tug on their soul bond. It wasn’t ticks of damage like usual, it was an emotional tug. A ripple of nervous butterflies fluttered through her stomach, and she paused. Strange. Not the feeling itself, but the fact she’d felt it at all. The both of them had been stubbornly careful not to let their feelings slip through their bond ever since they’d officially split off in the first session. Probably a close call with a creeper.

Finally, after what felt like the thousandth poke-hole in the rock, she hit a pocket of iron. “Aha!” She exclaimed in victory, “Finally! This should be enough for at least a chest plate and some trousers. Come check it out, it’s massi—“

She faltered. There it was again, stronger this time. Her stomach twisted with what was definitely fear, and something else, too. It was fuzzy and hard to grasp. 

“Cleo? You alright?”

“…Yeah, I just… Martyn’s doing something. He’s probably caving.”

Scott hummed, sitting cross-legged on the ground and tossing a few pieces of raw iron into the furnaces, “Is he taking damage? You looked kinda scared there for a second.”

He hadn’t, but Cleo checked her health bar anyway to find it perfectly intact. “Nope. He probably just got ambushed by a mob or something, clearly he’s not the most careful man on this serv—“

It was then that it crashed over her; the string on her finger tightened and a wave of crystal-clear and suffocating sadness flowed through it. It startled her just how fast her eyes welled up and her chest squeezed, nearly winding her. “What on earth..?” She gasped. Her pickaxe clattered against the stone floor as she stumbled back against the wall. 

“What’s wrong!?” Scott clambered to his feet and rushed to her side, “Do you need food? How many hearts are you on?” He demanded, shoving a piece of bread against her hand.

Cleo quickly straightened, gently pushing the bread away, “No I don’t need food, I— I’m fine, just—“ What was Martyn doing?

Part of her wanted to ignore this. Whatever this was, it wasn’t her circus or her emotional monkeys. Physically they were fine, so it was fine. She scrubbed the tears out of her eyes, only for them to come right back, blurring Scott’s fretting expression. 

But the other part, the stronger part, told her that this wasn’t normal. Something was wrong with Martyn and she couldn’t help but be worried. Outside of the game they were still friends, and she still cared about Martyn’s wellbeing even if he was being a terrible partner right then. 

“Something’s wrong with Martyn.” She said. Well obviously, well done there Cleo, very observant. “I don’t know what but it’s… a lot.”

A thick, hazy feeling settled behind her eyes like molasses. It felt gentle, like it should have been pleasant, but it only amplified the swirl of emotions rushing through her. Tears slipped down her cheeks and she sniffled. Deep in her chest something was crying out for comfort, and she had to stop herself from instinctively reaching out to grab Scott’s hand, even though he probably wouldn’t have minded.

Scott took a deep breath, tapping his fingers quickly against the hilt of his pickaxe. “Right. Not much to go off of, then. What does it feel like?”

She struggled to get her thoughts in order as wave after wave of emotion came through their bond. It was overwhelming, flooding every corner of her brain like tar. “Goodness gracious, keep it together, Martyn…” She mumbled to herself, trying to at least keep her vision clear, “Um… It’s like, heavy? He’s definitely sad, scared I think… My head’s all fuzzy.”

After a moment of looking deep in thought, a look of dread suddenly dawned over Scott’s face, “Oh no…”

“What? What is it?” Cleo asked, voice creeping on desperate as the storm inside her slipped into her voice, “Don’t just say “oh no” and then stand there with that look on your face, it’s stressing me out!”

Scott looked at her, eyes wide. “He’s not regressed, is he? Surely not.”

All of the pieces were suddenly falling together to make a terrifying picture. The hiding, the suffocating fuzzy feeling, all of the emotions flowing through their bond, the crying— Martyn was little. 

Cleo’s mind raced. There was a child running around in the middle of the night during a death game, scared out of his mind and most likely defenceless. It was a miracle he hadn’t taken any damage yet. Heck, it was a miracle they weren’t dead yet, came a sobering thought, it was a miracle he wasn’t chased down by a hoard of zombies, backed into a corner a slaughtered. Ex-soulmate status be damned, she needed to find him and soon. She fumbled with her belt for her communicator and quickly typed out a message with shaky fingers.

<You whisper to InTheLittleWood:> Martyn where are you

To her surprise and slight relief, it didn’t take long for Martyn to respond.

<InTheLittleWood> i’m fine

<BdoubleO100> ?

<You whisper to InTheLittleWood:> Sure. What’s wrong? Are you regressed right now? Also you’re in main chat

<InTheLittleWood whispers to you:> Fine. Not small. Dw boutt it

<You whisper to InTheLittleWood:> Martyn. Stop messing around, where are you? Don’t make me get Grian, I’ll make him stop the session right now if I have to

The fuzzy feeling increased, and she blinked hard. If the rampant spelling errors in his messages weren’t enough to convince her he was small, that sure was.

<InTheLittleWood whispers to you:> Spswn

<InTheLittleWood whispers to you:> spawn

<You whisper to InTheLittleWood:> Stay there, I’m coming to find you

“I’m going to get him.” Cleo said, pocketing her pickaxe and equipping the iron boots Scott had given her. Her shield was shoddy at best, but they hadn’t had enough time to make her anything else and they didn’t have any to waste now. It would have to do.

Scott stopped her with a hand on her shoulder, “Do you want me to come with you? If you give me a sec I can make a new shield and—”

“No, it’ll take too long. Besides, I think it’ll just freak him out more if you’re there with me.” She rubbed at her eyes and gave him what she hoped was a reassuring look.

“Alright, I’ll catch up, then. Just… be safe, okay?”

“I will. I’ll be quick!”

The run to spawn was a gauntlet, and the burning in her chest and throat wasn’t helping. Thankfully the tears had slowed and her vision was clear enough to dodge mobs as they appeared from the brush. By the time she arrived the sun had begun to crawl over the horizon, but the mobs wouldn’t be burning for at least another hour, which meant they weren’t safe just yet. 

Martyn hadn’t sent any more messages and he was nowhere to be seen at spawn. Anxiety rolled in her gut as she scanned the tree line for Martyn’s obnoxiously bright outfit. She was just about to message the group and rally a search party when she saw it.

A dirt shack. Built up at the base of a scraggly oak tree was a small dirt box, just big enough for one person to be huddled up inside if they really squeezed. She approached cautiously, noting the uptick of nervousness inside her as her footsteps grew closer. She carefully dug away the wall, and there was Martyn. He was curled up tight, red-faced from crying and snot dripping from his nose, staring up at her with eyes blown wide.

Cleo couldn’t help but wince; he was certainly a sight. They stared at each other for a beat before Martyn simply dissolved. He began to cry once more and the tears in Cleo’s eyes returned with a vengeance. He curled impossibly tighter into his little ball and began mumbling something. Most of it was complete nonsense, but she was able to make out one word, over and over again. ‘Sorry’.

A weight dropped from her shoulders and she let out a breath of relief. She schooled her expression into something softer and tried to bend down to his level, but Martyn tucked his face between his knees.

“Martyn? Are we maybe feeling a bit little?” She tried her best attempt at a comforting tone.

“‘M sorry!” he babbled, sniffling loudly, “Didn’ mean t’hurt you, I was joking, I didn’t mean it!” 

All this trouble for a joke, of course.

“I’m not angry with you, I’m just glad you’re safe. This server’s dangerous for a little kid, yeah?” Her assurances didn’t seem to make anything better. In fact, Martyn only seemed more upset. 

His fists clenched into the fabric of his jeans and his head shot up, “You are angry!” He cried, “’Could- ‘could feel it! You’re angry at me an ‘m sorry! I didn’ mean it!”  

Cleo sighed. He was right, she was angry. Buried underneath Martyn’s hurricane of emotions there was still anger for him, but that anger was for adult Martyn. Stupid, shortsighted adult Martyn who got them both killed, not the blubbering child in front of her.

“Martyn, look at me.” He whined stubbornly and turned away, and Cleo rolled her eyes. Oh no, she wasn’t in the mood for this game. “Martyn.” Teary yellow eyes peeked up nervously at her.

“I am angry, alright? I’m angry we died, but there isn’t anything we can do about it now, is there? You didn’t mean to kill me, but we’re still yellow. That’s that.” Martyn sniffled, and Cleo could see a fresh line of tears forming in his eyes. “But, just because I’m angry doesn’t mean I don’t care about you. I want you to be safe, and I’m certainly not going to leave you all alone while you’re little.” Martyn seemed to consider that, scrubbing clumsily at his eyes. 

She reached forward and gently adjusted his headband from where it had begun to slip down into his face. “There we go, no more crying now. Would you like a hug—? Oof!” Martyn in her arms in an instant, crushing her in a death grip. He buried his nose into her shoulder and sniffled wetly. 

“Oh, gross buddy. Just getting snot all over my shirt, hm?” She chuckled, patting him gently on the back. He squirmed to be nearly cross-legged in her lap, slightly awkwardly because of the height he had on her, but she accommodated as best she could.

They stayed like that for a few minutes in silence, only broken up by the occasional sniffle. The golden string wrapped around Cleo’s finger felt pleasantly warm, the knot loose and flowing instead of suffocatingly tight, and she wondered absently if this was what the bond was supposed to feel like. Comfortable and soothing.

So soothing that she heard the rattling bones of a skeleton behind her just a second too late. 

Martyn gasped, “Cleo there’s a—!”

A sharp pain shot through her shoulder and she yelped. Martyn squeaked, and she curled defensively around him. The mobs.

She pulled out her shield and propped it behind her, and a second arrow lodged into the splitting wood with a thunk. “Martyn, can you run?” Martyn only blinked up at her, wide-eyed and open-mouthed like a fish. She grit her teeth, “Alright, up we go then!”

Ditching the shield she hoisted him up under his thighs and prepared to make a run for it. Just as the skeleton drew back another arrow, it was smashed into a pile of bones by an out-of-breath Scott.

“Run! I’ll cover you!” 

Arrows whizzed past her head and zombies turned to follow her as she ran through the woods, and she prayed to admin that none would connect while she was toting a grown man on her hip. She could hear Scott not far behind cutting down anything that got too close, and thank the Admins for Scott Smajor.

Cleo liked to think she was strong, but Martyn wasn’t exactly a featherweight. By the time they all made home and the door was shut firmly behind them she was panting and her arms felt like jelly. 

“You, alright, Martyn?” She huffed, leaning him back to get a look at his face. He nodded and gave her a shaky smile. “You’re very brave then, aren’t you?”

“The bravest.” Martyn muttered, letting his head bonk against her shoulder. She winced. Now that she had a moment to breathe, she could feel the arrowhead grinding against her shoulder blade and the trail of sticky blood running down her back. Martyn was probably a similar story. It was a wonder he hadn’t started complaining about it yet.

“Cleooooo,” Came a whine in her ear, “M’arm huuuurts.” 

There it was. She chuckled. “I’m sure it does. Let’s get patched up then, hm?”

“I’ll see what we’ve got.” Scott said, sounding rather winded as well.

Cleo set Martyn down on the bed and dropped down beside him with a groan. She could be helping Scott find first aid, but she was pretty sure she’d earned a break at this point. Scott returned from the chests with a half roll of gauze and a meagre amount of instant health in a bottle. 

“We don’t have much potion left, but I think we have enough wool for more bandages if we need.”

“Oh, we will need. Hand me those, I’ll get started on Boy-Wonder, here.” 

“Arrow first.” Scott reminded, and oh right, the arrow. “Fast or slow?”

“Fast.” She said, then reached over and grabbed Martyn’s hand. “This is gonna hurt for just a second, okay? Squeeze my hand real hard.”

Martyn nodded nervously.

Scott set one hand on her back for leverage and grabbed the arrow with the other. “Deep breath, you two. One, two… three!”

Cleo grit her teeth and Martyn whimpered as the arrow came out, squeezing her hand like he was trying to pop a balloon.

“See? Not so bad, was it?” She said tightly, but it was hard to look convincing when Martyn’s tears were welling in her eyes. “Now, bandages. C’mon, shirt up.”

After taking a moment to collect himself Martyn tried his best to wiggle out of his shirt, but of course he didn’t take his bag off first and before Cleo could even attempt to correct him he was already tangled and giving her the most pitiful look. 

“You know what? That was my mistake, let me help you with that.”

Mirroring her own, there was a small puncture wound in his right shoulder blade bleeding sluggishly down his back. His wasn’t going to be nearly as bad as hers, but the emotional damage probably made up for it.

“This’ll make it feel better, alright?” She uncorked the bottle and dumped what was left of the potion over the wound, and watched as it began to stitch itself back together. By the time the potion was done, Martyn was in need of little more than a band-aid and her back felt a lot less on-fire than it had a moment ago. With the help of a bit of slime, she secured a layer of gauze over what was left of the cut and helped Martyn wrestle his shirt back on. Was it completely hygienic? No. But it worked in a pinch.

“Now you.” Martyn said, making a grab for the gauze.

“Ah-ah, nooo thank you.” She said, “I think Scott will help with that.” Not that she didn’t trust a toddler with her medical care, but he’d probably make a mess with the slime and she’d had quite enough of bath time for one night.

He pouted. “But I’m your soulmate! I wanna help!”

“You are, but you’re also quite the tiny thing, and I like this shirt. Scott gets it, don’t you, Scott?”

“Sure do.” Scott took the slime and bandages from her and in less than thirty seconds the job was done. 

Even though the day had only just begun, Cleo was absolutely knackered. She glanced out the window at the rising sun and blinked blearily. “We should probably let Grian know to call a break, shouldn’t we?”

“Noooooo…” Martyn whined, before letting out the world’s biggest yawn.

“Yep, on it.” Scott pulled out his communicator and sent the message, and a few seconds later the break message went out.

“Alright, naptime.” Cleo said, pulling Martyn to lay down on the bed with her and halfheartedly tugging up the blanket. Being able to finally close her eyes after the night she’d had felt like heaven.

Scott smirked and took pity on her, and helped bring the blanket up the rest of the way. “You two sleep, I’ll be across the way if you need me.”

She cracked one eye open as he turned to leave. “You sleep too, don’t think I forgot I dragged you out of bed.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure. Goodnight, Cleo. Goodnight, Martyn.”

Martyn was already dozing off, but he still giggled and called back a quiet, “Good morning, Scott.”

The door shut and the two of them were left in a comfortable silence. Their soul bond wrapped around them, pleasantly warm and light. Cleo was just about to fall asleep when she felt a ripple of guilt.

“…Martyn? What’s going on in that head of yours, hm?” She mumbled.

“M’sorry, Cleo.”

She rolled her closed eyes and felt around for his hand, holding it loosely. “I know you are. If you really want to make it up to me, you’ll relax and have a sleep. Cleo’s tired.”

“…M’kay. Good morning.”

“Good morning, Martyn.”

[ask-impatient-samurott]

Nema found herself hurtling ears over tail through the air.

The Wishing Star in the cave had exploded, sending her careening back out into the Giant Chasm alongside the brunt of the blast.

She was unceremoniously flung into the far cliff wall of the chasm. She felt her ribs break, like she was a carton of eggs that had been slammed against a steel door. A minor cut on her ear buzzed with a prominent stinging sensation. Her nose bled from the sheer speed at which she had flown.

Pikachu were not built for this.

Nema barked with pain as she slid down the rock and landed in the blue-ish grass. She couldn't move. All she could do was groan as her body repeatedly spasmed involuntarily, causing more bursts of needle sharp pain.

Her nose was plugged with blood and mucus. Her throat dried out. Her ears felt stuffed with cotton. The only sense of hers that seemed to stay sharp were her eyes.

It took Nema a few minutes to notice she was lying on her back. With a huff and a creak from her midsection, she found just enough energy to roll herself onto her belly. The flop sent her into a coughing fit.

When her eyes focused again, all she could see was a gaping hole where the once small cave entrance was. She had just passed through it earlier...

Ominous bright pink mist swirled steadily from the cave. The Wishing Star had burst open from the pressure, and was now releasing Dynamax energy into the air.

Nema tried to think. Think of anything. But her skull was full of static fuzz. She had thoughts, but they certainly weren't coherent.

Marigold. Marigold... she could really use her girlfriend right about now.

Right. They were back in Undella Town. He could probably see the explosion from where she's at.

...Where was she?

Oh. Yeah.

Kappa. Kappa!

Where was Kappa!? Jean!?

Nema, as quickly as she could, scanned the surrounding area, her vision and thoughts rapidly becoming clearer.

[Nema]

'Shit, fuck fuck- I can't see them anywhere! Are they still in the cave!?' She thought in a panic.

'If only I could move! Kappa!! KAPPA!!'

She felt it before she heard it.

It reverberated through the ground and into her skin. The grass did nothing to muffle it in all its intensity.

Nema could see it. A massive figure, cloaked in red, striding slowly towards her. Bigger than anything she had ever seen. Bigger than even the three dragons she had been standing next to just moments ago. Where were they?

The mist turned from a hot pink, to an eye searing crimson. It rolled sluggishly around the legs of the beast in front of her, as if rolling out a red carpet.

Slowly, the creature came into view.

A massive, hulking thing, with fur a deep indigo hauled itself forward. Various parts of its body were covered in nigh pristine pieces of glittering yellow armor. Its tail fanned out behind it like a cape as it trudged along. In its claws were two rectangular swords, which it seemed to currently be using as crutches to hold up its unweildy body.

Its mouth opened in a strained exhale, letting more of the crimson mist pour out of its body like drool.

It was horrifying.

Nema somehow found the ability to push herself up to her knees. She couldn't take her eyes off of the monster's mouth. She felt sick.

[Nema]

"What..?"

The word felt like chalk in her mouth. Images- memories, of the past two days flickered in and out of her head like fireflies.

Nema knew who this was before her.

She knew that this had happened. And she did nothing to stop it from happening again.

The mist in front of her thinned. And a large head pushed through it.

[G. Max Kappa]

"HHHhhhhhh..."

[Kappa has Gigantamaxed!]

<<PREV - NEXT>>

[persphonesorchid]

Minisode Seokjin

Notes: :> Happy Holidays!! Wishing you a good one! Got one for Joonie coming tomorrow! Love you guys!

Minisodes Masterlist

"Jin. This isn't gonna work."

"You'll be fine, I'm a professional."

"You're not."

"Okay, but I'm pretty good at it."

"That's not as comforting as you think it is."

You're cold, and frankly, you do not want to be here. You feel like a kid finally out of their training wheels but not confident enough to ride the bike. Seokjin took his time to explain how to turn, stop, and how to fall safely if you can't.

He's smiling at you, you can't see his mouth, covered by the bright green ski mask he'd bought at the store. His eyes scrunch happily behind the snow goggles and you feel the weight of his hand as he brushes snow off your shoulder.

"Want me to go down with you?" he asks, voice muffled slightly.

You glance down at the slope, your stomach twisting at the sheer drop it appears to be. It's not that steep, you know this logically, but standing here with skis strapped to your feet, it feels like you're about to hurl yourself off the edge of a cliff.

"I don't know," you say honestly, gripping the poles like they're lifelines. "I feel like this is how people end up on those ski fail compilations on YouTube."

Seokjin chuckles, a sound so full and rich it makes you forget, just for a moment, the icy wind biting at your cheeks. "You? On a fail video? Never. You're going to be the star of the 'first-timer nails it' compilation. I can feel it." He gives you a playful nudge with his shoulder, making you wobble slightly on your skis.

"Don't make me fall before I even start!" you exclaim, swatting at him with one hand and clutching your poles tighter with the other.

He steps closer, brushing snow from your other shoulder now, though you’re certain there’s none left to clear. It’s an excuse to be close, to calm your nerves, and it works. His presence feels steady.

"Okay," he says softly, his hand resting lightly on your arm. "Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll ski right beside you. You don’t have to do it alone. If you fall, I’ll fall with you. Deal?"

"That sounds like a terrible plan," you mutter, though the knot in your stomach loosens a bit.

"But it’s my plan," he counters, grinning behind his mask. "And I never fail. Except when I do. But we’ll ignore that part."

You bite back a smile, shaking your head at his ridiculousness. His confidence, even if over-the-top, has a way of rubbing off on you. “Fine. But if I crash into a tree, you’re taking the blame.”

“Deal.” He raises one hand, offering you a pinky. You stare at him for a beat, incredulous.

“A pinky promise?”

“It’s binding,” he says with a solemn nod, though his eyes are crinkling again with mirth. You roll your eyes but hook your gloved pinky around his.

“Alright, let’s do this before I change my mind.”

He steps back just enough to give you space but stays close, his skis already angling into position. "Remember, pizza to stop, fries to go. And relax—you're not fighting the snow, you're dancing with it."

"Dancing, huh?" You snort, bending slightly at the knees as he taught you. "If this is a dance, then I’m about to step on its toes."

"Then I guess it's a good thing I’m here to catch you." His voice is warm with sincerity, and somehow, it makes the slope seem a little less intimidating.

You take a deep breath, the cold air stinging your lungs, and push off. For a moment, you’re weightless, gliding, and you hear Jin's voice beside you, cheering, laughing, just as you begin to trust yourself to move forward.

[argumate]

metaphors for personal growth that have come up recently:

running from lamppost to lamppost, where you're under too much pressure to consider your longer term goals and the most you can do is try to stay focused on the concrete task right in front of you (or the concrete immediately under your feet) and hope that the larger project sorts itself out (that you will eventually reach the finish line) if you just complete enough small tasks, the risk being of course that you might be way off course or going around in circles chasing an infinite sequence of lampposts.

this metaphor also dovetails with the "searching for your keys under the streetlight" metaphor if you imagine someone desperately running from one patch of light to another, which emphasises the anxiety of focusing on small bursts of progress while the larger goal is still shrouded in darkness.

jumping off a cliff, presumably into water or with a bungee harness of some sort, which is still a nerve-wracking experience that you might postpone for some time while you gather your courage and nervously look over the edge and take some deep breaths etc. etc. and in fact it's impossible to say when you will actually take the leap! but the moment you finally do, you have committed yourself to gravity and your trajectory is already determined.

sometimes people count down from three, because saying "three" doesn't feel like a big commitment at all so it's not scary, but then you will naturally say "two", and inexorably "one", and finally sheer momentum will make you shout "jump!" at which point it takes more effort to stop the process than continue it, so over you go; this approach can also be applied to getting out of bed on the count of three.

shifting the boulder, if you're cutting a road into the side of a steep mountain and a huge boulder is blocking the way, so you start digging out the dirt and other smaller rocks that are propping it up, and this is hard work that doesn't appear to be doing anything at all: the boulder is still sitting there blocking your path! in fact you might be slaving away for days or weeks shifting all this other crap to no apparent benefit, until one day you dig one more shovel of dirt or pull out one more rock and the boulder gives a huge groan and lurches out of its resting place and rolls down the mountainside, disappearing into the valley far below.

just like felling a tree by flailing away with an axe for an hour until the last stroke suddenly topples it, the very last action only had such an outsized impact because of all the work that went in before it! sometimes when nothing seems to be happening you need to assess are you really just wasting your time or are you steadily doing the groundwork necessary for the next stage of progress.

[badbatchposts]

A Quiet Grove (Quality Time)

Read on ao3

Author's note: This takes place after the end of Quiet Corners of the Galaxy, so it has some minor spoilers. Some mild suggestiveness, but otherwise this is the softest that Dara and Crosshair have ever been with each other.

Summary: Crosshair and Dara spend a quiet afternoon together.

On Pabu, there is an isolated grove overlooking the sea, where the only sounds are the chittering of moon-yos and the quiet rush of the waves. The grove sits beside a sheer cliff, the drop below a dizzying height that not even the most daring islander will try diving from. When Crosshair first returned to his brothers and joined them in their tropical paradise, he used to hide there for hours just to be alone with his thoughts. He’d spend whole afternoons looking out over the ocean, counting his regrets. 

Crosshair feels far away from those moments of self-disgusted contemplation now. The grove is peaceful, and he’s been in and out of a doze all afternoon. He can feel the sun on his face and fingers gently stroking through his hair, his head comfortably resting in a soft, warm lap. 

“I know you’re awake again,” Dara murmurs. 

“You stopped,” he complains, voice still hoarse with sleep. The last he remembers, Dara had been playing for him on her wooden flute, a low, mournful tune that was one of his favorites. 

Dara chuckles. “That was twenty minutes ago. I stopped because you were snoring,” she teases playfully. 

She carefully extricates her hands from his curls and settles more comfortably against the tree trunk at her back, but makes no attempt to move him off her lap. Still, he cracks his tattooed eye open to scowl up at her. 

“Quit pouting,” she chides. Her fingers are now preoccupied with a few lengths of teal and yellow leather cord that she’s weaving into a band of repetitive knots and patterns. 

Crosshair’s scowl deepens at that, and he huffs. “I know you’re due back in a few days, but you couldn’t possibly have intel to record right now.” 

Dara rolls her eyes, a smile teasing at her lips as she gazes down at him. “This is an art form, Crosshair. I don’t just use it for spying, believe it or not.” 

He raises an eyebrow at her skeptically. “I thought the knots were a message.” 

“Nothing gets past you.” Dara pauses in her work to stroke back through his hair, then along the gnarled scar at the side of his head, down his jawline and arm, finally intertwining her fingers with his, leaving him practically purring. Then she holds out the leather band in front of him, moving their hands to trace his thumb along the knots. 

“What’s it say?” Crosshair asks, closing his eyes again, as though it would help him to read the message beneath his fingertips. 

She bends over to plant a soft kiss at his temple before returning to her work. “Omega’s name. It’s a bracelet for her.” 

Crosshair chuckles. “You’re asking for trouble. Now the kid will want to learn how to read your secret code.” He settles more comfortably into Dara’s lap. He supposes that he can accept making a gift for his sister as a good enough reason to lose out on Dara’s music and soft pets for the afternoon.

He’ll just have to find other ways to feed his more hedonistic impulses later. 

With that pleasurable thought, it takes him no time at all to drift into a contented doze again. 

The sun is beginning to set the next time that Crosshair wakes. He stretches his arms overhead and blinks his eyes open to find Dara looking down at him fondly. 

The gentle feeling that gaze stirs in him is almost unbearable, so he tugs her down into a hard kiss and swallows her surprised squeak instead. He keeps the kiss relatively chaste—for him, at least—cupping Dara’s cheek as he pulls apart, but he knows her, and her expression is already hungry for more. 

“Time for late meal?” he queries innocently. 

“Something like that,” Dara snarks back with an appreciative glance over his sprawled, languid form. 

Grinning, Crosshair gets to his feet, holding a hand out to help her up, only to furrow his brow down at the unfamiliar object on his wrist—a woven black band decorated with tiny white versions of his namesake. He traces his fingers over it reverently. When Dara puts her hand in his, he pulls her up and right into his arms.

“Didn’t want you to get jealous of the kid,” she murmurs into his chest. “Or forget about me, when I’m away.”

The moon-yos, invisible among the trees, chatter quietly. The waves below crash against the cliff edge. Crosshair holds Dara tightly for a moment longer, just breathing in the scent of her hair. 

“Never, burk’yc,” he whispers back. 

Tag list: @stardusthuntress @skellymom @megmegalodondon @somewhere-on-kamino @morerandombullshit @zahmaddog @flaming-dumpster @clonexocweek

[seatrisa]

Stranded

@linked-disability Prompt 1 - non-mobility disability equipment

This is part of an event for disability pride month. There are several prompts to encourage diversity and representation of disabilities in Linked universe Summary: Warriors and Hyrule are stranded on Time's death mountain when Hyrule overheats. Warriors does his best to care for him despite their limited supplies. Stranded - Seatrisa16 - The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms [Archive of Our Own]

Warriors sighed as he gazed out over Hryule. The view was lovely. He could see for miles in every direction. The rolling fields, the small villages, lakes and rivers. It was breathtaking, but that wasn’t why he sighed. For all the things he could see, it was what he couldn’t see that bothered him. He couldn’t see a way off this forsaken mountain.

Warriors wiped the sweat off his brow with his right hand. On top of everything else, it was so hot. What he wouldn’t give for some shade. The rocky mountainside only seemed to reflect the heat back at them. He could see it distorting the air around them.The dry air irritated his scars, even as he dripped with sweat. He had taken off his scarf and some extra layers, even his chain mail but it didn’t feel like it was helping much. He hated being so exposed but he knew how deadly the heat could be. “Something wrong?” Hyrule asked. Warriors could hear the exhaustion in his voice. His chest constricted with guilt. If Hyrule was alone, he would be halfway down the mountain by now. Between his various spells and the fact that he could actually climb, the mountain didn’t cause the other hero difficulties it did for Warriors. 

“Just enjoying the view.” Warriors flashed him a grin before picking a direction and walking. He prayed this time, they wouldn’t have to back track.

Unfortunately, this trail ended in a sheer cliff just like the last one had. Warriors silently cursed to himself. If it wasn’t for his stupid hand, they wouldn’t be here right now. His disability didn’t normally bother him, but times like this were frustrating. He could do most things still with the help of aids. He could still fight, cook, write letters, even doing his makeup wasn’t an issue, but there was no way he could climb a cliff face, at least not with the equipment he had on them.

 Warriors turned around, plastering on a smile in a vain attempt to hide his dejection from his companion. The smile disappeared as soon as he realized Hyrule wasn’t behind him. He looked wildly up the path, hoping to see the Traveler. How long had they been separated? If Hyrule had been attacked, he would have heard it, right?

Warriors ran up the path, ignoring the heat that tried to sap his strength. He needed to find Hyrule. He’d never forgive himself if something happened to him. He was very glad he had taken the time to strap his sword to his hand before. If Hyrule was in trouble, he wouldn’t have time to adjust it later.

Warriors rounded a boulder and finally saw him. He was sitting on a rock with his head in his hands. He didn’t appear injured, but looks could be deceiving. He learned that lesson the hard way far too many times during the war. People that had appeared uninjured had died hours later. He wasn’t about to make that mistake again.

“Hyrule.”

Hyrule jerked, his hand instantly moved to his sword. Warriors inwardly winced. He should know better then to startle a Link, even a Link that might be unwell. No, especially a link that was unwell. They all tended to be more jumpy when they were hurt. Thankfully, Hyrule  relaxed upon seeing him. He released his sword and signed. “Sorry. Just needed a minute.” Warriors couldn’t help but wonder if the younger boy was stressed. He often was when he resorted to sign. Warrior quickly forgot that concern when Hyrule stood up and started to sway.

Warriors grabbed his arm to steady him, careful not to stab him in the process. Knowing that Hyrule disliked touch, he released him after it seemed he wasn’t in danger of falling anymore. “Hey, not so fast. Are you alright?” 

“I’m fine.” Hyrule protested, but Warriors wasn’t buying it. They were all dismissive of their conditions at the best of time. If Hyrule was unsteady on his feet, he was anything but fine. As he looked more closely at Hyrule he could see the flush that covered Hyrule’s skin. He noticed the glistening shine of sweat on his brow. His hair was plastered to his head and his tunic was drenched.

Warriors frowned. These were clear signs of overheating. Warriors cursed himself for not noticing earlier. He’d heard the weariness in his voice. And He should have noticed him lagging behind. Such obliviousness was unexceptable. He glanced around. The boulder he had just passed gave a little shade. It was hardly ideal but it seemed that was the best he could do at the moment.

“Let’s move you into the shade.” Warriors said. “Can I support your waist?” He thought that Hyrule needed the extra support, but wanted to get permission before touching him. It didn’t take that much energy to ask and seemed to mean the world to Hyrule. It was the least he could do.

Hyrule gave him a weary look. “What shade?” He signed, before adding. “I can walk.” Warriors was doubtful but wanted to respect his wishes. He had stopped swaying at least. “By the boulder” Warriors hovered by the boy as he walked, ready to catch him. Hyrule’s movements were unusually sluggish and slow. The only times Warriors had seen Hyrule so exhausted was when he overextended his magic. Warriors didn’t want to think about the last time Hyrule had done that. It was too painful

Hyrule’s leg buckled. Warriors quickly grabbed him around the waist, whispering apologies as he did so. He felt bad invading the other’s personal space, but he wasn’t about to watch the boy fall. Worryingly, the traveler didn’t even protest as he guided him the rest of the short distance.

Finally  they reached the shade after what felt like eternity. At least Hyrule hadn’t fainted on the way there. Unfortunately, there was far less shade then Warriors would have liked. Only Hyrule’s torso  was covered and that was with him sitting up with his back against the stone. His legs were exposed to the blazing sun

Warriors pushed that matter aside, There was nothing he could do about the lack of shade. He had to work with what was available.  “Have you been drinking enough water?” Hyrule was still sweating buckets, they would need to start replacing that.

“We need to save it.” Warriors sighed, and he rummaged through his bag with his free hand. He understood the thought process, even if it was flawed. Considering the traveler's world, Warriors couldn’t blame him. They were going to have to have another talk about the traveler’s need to hoard supplies but now was not the time. He’d heard of people dying of exposure with water still in their bags because they were ‘saving it.’ He didn’t want that to happen to Hyrule, meaning he needed to help him cool down before things got worse.

Warriors grabbed out a bottle of water and handed it over. “Drink it slowly.”

“That’s yours. You’re going to need it.”

“You need it more right now.” Warriors insisted. The Chain’s self-sacrificing could be rather annoying at times. He’d never realized how much his own attitudes might have bothered Impa and his other companions until he traveled with this group.

He kept an eye on Hyrule to make sure he was drinking some water while he messed with the straps holding his sword. Warriors undid the clasps and buckles with practiced ease. It didn’t take long to free his hand and sword. Hyrule still seemed hesitant to drink, but that was probably a good thing. He likely would have thrown it up if he tried to drink it all at once.

With both hands free, Warriors could now act. Hyrule looked like he was about to fall asleep against the rock. Warriors gently took the bottle and placed it aside. “Hyrule, buddy, you can’t fall asleep, we need to remove some layers.” None of his clothing was particularly think, but he still had on 2 layers. It would help if they at least got rid of the overtunic.

“But it’s cold.” He signed with a petulant look on his face. Warrior’s eyebrows shot up. It was not a good sign that the boy’s heat regulation was so messed up he couldn’t tell it was hot anymore. “You’re overheating Hyrule.” Warriors said in what he hoped was a patient tone. “Let me help you take off your tunic. Hyrule looked like he wanted to protest, but didn’t have the energy to argue.

Warriors pulled his scarf out of his bag and soaked it with the water in the bottle. He momentarily worried about using up so much water. Unfortunately, he didn’t have much of choice. Hyrule’s skin was so warm and sweaty. He was worryingly tired. Warriors feared what would happen if he didn’t do something.

He wished he had the Vet’s ice rod. It might be too cold to be ideal, but the heat around them could fix that fairly quickly and it would have been an easy source of water. He sighed. This thought process was pointless. He’d have to make do with what they both had.

Warriors continued to care for Hyrule, rewetting the scarf and laying it on his legs. He made sure to check for his artery first to allow the cooling to be as effective as possible. He used the traveler's tunic to cool his neck. That left him with only one bottle of water remaining. His heart constricted. He knew the Traveler might have more water, but he doubted it was enough. He wasn’t sure what else to do. His training had never gone over what to do if there wasn’t enough resources available to cool the affected person. Warriors rummaged through the traveler’s bag and found two bottles of water. It wasn’t much but it bought some time at least. “Don’t waste all this water on me.” “It isn’t wasting it.” Warriors insisted, almost desperately, “You’re as important as anyone else.”

“I have dolls. I’ll live regardless.” 

Warriors heart just about stopped. His mind flashed back to the last time the traveler had needed his magic dolls. It had been his fault that time too. The assailant wouldn’t have been there in the first place if it wasn’t for the war he caused. If he’d been more aware of his surroundings, if he’d been faster, if he had told anyone where he was going, the Traveler wouldn’t have been so desperate to heal him. The traveler wouldn’t have used up everything to save him.

And now Hyrule was wanting to do it again. He never would have been in this position if Warriors had two working hands. If Warriors was more prepared rather than depending on Wild’s endless resources. He should have known better. He should have been more mindful of his companion. This was all his fault.

“Please just drink it.” Warriors begged, his voice thick with unshed tears. Hyrule took one look at his face and took the bottle.

…

Hyrule was getting worse. Warriors just didn’t have enough water to help him. He knew he needed to replace the clothes around Hyrule’s shoulders and legs, but he didn’t have enough. There was only one bottle left and even he had to admit it was better to save it at this point.

Hyrule’s face was beet red, showing the heat that radiated from his skin. He wasn’t even sweating anymore. His skin was dry. His breath labored and his pulse erratic. There was nothing Warriors could do at this point.

Warriors blinked back tears. Tears wouldn’t change the fact that he had failed Hyrule again. Hyrule was going to die and it was once again his fault. The scars on his hand itched, irritated by the dry heat. It was a constant reminder of his failing that had gotten them in this situation in the first place. Even knowing Hyrule would be back didn’t lessen his guilt. It never should have gotten to this point.

He forced himself to stay still as Hyrule’s breath slowed and eventually stopped. It took all his strength of will not to pull the boy into his arms and weep. He knew that Hyrule would come back disoriented and frightened. It would make things worse if he felt restrained.

For a moment, Warriors could have fooled himself that Hyrule was merely sleeping. Or he would have if he hadn’t seen that dreadful stillness far too many times in his lifetime. He knew the look of death, he seen it take many of his friends.

Then Hyrule’s bag stared to shake. Warriors knew that if it was darker, he could have seen it glowing. Hyrule’s body must be glowing as well, though Warriors only noticed it because the shape of the shadows changed and the shade disappeared. The redness slowly disappeared, replaced with healthy, hydrated skin. Warriors barely suppressed a sob when he saw Hyrule take a breath.

Almost as soon as he was breathing, Hyrule was on his feet and reaching for a sword Warriors had removed. It took all of Warriors training not to grab the boy into a fierce hug. But that would have only added to his growing panic when he realized he was unarmed. “Hyrule, it’s okay.” Warriors said calmly with his hands up. Hyrule jumped on him and held his hand out, sparks already flying from his fingers. Okay, maybe that hadn’t been the right approach. “I’m not going to hurt you. You aren’t in danger.”

Thankfully, Hyrule dropped whatever spell he had been planning, but he was still looking around wildly. Warriors stayed still. He wasn’t sure that was the best course of action, but things were already going better then they had last time. He inwardly winced. There shouldn’t have been a last time and he shouldn’t have died again. It felt so wrong that Hyrule was dying enough that Warriors could learn what not to do. It was a lesson Warriors wished he didn’t have to learn.

After a moment or two more, Hyrule seemed to calm himself down enough to sign. “What happened?” Warriors tried, but that question hit him harder then he would have expected. He couldn’t hold back the tears this time. He hid his face in his right hand and started to weep.

He was vaguely aware of Hyrule hovering, seemingly as lost at what to do as Warriors had been only moments before. Apologies spilled from his mouth in a matter that must be almost incomprehensible. He couldn’t help it, once he had started to cry, it seemed the flood gates of all his guilt came crashing out.

Hryule placed a hand on his shoulder. Warrior leaned into the touch. He wanted more. He wanted to hold Hryule in his arms, to reassure himself that he was cool, and breathing and healthy, but he knew Hyrule would hate that. The contact would have to be enough.

Warriors concentrated on hand on his shoulder and slowly began pulling himself together. Hyrule patiently waited for him. Warriors couldn’t begin to describe how much that helped. He took one last breath and looked up.

Hyrule gave a hesitant smile and withdrew. Warriors instantly mourned the physical grounding, but he wasn’t going to force Hyrule to do something he didn’t want to.

“Warriors, whatever happened wasn’t your fault.” Hyrule signed. Warriors started to protest but Hyrule clapped to silence him. “It wasn’t your fault.” He insisted again. “It’s… foggy, but I know you did all you could to help me.”

“You wouldn’t have gotten to that point in the first place if I had been paying attention.”

“I could argue the same thing.” Hyrule signed stubbornly. “I should know better.”

Warrior shook his head. “You wouldn’t have even been in that position if it wasn’t for me.”

Hyrule frowned. “What do mean by that.” Warriors couldn’t meet his eye. He looked down at his hand. He studied it’s scars. The discordered twist of flesh that limited his fingers movement. It itched. Warriors wished it was as simple as straching away the charred flesh so his hand worked properly again.

Hyrule tilted his head up so he was looking at him and firmly signed. “That was not your fault.” Warriors found he didn’t have the energy to protest this time. ‘It wasn’t. It was the portal that dropped here. I chose to stay and I don’t regret that.”

“You should have, you would probably be with the others by now.”

“Warriors, if I had headed down the mountain without you, I would have overheated with no one around to help me. I would have died alone.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “I’m glad I wasn’t.” Hyrule swallowed and then continued. “You were there for me then. You’re always there for us when we’re injured or sick. You’ll stay up all night caring for us. Do you know how many times you’ve saved our lives with your medical training. You offer more then your limits.”

More tears blurred Warrior’s vision. He hadn’t realized how much he needed to be told that. Hyrule patiently waited until his tears were gone before continuing. “Even if you didn’t, I wouldn’t have left you. Your friendship is worth more than the extra time it takes to find a way down.” “But..” Warriors protested weakly.

“No buts” Hyrule said before pulling Warriors into a hug. Warriors was shocked for a moment but he quickly recovered enough to return it. It meant so much that Hyrule was pushing himself to offer comfort. The hug was short but in was enough. The guilt in his heart was at least momentarily replaced with warmth.

[d8tl55c]

i just finished processing what happened to me in vintage story today

so im going home from the north east right? seems like im always up there bc it spawned a bunch of interesting ruins and obsidian (awesome for tools) and once i died like four times in a row to wolves and stuff... anyhow im heading back

and i hear, not see, through the bushes, the noise a bear makes when it sees you.

im screwed. i know it's to my left. i know there's shallow water behind me, which is the worst possible speed matchup for me against this thing. im wearing a heavy ass pot (full of interesting stuff from those ruins) so i can't outrun it. i dropped most of my spears to make room for moose meat and hides, so i can't fight (attrition would kill me way way faster with my current armor). so what do i do?

i turn around anyway, better slow than nothing, maybe i can make it to the ocean?

i turn, i see that im way too far, and there's shallow hills between me and there i'd have to precision jump along to outspeed the bear (they can walk up 3 block heights at least). but there is! a STEEP hill!

the area i settled in is full of steep ass hills, and when i got tired of hopping around on them i realized that with how bad i am with them, my enemies are ABYSMAL. so i learned to roll with it and hop between peaks! and in my inventory! are these rope ladders, so i can climb any said steep ass hills without building blocks.

so the bear is behind me.

the water is next to me.

the way i came is ahead.

the steeper parts of the hill are off to the right.

i veer right.

i climb. the bear roars somewhere behind me. i climb FASTER. this hill does not actually feel steep enough. another vocalization from the bear. across a far gap is another hill with a sheer cliff. i can't make the jump. but if i jump, hold shift, and right click at the perfect moment, i can catch myself on a ladder.

there's no time to stall.

i leap!

and i make it!!!

then i actually fell off LOL.

but it wasn't far down, just enough a bear couldn't possibly make it up, so i slammed more rope ladders against the wall and hauled myself up.

i scuttled up this hill a few more meters, still not trusting my lead, but the bear was nowhere to be seen.

...

that's when i started noticing my heart pounding. 124 bpm at least lol, a little low for me for strenuous exercise but way higher than normal.

i considered attacking the bear from my vantage point, but i couldn't see it and i didn't want to tempt fate and i felt the post-danger anxiety setting in, so i ran for it.

ended up making it home just fine after that

put some horsetail in my planters

sharpened my tools

good times

[sandcobangevent]

Clutch

by @sealbug and @iwantthatbelstaffanditsoccupant

“They really are beautiful. Pristine.”

“Erosion.”

“Hmm?”

“That’s what keeps them pristine. These cliffs are eroding far too rapidly for any colouration, let alone vegetation, to take hold before they crumble into the sea. This whole cliff is degrading beneath our very feet.”

“Hopefully not too fast, eh?” The words landed lightly enough, but if Sherlock had lifted the scarf John had tightly wrapped around his face to ward off the steady wind, he would have seen all levity had faded long before the sentence ended. “Look, can you… Can you just look fast so we can get out of here? I’m freezing my bollocks off.”

“Just a moment.”

“You’re sure about this?”

“I’m not at all sure about this. That’s why I want to investigate. His wife and his insurance agent, however, are a bit too sure about this.”

“It is the most common spot for suicides in England. Right up there with that spooky forest in Japan—”

“The Aokigahara Forest of Mt Fuji.”

“Yeah, the…Okahara Forest. And the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco.”

“You’ve been researching on Wikipedia again, Watson.”

“So they’ve got it wrong again?”

“Not wrong exactly. Just, misleading. It’s a prime spot for jumping, certainly— 162 metre high cliff. Jumping from a height, however, is not exactly a popular method for ending one’s life. Roughly two percent choose that method, and only 23 people annually are found to have killed themselves at Beachy Head. Compare that to the close to 50 who do so in the Underground and you can see why I am not convinced. I believe he merely sought out a quiet seaside holiday. Ask any resident, and they will speak of the millions of visitors who do not have dark intentions.”

“I always thought insurance wouldn’t pay out if it was suicide.”

“They have an exclusionary period from the date the policy is signed—generally between one and two years. His underwriter was Royal London, which has a one year hold. We passed that threshold last week.”

“Maybe he waited till it passed. So his wife could get the money.”

“It is possible. But it is equally possible his wife waited the year to rid herself of him so she could get the money.”

“Yeah. Same difference, I guess. Well. Not really.” John paused and surveyed the landscape. There was no doubt the rolling hills leading to a sheer, chalk white cliff overlooking a surprisingly turquoise sea was beautiful, on the face of it. But John couldn’t help but feel a little queasy. “It’s still creepy, mate. Chilling.”

“I did warn you about dressing for the seaside climate.”

John considered clarifying that that was not what he meant by ‘chilling’, but decided against it. “You said a beach. Beaches are…warm and...lovely...and have Ferris wheels sometimes and Victorian prominades and such. This…is not a beach. This…is a cliff.”

“True. But that…” Sherlock gestured a full 162 metres downward, “…is a beach.”

“I don’t mind strolling along a beach. Bit of the ol’ sand between the toes.”

“Gravel.”

“Bit of the ol’ gravel between the toes. I wouldn’t mind being down there. But I don’t much care for being up here. And…could you not… Could you not lean over the edge like that? If you want to go examine the actual beach part of Beachy Head, I am more than happy to do so, Sherlock. Sherlock?”

“Hmmmm. There’s something down there.”

“Good, good, let’s go down there. Let’s go down there and have a closer look, shall we? I don’t— Sherlock!”

John watched as Sherlock plopped upon his belly and began moving, snake-like, toward the edge.

“Just a little hint of a hesitation…here.” He pointed to a divot in the grass. “Correct size shoe. Dragging slightly. He may not have been fully conscious. Drugging is a distinct possibility. Far too many people picnic here for us to determine if they had done so as well, though it is always possible a local shopkeeper might recall this particular couple grabbing a takeaway. And a…just a minute...”

“Sherlock! What are you doing? These cliffs are…Look you said yourself they aren’t stable, so can you please stop teetering on the edge of them?”

“Not going to teeter on the edge, Watson. Just want to get a closer look at some of the marks over here.”

John took a deep breath. Sherlock was, after all, flat on his belly, and somewhat unlikely to fall off. He’d seen him climb out of windows, onto rooftops, and up trees as confident as anyone could possibly be, but still, Sherlock and heights were simply no longer a good combination.

When he was a child, John had climbed a large oak and perched in the very top.  He had hidden there, laughing when his mum came outside,  puzzled as to why his friend was in the tree alongside the house but John was nowhere to be seen. She thought for sure she’d heard his voice moments before. ‘Where’s John?’, she’d asked, and his friend replied by pointing upward. Carol Watson’s eyes followed the path of his finger and finally spotted John in the sparse branches far above the roof. She grasped the doorframe tightly as her fear transformed into anger and told him to come right down for supper this instant. John hadn’t noticed how the branches had bent under his weight, even as an only moderately pudgy eleven-year-old. He had never been afraid of heights. What’s the danger in being high up? It’s not as if simply being high up means you’ll actually—

Fall.

John closed his eyes and breathed deeply, but all he could see behind those lids was Sherlock falling. He hadn’t seen it happen, of course, back then. He had been busy helping a young hiker hobble to their hotel on a twisted ankle. He had handed over his microphone, when Sherlock had insisted on recording “the ambience” for the podcast while John headed back, only to find it lying abandoned at the edge of the falls, red light still flashing. It had recorded only rushing water and an intermittent bit of Sherlock’s voice, indecipherable, and John was left to imagine the rest, which he did with surprising clarity. 

John saw him fall. As clearly as if it had happened before him. John saw him fall, over and over again, every night for months on end. In his dreams, sometimes he was battling a fierce monster, eyes blazing with fire, failing to vanquish the beast and save his friend. Other times, he was right behind Sherlock and stopped to tie his shoe, or to get an ice lolly from a magically-appearing truck. Always some absurd distraction, and he arrived too late to stop it but never, never too late bear witness. Not once did his mind spare him from the sight of watching Sherlock fall.   

Even now, as he closed his eyes in a futile attempt to calm himself, the image ‘greeted’ him. So much for quiet meditation. John quickly opened them in an attempt to remind himself of the here and now— a brief deescalation technique he had learned long ago. You had to look around, notice things, connect to the present using all your senses and concentrate on each one in sequence. He listened to the steady eb and flow of the tide, not the endless rushing of a waterfall. I am in Sussex. He smelled salty air, not a pine forest. I am in Sussex. He saw—

He saw Sherlock’s fingers, gripping tightly to the edge of a cliff. 

And then—almost as if he had imagined them—he didn’t see them anymore. 

John stared at the spot where chalk met grass, where Sherlock’s fingers had been gripping the edge less than a second before. He was rooted to the spot. Frozen. Unable to take a single step. To make a single sound. The scenery grew hazy and he heard a voice from far away.

“Watson? John? John?!!”

Hands reappeared on the edge of the cliff, followed by a foot, and then the rest of the strong and lithe body of Sherlock Holmes swung up over the edge and rolled onto the grass. 

John still did not move.

“John!!! I was wondering why you weren’t taking the threads I was extending to you. I… I thought perhaps someone else was up here— one of those patrolling Samaritans who try to dissuade jumpers— so I… John?”

Something finally broke the spell which had gripped him and John spoke, his voice breaking like the waves upon the rocks below. “Sherlock. It’s… It’s fine. I…I didn’t hear you. Sorry. Sorry. Was just…thinking about…something else for a bit there. What did you…What did you find?”

“Never mind that. What happened just now? What were—”

Then suddenly it all made sense. He couldn't believe it. He forgot. He forgot.

Sherlock had so many things he wanted to say. That he had peered over the edge and saw a small landing below. Not especially large, true, but one that would easily accommodate him. He needed only to swing toward it, to land neatly upon it. There was something there. Some fibres which resembled the scarf the insurance agent had been wearing. Perhaps enough to place him at the crime scene, perhaps not—but worth investigating. It was only a small jump. Not even a jump. Just. A drop. 

He forgot. He forgot.

And some of it… Some of it, he’d resigned himself to never knowing. That was fair. It had to be. John insisted Mariana not discuss any of it. She hadn’t told Sherlock about John’s request, but it had been obvious.

The message he left explaining The Plan had been sufficient. Had it? Did you explain? Or did you simply think you left that message, think you had told him, but had not. Flashes from Victor’s case invaded Sherlock’s thoughts. You believed you had told them your plan, but you had not. You cannot trust your memory. 

Memory. It was not just tricky, it was downright villainous at times. When John had failed to arrive at their rendezvous point, Sherlock had assumed he was still angry at the last-minute nature of it. One should always take advantage of such unforeseen moments, if they happen to arise naturally, to avoid a missed opportunity. One seldom gets a second chance.

It was not until Sherlock had returned to London that he had been able to reconnect with Wiggins, get back on his feet, and finally listen to the podcast. To know his message (it provided some relief that he had indeed left one) had never been truly received. Garbled, useless. How to explain what had happened without it sounding like an attempt at justification? An attempt to minimise the damage he had brought about. Impossible. 

John had broadcasted what he referred to as his Final Adventure, intending to end the podcast, but some listeners had convinced him to do otherwise. He occasionally released older cases, ones he had not yet edited. He had said they were ‘in the can’. Some were short and even lacked a complete solution, and these were difficult for Sherlock to listen to for more reasons than one. Occasionally, John would divert from the true crime format and interview vets— his original plan before Sherlock had derailed his life. Mariana was still there, though Sherlock sometimes wondered how long that could last before he cursed his stupidity for ever thinking Mariana would ever vanish once the cases were gone, or even if the entire podcast ended. Hearing both their voices was somehow equally comforting and distressing.

When he eventually decided he could no longer bear staying away, Sherlock managed to accept as an undeserved gift the genuine joy John had shown in discovering he was somehow alive. How that joy still existed, alongside the occasional, but dwindling, flashes of betrayal and anger, was something Sherlock was far too afraid to examine, lest it disappear in a puff of logic. He had clung to the hope that, in time, John might even forget. But no. It was Sherlock who had forgotten. Had forgotten what it would be like, to watch him disappear over the edge. He had ignored how John had been uncomfortable from the very first, doing his best to bury his feelings beneath a pile of babbling words and trite observations about the weather.  

But this moment, perched on a cliff in Sussex, was an opportunity also. A sort of second chance. A rewrite of the narrative, though Sherlock hadn’t considered it as such. He had only instinctively pulled his friend into his chest, feeling John grip his shirt as tightly as he himself had gripped the cliff’s edge moments before. But Sherlock was not about to let go this time, even as he felt a drop within his stomach. John burrowed into Sherlock’s shoulder, finding in his body a natural resting place, a shelter. 

So much he should say, all racing through his brain without any real form. Still, Sherlock only stood there, one arm across John’s shoulders and the other at the base of his neck, tucked beneath his scarf. John’s skin was so warm there. Warm and comforting, and he could feel John’s pulse beating against the edge of his own wrist. They stayed like this until neither of them felt the cold air surrounding them. Only the warmth in each other. 

“I’m s—”

“Love means never having to say you’re sorry, Sherlock.”

“What kind of a stupid phrase is that? Love means always having to say you’re sorry.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess it kinda is a rubbish film.”

“I’m sorry, John. For not thinking about how you’d be affected. And for having made an impulsive decision and assuming that decision could ever have made sense. Though I did attempt, with limited success, to—”

“I think…” John raised his head. “I think they meant love is never having to explain all about how you tried to fix things by leaving an inaudible message on a dodgy SD card and didn’t check up on it later. Clearly, that’s what Jenny meant to say.” John took a deep breath. “I’m sure you did. Try. It didn’t work and it doesn’t matter. I mean, yes, it matters. That you tried, matters. That it still hurts matters, too. What I mean to say is, I forgive you. And, what you went through, after? It must have been difficult for you, too.”

“Sneaking on the Shatabdi should have been a highlight of my life. Instead, it was absolutely miserable.”

“Good to know.” John rewrapped his scarf, placed his hand on the small of Sherlock’s back, and guided him back onto the path back to Eastbourne. “What’s a Shatabdi?”

“Train to Nepal.”

“Nepal. Sounds like quite the adventure.”

“No. It was a task. An unpleasant task. I only have Adventures when I’m with you.”

“How does ‘The Adventure of the Warm Fire and Sunday Roast’ sound? Inn’s down there somewhere.” John gestured with his head toward the path ahead rather than the cliff behind. “Onward?”

“Yes. Onward!” And Sherlock placed his hand on John’s back as well.

____________

Check it out on AO3 too!