#Floating Plastic Island

[scribbleymark]

Fandom spaces just repeating "mute and block" as an answer to solving all intra-fandom problems (racism, aphobia, fetishism, harassment) reminds me of people whose advice to poor people is to "save money and spend less".

It's a complete detachment from the reality other people are facing, made while blaming the people who are affected for their own circumstances, and transferring the responsiblity of COMMUNITY WIDE ISSUES onto individuals.

You create spaces that not only allow bigotry to thrive, but give more support to those bigots because they uphold the fandom status quo you're comfortable with, while ostracising the people their bigotry harms.

[dlyarchitecture]

[cal-flakes]

╰┈➤ cigarettes out the window

warnings: swearing, angsty themes, drug use.

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“my girl liddy used to always smoke, cigarettes when she couldn’t sleep„

“rafe? what are you doing?” she mumbled, her feet padding lazily against the wooden floor of the balcony as she rubbed her groggy eyes. “shit..” he mumbled, fumbling around quickly, hoping the dark sky was enough to shield him from her glare as he slipped the half empty bag into his back pocket. “why are you out here?” she asked again, this time stepping closer while the cool air left goosebumps along her exposed legs.

“i just— uh, i couldn’t sleep..” he lied, turning away as he sniffled, subtly wiping away the excess lingering on his nostrils. sighing, she shuffled towards him, arms outstretched— utterly oblivious to the powdery residue left on the glass table. “c’mon, come back to bed..”

“yeah, just uh— gimme a minute, alright?” he asked, nodding gratefully as she gave him a small smile before heading back inside.

his head whipped around the door frame, ensuring she was gone before rushing back over to the table, pulling out a very, very used credit card. his eyes flitted to and from the door as he hurriedly scraped together the remains of his last bag, scooping them onto the edge of the plastic card before holding it up to his nose, throwing his head back in delight as he felt the granules brush against his skin.

“she’d disappear for an hour and a half, and when she’d come back she’d brush her teeth„

“hey topper, have you seen rafe?” she smiled sweetly, holding her own arms in comfort as her eyes searched the party for him. “shit man, i haven’t seen him in a while actually— if you find him, tell him i gotta speak to him” topper called back, struggling to hear over the thumping music. “oh, okay— yeah i’ll tell him” she sighed, watching him disappear into the crowd before scurrying upstairs, still searching.

“hey—sorry, have you seen rafe?” she asked politely, soon frowning as the group of girls shook their heads. turning away, y/n’s features contorted as an eruption of giggles assaulted her ears, quickly whipping back round, she met their pitiful looks.

mentally cursing the flight risk himself, she continued rattling numerous door handles until she reached the end of the corridor, where the bathroom was. using her knuckles, they turned white as she banged aggressively on the door, rapidly losing her patience.

“but i could still smell it on her raggedy tee, and taste it on her lips when we kissed”

y/n yawned incessantly as she floated about tannyhill, taking advantage of rafe’s family’s absence as she played housewife— tidying where she could, cooking dinner for the both of them, as well as doing the laundry. oh, how she loved when the cameron’s went on holiday.

sighing, she rested the plastic laundry basket on her hips while she headed back downstairs, thankful for rafe’s washing hamper being nearly empty. y/n hummed to herself as her sandals clicked against the marble flooring of the kitchen, swiftly moving passed the island, through to the laundry room.

rummaging through the numerous garments, she sorted them by colour before emptying out the pockets of his clothes, vividly remembering the time she’d accidentally left twenty bucks in one his pockets, essentially ruining his favourite shorts.

the rustle of plastic pierced her ears, quickly intriguing her as she disregarded an old hoodie, setting it aside to pick up the culprit— a pair of blue suit pants, worn to that years midsummers. y/n relished in the memory for a moment, remembering the way she giggled as he spun her around, whispering sweet nothings into her ear all night.

smiling to herself, she slid her hands into the left back pocket, soon frowning as she came up empty— yet quickly moved to the other. “a-ha!” she smirked, listening to the satisfying rustle as she moved her hands around, before sliding her fingers between the hem, reaching for whatever rubbish he’d left in his pocket.

her mouth quickly fell agape as she pulled out the plastic bag, filled with white powder. “what the hell?” she muttered to herself, tossing aside the expensive trousers as she stood up properly.

“poor little liddy used to always quit, but she never really quit, she’d just say she did„

“are you fucking kidding me right now?” she shrieked, slamming the door behind her as her heels clicked angrily through the house, storming up to his room. “what the fuck?” he snapped, taken back by her dramatic entrance as he lay comfortably in his bed, suddenly startled.

“pope saw you trying to score coke from barry again, what the hell rafe? i thought we talked about this?” she wailed, tossing her bag aside, her previous friday night mood dissipating rapidly.

“pope— what the hell are you talking to him for?” he retorted, shaking his head in feigned confusion. “never mind why i was talking to pope, why are you going back on how good you’ve been doing?” she seethed, her frame jittery from anger. “well your little friend—pope, is a fucking liar, i’ve been here all day, being a good little boy like your psychotic brain wants me to be!” he bellowed, pushing off from the bed to face her fully, quickly towering over her.

“oh, psychotic? fucking psychotic, really? are you serious right now?” she cried, tears brimming along her mascara coated lash line as she glared up at him, struggling to stay strong beneath his intimidating gaze.

the tension in the room could be cut with a blunt knife as they both fell silent, glaring at each other. “you know what, empty your pockets— c’mon” she spoke, ushering him to turn them out as his eyes widened. “i’m not— you’re fucking insane” he spat, turning away from her.

“don’t turn your back on me rafe, i’m trying to help you!” she cried, pleading. “i don’t want your fucking help” he sneered, sitting back on the bed. her bottom lips quivered as she watched him, taking note of his unmoving gaze.

“you don’t want— okay, fine. have it your way” she spat back, rushing to grab her bag before storming out, slamming his bedroom door behind her.

hot tears flooded her flushed face as she rushed downstairs, heartbreak pooling in her stomach as her chest tightened.

“y/n?” a soft voice called, laced with concern. turning back, she smiled weakly as she met rose’s eyes. “i’m sorry, i’m so sorry— i tried, i really tried” she sobbed, falling into the woman’s outstretched arms. “i know sweetie, i know” she cooed, stroking the girls tangled hair.

“i love him so much rose, but i just can’t do it anymore— he doesn’t care” y/n cried as she pulled away, sniffling. “he does care sweetheart, i could go on forever about how much that boy loves you, but he’s not himself, and you shouldn’t have to put your life on hold for someone like that”

“we’ll find moonlit nights strangely empty„

his chest tightened as his bottom lip trembled, tossing and turning restlessly through the night. “fuck..” he muttered, abruptly throwing the covers aside, allowing him to slide out from the bed, grabbing his phone before quickly making his way through to the main balcony.

he’d never longed for warmth so bad he couldn’t sleep, all these emotions were so unfamiliar. but all he knew— was that he had to get out of that bed, out of those sheets. the same sheets he’d stuffed in the washing machine numerous times, desperately trying to rid the material of the smell. the smell of artificial strawberry, and coconut shampoo, her smell. it had invaded his senses every night since she left.

“just do it— man up” he snapped at himself, smacking himself lightly as he ran a shaky hand through his disheveled hair, brushing back the curtains lingering in his eyeline.

shaking his head frustratedly, he reached for his phone before laying back against the cushioned chair, his chest heaving in anticipation.

his vision grew cloudy with salty tears as his thumb tapped away at the screen, scrolling through his contact.

“because when you call my name through them, there will be no answer„

hot tears streamed down her flushed cheeks while she clutched the soaked covers, stained with numerous weeks worth of tears. she shook her head as the incessant buzzing on her nightstand overwhelmed her, yet she couldn’t help but watch— watch the light fall from her screen as he seemingly gave up, probably shaking with anger as she let him go to voicemail, again.

“i’m sorry..” she whispered, hoping the bond they shared still lingered, carrying her message to him through the cloudy sky looming over kildare.

his head fell into his hands as he groaned, quickly scrambling to the floor, gathering the pieces of his now smashed phone, holding them gentle in his hands like a piece of his own heart. “i’m so sorry y/n..”

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[wmarximoff]

(don't fear) the reaper | w. maximoff

|spooktober collection|

summary: Wanda Maximoff is a troubled young woman, and she knows it very well. she can't help but to want you so badly, in such a sick way, even though you don't even know she exists. driven by curiosity, she decides to enter your house while you are away. but there, she finds something that was not what she expected from someone like you.

warnings (18+): serial killer!reader, stalker!Wanda, graphic depiction of dead body, mentions of dismemberment, smoking, choking, graphic depiction of blood, gun play, knife kink, skin carving, strap-on sex, heavy degradation, manipulation, toxic relationship, bottom!Wanda, top!reader.

pairing: Wanda x fem!reader

word count: 14k

A/N: okay, this one is purely sinful, but it was particularly interesting to write because i'm a bit of a weirdo and i enjoy good psychological horror as much as anyone. i hope you guys like this weird thing as much as i do.

A/N²: turned it into a series!

|main masterlist| |spooktober masterlist| |series masterlist|

༺ᱬ༻

The warm sun shone high in the blue sky as the humid dawn began, continuing on until midday at lunchtime. It was a thaw out day, without any cloud to be pointed out in the emergence of the celestial vault, holder of a pure air carried straight from the newly sown vegetation, mild and quite pleasant to the lungs that inspired it. An ideal end to a tranquil morning.

Along that wide space, the less discerning ear might still be able to pick up the vibrating hums that the sets of hundreds of young college students parroted in the midst of their own conversations all held at the end of the university cafeteria, echoing in their own encapsulated lives around you, each one being the protagonist of their own story as the conversations outside the table where you were accompanied by your friends were stimulated, like flies in an impetuous back-and-forth.

Just people, several of them, from all sides, sinking you into an endless hole. People. Lots and lots of people. And then there was you, just sitting there, like a small island lacking in vegetation floating dry in the midst of a sea of people, hovering above them, never sinking below the tide. You, always hovering on high. Looking at them, looking down. Existing on top of them, alongside them, but never on their level. Scrutinizing the huddle of people that didn't even reach your knees.

“And then Natasha just fell, can you believe it? Like, right there! She fell flat on her face and everything in front of everyone like a sack of potatoes, I don't know. It was a pretty bad fall, I swear!”

The blonde girl’s tone, Yelena, had been loud and amused, lively, which prompted a wave of laughter that rippled through the table like a television show—you and her and two more girls and a boy. Laughing like them, mimicking their quip in a rehearsed performance, intricating yourself within the group like a slithering snake.

“Yeah, and like,” went on yet another girl with sun-colored hair cropped short above her ears, a militaristic haircut that accentuated her strong jaw – it was Carol Danvers who was standing right in front of the seat taken over by Yelena, sitting next to you as she always would.

“I didn't even have time to hold her before she fell to the ground. The ball came too fast and she just lost her balance. It was like a cannonball, really.”

Your chin was supplanted by your own right hand, the crook of your elbow then braced on the table, your face bent at an angle of laconic interest to whatever it was that Yelena Belova narrated in Carol's company so impetuously to the audience of their friends sitting around their own dark plastic trays, munching on bits of preservative-infested reheated food.

Maybe it was some childhood story, or maybe even the practice of the softball program that she, the Danvers girl, and Yelena's older sister, Natasha, a student in her final year, all participated together. Just people around you. Faces of people articulating authentic empathies – and you laughed because it was funny, a sign popping up in your brain with the command “laugh”. It should be funny, as funny as a court jester engaging in acts of naughty mischief just to avoid being beheaded at the behest of a pompous medieval king.

“Nebula has a real problem working as a team, man,” Yelena gestured with her own right hand, “Like, she just had to play for Nat–”

“Hey, did you guys hear?” It was, however, Kate Bishop's voice that approached from behind her shoulder, as she placed her tray next to hers on the surface of the long rectangular table, not bothering to get in the way of the golden-haired young lady's speech.

“Heard about what, huh?” Then questioned the other young woman, turning to Kate with an air of irritation, “I was telling a story here you know–”

“Christine is missing.”

Yelena instantly quieted, like a radio unplugged. Both of your eyebrows, however, curled up between your forehead at the profusely dark-haired girl who snuggled close to your left elbow, she nibbling on a withered potato chip, you squinting with your eyes towards your friend's face, turning your face to hers in a quick jerk of your neck that only expressed concern smoldering in your well-behaved body language.

“Wait, what do you mean? Christine? Christine Palmer? That Christine?”

“Yeah,” mussed Kate then, who had drawn the others' attention to herself with her new information brought to the conversation, “That Christine. She disappeared.”

The whiteness of a frosty blanket of snow, which had once made it uniformly carpet the intermittences of the streets of the great city on an excellently smoothed white surface, had liquefied into puddles of itself; the flowers all bloomed to the addition of an avid polychromatic panorama, highlighting the vast green of the Central Park trees encompassed by the expanse of the extensive buildings and the slender poles that protruded from the New York City underground subway.

It was time, then, for the firstfruits of the start of another semester of a particularly boisterous spring, time for sporting events and fundraisers, fraternities organizing reception parties for freshmen.

The sun, gleaming, shimmered in the middle of the clear sky, and, therefore, that was the germination of resplendent spring times, leaning over the glass and concrete that made up the structures of the city – thus, even at dawn, the vast streets of cement and asphalt that were structured in endless chains of cobblestone at the ends of the metropolis were already buzzing with the commercial actions of their energetic residents, true characters moving the machinery of the city that never sleeps.

It was as if the climate of fullness was incapable of suffering any misfortune whatsoever, as if nothing could shake the good mood of a hot season that compelled a daily wear of lighter and shorter clothes, the purchase of popsicles on a stick and cans of sweetened, soft drinks; yet there was Kate serving as a harbinger of doom, announcing to everyone that a classmate of yours had disappeared. A gloomy cloud stooped over the sunniness of that day.

Michelle Jones-Watson, informally nicknamed as just MJ, locked eyes with the young woman who had just arrived at the table in a lavender shirt and dark jeans. You hadn't exchanged many words with her, but like everyone else, keeping her around was just critical to the existence of your public persona.

“Is Christine that senior redhead?” then MJ's gaze fell on your figure across the table, “Isn't she in med class with you, Y/n?”

“She is, yes,” you nodded with a stiff nod, your upper lip jutting out to the damp commission of your lower lip, “She’s one of the best students in our class.”

“But she's not as good as you, I'll bet,” Carol half offered you a gallant smirk, but your eyes rolled slowly enough to allow time for a comical air to bloom in their sockets in a dignified modesty of a cartoon maiden. She was courting you, of course, and you knew that very well – but sometimes ignorance, performative or otherwise, could be a bliss.

“Stop it, she really is one of the best students there! Like, really. The teachers actually like her, you know.”

“But hey, weren't you, like, going out with her?” Peter Parker added back to the initial train of thought, MJ's boyfriend, both of whom held the position of being the youngest in your circle of friends, “You guys kissed at Tony's New Year's party, we all saw that.”

“We've only met a few times at parties last semester," you shrugged like it was nothing, as if this information was nothing more than a stray lint on the collar of your shirt.

“And… well, we slept together once or twice, yeah… but we weren't dating or anything. She's just not really into that sort of thing, I guess.”

“But wait, wait,” Yelena interjected as she furrowed her thick dark brows, then turned them to Kate, “Is Christine that redhead dressed as a nurse who downed those tequila shots with Darcy? How... how’s she missing? Like, she’s just... gone? Just like that, out of the blue?”

“Yeah, what do you mean?” your eyes followed the same path the blonde girl had, turning to your other friend with a big question curling your lips. Your concern was like raising a baby lion in your backyard – feed it, care for it, have fun with it. Pretend that one day it won't grow up and rip your arm off in a vicious bite.

“Where did you hear that? I mean, I've noticed that Christine hasn't been showing up to a few classes lately, but,” and then an incredulous chuckle escaped the back of your throat as you shrugged in a rather confused way.

“Damn, missing? Man, that's kind of... extreme, isn't it? Like there's a crime or some shit like that.”

“Well, that's what I hear,” Kate took another potato chip from the pile strewn across her tray.

“Darcy said she overheard Miss Foster saying something about it during her internship. Apparently Christine has been missing for a week and the dean is really worried about her, but they aren't willing to bring it up until her parents approve of them doing so. I think even the police are involved and everything, there's a whole investigation going on and stuff. The girl disappeared, like, really. Out of nowhere. She’s just… just gone.”

Although the cafeteria was just an amalgamation of alien conversations that mingled in midair, between your friends there was a wintry silence, pairs of eyes exchanging uncertain glances like playing cards; no one knew the joker was in your possession. It was as if there was a dome enclosing all of you inside it – Kate had dictated the rules of an imaginary game, and whoever broke them first would lose. Tension could be felt thickening the air curling inside your throat.

“Nobody disappears out of nowhere,” whispered Peter when no one else did, “You don't think that anyone... that anyone has done anything to her, do you?”

“Damn, so this is serious,” mussed Yelena under her breath, “What the fuck, man...”

“Didn't you talk to her before that, Y/n?” Michelle questioned you, to which you just shook your head in denial.

“No, I didn't talk to her anymore...” and then a sigh of blistering indignant air left both of your nostrils, “Dammit, but can't we do anything? A search party or something? I can't believe the dean is trying to hush up the case – for Christ's sake, a girl is missing and they're not going to do anything about it?! This is so fucked up!”

“Hey, hey, easy there, knight on the white horse,” the palm of Carol's robust right hand, an accomplished jock with an athletic nature, rested on the bone of your left shoulder. She would always be the first to try to soothe your nerves because she hoped to also nurse the unease between your thighs someday.

“Just let the police handle this, okay? Don't go out trying to play vigilante by going around trying to take justice into your own hands, you'll only get in trouble. Plus the girl is a senior, she probably just had an existential crisis and left everything behind or some shit like that. Or even she's just wasted at someone's house around. A lot could have happened to her.”

“Or maybe she just decided to jump off a bridge,” snapped MJ's sardonic humor, her elbows resting against the face of the table at which she received a sharp, chastising look from you, “What?”

“That's not funny, man, she's missing. This is serious.”

But the failed attempt to bring a veil of humor to lighten the mood on the blonde girl's part, even more when interspersed with Michelle's bad joke, did nothing to calm your spirits in front of your other friends, “And no, not her. Not Christine, she wouldn't have done any of that. No… it's not like her to do that kind of thing.”

“You,” called Peter with his bunny brown eyes, “You and her… are you sure you guys weren't dating, Y/n?”

“Yeah, man,” Yelena’s amber gaze then flicked up to your face, emulating a pitiful benevolence that would be solemnly reserved for a widowed person, “Looks like you care a lot about her.”

“No, we're not together, I just…” you pressed your lips together in a long line, “She's missing, and I know her and I'm just worried. Come on guys, any normal person would react like that, what the hell.”

“It's okay, Y/n,” Carol offered you the most indulgent of sweet smiles, “It's totally understandable that you're worried. Fuck, I think at this point we are all a little bit too.”

“Yes,” alleged Kate's voice then, “We're all worried here.”

But in front of the crowd of other discrepant faces, so many students who came and went in their daily lives, being just extras for your main story, there was no way your senses could capture the piercing gaze that religiously looked at you like an eagle does so with a small rabbit in the woods, only seconds before it dives in to sink its claws into its promised prey.

So there would be no way for you to know that as much as you loathed the idea of Carol touching you on the shoulder like that (your smile clearly said don't fucking touch me), someone else in the same room repulsed the sight as much as you did – her head tilted at a broken angle toward the left, jaw clenched tight, both dark brows furrowed over the bridge of her scrunched nose, the knuckles of her fingers turning pale as she presses her fists against the table edges. Don't fucking touch her. If you touch her again I'll rip your hand off, you fucking bitch.

In fact, as far away from her seat in the cafeteria as you were, you were not even aware of the miserable existence of that vibrating need that throbbed within the dark abyss of a pair of emerald irises that accompanied you through the labyrinthine corridors of that university, like a faithful following the commandments of their god.

As if you'd sucked out all the dilated emptiness inside her chest, crammed her back in with a warm sense of stoic belonging, a volcanic beatified devotion to you that even bordered on sick idolatry of a warped mind. Love. A twisted definition of what one could define as love. After all, what would love be if not the most devout of idolatries? She had to know everything about you. She had to take care of what was hers.

Someone always lurking like a shadow that on its own chose to project itself before the light that irradiated around you. That started tingling for you, wanting you so much that there was no turning back. In the sea of people around you, she was the one who was aware that she was beneath you and wanted it to stay that way.

Because once you'd made the gravest of mistakes handing a dropped book to a stranger in the library hallway, offering her the kindliest of welcoming smiles a person could bestow on someone else, and then the crook of your forefinger brushed lightly against the smooth white skin of her hand and suddenly “Wuthering Heights” became her favorite book to read – because you had touched it on its cover when you gave it to Wanda.

“Hey,” your voice had rumbled from behind her shoulders, a girl with long hair of the color of tree bark, and a handful of silver rings spread across the lengths of her slim, slender fingers. Your fingertips marginally touched the fabric of a dark coat that covered her shoulders.

“Hey, excuse me, but you... you dropped this.”

“Oh,” Wanda muted under her breath, her hands slipping in exchange for possession of the book, her fate consolidating into a vibrating red haze smoldering under her skin, “Th-thank you, I… I didn’t notice that I had dropped it.”

“You're welcome,” and then you did it with the corner of your lips, the muscles in your face smoothing into a stunning sobriety, and it was done, it was set in stone; she belonged to you, “But Wuthering Heights, huh. This is a very good read, you know?”

“Is that so?” her attention was caught in a thread of thought – she could hear you elucidating about everything that you could, hours and hours with you in a narrow library hallway, “I never read it before.”

“Yeah,” you stated, always in the figure of such a kind and helpful young woman, “It’s a classic for a reason, right? It's definitely the kind of book I would recommend to someone if they asked me what they should read to feel different emotions at the same time. It's totally a top five actually. I mean, at least it's one of mine.”

And then you blinked carelessly, as appealing and as rehearsed as a Hollywood actress would do so. Wanda wasn't used to getting this much attention from strangers – and for her, that felt good.

“I'm Y/n, by the way,” it was said casually, like bait for a fish in a river. Little did you know that, in fact, what you had captured was a creature as venomous as yourself, “Y/n Y/l/n”.

“I’m Wanda,” she smiled back, a harbinger of the coming end of the world, “Wanda Maximoff.”

“Wanda Maximoff,” you repeated, her name never sounding so beautiful before as turned by your tone of voice, “That's… that’s a really nice name. It suits you.”

Your smile made Wanda's heart pound in a rush of adrenaline against her ribcage, orgasmic and sensual, blistering against her thighs, yet perhaps also romantic and sentimental, affable against her stomach. She fell in love with your so tempting charms – she didn't feel the butterflies, just the voracity of a dizzying urge to completely consume you, to tear you to pieces and feel the heat of your insides. Something about you smothered the hollow void inside Wanda’s chest, made her feel alive again – as long as her life was entirely committed to revolve around you.

You, so oblivious and so ignorant to that predator lurking in the corner, had no idea who Wanda Maximoff would be; you didn't even realize that creature you had awakened from a long hibernation all dormant in her bowels, how many years of hard work from a committed therapist you had brought to the ground, her mental well-being tower collapsing into ruins worthy of a Greek tragedy, burying her down one brick at a time.

But Wanda Maximoff, she did know of your existence. After all, her soul was devoted to you (saliva pooling on the tip of her tongue like a skinny stray dog at a butcher's house). She was just a dreamy little girl who became an immoderate romantic, who only loved pathologically, maybe a little too much. But an unmeasured dose of intensity could always be remedied.

You didn't remember at all about that meeting of realities at the beginning of last semester, when you created the genesis of that persistent germ of a pathetically one-sided symbiotic relationship entwined between the two extremes that were you and Wanda, respectively. But your smile carved an open and exposed fissure inside the lungs of that girl who could only breathe if it was the oxygen that had previously been filtered through your own bronchi. You've given a new meaning to her quiet psychology student life.

After all, you've given her the book she might as well have left behind and forgotten, just another banal event, something virtuously commonplace and unimportant. But it was the best book Wanda had ever had the pleasure of reading in her life (Cathy and Heathcliff hopelessly being a couple of degenerates viscerally obsessed with each other to the grave), and all of that because of you. That was undeniable proof that she just needed you.

She didn't need her father who confined her to a psych ward when she was younger (when she was accused of loving too much another young lady in high school who kind of didn't want her around), or the twin brother whom she no longer exchanged a word with after that said incident. In Wanda's life, since that cataclysmic day branded on her skin like a hot iron, the only gap left was the hole she'd dug in the shape of you to fill in her own chest.

ᗢ

A slow zephyr of warm air shimmered through the strands of Wanda's dark hair, swinging her locks behind her ears like flags on a long pole. That long Manhattan street in a late afternoon, interspersed with a stone landscape of tall townhouses, carried with it a blissful aspect in its structures and, certainly, even a little threatening to the glances of the less fortunate. Everything there screamed refinement, pomposity, latent ostentation – the smell of rich people in the air (woody perfumes with a scent of gold).

It was a handful of long houses that encompassed the entire residential block, which were slightly tapered from the street in openings in round, heavy, asymmetrical arches, in a residential style whose architecture alluded to the revival of the English Romantic movement; buildings clad in red brick trimmed with rough stone and smooth terracotta, with rustic wood accents and slate tiles.

The house that Wanda's eyes gazed at with exciting fervor was your dwelling – a faithful one about to force her way onto the hallowed ground of the temple of salutation to her god, an estate acquired by the vast capital of your parents who were a couple of retired surgeons (Wanda dig up this on your social media that she fervently rummaged through each post and comment, sifting through every picture, until she discovered that your family was particularly wealthy and that you attended boarding school in upper state until you get your high school diploma, always doing it with great mastery).

Two floors that looked out with three rows of windows flattened on the inside by the thick fabric of long pastel-toned curtains, which appeared like a waterfall over the panes arranged towards the sidewalk, to the life outside. A house with an imposing facade, but not enough to be frightening. It was kind of left on the edge of the seat, as if the really scary part was the unknown that was imminent inside those walls.

Your home, where you went to rest and take your time before the start of another new day—two or three days of quietly tracking you down, like a silent disease, were enough for Wanda to carve your address into her memory, and never allow herself to forget it. She might as well tattoo it on her own pale forearm if need be, and she wouldn't even have a problem doing it at all. She did for love, after all. She did it for you.

A silver car passed with its wheels skidding on the asphalt. Wanda's palms sweated as she moved the kneecap of her right knee, hidden inside a tall dark sock, so that she was crossing the street with her chin turning left and right, swinging with her hands long strands of rich coffee color that slipped down the line of her pale pretty face.

And then green eyes looked up to the windows of your house that grew above her head, stopping the footsteps of heavy boots strapped to her ankles in the front door. Wanda snorted, her chest rising and falling heavily, a smile tugging at the corner of her rosy lips against the dark wood. She might as well break down in tears right there. So close – so treacherously, lusciously close. She's never been this close. Wanda knew you weren't home because she knew all about you.

“Hiya, hon! What are you doing there?” called a ringing voice from behind her shoulders, a high-pitched tone that icy climbed the length of her spine.

Startled was the muscle in her right forearm that had crept into her cross-strap messenger bag diagonally across her chest, shrewd fingertips searching for silver tweezers and an aluminum clip.

Turning slowly with the curve of her chin over her right shoulder as if in a horror movie scene where one is faced with a lurking beast, Wanda was greeted by a wide pearly-white smile from a thin-nosed woman already bordering on her in her late forties, dressed in running gear with thick brown hair pulled back in a high ponytail that swung back from her head. Wanda blinked once at her.

“Who are you?” she tilted her head a little to the side, eyes wide and dark like a deer caught in the headlights of a car on a dim road. Ice-cold sweat pooled Wanda's palms, which drooped close to the hem of her black miniskirt.

“Who are you?” returned the older woman standing on the sidewalk, just a few steps away from her. She had a superfluously high, saucy voice, a bit like a macaw, maybe like a enchantingly hot witch.

The tone had been a little sharper than her grin seemed to plan it to be, which is why the woman soon tried to narrow her blue eyes, as if to assuage her onslaught.

“I'm Miss Harkness, dear, but you can call me Agatha. I live right next door – to my left, not yours,” and then there was a long, loud laugh that Wanda, still so ecstatic, didn't follow at all, “I've known the young woman who's lived here since she moved in, but I never saw you around here...?”

“Oh, L-Liz,” the feign name slipped like water out of Wanda's lips pressed together in a rough, uncertain lie, almost even a high-pitched question, “It's Liz. Lizzie.”

“Lizzie,” Agatha repeated, as if to savor the veracity of the information inside her own mouth, “Well, what are you doing there, Lizzie? Do you have a problem? Need some help, sweetie?”

“I–I,” Wanda swallowed the spittle that pooled on the back of her tongue with a hard jerk, like a ball of concrete scraping down the inside of a plastic pipe, “I—I'm Y/n's friend from college. She asked me to... to come get something for her while she's at her tennis practice.”

A second of silence tore the tension between the green gaze that was pinned from afar by the blue gaze. The other woman's sharp eyebrows rose in practical acknowledgment – after all, you were indeed a casual racquet sporter, and you always told your neighbor that you did it to keep your own body fit and healthy. Wanda only wished that nosy neighbor was swayable enough to buckle under her scattering, but Miss Harkness didn't seem like an easy egg to crack.

“Oh, I see…” Agatha muttered under her breath, in a tone that seemed intrinsic to a hunch that prompted a brief frown on Wanda's part.

“Y/n is always having the company of some, um, friends... of hers around. I mean, a young stud like that, attending med school in her prime... she strikes me as the very popular college type, huh. Geez, I wish I had studied with her back in my day, I won't lie to you, hon. If you know what I mean.”

Again the older woman laughed, throwing her head back, her ponytail swinging – and again Wanda didn't follow, a smoldering repugnance seeping into her bones, scarlet vapor rising its way to her larynx, the veins bristling, the tree of possessiveness branching off from a bad seed planted inside her chest (don't you dare talk about Y/n like that, you old fucking rag).

“Oh, but don't let me hold you back, Lizzie dear, I bet you need to get ready for tonight,” Agatha smiled with an odd glow, “Well, I'll be right next door if you need me for anything. Have fun, honey. Some of us have to, don't we?”

“Right…”

If Wanda could, she would have split Agatha's head open with a sharp axe; bits of brain mass and cracked bone littering your front door.

ᗢ

“Y/n...”

Wanda lay languid, transverse in your king size bed. White sheets touched her skin just below her back. Emerald irises were hidden behind closed eyelids, lashes closed, mouth half-open where moans trickled down like raindrops. The shrewd walls of your bedroom were the witnesses of that body, naked and of abandoned modesty, far from any prying eyes she was aware of, away from every judicious mind bent on condemning her actions.

Finding your bedroom on the top floor had not been at all a difficult activity after a tourist-oriented excursion unrolled through the walls of your home, Wanda's fingertips slithering lethargically over the surface of the exquisite furniture – your wardrobe filled with neatly folded clothes and pressed shirts, your bathroom with your favorite perfume whose Wanda promptly slipped the bottle into her bag, your dirty clothes discarded into an open-lid basket. She couldn't contain her sharp nerves at the sight of one of your worn panties.

Wanda then found herself free of all shame, but adorned by the secrecy of an unbuttoned soft silk shirt of yours that wore her body, smelling like you. Your sheets, your pillowcase, your shirt – everything smelled like you. It was as if a flood of yours had swamped Wanda's senses, submerging her in a bubble of you. As if you were on top of her, inside her, everywhere around her. Her hands skimmed over her pearly body, advancing slyly along the line of her belly, teasing herself at what traced the elastic of her panties.

The nerve bundles of her muscles were taut and dense as curious fingers ventured along the edge of her stomach, staying in the body band where her torso ended, gliding along the slit that determined the start of her smooth thighs.

A thin moan escaped the pulps of her lips as Wanda's hand finally touched the length of her pleasure, finding a wet meeting to lean on. She fantasized that it would be you there, the cheek of your thumbs pressing against the sensitive skin of her thighs as you spread them apart so that you could cup the bridge of your nose there and sip what she had to offer you.

“Y/n, please... p-please...”

A finger, shy and cautious, exploring avidly, ran the length of her moist lips, pouring into them in a long descent, capturing some of her sap that had escaped around it, returning to a slow rise in search of her center in flames. Bending to her own will, a victim of her own actions, she found herself stretching out her slender, alabaster-skinned thighs. Touch me, Y/n. Make me yours.

Her silken back arched eagerly at the mercy of the flooding pleasure that spread in quivering waves through her limbs. The hand, which until that moment had not dared to make a move, approached boldly the pale mounds that were her breasts, seeking the nipples that, like petunias, had opened in swellings from the redundant heat that enveloped them.

The delicate tip of her own finger slid over the soft skin of the areola, inching toward the turgid nipple, capturing it in a gentle grip, stimulating the senses, heightening the pleasure. Wanda's upper teeth dug into the outline of her lower lip.

“Fuck…”

A second finger took its place inside her, reaching for the heat of the skin in relief, and she moved boldly back and forth, still testing, experiencing the paroxysm that only the apogee of climax could provide. It was then that the green eyes opened, revealing the button-dark pupils, deep as a river, dilated with the specter of lust.

“F-fuck, fuck! Fuck me, Y/n, fuck me! Fuck me harder! Ah-!”

The splendor of orgasm peaked at its epicenter. Her back was arched, her legs closed around her own hand, pressing insistently to the center of her spread body, enclosing the crook of her own wrist between the hollow of her groin. The inner walls of her intimacy opened and closed in a symbiosis synchronous with the bursts of pleasure that bombarded her internal organs. Just a few seconds, a few glorious seconds of pure pleasure dissolved around her own fingers. One of several orgasms wrested from her in honor of you.

Wanda felt her body melt under the action of a terribly agonizing act; her heart pounding against her ribcage, clouding her mind, descending to her stomach in a trail of fire. Her breath hitched for a few moments, coming in harder as the orgasm ceased, causing her chest to rise and fall frantically.

On her lips, a name that she ended up whispering to the one that escaped her control (as so much more besides this one had done during the peak of her orgasm), while her tense body eased against the mattress extensions.

“I love you, Y/n... I love you... I fucking love you...”

But it was at the latest, however, with her curious eyes scrutinizing and dissecting every measly element that made up the layout of your bedroom arrangements—the books crammed in long rows on the shelves of your bookshelf (the sight of an edition of Wuthering Heights had made her beam delightfully like a child in a candy store, as in an inside joke between you and her), the notes on sticky note paper on your desk in exquisite cursive handwriting, the thin television screwed to the pale wall erected directly in front of your bed—that Wanda’s attention was magnetized to a tiny silhouette on a shelf at the top of your wardrobe.

Wanda looked the box up and down and curiosity got the better of her. A small, polished, dark wooden box, perfectly square, that the tips of her right fingers skidded for after she stretched out her shins and elbow to grope blindly up there, standing on tiptoe to do so.

Something in Wanda cried out in interested inquisitiveness when it was that she deposited the little box on the floor just in front of the wardrobe and, sinking down on her bare knees (since all that covered her slender body was a pair of dark panties and your silk shirt unbuttoned across her chest), she curved her spine in front of the quadrilateral container, elbows bent so her fingertips brushed and lifted the lid. Her brow creased in an irresolutely astonished manner.

“Oh…”

Driver's licenses. Wanda blinked, trying to figure out what it was that lay before her like unearthed treasure. You had a box full of driver's licenses tucked at the top of your wardrobe, slipped away from the eyes of other visitants who wouldn't be as wary as Wanda's – a veritable gathering of names and faces, all dealing with other female figures, like a gallery with tiny souvenirs that alluded to encounters that have already passed through your lifetime.

The frivolous lace effigies of young women approaching her age gazed at her with excruciating stares, their busts ridged in dozens of small laminated cards like the cards in a boardgame. It was like you collected young college girls – she knew all about your gathering nature, after all. Wanda needed to see them up close; she desired to comprehend them, to know who they were, and what they did in your room, so close to you. The reason you wanted them there with you.

The first one whose jadish eyes evaluated, the fingertips of her right hand slipping a lock of dark-brown hair behind the shell of her ear while the other hand held the small card near the tip of her nose, was Jennifer Walters's document followed by Hope Van Dyne’s, Maria Hill and Laura Barton and then Elizabeth Ross, Virginia Potts, Daisy Johnson, Karolina Dean and Christine Palmer, and then a dozen more names and faces that Wanda didn't bother to distinguish from the rest of them.

Some of the young girls there sounded familiar to Wanda's remembered cognitions, others could never be more than just foreign figures. The count would be no more than a stipulated enumeration of around forty-five names, but it wouldn't be an inferior calculation to the number thirty either. Wanda counted to the number thirty-seven before closing the lid of the box again, and even then there were still a few more names missing to complete the whole.

She blinked once, looking down at the wood box placed between her spread thighs, just trying to understand. And then she wondered why her name wasn't inside that box too. Was she not interesting enough? Did she not meet your parameters? Maybe you didn't want her name there with the others for a reason. Maybe it had to do with Christine Palmer's decapitated head that she found inside your fridge a few hours ago.

ᗢ

The late afternoon sun had set for its idleness set behind the concrete buildings in the distance, making for a bright cease to that particularly warm evening. White glow from the streetlights streamed in through the high paneled windows of the townhouses down the block, casting pale artificial stains on the affluent fullness of the prosperous Upper Manhattan.

Your biceps muscles were fatigued from a long afternoon hitting and bouncing rubber balls when you turned off your car's ignition and unbuckled your seat belt, pushing it away with your elbow.

A line of pale windows contributed with its share of mystery to the casual observer who passed through the streets that little by little fell into the spills in pools of synthetic light, the pale facades gleamed like light bronze, giving the mansions an air of wealth and of pride; and you always wondered, looking up and fantasizing, what went on behind those windows. One would unquestionably be surprised to know what was going on behind your own curtains, anyway.

However, it was in front of your own residence as you got out of the parked car – your right digits searching inside the cross bag in the middle of your chest for your set of keys – that Miss Harkness, your nosey neighbor, opened the bright door of her own house to greet you with a plastic smile on her long face, wearing the skimpy-length clothes that she always tended to tuck in when being around you (particularly on late Wednesday afternoons like that, when you showed up in your tennis clothes and Agatha tried to take advantage of your bare legs).

“Good afternoon, cupcake,” smiled your luscious, chocolate-colored hair neighbor dressed in very short white shorts, “Or would it be good night already? I'm never sure, this time of day is always so vague...”

“I think it's good night by now, Miss Harkness,” was your reply in an almost machine-friendly, rehearsed tone that might well be controversial if it came from someone lacking a smile as captivating as your own.

“Oh yes, good night,” Agatha's right shoulder slumped over her own doorframe, her breasts tucked into a teenage-type tank top, her thin lips covered in a slim layer of glossy chapstick, “So, hot stuff, how is that little friend of yours doing?”

“My… little friend...?” your hand flinched from searching the inside of your bag, your brow creasing at the figure of the older woman with piercing sapphire eyes, hungry like a wolf for new information she could glean from your own personal life.

“Yeah, that pretty girl with those big green eyes, kinda dressed like an edgy teenager, um, Liz… Lizzie, isn't it? Yes, Lizzie,” Agatha's lips pursed into an embellished, deceitfully thoughtful pout, “The one who came to drop you something earlier. Or to grab something for you, I don't know. You know, honey, your... friend from college.”

You frowned even more at the figure of your neighbor, your lips curled in an intemperate way, your countenance almost distorting so that your social mask would eject from the folds of your facial muscles, revealing to Agatha a portion of a feature she wouldn't need to see. A shiver running down your spine from the back of your neck alerted you that something was wrong.

Your friends weren't regulars at your house and you, in fact, didn't know any girl named Lizzie (or any derivative that was of that name just so strange to your ears when mixed with physical characteristics which you couldn't assimilate with the description of a girl unknown, offered to you by Agatha).

“She… L-Lizzie,” a hesitant, thoughtful second passed, “She… was she here? Did she enter my house? Has she been inside?” You shrugged, on an impulse of marine fearlessness that went somewhat unnoticed by Miss Harkness's unshakable smile.

“Yeah, but I haven't actually seen her leave yet,” your neighbor singsong, and then offered you a peculiar smirk imbued with a meaning you played ignorant to, “Maybe she's waiting for you, huh, heartbreaker? Tonight will be a long one, right?”

Saliva choked in your mouth. The blood coursing through your veins cooled – terror climbing the length of your esophagus, hands trembling along the length of the single strap of your bag, and “Fuck” was what you swore under your breath, your mind already in a far cry from the exaggerated figure of Agatha standing there, next door to yours. It only took a few seconds for you to slip your key into the metal lock.

“Well, honey, if you girls need anything—” but the front door to your house closed before the over-the-top Miss Harkness could even finish her own rehearsed sentence.

The entrance hall was sinisterly dim after the door closed behind you. The room was a little appalling, and in such a way, it also had a watery atmosphere that gave birth to an opalescent darkness, swamped by a deluge of empty, sharp silence.

You could well hear your own breath rising and falling if you took the trouble to do so; it was like hunting in the dusky depths of a forest, your senses heightened within your own home, into the profundities of your own sanctuary where you should once have felt at peace and at ease.

The ghostly atmosphere inside the room was lazy, cloudy, and perhaps partially dead. The simple mirror right next to the entrance door was frosted over because of a layer of light that had ended up beguiling its translucent face, and in it, amorphous and weird images that led nowhere were created.

Walking around in leisurely strides in your athletic shoes, the opaque structure of the house was lit only by the silvery light of the leafy moon that had just risen to the top of the cinertian sky outside the two-story house, which affected the furniture set back by the hulking panes of glass constricted, pale light sneaking through the always closed curtains (no one would need to know what was happening behind them), causing, in the environment, an adventitious platinum-blue coloration somewhat withered, which there was no way to be something common and ordinary.

Nothing seemed out of place, but you could tell it felt outlandish, atypical even, as if someone had broken through the sacred layer of peace of mind that used to wash over your home. Your privacy had been invaded.

Rounding the kitchen island, you went to the tall fridge and opened it with a quick flick of your right elbow, a pale shaft of light breaking through the eerie darkness that tapered the spacious room. And then you allowed yourself to lift the air out of your constricted lungs. She was still there, well preserved by the ice that wouldn't melt. A warm sigh escaped between your parted lips – icy sweat starting to form a thin layer on the back of your neck.

The vacant eyes of Christine Palmer's dead head stared back at you as if begging you to give her a dignified end; only to say that your last capture was still where you'd left it, half lying on its side on the last shelf, close by a set of sweaty water bottles, so far from the rest of her other severed limbs, you just reassured yourself of the fact that she still belonged to you.

But above your own head, a tiny sound of movement piqued your sharp ears, immediately drawing your sharp attention because you soon realized that some unexpected visitor was still in the house. Then your gaze dropped to that piece of dead flesh with hair dyed a vivid red like crayons. It was certain that Christine would soon have a companion for her icy storage.

Your predatory instincts lashed into her temples, and a rush of adrenaline coursing through your despondent system, as both of your shrewd hands plunged once more into your crossbody bag, in a silent warm grip on the part of your nimble fingers, you searched for something metallic cool to the touch, whereupon you drew out a small, heavy, iron-fuse revolver with a short barrel.

The gun has always been around since your clueless parents came to believe faithfully that a young girl should defend herself from the predators of the far reaches of the world in the alleys of the big city, and even though you never actually fired a projectile, the miserable threat of doing so used to be enough to get what you wanted. After all, if there was going to be a predator, that degenerate figure would have to be you.

 You followed, then, with the lightest and most silent studious strides, down a small corridor of bare and soiled floors, up the red oak steps of the straight stairs that led to another compendious rectangular corridor carrying very little furniture, the last door being the one at the entrance to your large bedroom. You couldn't ignore the ominous tension that seemed to hang through the air, mixed with oxygen, like a heavy fog.

Being high above the kitchen, the hallway was provided with a flickering luminescence from the lights outside the house that did not lighten the walls or ceiling either, with a wooden door at its front end, and two smoky windows separated by diameter of a head on your left.

Between the door and the floor, a crack the thickness of a pen was formed, and from there, a beam of white light was regurgitated, announcing the existence of someone inside the private room that was your bedroom. Adrenaline throbbed through your ruffled veins as the extensions of your left fingers then touched the frigid silver doorknob. You took a deep breath before opening the door, holding the barrel of the gun right in front of your torso.

“Don't fucking move.”

There was something lurid in the speech that came from behind her shoulder – something ominous, something from the depths of another world, a parallel reality. Gone was all the tenderness of your existence, for you, at that moment, were nothing more than a parody of that fake social persona of yours; appearances were turned to dust, and there was no longer any need to emulate the benevolence of the human creature you could never be.

A shiver made the tiny hairs on the back of her neck curl as she sat on the floor in front of the box, an icy breath spraying from her nostrils.

The silver material of a revolver flashed a beam of artificial light toward the emerald eyes as it was when Wanda turned and you harpooned, with a flick of your wrist, the weapon in front of the open door to the bedroom, the fierce barrel aimed straight ahead the middle of her forehead. Wanda blinked once in your direction, her jadish eyes acquiescing to the situation, understanding what was happening there, what it was that unfolded before her.

It was you. In front of her, in the same room as her, addressing her directly as you had in the library last semester. You. You.

You looked different with that hideous darkness corrupting the ever-present indulgence in your gaze, but either way it was you – the real vision of what you would be, that wild animal she would gladly let devour her completely, from the inside out, consuming her insides in splashes of warm blood. The creature had crept out of the cracks of your good girl performance, and only violence could be aimed at the void of your pupils.

“Y/n...” Wanda whimpered almost into a sweet sigh, her chest heaving with fiery contentment, dropped to her knees and as submissive as she was there in your room, “Y/n, you're here... you're here...”

“Who the fuck are you?” Your tone had been impassive, and something in Wanda had sunk completely, a painful twinge brushing the middle of her chest, “Are you–are you wearing my shirt…?”

“Y/n,” she half-cried on her knees in front of you, dark brows furrowing, “Don't you remember me? From the library...? We– we met last semester. You told me to read Wuthering Heights, it was one of your favorites–”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Wanda blinked once in mistrust with her dark-green eyes, completely disbelieving in her spirit at the words she had heard leave her lover's lips that hit her like clenched fists in the stomach and ribs. She remembered you, so you would have to remember her too; there would be reciprocity in fantasy, there would be love in unilateralism, there would have to be love and love in particular would have to be mutual.

Even though Wanda knew that physiologically a creature like you was lacking in the ability to love – as a good psychology student she had diagnosed you, she knew your pathologies, and like a good maniac, she just knew everything about the person that she treasured so dearly. But there would be no science that could explain Wanda's need for more and more of you. After all, you were Cathy and Heathclilff, not Elizabeth and Darcy.

The calloused emptiness of the barrel of the revolver was like a vortex that dispossessed her soul from her body, but Wanda couldn't care less about the gun pointed at her mideyebrow as her heartstrings tightened—the pain of lack of recognition in your eyes before her supplanted the idea that a flick of your finger would be enough for the insides of her skull to stick to the floor of your bedroom.

“I saw you in the library, Y/n,” she tried again, exasperated by the unrequited love, “Last semester...you smiled at me and said that was a great book...”

But then there was a glimmer of hope to warm the kneeling young woman's spirits – your gaze raked over Wanda's sharp, pretty features, and after a good long minute had at her chest area (her pale breasts partially exposed in front of her skimpy white silk shirt unbuttoned, the gap between them descending to a milky abdomen just as appetizing to the touch), a string tugged at your memory and a shrewd realization slipped behind your brain, bringing back the day you decided not to murder that library girl because it was fun to play with the idea that her life hung by a thread, and she never knew that.

Like a puppeteer operating the strings of life around you, Wanda was only there, on her knees in your bedroom, because you wanted to revel in the idea that her life was in the palm of your hands and, as a deity (or least holding the power of such), you resolved to spare her for only a base and simple whim of yours.

“Oh, wait… wait, I remember you…” slipped out of your lips, the gun still gripped tightly in your right hand, “W… Wanda, yeah. Your name is Wanda.”

“Yes,” the answer was immediate, almost a high-pitched, smiling yelp, emerald green shimmering into her lepidopteran lashes, “Wanda Maximoff. You remembered me...”

“Wanda Maximoff, the library girl, huh… fuck, what are you doing here? It's been so long...” you muttered to yourself, “Wait, don't tell me you're a goddamn stalker or something like that. Home invasion is a crime, did you know that? You can go to jail if I call the police. Is that what you want, Wanda? That I call the police?”

She looked down at you with a predatory gaze, as if she was going to rip your jugular apart with her own teeth. It caught you off guard, in fact, for you had never seen this emptiness darken someone else's gaze before.

“There's a girl's head in your fridge, Y/n,” Wanda countered, an amused smile then breaking at the corners of her rosy lips, doe eyes looking you up and down, two animals of similar species recognizing each other in an uninterrupted cadence of sickly stares, “You're not going to call the police.”

It was a challenge thrown up in the air, because she was bold and could just push your buttons until she knew you fully, unfolded you beneath her fingertips; Wanda relished the moment because she just knew that no one alive knew you like that – that side of you, that butcher look of yours. It was the only connection she had with you slowly growing stronger.

“Pff, of course I'm not going to call the fucking police, I'm not an idiot,” and you took a step closer to her, invading her personal space, the barrel of the gun so cold against the pale skin of her forehead.

“But I could just pull that trigger, couldn't I? Or maybe rip your pretty neck off and put your head next to hers and the matter would be over, wouldn't it? I can do many things with you, Wanda. I can hurt you. I can break you. I can kill you.”

“You,” Wanda snorted, pupils dark and dilated into an abyss of greenish doom, “Do you really think my neck is pretty?”

A lame chuckle escaped in disbelief between your nostrils – she was practically salivating like a dog (a beautiful bitch in heat, the insides of her thighs sticky), and something about you liked that. Really liked that.

“Fuck, you've got to be kidding me. Was that all you understood from what I told you? I literally threatened to kill you, Wanda. Shit, pretty girl… you're a sick bitch, you know that? There's something very wrong going on inside your head.”

“No,” Wanda muttered, her gaze misting into her excited irises, her nerves fraying at the compliment that couldn't be missed, “I… I love you, Y/n. I just… I just love you so much.”

“Oh, you love me, do you?" It was then that you sort of chuckled in derision, shaking your head in sardonic disdain – an act laced with haughtiness and condescension that made Wanda's heart flutter against her rib cage.

“I love you,” she nodded in an almost desperate, justified affirmation, “I really love you so much, I love you so much, Y/n, I just need you. I don't care about the rest or what you did to them, I... I just need you. I really need you. Your real self.”

“Damn,” you knelt before her, the gun still pointed firmly at Wanda's forehead, the sweet scent of her dry shampoo soothing against your nostrils, her firm features even more stunning when viewed up close, “You're crazy. Like, really crazy. Totally insane.”

“It takes a madman to recognize the other,” she mussed back, enjoying this game of cat and mouse as much as you, the distance between you less than a foot, “And you killed those girls.”

“And yet you're begging me to fuck you with your eyes even though you know I killed those girls. Which one of us is the worst, huh?”

“Well,” Wanda smirked like a broken doll, “I'm not the one who dismembers my classmates here. I’m just in love. I just… I just fell in love with you, Y/n. But... it makes no difference to me how bad you can be sometimes, or what you do to other people. You're everything to me. I love you just the way you are.”

“No, Wanda, you don’t,” you whispered, “Really, you have no idea who I really am, and… I don't think you'd like what you might find.”

“Try me,” her chin tilted to the left, towards her collarbone. You frowned for a while; she was not afraid. She was uniquely interested.

Your gazes swallowed each other in midair, one striving to comprehend, to unwrap the other, to make the other give in to the oppression of their own wills. You wanted to break her, but she was already broken, and she longed for you to break herself even more; the two of you on the edge, waiting for the last push for one to fall and take the other with them to the bottom of that precipice. You haven't had this much fun in a while.

“Fuck, at least I'm not a desperate mutt like you, though... you're a perv, Wanda. A fucking weirdo, a stalker who broke into my house, found out about my, um, hobby, and yet you still stayed here until I arrived... and all while wearing my shirt? Look at you, I bet you were touching yourself like a bitch in heat before I arrived.”

Your gaze dropped to her pale, exposed thighs.

“You're such a creep, pretty girl. Honestly, if anything, it's kinda pathetic. But, hey,” the barrel of the revolver then lowered until it skimmed the pulp of Wanda's lips, and a devilishly smile broke into the corner of your mouth, “I had a great idea just now. If you do really love me as much as you say you do… how about you prove to me how much you need me, huh, Wanda? Prove your love to me. Open your pretty mouth.”

And then she stuck her tongue out of her pearly lips, as receptive as she could be. Wanda smeared the icy metal of the revolver's short barrel with a string of thick spit, a circle of vulpine pink tongue licking the outline of the gun wedged between the thumb and bent forefinger of your right hand.

Moving with your wrist, you soon proceeded to shove the gun deep into Wanda's open mouth, translucent spittle running from the corner of her lips to the contour of her lovely chin when it was that gagging whines coiled from the back of her throat.

“Look at you...” you mussed, your eyes never leaving the drooling figure of the girl in front of you, “Give me a show, slut. Breathe through your nose, just like that.”

Wanda moaned softly as she screwed her plump puffy lips onto the barrel of the revolver that only went down her throat until you decided to pull it out, puckering the length of her mouth as if she were planting a kiss on the cheek of a lollipop, releasing it with a hollow sound, a loud and purposefully audible metal-flavored pop, droplets of saliva pouring up her pale, bare thighs.

“I,” she sighed, her jaw tightening, the saliva pooling in bubbles at the corners of her mouth, “Did I… did I do well?”

“Oh, you did great, Wanda. You did it like the little bitch that I know that you are.”

With sly hooded eyes clouded by tears pooling in her dark lashes, Wanda saw you stare at her with obscure eyes of desire and mouth aflame with craving, and she smirked, sideways, like a prize girl with lust on her slobbered lips, addicted to something rotten inside you.

“I bet you're wet as fuck right now. You're loving every second of it, aren't you? You really are sick. But hold still, you whore,” you decreed to her in a harsh, bestial voice, “Or I fucking kill you.”

You then touched the barrel soaked in glistening saliva against the hard bone of Wanda's sternum, through the valley of firm, rosy breasts, in a poignantly lethargic motion pouring through the bristling skin toward the south of her body, leaving a trail behind of icy drool that made shiver the baby hairs from the back of her neck. Her rib cage rose and fell heavily, her nails adorned with matte black nail polish digging like razors into her shaggy skin, just waiting, just hoping for more.

The pit of Wanda's stomach constricted inside her abdomen when, after circling her navel cavity, you lowered the gun to the waistband of her dark panties, stopping dangerously close to the place where she craved your touch, the slackening of her thirsts that only you were the only one able to heal. You could even hear her instable breath echoing through the walls of the silent bedroom.

“Do you want me to touch you here, Wanda?” you snorted, her cheeks taking on sickly scarlet crimson intonations, “You want this, don't you? It's what you've been wanting all this time – for me to ruin that slutty cunt of yours. God, you're so predictable...”

“P-please,” Wanda whimpered in a needy gasp, her chin wet with an amalgamation of pale tears with thick saliva, her brows twitching so that a pained look settled on her heaving features, “P-please, Y/n, please touch me, touch me there, please– argh!”

The palm of your left hand closed against the outline of Wanda's pulsing jugular damp in sticking hot sweat, five fingers screwing tight into the pale skin as in a hard jolt you brought her face closer to yours – purposefully brushing the gun against the wetness of the garment of the other girl that only grew between her legs, pushing her throbbing clit against the barrel of the revolver, a very heavy change in the rhythm of her breathing.

She was just a sweaty, drooling mess, moaning aloud, and you found yourself to be a great appreciator of the pathetic state of mind in which Wanda was apt to submit to you and your sadistic whims.

“You're perfect,” something vile in you snatched from her tears, the ever-fast movement between Wanda's hips, the insides of her sticky thighs swallowing your wrist, “You're perfect for me, Wanda. You’re my perfect girl. I knew there had to be some reason I hadn't gutted you that day.”

“I am,” she whimpered back, her hips tense, “I'm your perfect girl, Y/n. I can be anything you want me to be.”

“Well, I think I know what I want you to be,” you hissed in lewd intonation, the tip of your nose almost touching her crimson-tinged cheekbone, “I want you to be my whore.”

Wanda gasped against your chronic staining grip on her neck. It was like you wanted to kill her and eat her right there. And then, the distastefulness of the metal darted through your lips as you took her saliva for yourself to taste, pressing your strangled tongue against the gap between Wanda's teeth, discharging into your mouth a metallic, foul, jarring taste when the two of you shared a needy kiss, almost as if you were a ravenous beast devouring a still-warm carcass.

The metallic taste stemmed by blood from her split lip was no longer just something from the gun you made Wanda suck on. And her tears of pleasure gave way to tears of genuine, unhinged exhilaration in a frightened and frantic ecstasy, for you were kissing her, you were consummating her.

You, however, between mutters and yelps, increased the pressure on her little bundle of nerves through Wanda’s damned garment in a speedy torture, only to see her writhe above your revolver and groan in uncertain verbiage, libertines and so stupidly discordant with each other.

“I owe you now. You’re mine. You’re mine to break, Wanda. You're mine to do whatever I want to, and I bet you don't even care if I do. Seriously, you're just pathetic.”

“I love you, Y/n,” tussled Wanda then in a tiny, drooling yelp, snorting against your parted mouth, “I–I love you, I love you, I love you, I–I love you, I love you, I love you–”

It didn't take long for the emerald-eyed girl's body to stiffen in front of you, splintering intoxicatingly as her eyes squeezed into tearful lines and Wanda's brow furrowed into a painful scrunch of skin. She squeaked in a funneled scream, low in pitch and melting.

And, feeling the characteristic sting of orgasm poke her lower belly, Wanda went down and up against the barrel of the gun for a few seconds until, in total frenzy, she felt the world around her go out, spewing through her throbbing entrance a wet trickle of warm cum that covered the entire length of the revolver, even though she was still wearing a thin underwear to cover her rosy, puffy cunt.

With her head weighing more than the rest of her body, Wanda fell forward, falling gasping with her forehead against the bone of your right shoulder, her chest heaving in and out with impressive weight. And then she snuggled against you, against your neck, as if you were a couple who had just fallen in love with each other, and not a duo of animals drawing blood from your flesh. But you held her. For a moment, you just held like you've known her for longer than you could count.

You then took a good look at her, the sweaty girl slumped against your very white polo shirt, wearing in her figure a silky shirt that she had stolen from within your wardrobe. Her silhouette, the perfect nose, the round, rosy lips, the firm cheekbone, the thick eyelashes – Wanda Maximoff was a beautiful young woman indeed. A nice prize, like a puppy, a pet. Something worth keeping around for a while.

“I love you, Y/n,” Wanda exhaled tenderly against the collar of your shirt, her warm breath brushing the bare skin of your neck, “I really love you…”

You licked the tip of your tongue at the metallic layer of Wanda's blood pooling at the pulp of your lips, “You're mine now, pretty girl,” was a murmur against her dark hair, “And I won't let you get away anytime soon.”

ᗢ

The world moved in an ecstatic frenzy when you were around her, spiraling into a frantic, dizzying cataclysm, dangerous as a dynamite fuse in a short flame; Wanda would soon put you on fire. It was as if something sick in her needed you to explode and for the blast's radius to consume her along with you, turning the two of you to dust together. It took about less than a full month for Wanda to become, then, your permanent companion within the walls of your home. You two were living together.

Normalcy was mostly covert (her toothbrush next to yours suddenly felt like a tremendous breach of privacy, as if she hadn't previously invaded your house), a self-righteous sobriety, because watching her cook European dishes humming through your kitchen while there was a severed human head in the fridge instilled a kind of fascination in you.

“You need to eat better, Y/n,” she'd said on one particular night, her hips nestled against your hips on the cream-colored sofa in the living room, a fork with a fresh strawberry on a skewer being offered to you, “Let me take care of you, baby.”

The world seen in the light of Wanda's gaze could be of a bizarre appreciation that urged you to keep her close to you.

Navigating through the ups and downs like any other official couple you could find walking hand in hand in the world out there, in the meantime you've noticed her as much as you could in such a narrow window of time; even though Wanda's wardrobe mostly consisted of darker colors and countercultural embellishments, her favorite color was red and she was terribly allergic to felines. Her fondness for old sitcoms could be traced to an attachment to a fond childhood memory.

She ate her breakfast cereal laughably in an awkward wrist fold, and had a twin brother who was studying abroad on an athletic scholarship; her father, an uncompromising man of German descent, was a major political figure in her hometown somewhere in New Jersey, and her mother was a Slovak immigrant who had passed away (in situations she didn't bother to clarify) when Wanda and her brother were just too young to be able to digest the nuances of such a sudden loss, their first abandonment in life. Both husband and wife were a non-practicing Jewish couple.

Wanda got what she wanted by sharing a warm bed with you on sleepless nights, and you, a tormentor possessing an ever so solemnly sadistic nature, merely kept her tamed on an emotional leash, since that meant it was in your domain whether her heart would stop beating or not. Before anyone else, however, the two of you were just a couple of two shy girlfriends who had been together since last semester, only having made public the relationship that came imperiously to the surface with the blossoming of the fastidious zenith of spring.

“Man, I still don't quite get this,” Yelena grumbled, then, once you accompanied her along with Darcy Lewis and Kate Bishop on a walk over the university campus, “You two were dating, like, this whole time, and you never bothered to tell us? You know, your best fucking friends?”

“It’s not like that, dude, it’s just—”

Your speech was abruptly cut short before the end, however, when, in the back pocket of your jeans, your phone trembled off the track, immediately catching your attention. Eyes turned to you.

You reached down to your pocket, where you grabbed your smartphone – on which the word “Wanda” flashed on the flat screen and, after realizing that it was your girlfriend who was contacting you, something in you had to restrain yourself before your eyes swiveled in their sockets. You slid your thumb horizontally across the screen glass and reclined the call, taking the plastic and carbide device back into your pocket.

“Was it her again?” it was Kate who questioned, to which you offered her a tiny nod in confirmation mode, a corroborating buzz of “mhmm” choking out of your throat, “Dude, okay, don't get me wrong but don't you think Wanda is kinda… um, you know, kinda…”

“Obsessed with you,” Darcy, the girl with the round glasses and dark hair, mussed in a smooth tone, frankly clarifying something Kate might have said, even if she didn't want to sound so impertinent when she said it.

“This is like, the tenth time she's called you in half an hour. Not to mention that now she lives on top of you all the time like a fucking eagle. We can't even have time with you alone anymore, she's there, like, the whole damn time.”

“It's not like that, c’mon,” you mussed in a bad way, still walking in the warm sun next to the other three girls, “Wanda is just, well… she's a worried person, that's all. She likes to make sure the people she cares about are okay.”

“It's one thing to be a worrier,” countered Yelena then, the three of them in tune in a train of thought that obviously pointed to the fact that your new girlfriend was a walking red flag.

“It's another thing to be obsessed with someone else. Like, borderline obsessed. Dude, Y/n, I know you're the kind of person who sees the good in everyone and is so altruistic that you get sick and all that nice girl shit, but... your girlfriend is weird. That's it, I said it. Wanda is weird. She gives me creeps, man, I swear.”

“Don't say my girlfriend is weird,” you frowned into the amber eyes of the blonde girl walking to your left, “That's offensive, you know? You can't just–”

But then the ringing of your phone was present again, and your hand went to your pocket again to pick up the device. You had never formally given your phone number to Wanda, but of course she already knew what it would be without even having to ask you. Your three friends crossed each other in tacit glances imbued with a mutual sense when a smothered sigh escaped through a half-open gap in the pulp of your lips.

"Look, I... I promised to have a study session with Wanda and I'm late, okay?" you hissed, your tongue clicking against the roof of your mouth, “I catch up with you guys latter.”

Turning on your heels, you set off in the opposite direction the rest of the group was walking. The silence was broken only when you were far away, out of reach of Darcy's brooding voice, who spoke first of the other two girls in her company – three pairs of eyes following your silhouette dwindling onto the well-cut grass puddled by a hot midday sun.

“Guys,” the bespectacled girl had said, “I might be sounding crazy, I know, but… don’t you think Wanda could have… kinda gotten rid of Christine so she wouldn’t have anything to stop her from being with Y/n...?”

Yelena blinked once at Darcy.

“I think your obsession with true crime media is starting to get a little weird”

ᗢ

“F-fuck, right there—!”

Wanda's voice gasped, strangled inside your ear, needing to take you fully inside her. The sounds of skin hitting skin muffled the dripping water from a poorly turned off faucet. The cramped bathroom stall at the back of the library could be one of the most discourteous and defamatory places you've ever had the misfortune of sneaking in to have sex with someone.

If you weren't too busy moaning into the crook of Wanda's sweaty neck, brows furrowed inside a public restroom where anyone could walk in at any second, you'd most likely have already teased your dear, disheveled lover for making your crawl in in that narrow place just to fuck her – but with the thirsty girl desperately splaying her hands over the bulge in your pants in an arduous search for the long scarlet silicone toy Wanda had bought for the two of you, yearning for the physical contact to alleviate her desire to be satiated, you just couldn't deny her altogether.

“You,” your speech was airy, somewhat disconnected from reality, the material of the strap delighting you as much as it did her, “You really couldn't wait, huh? Such a needy whore… I was busy, you know?”

You groaned, encouraging her with a mischievous half-smile as you felt the girl purposefully tighten around your entire wet length, which practically slid straight in and out of her.

“Y-you weren't busy,” Wanda moaned too, practically cried in performative innocence into the shell of your ear, purposely stoking you so you'd get rougher and increase the speed at which you thrust her, “You- ugh, fuck! – y-you were just walking—walking around with your… y-your stupid friends...”

“Stupid friends? That's bold.”

You stared at the familiar contorted face of pleasure your girlfriend expressed, popping in and out of Wanda fast and hard, with the green-eyed girl with pale legs curled around your waist, one hand buried in your tangle hair, scraping her splintered black-painted fingernails across your scalp. The hem of her red and gray plaid skirt bunched up over her damp thighs.

And indeed, something in you loved having her so primitively. As raw and animalistic as it could be; Wanda delivered, a mess completely at your mercy. The back of her head rested on the laminate on the wall, her wet red mouth half-open. Her forehead tensed, her white skin gleaming with sweat, pleading, begging for more.

It was like a real red rose blooming before your malevolent eyes. And that adrenaline aroused you, scarlet running scorching through your bristling veins. Anyone listening outside the bathroom would assume that the two of you were competing to see who was making the most of the situation.

“Damn, you look so pretty with my cock inside you,” you gasped in a breath in front of Wanda's face, “It makes me want to rip you in half.”

“Please Y/n! I'm almost- almost-! A-ah!” The girl gasped for air when she felt that you suddenly pressed her swollen clit between your rough and atrocious middle and index fingers, digging her dark nails into the skin of your neck where there was your hairline.

In a muffled cry, Wanda reached the peak of her orgasm around the false length that was stretching her deliciously inside. And you continued to burrow into her sensitive walls for a few more long seconds, filling her beyond acceptable, letting out cavernous whines until you too came with the strap being nestled inside her walls. The two of you, panting and tired, your chests rising and falling, stared at each other with sharp, floppy eyes. A brief smirk was mirrored on your mischievous faces.

“You don't need any of your friends anymore, baby,” Wanda mussed, panting, placing her pale hand on the warm skin of your flushed cheek, “You've got me now.”

It was a fact that she was in possession of a restless invidious nature, and the dependency could gnaw at her spirits so that an imperative need for control over you would well up in her core. Wanda might just be too possessive for your own good or even hers, and so the fastige of your relationship soon degenerated into a volatile debacle. 

By the latest of the same week, then, with both of you already in the shelter of your residence on the outskirts of Manhattan, you could see yourself instituting dinner preparations, peeling potatoes and slicing carrots, when was it that hurried passes could be picked up by your ears upstairs, then down the stairs, to finally implode into the kitchen walls.

“What do you mean,” snarled Wanda in a frivolous tone of voice, exasperating behind your shoulder blades, “What do you mean you're going out with those bitches this fucking weekend?! I thought we were going out on a date, Y/n, what the fuck! You said you were going out with me!”

“Kate invited me to go to a bar with them,” you retorted in a sounding bordering on monotone, slicing a carrot, not giving much thought to Wanda's annoyances, “If you want, you can go too. But wait, how do you...?” the knife edge pressed against the plastic board, “You were looking through my phone again?!”

“These bitches are trying to take you away from me!” snapped Wanda immediately, her dark brows furrowing, “They hate me and you fucking know it!”

“They don't hate you Wanda, stop being dramatic, that's irritating,” you grumbled in a bad way, “I swear, sometimes I feel like getting rid of them all just so I don't have to listen to you bitching about them all the goddamn time.”

“Then get rid of them all,” she spat behind you, “Kill them all if you want, damn it, I don't give a shit about that! I just want them to know that you're mine!”

There was a momentary silence to behold, and Wanda peered up at you with a troubled, obsessed gaze in half a second when your chin reoriented itself over the bone of your right shoulder—jade eyes staring back at you, green soaked in the darkness, a gloom from which you were no longer able to hide from that psychoneurosis that so unnerved you when Wanda engaged in a bratty attitude.

She took her lower lip in her mouth and opened and closed her eyes, expelling a gust of warm air through her nostrils when, abandoning the shredded vegetables on the counter, you walked up to her face wielding that sharp knife in an ominous way.

“It's very bold of you to throw a tantrum and tell me to kill someone when I have a knife in my hand,” you blurted out the words slowly, not even fully mobilizing your pursed lips.

“You've been pissing me off a lot lately, you know that? Acting like a spoiled fucking brat who needs attention all the time because you're terrified I'll leave you when I feel like it. You're terrified of me rejecting you, aren't you, Wanda?”

“You wouldn't do that,” she muttered under her breath, the tips of your noses almost brushing through the air.

“Wouldn’t I?” The blade of the curvy, ravenous knife then pressed icy against the sharp right cheekbone of Wanda's pale face, still not cutting right into her skin, “Do you really think I wouldn't do that?”

“No, you wouldn't,” she, however, was unwavering in front of you, “I'm the only person in this entire world who understands you. Who really understands you, understands who you really are and is not afraid of you. Who knows your true self.”

"Look at you, you think you’re important,” a dark chuckle skimmed the flesh of your lips, the knife point trailing along the outline of Wanda's jaw then being held against the pale, smooth skin that covered the artery throbbing through her milk-white neck.

“It’s cute. You know, your lack of self-esteem to the point where you don't even bat an eye when I hold a knife to your neck because you know it will please me. Cute. Your pathetic submission is cute.”

“See,” Wanda smiled small, her irises brimming with emerald love that shimmered in the pale light of the pearl lamps above your heads, “I know you, Y/n. I love you. I love you so much that you don't need anyone else in your life. I also don't need anyone else but you. Only you.”

“This is sad. This is really, really sad,” your wrist constrained the knife blade against her collarbone, “Don't move.”

Wanda, ever so obedient, stood still when you carved your initial into her skin – the material of her shirt soaking in a big pool of fresh blood that sprinkled in a trickle onto the laminate kitchen floor; drops the size of a coin. Watching your deed etched atop that sharp bone, she looking so pretty and receptive with hot tears pooling before her clouded emerald eyes, an intrusive thought stabbed the back of your skull like a malignant tumor; maybe you needed Wanda in your life. Maybe you were as needy for her as she was for you.

As she slept later that same night, standing in front of the bathroom mirror you carved the letter "W" against the skin of your own left ribs.

ᗢ

About a month and a few days more had passed, as slowly as the blooming of spring flowers was already leaning towards the final touches of the season, since when your acquaintances learned about your relationship with Wanda of a nature no less than how controversial. You were spiraling down an intense, one-way descent, and you liked it.

The roar of raging thunder broke through the dead of night in an eager burst, so close to the house that, through its windows, in a tiny broken second, cold beams of white light cleared the downpour that raged outside the house, before re-submersing the world in the ambiguities of the nocturnal darkness. The streetlights in the region creaked and shook like lost souls, while the stiff gale gradually swelled as the interminable minutes of the storm passed.

Wanda, however, had not been awakened by the tyrannical, punishing thunder, or by the water hitting the tiles above her head assiduously, as if they were boulders of ice. She, in fact, hadn't even been able to fall asleep to a less-than-light sleep since she'd been snuggled into your king-size bed and comfortable sheets for about a few hours before the storm broke. She had woken up because you weren't in bed with her.

Finding tribulations in her actions, lethargically and slowly, she was able to get to her feet, albeit with difficulty because of the naughty worry radiating through her agitated body. Another thunder tore through the night sky as she left the bedroom. You out of her sight might as well be like a death sentence. The light from the guest bathroom with the door open inward was the only thing illuminating the dark hallway—the warm smell of cigarettes wafted through the air. Wanda knew you used nicotine as a companion in reflective moments.

The room was dark when Wanda entered it. It was just pearly pitch lit by the silver light above the mirror, which cluttered the bathroom up to the stained-glass windows, turning everything an odd platinum blue color that wasn't natural. The atmosphere inside was cold and hazy – as it would be in an authentic cemetery during autumn, when the leaves on the trees are orange and shedding from their branches like children leaving home for the first time.

“Y/n…?” 

Wanda found your poor figure hunched over in the corner of the bathtub devoid of water to fill it, hugging your bare legs, wrapping your own slender arms around your knees like an abandoned child, staring at a tile beam on the wall. Your hair was tucked behind both of your ears, soaked in water and another dark liquid, thicker and more compact, which clotted at the ends of your hair and reflected vividly in the fluorescent light. Red.

The wallpaper and the floor tile and the clothes you were wearing were all splattered with great splashes of red, as if a can of scarlet paint had imploded in there – red spilling over everything, the ceiling and the floor and the towels, running down the drain of about five centimeters in diameter.

Her eyelids heaved at the mournful gaze that formed at the edge of the thick green of her snowy irises. On the other side of the tub, just in front of you, she found the inert body of a bloodied girl – her jugular open like a grinning face vomiting clotted blood. Her blood ran thick and heavy from your face; a flickering cigarette dangling from the corner of your lips, smoke rising into the air and only being stopped by the bathroom ceiling, hanging around like a toxic fog.

In cautious strides, Wanda carefully approached the bloodied tub, “Y/n, are you okay, baby?”

“Yes, I am,” you replied in a low voice, still not looking at Wanda standing beside you, “It was raining and I couldn't sleep. So I went out for a while and… she asked me for a ride.”

Wanda glanced at the corpse before sitting on the edge of the rectangular enameled steel tub, like a rag doll full of open patches, still wearing a tube party dress soaked in the color of hemoglobin. As she did, your head dropped down the cheek of her right thigh, blood staining the material of the pajama bottoms she was wearing. She was actually surprised, because you weren't the type to express so much physical affection towards her – yet Wanda's fingers found the crown of your bloodstained head, and there her fingertips bestowed a soothing caress on your scalp.

You took another drag of the cigarette and then dropped the butt on the floor of the bathtub, between your bare feet.

“She said her name is Madison, Madisynn, whatever,” you whispered to Wanda in a low voice, “Kinda reminded me of you. Her appearance, I mean. That's why I chose her.”

“Because you think she looks like me?” The low tone echoed through the bloodied wallpaper.

“Yeah, I guess,” you mussed, “I stayed up all night thinking about how I could kill you. But then I realized that I… I don't want to kill you, Wanda,” you lifted your head, your gaze boring into the vivid green of her eyes, “And then I left and she came asking me for a ride and she looked a lot like you. So it wasn't all that satisfying... because it was kinda like killing you. And I don't think I want that.”

"You don’t want that?"

“No,” again you sunk the skin of your face against Wanda's stained cotton pants, “I think I prefer you alive. It's more fun that way. I like that you’re my girlfriend.”

Her heart rose high in Wanda's chest as soon as the idea became apparent that she would no longer have to live on secretive glances and whispers of love in dark corners, because then, you were girlfriends. You said so. And there was no one else alive in that room that you had to lie to, so it had to be true. You were together, if any unsuspecting onlookers asked you, raising their eyebrows as they did so. You were dating.

Wanda then smiled at you sight, hunched over in a pool of blood in a bathtub and lit by trickles of artificial light. Her victory, her defeat, her obsession. Her girlfriend (touched up by gut marks that crisscrossed your scrawny skin). And then, suddenly it was okay – there would be no severed head, shattered jugular or cut in her own skin (your initial pulsing in her collarbone) that would stop Wanda from loving you as much as she did.

“I also like that you’re my girlfriend, Y/n,” she whispered, her hands smeared with the blood that soaked through your hair, “I love you. I love you so, so much.”

And Wanda didn't care at all when, minutes later, you nearly choked the life out of her when you fucked her just a feet away from a dead body.

[spaceorphan18]

X-Men Fic (Rogue/Gambit) : Toys

A/N: Yes, this was inspired by that clip that's been going around of Gambit's VA for XM97 playing with action figures. I cannot believe this is what I'm writing for my first real fic for this fandom. Dear lord, forgive me for the shenanigans... also, unbeta'd. I just wanted to get it out into the world and be done with it.

I'll post this tomorrow on Ao3

Rated: T for suggestiveness

Summary: Rogue catches Remy playing with toy action figures of the X-Men. Shenanigans. Set in the 616 comic verse, but some fun meta-y references to XM97

****

Toys

Upon arriving home, Rogue comes in through the open kitchen window because why bother with stairs when you can fly? It’s been a long day, a long week, a long life… All she wants to do is curl up on the couch with the cats and a trashy book and hopefully Remy’s home so she can get a back massage.  Hell, forget the book, she’ll gamble for the massage first.  Save the trashy for later.  

She grins, thinking about her husband’s warm hands on her skin.  

Remy is, indeed, home; standing at the kitchen island, his back turned towards the window, so engrossed in what he’s doing that he doesn’t hear her come in.  And what he’s doing takes her by surprise.  

The kitchen counter is covered in half open boxes, plastic containers, cardboard, and little zip ties.  There are a good, half-dozen or so action figures all lined up in a semicircle; each one of them a well detailed, classically designed replica of, well… the X-Men.  Oh, dear god, what did she walk into? 

“I’ll take ya down in one slice, bub,” Remy says, holding the Wolverine figurine in one hand, his voice low as he attempts Logan’s gruff voice.  Remy LeBeau is good at a lot of things, Rogue would be first to give you a list, but doing impressions is not one of them.  She bites her lip, fascinated to see how this plays out.  Remy grabs the Magento figurine as his voice shifts to imitate Erik.  “You incels!” Remy screams; loud, exaggerated, and carefully enunciated.  “How dare you try to take down me; the questionably dressed, ego too big for my helmet, Master of Magnetism?” 

Rogue puts a hand up to her lips, holding back an amused snort.  Oh, Remy… 

Remy loses the impression as he lunges the Wolverine figurine at the Magneto one.  The Magneto one floats away.  “You fools! Don’ you remember I control the metal?”  Shaking the Wolverine figurine violently, Remy lets out a feral scream and the figure is flung to the side, landing with a clatter in the sink.  

Magneto is discarded for a moment as Remy picks up the Scott and Jean figurines.  Scott has his hand to his visor while Jean has both her hands on the sides of her head.  “Jean! I seem to have made a tactical error,” Remy cries in Scott’s no-nonsense voice.  His voice then slides higher as he mimics Jean.  “Scott, my telepathy.  It out o’ whack!  Oh, Scott!... Jean!… SCOTT!.... JEAN!!”

Rogue is dying inside.  She holds herself tightly, trying as hard as she can not to burst out laughing.  

Scott and Jean are shuffled into one hand as Remy picks up the Magneto figurine again.  “Enough of this!” Remy says, back in the Magneto voice.  He then lets out another dramatic scream as he tosses the Scott and Jean figurines onto the pile of boxes, scaring Oliver, who had been inspecting one of the twist ties.  

He picks up the Storm figurine next, raising her arms to the ceiling.  “An’ now you deal with Stormy, who will smite you with her lightning blasts.” He jolts the Storm hands into Magneto, making little sound effect lightning blasts as he does so.  “Fool, I am impervious to lightning…  How dat possible? Lightning an’ magnetism are not the same thing!... I can control static electricity!... Dat…still don’ make any sense!... Begone, weather witch!”  

Rogue has tears in her eyes. She’s biting her lip so hard, it’s beginning to hurt.  Thankfully, Remy is so lost in his make believe world that he can’t hear her snickering.  

The Storm figurine is placed gently face down on the counter as Remy picks up the Gambit figurine.  Rogue’s eyes grow wide, intensely waiting to see how this will play out… 

“Ohh, you goin’ down now, mon ami,” Remy’s voice grows low and serious.  He starts making explosion sound effects, as if the Gambit figurine is throwing little playing cards at the Magneto one.  Remy then throws his head back in a villainous laugh as he goes back to the Magneto voice.  “You seriously think a few mild explosions could ever touch me?”  

Remy stops, and grins that cocky, beautiful grin of his.  “Non, but it enough to keep you distracted.”  He starts turning the Magneto figurine around, as if it’s confused.  “See, I always gotta ace up my sleeve.”  

In a quick second, he drops the Gambit figurine, and grabs the Rogue one.  Her arm is out, one leg up, poised to fly.  Remy slams the fist of the Rogue figurine into the Magneto one’s head.  “Howdy, sugah.” 

Rogue tilts her head, amused.  Remy’s imitation of her own voice is so comically off, and yet incredibly endearing.  

“How ‘bout you leave my family alone!” The Rogue figurine crashes into the Magneto one again.  This time, Remy charges the Magneto figurine, causing it to glow purple.  He tosses the charged Magneto figurine up, letting it explode in mid-air with a bang.  The charred remains drop to the counter with a clang before it bounces into the trash next to the counter.  

Remy then picks up the Gambit figurine and brings it in close to the Rogue one.  “Anyone ever tell you how beautiful you are when you’re punching people, chere?...Why don’t you shut up and kiss me, Remy…” Remy starts clicking the faces of the two figurines together, making little kiss-y noises and ‘mwa’ sounds as the action figures ‘make out’.  

Rogue grins wildly, expecting nothing less.  She crosses her arms across her chest, casually walking forward to let her presence be known. “Whatcha doing, sugah?” 

Remy gives a startled jump, the figurines dropping out of his hand with a clatter.  He’s not the least bit sorry he’s been caught, however, a devilish grin quickly sliding onto his lips.  “Jus’ havin’ a bit of fun testing some of these toys that show sent us.”  Rogue picks the destroyed Magneto figurine out of the trash.  “Some of dem defective,” he says slyly. 

“Defective huh?” She drops the figurine unceremoniously back into the trash and comes in close, wrapping her arms around his neck.  She knows the show is a sore spot, no matter how much free merch they’ve gotten from it lately.   “You still salty about all that?”

He lets out a grumble, but still wraps himself around her, just the way she likes.  “Don’ act like you wouldn’t be, too, if they killed you off like dat.   Middle of the first season, too.  What’d I do to deserve dat?” 

“They just knew you were the best one.” She runs her fingers through his hair.  “Who else gonna go out in a fiery blaze of heroism like that?” 

He smirks, though she can still see a hint of sadness in his eyes.  “It was pretty epic, non?” 

“The best…”  She draws him in for a kiss, sweet and gentle and comforting.  “Forget that show, Remy.  That ain’t our life.  This is.” She kisses him again, a little bit harder, grounding herself in his embrace.  He had tortured himself wanting to keep watching that show, but she couldn’t.  She wouldn’t.  She didn’t want to imagine herself going down a path she would never recover from.  “Besides…” she says, trying to keep it light.  “I’m sure season two will have me pulling your pretty ass back from the dead one way or the other.  And if it doesn’t, you best bet I’ll get those writers fired and write it myself.”  

“I ever tell you how sexy you are when pulling me back from the dead?” 

“Shut up and kiss me, Remy.”  He does and they do.  Forget the massage tonight, they’re going straight to the trashy.  She’s hungry to feel him everywhere tonight.  

They break apart once again, breathing heavily as Rogue leans her forehead against his.  “Hey, Remy?” 

“Oui?” 

“Why don’t we leave this mess for later and go play with some of the toys we’ve already got.”

He laughs into another kiss.  “You always have de best ideas, chere…” 

****

Later… 

In the stillness of the night, long after Remy’s fallen asleep, Rogue gets up for a glass of water.  

The kitchen is how they left it hours ago, a mess of trash and action figures scattered around the room.  The cats had gotten into some of it.  Poor Scott had fallen to the ground.  She picks him up, placing him next to Jean, giving him a little pat as she does so.  

She wants to ignore the others.  Wants to ignore the strange sensation it is to have your likeness in toy form.  Still, she’s drawn to the little action figure her. She picks it up, inspecting it.  It’s her old green and yellow uniform, one she hasn’t worn in years. She doesn’t even know where it is, probably having been trashed in some long ago fight.  Unsurprisingly, the boobs are a little too big, the waist a little too small, and the hair a bit ridiculous.  But it’s oddly still her.  A little version her.  

She looks down to the Gambit figurine and smiles.  The trench coat, the staff, the ridiculously abbed pink breast plate.  The cocky little grin.  They got his likeness perfectly.  And yet it doesn’t even hold a candle to the real thing.  

“Love ya, Remy,” she says softly, as she takes the Rogue figurine and gives the Gambit figurine a kiss with it.  She laughs at her own silliness, but still takes a moment to place the figurines together, resting against each other, as they should be.  

She grabs her water and turns off the light and heads back to the bedroom, where she’ll soon curl up against her husband and fall asleep.  

[wachinyeya]

https://news.ku.dk/all_news/2024/06/researchers-invent-one-hundred-percent-biodegradable-barley-plastic/

From the article; Enormous islands of it float in our oceans and microscopic particles of it are in our bodies. The durability, malleability and low cost of plastics has made them ubiquitous, from packaging to clothing to aircraft parts. But plastics have a downside. Plastics contaminate nature, are tough to recycle and their production emits more CO2 than all air traffic combined.

Now, researchers at the University of Copenhagen’s Department of Plant and Environmental Sciences have invented a new material made from modified starch that can completely decompose in nature – and do so within only two months. The material is made using natural plant material from crops and could be used for food packaging, among many other things.

"We have an enormous problem with our plastic waste that recycling seems incapable of solving. Therefore, we’ve developed a new type of bioplastic that is stronger and can better withstand water than current bioplastics. At the same time, our material is one hundred percent biodegradable and can be converted into compost by microorganisms if it ends up somewhere other than a bin," says Professor Andreas Blennow of the Department of Plant and Environmental Sciences.

Only about nine percent of plastic is recycled globally, with the rest being either incinerated or winding up in nature or dumped into enormous plastic landfills.

Bioplastics already exist, but the name is misleading says Professor Blennow. While today’s bioplastics are made of bio-derived materials, only a limited part of them is actually degradable, and only under special conditions in industrial composting plants.

"I don't find the name suitable because the most common types of bioplastics don't break down that easily if tossed into nature. The process can take many years and some of it continues to pollute as microplastic. Specialized facilities are needed to break down bioplastics. And even then, a very limited part of them can be recycled, with the rest ending up as waste," says the researcher.

Starch from barley and sugar industry waste

The new material is a so-called biocomposite and composed of several different substances that decompose naturally. Its main ingredients, amylose and cellulose, are common across the plant kingdom. Amylose is extracted from many crops including corn, potatoes, wheat and barley.

Together with researchers from Aarhus University, the research team founded a spinoff company in which they developed a barley variety that produces pure amylose in its kernels. This new variety is important because pure amylose is far less likely to turn into a paste when it interacts with water compared to regular starch. Cellulose is a carbohydrate found in all plants and we know it from cotton and linen fibers, as well as from wood and paper products. The cellulose used by the researchers is a so-called nanocellulose made from local sugar industry waste. And these nanocellulose fibers, which are one thousand times smaller than the fibers of linen and cotton, are what contribute to the material’s mechanical strength.

"Amylose and cellulose form long, strong molecular chains. Combining them has allowed us to create a durable, flexible material that has the potential to be used for shopping bags and the packaging of goods that we now wrap in plastic," says Andreas Blennow.

The new biomaterial is produced by either dissolving the raw materials in water and mixing them together or by heating them under pressure. By doing so, small 'pellets' or chips are created that can then be processed and compressed into a desired form.

Thus far, the researchers have only produced prototypes in the laboratory. But according to Professor Blennow, getting production started in Denmark and many other places in the world would be relatively easy.

"The entire production chain of amylose-rich starch already exists. Indeed, millions of tons of pure potato and corn starch are produced every year and used by the food industry and elsewhere. Therefore, easy access to the majority of our ingredients is guaranteed for the large-scale production of this material," he says.

Could reduce plastic problem

Andreas Blennow and his fellow researchers are now processing a patent application that, once it has been approved, could pave the way for production of the new biocomposite material. Because, despite the huge sums of money being devoted to sorting and recycling our plastic, the researcher does not believe that it will really be a success. Doing so should be seen as a transitional technology until we bid fossil-based plastics a final farewell.

"Recycling plastic efficiently is anything but straightforward. Different things in plastics must be separated from each other and there are major differences between plastic types, meaning that the process must be done in a safe way so that no contaminants end up in the recycled plastic. At the same time, countries and consumers must sort their plastic. This is a massive task that I don’t see us succeeding at. Instead, we should rethink things in terms of utilizing new materials that perform like plastic, but don’t pollute the planet," says Blennow.

The researcher is already collaborating with two Danish packaging companies to develop prototypes for food packaging, among other things. He envisions many other uses for the material as well, such as for the interior trims of cars by the automotive industry. Though it is difficult to say when this biofriendly barley-based plastic will reach the shelves, the researcher predicts that the new material may become a reality in the foreseeable future.

“It's quite close to the point where we can really start producing prototypes in collaboration with our research team and companies. I think it's realistic that different prototypes in soft and hard packaging, such as trays, bottles and bags, will be developed within one to five years," concludes Andreas Blennow.

[todropscience]

NORTH PACIFIC GYRE NOW WORKS AS A ISLAND, WHERE COASTAL SPECIES CAN THRIVE

Researchers have recently prove that the high seas are colonized by a diverse array of coastal species, which survive and reproduce in the Great Pacific Garbage Patch, a collection of floating marine debris in the North Pacific Ocean, in the open ocean.

Researchers examined 105 items of floating plastic items collected from the Great Pacific Garbage Patch, and identified 484 marine invertebrate organisms on the debris, accounting for 46 different species, of which 37 coastal were invertebrate species from coastal habitats, largely of Western Pacific origin. Most of these coastal species possessed either direct development or asexual reproduction, possibly facilitating long-term persistence on rafts. 

The Great Pacific Garbage Patch is so huge that the findings suggest plastic pollution in the ocean might be enabling the creation of new floating ecosystems of species that are not normally able to survive in the open ocean. 

These emergent properties of plastic rafts may play an important role in sustaining diverse biofouling communities, but more research is needed to understand how such emergent properties may drive colonization, succession and trophic interactions of coastal and pelagic taxa associated with floating plastics.

Photo above: Floating plastic debris from the  the Eastern North Pacific Subtropical Gyre showing coastal organism living on. Photos courtesy of The Ocean Cleanup.

Photo below: Graphic  of the debris collection sites, illustrated as diamonds, in the Eastern North Pacific Ocean Subtropical Gyre. Model of the predicted concentration of debris, the more red, the most you could find marine debris.

Reference (Open Access): Haram et al. 2023 Extent and reproduction of coastal species on plastic debris in the North Pacific Subtropical Gyre. Nat Ecol Evol

[getawayfox]

Do you have favorite Drarry tropes :)?

Hi Anon! Thank you for sending this ask and giving me an excuse to make another self-indulgent rec list. It was so much fun - mainly because I haven’t been reading much in the last few weeks, so revisiting my favourites for this has been an absolute blast. 

I’m a soft bean and while I will read and enjoy angsty tropes on occasion, you’ll more likely find me searching for wholesome stories. And smut. So, here is a handful of favourites for my most sought-after tropes. I hope you’ll enjoy them as much as I do!

👬 Established relationship

Dragon by @lqtraintracks (M, 356 words) Things get interesting when your husband's Patronus is a Romanian Ridgeback.

It Is I Who Will Surely Expire by @tepre (T, 1k)

I call this: Draco Malfoy is super awake at 3AM staring at the ceiling going over dramatic doom scenarios (while Harry drools on his chest)

Through the Window, Clear Skies by @tackytigerfic (M, 1.4k)

What would happen if Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy moved in together, too soon after they started kissing and then fucking and not hating each other anymore? Will Draco insist on a wine rack? Or: Domestic Drarry with a bare hint of angst.

acts of service by @oknowkiss (E, 5.6k)

Harry's sick, and Draco just wants to take care of him, but they're two idiots in love, so it couldn't possibly be that easy.

✨Bonus: this piece by @bluebutter-art

🤍 Found family

Take the Moon by @tackytigerfic (M, 15k)

Harry Potter has always wanted a family of his own, and when a deadly blood curse forces him into a marriage bond with his best friend Draco Malfoy, it looks like he might just have found one. Living with Draco (biscuit-lover, no work/life balance, good hair) and his son Scorpius (also biscuit-lover, colour-codes his bricks, proud bearer of plastic swan-shaped garden ornament) gives Harry the routine and companionship he’s always craved. There’s also the matter of the really great sex (because what’s a marriage of convenience without a little fun, after all?) It's just a shame they’d always planned to break up after a year… This isn't the story of the marriage. This is the story of two hurt and damaged men who learned how hard they could work for the sake of love.

Beneath the Wave by @moonflower-rose (M, 30k)

Harry is done with a life in the spotlight. No more adventures, no more mortal peril. He wants a quiet life of food and friends, and family. He even manages to have it for a while, until suddenly there are giant rabbits that need ferrying to a mysterious island, and a handsome Draco Malfoy, and Harry's right back in the middle of the action again, despite his best efforts.

Pages of You by @wolfpants (E, 101k)

Summer, 1980. Harry is floating between university and becoming a Real Certified Adult. He's not ready. He really isn't. In a desperate attempt to have the Best Last Summer ever, he takes a casual job at his godfather's bookshop in London, starts an illicit pen pal affair with a wordy posh boy that he's catching feelings for, all while dealing with the son of Sirius's business rival, one Draco Malfoy, insufferable know-it-all extraordinaire. A story about trying to figure out who you are, where you're going in life, and who you want to take along with you.

Make This Leap by @oflights (M, 118k)

Harry owns a struggling restaurant which is running out of money, and his Head Chef has just handed in notice. He's at a bit of a loss as to what to do until Narcissa Malfoy presents an obvious solution: bring in Draco Malfoy as Chef and part owner. Harry does.

✨Bonus: more art by @bluebutter-art

🍋 Smut with feelings

First Times by @fw00shy (E, 1.5k)

Their first time is in the loo.

Your Breath, My Lungs by @wolfpants (E, 1.7k)

I try not to think of the years we have behind us. School was a lost cause, it was always going to be a lost cause, but in the time since—Eighth Year, all of us cautiously coming together the way we had, how we all ended up, how we are now, nine years later, friends and loved ones and infinitely intertwined—I can’t help but worry if it’s too late for us. Maybe I’ve waited too long to tell him how I feel. - During a friend's engagement party, Harry finally tells Draco how he feels about him.

Flip/Fuck by @shealwaysreads (E, 1.8k)

Switch: to give up (something) and take something else in return

The Night of the Fireworks by @corvuscrowned (E, 6.3)

It isn't easy keeping a relationship a secret, especially when it's so new. So if Harry and Draco can find a moment to sneak off for some alone time, they're going to take it - even if it happens to be during Ginny and Luna's wedding party.

✨Bonus: Cake by the Ocean by @bluebutter-art (E, art)

On Harry's 42nd birthday, Draco treats him to a romantic getaway at the Malfoy's private beach in Sicily.

[veryace-ficrecs]

Saw your marineford fix it rec list. Loved the fics so much. Do you have any fic recs where corazon lives? I love that dead man so much

Hi! I'm so glad you liked the list, of course I can do that for you!

Here are some

Corazon Lives Fic Recs

I've separated it out in two ways. One where the fix happens through someone going back in time or across dimensions, so they come from a world where he did die. and I separated out the shippy content, as a lot of these works are LawLu. Hope you enjoy!

Time/Dimension Travel:

No Ship:

Stirring Up a Storm by Syluk - Rated T

The last thing Law remembered was dying. Yet now he found himself staring at a familiar face. A face that belonged to a person long dead, but very much alive again. Cora-san. If this was a second chance, Law would do anything to save him, to protect his smile and his kindness, or die trying.

Lionheart by cyan96 - Rated T

The light overhead isn't from Minion island's overcast sky but instead a steel plated ceiling shining down fluorescence, glass and plastic bottles rattling on shelves against the walls. Everywhere there's monitors and familiar machinery and the distinct tang of antiseptic, sharp beyond the memory sense of blood and snow. For half a second Law looks at it all very blankly and thinks, What The Hell. Is he dreaming. Is he hallucinating. Is he just plain dead. His sight-line completes the rotation of this impossibility to fall upon speckled jeans and a long sweeping coat. And the man standing in front of Law has the blankest expression Law's ever seen. And the man standing in front of Law has Law's father's face. Underneath Law's blood-slicked fingers, Cora-san's pulse shudders. (This is a story where the past and the present collide. Wherein thirteen year old Trafalgar Law and twenty-six year old Rocinante tumble sideways through time-space via the blue desperation of a newly eaten devil fruit, from Minion island to a future distant. Right, unwittingly, onto the submarine deck of a another Law shortly after Doflamingo’s fall.)

A World So Quiet by scarlet_thunder - Rated T

Snowflakes float gently in the air. Law has no idea when it started snowing. There is frost forming around the railing, almost reaching his fingers. Everything seems too calm. An odd sense of dread fills Law as they approach the island. He should finally feel at peace. It all just feels too familiar. Another winter island over a decade ago, it was snowing back then as well.   After defeating Kaido and Big Mom, the Heart pirates momentarily part ways with the Strawhats. They find themselves sailing towards a small winter island in the New World. The island is coated in a heavy blanket of snow, making everything eerily quiet. In the forest, Corazon feels like the last thread of life he is hanging onto is slowly slipping away. Or, Corazon lives.

blame it on the grand line by jsjsjs - Rated G

No matter how many times he tried to push them away, images of Flevance resurfaced. (in which 13-year-old law gets time zapped to a post-wano polar tang and chaos ensues, resulting in two thoroughly angsty trafalgars, twenty highly confused heart pirates, and later on, one wholesome dad rosinante).

Stasis by petiteneko - Rated G

Unbeknownst to Law, Corazon did not actually die that day. Twelve years later, he learns the truth of what really happened.

Testimonial by owl_beans - Rated G

It's too good to be true. Cora-san couldn't be alive. Shouldn't be alive. Law isn't going to believe this perfect impostor until he proves beyond a doubt that he really is Cora-san. And even if he is, what does it mean for Law?

LawLu:

Rainbow Mist by vindobonensis - Rated M

On the way to Zou, the Barto-Club and the members of the Strawhats they have on board come across an odd Grand Line phenomenon - a Rainbow Mist. But when Luffy ventures into it, chasing adventure, he returns with something - or rather someone - entirely unexpected. Set after Dressrosa. Not canon-compliant after that. Eventual Law x Luffy.

seesaw by Lolistar92 - Rated G

Rayleigh nods. “Roger explained it after. It’s a trial for those that carry the Will of the D. A chance to face your greatest life’s regret. Change destiny.” Law’s brows scrunch together. “This isn’t my -”  he pauses, something clicking. “We switched.” Or, the Pirate King cannot have regrets.

No Time/Dimension Travel:

No Ship:

Small Changes by SweetScentences - Rated T

Doflamingo and his crew don't touch the treasure chest Law is hidden in. A few other things change too.

Little White Lies by PitViperOfDoom - Rated T

It's not quite an idea, only a piece of one. Barely a notion. But it's something, in the same way that the Ope-Ope fruit is not quite a cure but the first step toward being cured. Cora has given him that much, and the least Law can do is give back.

Red Hair Law by Eraman - Rated T

When Akagami no Shanks hears about a tall blonde man blowing up hospitals he wants to figure out what this is all about. One thing leads to another and now the Red Hair Pirates have two new members and a little kid they all kind of adopt. Especiall Benn and Shanks. Things doesn't start out too smoothly though… who knew being a parent could be so difficult?

To Live Free by KivaEmber - Rated G

Corazon wakes up. Considering he's supposed to be dead, this is pretty confusing.

Spring Storms and Paperwork (and how Sengoku feels about that) by Kasmusser - Rated G

A spring storm rolls in over Marineford leaving Sengoku little to do but paperwork. He mostly just rubberstamps the work of others. He gets a bit of surprise and changes an opinion. Otherwise known as Sengoku thought his son was dead and learns the truth through a bounty

LawLu:

Supportive Granddads United by LannisPuff - Rated T

Garp the Fist, hero of the marines and doting grandfather. One of those two was less known to the world, but certainly a defining trait for those who knew him. So when his precious grandson is suffering from his soulmates unknown illness, Garp is not going to sit idle.

it'll work out fine by stainedXglassXmasquerade - Rated G

Everyone knows strange things happen on the Grand Line. Dreams from an unknown future aren't as common, but, well, Luffy's a D and all the information checks out. In which Garp and Sengoku interfere and collect people as they go, Luffy gets a best friend and two brothers for his birthday, Drake is brought along for the ride, Shanks isn't arrested on sight and Makino is happy that everyone's becoming good friends.

Take out as in on a date, right? by chenziee - Rated G

When Admiral Trafalgar Law was ordered to "take Straw Hat Luffy out," he thought it was strange. But who was he to defy his superiors?

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

For TTT, can we please get some more sexual tension between jason and night nurse!reader? Maybe he gets there right as she gets out of the shower and she patches him up in just a short robe? 👀

Y/N?" Jason grumbled and shut the window, weary of letting it get any colder in your living room before fumbling in your freezer for an icepack and wondering if you had a beer he could steal.

"Jason?"

"Head injury," he explained, eyes widening slightly when you come around the corner from your bedroom. Oversized shirt falling to your mid-thigh and your hair wrapped in a towel. And he felt himself blush when he noticed the lack of bra- not that he expected you to wear one but. When you lean over to inspect his head, the chill in the air made your nipples stiffen under the thin cotton and- well. It was eye level.

You tut, and pat his shoulder, "Couple stitches I think- it's not that bad." When you hand him a clean towel quickly to keep blood off your floor, he takes it. And then watches you flit to the kitchen island where you stashed supplies. Trying not to think about your smooth, bare thighs. Or wonder if you have panties on. "Do you want to be on the couch or-"

"Just hop up on the table," Jason said, cheeks coloring. If he laid flat he was afraid that you'd see the bulge in his pants.

You nodded and let him help you onto the kitchen table. And Jason realized as you put gloves on, that this might be worse. Sitting with your feet dangling off the table and your chest close to his face... He hardly felt the stitches. He was too busy trying not to stare. Trying not to notice that you smell amazing. And that you look soft. And that his cock is throbbing because the harder he tries not to notice how delectable you smell you are- the more little details float to the surface. "All done," you tell him, sliding your gloves off and dropping them in the plastic grocery bag he held open for you.

"Thanks, Sunflower," he said, coughing slightly.

"Ice and tylenol," you advise, tilting his head up to inspect his face. Shining a light in his eyes quickly. "Dizzy? Nauseous?"

"Nope," he said.

"If that changes-"

"I'll call Leslie," he promised, letting himself look up at you.

"Good." You nod and let him help you down. Yelping when your shirt rides up, leaving a flash of baby blue panties exposed.

"I should go," he said quickly. Cheeks burning as he tried not to think about his cock and how bad he wanted it to stop throbbing. "Let you get back to your evening I uh- yeah. I should-"

"Sorry," you murmur, "I was in the bath when I heard you and-"

"No worries," Jason said sincerely, handing you your bag to throw it away. "I'll uh- call next time?"

"Sure," you murmur, taking the bag. "Give me some time to put on pants-"

"I don't mind," he chuckled. "You can work naked if you really want."

"I don't think that's hygenic-"

"I'd risk it," Jason said grinning, "You know. For science or some-"

"Good night, Jason," you snort, turning to go back to your bedroom. "Lock the window on your way out."

[spadecentral]

🌅 Sunset | Ortho Shroud

>> requested: absolutely not >> a/n: this was actually really fun to write but now im crying

>> masterlist: here!! >> summary: the following years after idia shrouds death >> reader prns: n/a [not reader-insert] >> warning(s): death

Ortho could not bear to look at his brother’s face. He was laying unnaturally on the floating table that Ortho had created, Idia’s hair pinned neatly behind his head. None of the wisps on top of his head were there, all slicked back into a braid underneath the wraps that held his skin in place. There were no women in the family to sing dirges or wail for him. Ortho is the only person left in the Shroud family line, and he still carried the same appearance of a young boy.

There was no one but Ortho at his brother’s Ekphora. He was never one to make many friends, and either way, Ortho didn’t feel like inviting anyone who might still be alive from his brother’s high school years. According to his calendar filled to the brim with their birthdays, all the students from the Shroud brother’s time at Night Raven College should be at least 75 years old now. Ortho followed behind the floating table, watching his brother’s body hover within the air.

He stopped floating next to his brother’s table when it stopped on top of a hill. The hill was tall and steep, and quite far away from the Island of Woe. So far in fact, that it wasn’t even under the Lake of Unknown Depths. This was probably the most amount of time Idia had spent outside, ever. Charging up the bottom of his boots again, Ortho picked up a shovel and started digging. He dug and dug until he had measured out exactly six feet. The deeper it was, the harder his grave would be to rob.

Seeming to know when Ortho was done, the table–along with Idia–floated down into the dirt hole. A reinforced plastic casing came up from the sides of the table, and enclosed Ortho’s brother within it.

He couldn’t help himself. Ortho peeked over the edge of his brother’s grave, and looked at his discolored face for the final time. The desperation in his eyes soon clouded over with grief. Picking the shovel up once again, Ortho slid the dirt on top of his brother’s casket. Ortho tuned out the plopping of the dirt easily, and instead turned his sound sensor’s focus to the whistling of the wind between the blades of grass. The perfect song for his brother’s last day above the ground. Maybe he’d be able to hear it all the time now, instead of the clashing of swords from his computer. The birds chirping was a welcomed sound, Ortho was eager to hear the songs of nature, and not the unnatural shing! of dirt against metal.

When he was finished, the dirt piled higher than it once was, and covered the view of the headstone. Brushing it out to be even with the rest of the hill, all Ortho could do was stare. As the sun came up in front of him, the pink and blue hues in the sky only reminded him further of his brother’s unruly hair.

“Good morning, brother,” his high-pitched voice didn’t sound right to him. 

Neither did the silence that followed.

Ortho worked on changes for himself. Physical ones. He wanted to keep the same internal frame his brother had made for him, with the connections to the internet and special destructive capabilities. But instead, he wanted things more like his hair to be changed, or his feet. He wanted feet. And also the ability to feel.

Ortho hid himself in that workspace for years. He barely had any time to run S.T.Y.X., after his brother told him to keep running it. Two years after his brother’s death, Ortho had figured out how to make his hair become longer, switching out his cropped, wisp-like hair for longer, flowy locks that draped just past his shoulder-blades. He was still bombarded with questions by the analysts at S.T.Y.X., who he had trouble with telling to leave him alone, and to do whatever they saw fit.

Six years after his brother’s death, Ortho had finally made his first technomantic foot. It still–surprisingly–allowed him the freedom of floating. But, it also gave him the freedom of shoes. Of feeling dirt between his toes, or listening to the squelch of wet shoes on a tile floor. And three years after that, he had successfully created the other. Two feet of his own.

Quickly dismantling his calves, Ortho attached his two new technomantic appendages. Standing up, Ortho wobbled. Before he could catch himself, Ortho toppled over.

“Brother!” he screamed in a panic, before falling onto his hands and knees. He waited for his brother’s worried rambling, and then his panicked, insecure thoughts about if he was good enough to help his younger brother.

But it never came. The silence did instead, and Ortho’s ears felt too full of it.

His leg wouldn’t move for the second time that day. Stuck within an eternal hell of rust, Ortho tried his best to use the droplets of oil that hadn’t made it out of the can yet to help him move.

One…

Two…

Three…

Not even four specks of oil could make it out of the can. In a moment of despair, Ortho ripped open the can to see if he could scoop any out. But when he brushed his finger along the inside of the metal container, his touch sensors told him it was bone dry. He couldn’t even sigh.

The room he was in was run down and threatening to cave in. S.T.Y.X. had been dismantled over seventy years ago, and everything within the building was outdated, Ortho being the oldest. His hair was tied back into a low ponytail with a rubber band he had happened to find in one of the drawers in the mechanical shop.

Ortho bent his leg manually, doing everything he could to get himself standing. His feet were bare and dirty, cuts running along the bottom of his plastic heel. Floating through the halls, the flying mechanics faltered every couple of minutes, threatening to have him crash to the floor. Ortho passed his brother’s room, the door cracked open slightly like the day Idia had last left it. The room no longer glowed a light blue color, the bulbs had stopped working long before the power died.

Continuing, Ortho found a broken teleporter sitting within the control room. He remembered how to fix it. He remembered everything, actually, but he chose to ignore it instead.

Opening a cupboard, Ortho pulled out the toolbox. The extra weight caused Ortho’s floating mechanisms to fail on him. He collapsed to the floor, but he didn’t call for his brother this time. Ortho’s speakers had failed him not long ago. Pulling himself upright, Ortho heaved the toolbox upward and toward the teleporter.

By the time he was done, the teleporter’s connection was spotty at best. It was running on an old generator that had been stored deep in a closet filled with cobwebs, dust, and holes in the walls. Standing on the teleporter, Ortho shut his eyes as the technology hastily moved him from his spot in the building. Ortho landed on grass. Grass he knew well.

Relying on his flying mechanics once again, Ortho moved himself upwards and to the top of a hill. The tallest hill on the island. All he did was stare down at the top of the hill as the pinks and oranges from the sunset covered his body. Finally, he moved towards the stone slab that vines encased in their own ugly beautifulness.

Ortho almost collapsed onto the dirt as he lowered himself downward, and for a moment, he wished he didn't correct the sensors. Slowly, he sat on the grass, against the rock. As he did so, his eyes flickered closed.

Goodnight, brother, he thought.

And the silence that followed was wonderful.

>> twst taglist: @tulipluvlettr | @strawberry-hyacinth | @oseathepebble | @ventisaircurrent | @epelys | @pastelmages | @xphantasmagoriax | @atlasnessie | @divinesapph | @ze-maki-nin | @silly-ez | @flqyd-is-lost | @savanaclaw1996 | @queerlordsimon | @kyraxiyn | @rayisalive

[pyrajanison]

Is Psitanium a limited resource? Will the Psychonauts ever run out of it? What would happen if they did? We know it can lose it’s psychic charge; can it be recharged or once it’s inert that’s it? Is there a way to make more of it, and if so, how? Psitanium got into the ecosystem of Whispering Rock which caused the animals to get psychic abilities; did the same thing happen to humans? Is psitanium in people’s blood like micro plastic, and this causes psychic abilities? Is this what mental cobwebs are? Is that why they are purple, because they are accumulated psitanium? Is this why Edgar and Boyd have slight psychic abilities; higher exposure? Is there psitanium things like chalk and paint, like lead back in the day? Is this how Edgar and Boyd got exposed? Does Psitanium accumulate in the brain? Can brains turn into psitanium or other psycho-active minerals? Is this why that psilirium in the rhombus looks like a brain, cause it is one? Do different brains turn into different colored minerals with time or circumstance? Is that why all the brains in Otto’s brain-frame are different colors? Are the psi challenge markers a form of psychic material? Is this why he wants to collect all those brains, to make more psitanium and other psycho-active minerals? Is that why all those supply chests with psitanium in them around the motherlobe form into a vaguely brain shape when put together, because they are? Psitanium can be used to give items psychic properties, like the jet the Pelican and those floating islands in the quarry; can the same be done for humans? Can you create an artificial psychic? Is this why is Otto be so obsessed with mining and gathering psitanium? Is he an artificial psychic, and psitanium is needed to maintain this power? In Psychonauts 2, we see his psi power come from his necklace; is this meant to give him psychic abilities? Or is it that his ability is weak and he needs artificial assistant to be on par with his peers? Can psitanium be harvested from people? What if that is a secret function of the brain tumblr, to extract psychic power/material from psychics? Is the one that exploded in Otto’s old lab trying to take ability from an extremely powerful psychic that caused a fatal malfunction? If so, is that the brain we see in the brain-frame that was killed in a brain tumblr accident? Who is this person? Can brains actually come back from being dead? Can brains die in this universe? Are the brains in the brain frame aware, or be made aware like Helmut’s? What happens when that happens?

…. Excuse me everyone, i think I just got possessed by the spirit of Boyd for a few minutes… it’s late, enough insane rambling, off to bed go i… *passes out*

[cloned-eyes]

Stormy seas | Part I

Merman!Wrecker x GN!Reader

Part II

Living your whole life on the small paradise that Pabu is you find yourself discovering something truly impossible after a storm had raged over Island. And soon you discover secerts whom had waited for years to be discoverd

WARNINGS: mentions of destructions and death and dead bodies, alot of time spend on the ocean, no use of Y/N, no describtion of outer appearance in any way, there will be darker elements as the story progresses, just mentioning it here already. I also have no idea about sailing and ships in gerneral so bare with me - sorry to anyone who actually knows how to operate a boat and doesn't need google to sort things out

No beta read/ Did my best to spell and grammar check but english isn't my first language so bare with me. Hope it's somewhat readable.

It was getting late and you had to head to the shore more sooner than later at this point, but you didn't feel like leaving just yet. The ocean had been raging up until two days ago. Waves, bigger than you had ever seen them before in your life crashing against the isle without mercy. Greedily swallowing the lower levels of Pabu for days and only spitting out ruins of what had been homes – entire lives- just mere days before. It was a tragedy really. It hadn't been the first storm they had encounter but the force with which it had hit the island was beyond what they had anticipated. Shep blamed himself quite a lot for what had happened, even though nothing had been in his control at any point. No body could have foreseen the catastrophe that was about to unfold itself over Pabu and once it did there was little one could've done against it any ways.

You tried your best to comfort him. The destruction was greatly yes and it would take quite a lot of time to rebuild everything, but nothing that couldn't be fixed. The more servere part however where the individuals who had fallen victim to the flood. Up until now there had been at least five people fallen victim to the devilish waves, over another ten still missing. It wasn't his fault and while slim there was still hope to find those who were lost alive. You told him that. Told him that he had done his best and that he succeeded in keeping his people save, many saved due to his quick thinking and immediate evacuating as soon as he realized this wasn't just a usual storm to encounter. Though he might not fully believed your words, being extremely hard on himself, you still believed it at least reassured him a bit.

The first day after the storm was the worse. Seeing the whole scale of destruction. A lot of places in lower Pabu were covered in water still, the tide only slowly flowing back.

Saving anything was tricky, especially since the storm had raged for a few days and had not only devoured the homes of so many citizens of the Isle but also their ships. You were one of the few lucky enough to rediscover yours intact. Sure, it was a bit flooded and roughed up but nothing you couldn't fix quickly.

And due to that you were chosen to search the coastline for anything but more importantly anyone. Other ships, belongings that would have survive the storm by miracle, possible still alive animals floating around on wreckage and of course those people who were still missing. You prayed to whatever entity was listening that you would be spared of coming into contact with dead floating bodies and instead found them alive.

And while sailing the coast line up and down, keeping your eyes open you also occupied yourself with picking up said wreckage and anything that didn't belong in the ocean while also watching out for stray nets. You assumed that the storm had caused quite the damage, tearing away the nets of of local fisherman and making them an extreme hazard for marine life.

There was so much junk floating in the water and it took very little time for your small ship to fill up fast.

Leaning down you grabbed a plastic bottle swimming past your boat. Inspecting it you found a small crab caged inside it. Fiddling your pocket knife out of your jackets pockets you swiftly got to work, slicing open the bottle before gently releasing the crab back into the water. Eyes looking after it as it slowly drifted back into the deep.

The water slowly got black, golden streaks dancing on the waves as the sun began to set. Gaze lifting to roam over the water surrounding you you quickly caught the sight of buoy 13. Of course it had to be 13.

A shiver run down your spine as the fine hairs in your neck stood up. The black waters.

Everyone on Pabu tried to avoid these waters. Not only because they were quite far away from the shore but also because a lot of bad things had happened here. No one knew why exactly but the amount of boats who had capsized here was scary. At least ten fisherman had drowned here over the years. But you suspected that there had to been more, since this was only the number of bodies who could be retrieved not taking into account those washed onto the shores and those who were never seen again. Many suspected that due to the many rocks hidden beneath the surface many tricky streams had developed in this area. Strong enough to push unsuspecting boats against the sharp rock, tearing them open in the process and letting them sink quickly. It was the most logical theory however, there also was a second option.

You had grown up with the stories about dangerous, vicious sea creatures roaming this part of the coast. Tearing apart ships, sinking them to feast upon the crew. Devouring those poor souls so swiftly that only their bones reached the bottom of the ocean. You didn't liked those stories and as an adult you doubted their possibility. While many of the bodies that had been found had missing limbs and bite marks it was more logical to assume that those stemmed from sharks and other bigger predatory fish who populated the nearby waters and not some fairytale sea monsters. Still, now that the sun was setting and the wind got colder this dammed buoy radiated an aura of threat, making your stomach drop.

You decided to head back not wanting to accidentality sink yourself after all. Getting ready to turn your ship around and head for the shore you suddenly caught something in the corner of your eye. A splashing noise. Short but loud.

For a moment you thought you had imagined things, believing your mind was playing tricks on you. Another shiver hit you, a voice in the back of your head screaming for you to move your butt and get back on land as fast as you could. However a other part of your mind – and a stronger one at that – told you to stay and to take a look around. Hopeful to find whatever had just flashed by.

It was getting hard to see anything really, since the horizon had nearly swallowed the sun whole by now.

Eyes scanning over the pitch black waves nothing caught your attention. Ready to admit that you paranoia was getting the best of you, you were about to start your ships engine as something big floating in the water caught your attention. There was no way you could make out what exactly it was from where you currently stood but after focusing extremely hard your eyes could make something out that appeared to be a net wrapped around whatever swam there. Concerned that this might could be a marine creature – or a missing person- caught up in a lethal trap you started your engine, cautiously approaching it. Getting nearer to it you could make out something that looked like a fin of sorts. You couldn't really tell since the last ray of light had disappeared by now and your ships headlights only provided enough light ahead to see where you were navigating your ship.

You let out a relieved sigh, at least it wasn't a human body.

Carefully positioning your ship besides whatever floated there you could confirm that what you had spotted was indeed a fin. A big fin. Whatever this creature was, it certainly was massive.

You watched it a moment to see if it still moved, which was hard to tell by the way the waves rocked both your ship and the creature. Careful to not go overboard you reached out to gently grab the fin, softly shaking it to see if you got a response. After a few seconds you felt a weak resistance followed up by a weak attempt to move the fin. The creature was still alive.

Letting out yet another relived huff you tried to figure out the scale of entanglement. The hard plastic fibre wrapped itself around the dark body in a merciless tight manner, following it's shape into the dark waves, disappearing out of sight. This was less then ideal and you hoped that you could fix it from up here, even though you had no idea how bad it was beneath the pitch black surface. Hoping for the best, you really prayed it would be enough for this individual to free itself after you gave it the little support you were currently able to offer. Steadying yourself you reached for the net, trying to get the body closer to your ship so you could better see were to cut the fibre.

You felt the tensing muscles and then movement. It was a soft resistance but even from the rather gentle movement your could tell that whatever this creature was, it was strong. Perfectly able to tear you out of your boat if you weren't careful.

It's fin moved, splashing water which hit your face. You softly shook your head to get the droplets away from your face.

“Easy there”, you murmured softly, “just wanting to help ya.”

Pulling it even closer you waited for a moment to make sure it wouldn't suddenly lash out in an attempt to get away from you. Once you felt secure enough that it would remain calm – even though you could never tell with wild, wounded animals- you began to work equally swiftly and carefully. Skilfully cutting the net open, freeing the skin beneath it little by little.

The more fibre you cut open, the more the tail started to move again. Motion that got more and more powerful with each second passing, testing its nearly found freedom.

Slicing apart a particular big entangled part of netting you felt the rest of the straps swiftly loosening.

A small smile appeared on your lips. You almost had it. Carefully tugging on the strands your freed the creature more and more, encouraging it to move with a gently petting on its tail, softly pushing it. The tail moved, much more confident this time, smoothly wiggling itself out of the remaining net, quickly disappearing into the black depths again.

You were admittedly a bit disappointed that it was so dark and you hadn't been able to see much more than the fin and part of the tail, curios about what kind of creature you just had freed. Taking a few moments to watch look at the now empty waves in hopes that it might came back. Obviously a ridiculous want but hey, one could dream.

Hoisting the remaining net into your boat you eventually set course for Pabu, finally heading back to the bright lit shore.

And while your way back was smooth and undisturbed you couldn't quite shake the feeling of being watched. Head spinning around a few times in hopes to catch anything, shaking your head at the the absurdity of your paranoia.

Tiredness was probably catching up to you and if you were honest you couldn't wait to get some sleep.

Still, the feeling of being followed lasted until you were in direct proximity of the makeshift harbour. The bright lights of the upper city now fully illuminating the pier your head snapped around as you heard soft splashing behind you.

Heart pounding you stared at the line were the lights of the pier and the shadows of the night met in a hard line. You were clearly imagine things, weren't you. Involuntarily the stories of the islands elders were back in the front of your brain.

Dangerous and vicious creature, waiting to sink unsuspecting boats and devouring whoever was on it.

You really tried to be rational but you somehow couldn't shake those absurd thoughts off your shoulders.

If it hadn't been for Shep, who had called out for you while already waiting on the edge of the dock, you would probably stayed there all night, staring wholes into the pitch black waves. Tearing your eyes away after once last sharp glance you finally called it a day. Being greeted and helped out your boat by Shep the man instantly briefed you in on what had happened in the city so far, distracting you from your suspicious feelings, at least for now.

Had had weird dreams that night. Your brain clearly having trouble processing things. Swimming in the middle of the ocean, surrounded by black waves a black fin circled you. Sometimes it came closer sometimes it strayed away further but it always remained somewhat close. No matter how hard you tried you couldn't swim away, being stuck watching this fin circling you. An unsettling feeling rattled your bones. Even once you woke up it wouldn't leave you and for the first time in a long time - if not ever – you felt uneasy about getting back out onto the open ocean.

The feeling passed eventually. Well not exactly passed but rather ousted by the grim discovery found on the beach the next day. One of the missing individuals had been found. Dead.

Washed to the docks between other wreckage. It was a daunting tragedy for everyone who lived on the island. You had been at Sheps side that morning. Laying a hand on his shoulder to offer him comfort. It wasn't much but you felt there were no words who could aid in this situation either. A harsh setback that caused a lot of doubt,dwindling the hopes of finding the other missing persons alive. A chance that realistically got slimmer with each hour passing.

After they salvage the poor soul out of the water you were back on your boat, scouring the waters surrounding the island as the days before.

Sure, you still felt like being watched sometimes. Sailing out on the open ocean could be equally beautiful as scary. Especially so when you had to keep your eyes open for missing people, possibly encountering their dead bodies. But after your third encounter with angered seabirds you figured that those winged devils were stalking you in chances of getting their hands – wings...beaks? - whatever, on something tasty, even if it was only your lunch.

The ocean was calm and a warm breeze washed over your boat. Waves softly rocking it. It was still early in the morning. The sun had yet to rise but her rays were already dying the night sky in warm pastel colours of orange and purple. It had been three days since you the dead body had been fished out from beneath the dock. Fortunately five of the other people missing were found still alive and in somewhat good condition. Dehydrated as hell but alive. A good omen.

Enjoining the exquisiteness of a quiet morning you sipped on your steaming hot caf and snacked a few treats that served as a breakfast for you. Than you heard it, a soft clank to your right. Head snapping so fast it nearly dislocated your neck your eyes fell on the back of your ship. Eyes wide you starred at the small shell now lying on the upper edge of your boats side. That definitely hadn't been there before. And while the inside of your head screamed 'NONONONO.NOPE.NOPEDY-NOPE.ABSOLUTLY NOT' you still got up after what felt like five minutes of staring at the shell to inspect it closer. Well, not the shell per se, more so in hopes to figure out where it had come from all of the sudden.

Picking it up you turned it around a few times, sharply inspecting it as of to find an engraving which had an explanation to all of it. It was quite pretty you had to admit. A fine piece to add to your collection if you had found it yourself but at the moment it only triggered feelings of fight or flight rather than awe.

Suddenly another clank and a short splash echoing after wards. Swiftly turning around you eyes found another shell. This time on the opposite side of your boat.

This was getting weird. Especially since now you had conformation that something was definitely circling your boat thanks to the splash your ears had picked up. You took a few steps away from the edge of your boat, hesitant to pick up the other shell. Instead you starred at it intensely, closely listening for any other sounds that could help you locate where whatever circled your boat was. Fidgeting with the first shell you currently still held between your fingers your racing mind tried to figure out what to do. At the same time a overpowering wave of curiosity hit you, begging you to risk a look over your boats edge.

Vicious creatures that sink boats...

You shook your head in a desperate attempt to get rid of those words. The last thing you needed right now was to lose your cool to your lively imagination.

Your body froze. Standing there for maker knows how long you waited. Waited for anything to happen. It felt like an eternity. Nothing happened. No further splashing, no further clanks and no further appearing of random shells on your boat.

Unease still pumped through your veins but your limbs began to move again, as you very quietly and cautiously made your way to the ships edge.

Your gaze fell on the shell. An equally beautiful one to the one you already received. Though you didn't picked it up and instead dared to peak over the ships edge, risking a glimpse onto the water.

The sight of nothing greeted you. Well, nothing besides empty waves and you dared to lean over a bit more, taking a closer look at the waters beneath you in hopes to see something – anything- in the depths.

Yet again your eyes picked up nothing.

Questioning yourself if you had lost your mind you placed your hands on the wet edge, scowling deeply. You were going crazy, weren't you? Lost deep in thought you temporarily ignored your

surroundings completely.

Clank.

The sudden sound made you jump. So much so that you found your arms slipping from the boats edge, losing balance and falling face first over the gunwale. Diving into the cold water had you confused and panicked. Body acting on instinct, arms paddling to get your head above water. You clothes greedily drank away the ocean, soaking themselves to the brim in seconds. It was heavy but you managed to get your head above water. Coughing violently you tried to get the water out of your eyes while also staying afloat. Hands grasping for anything to cling onto they eventually found the slick side of your boat. Unable to get a secure grip at first you eventually managed to get a hold of a lower part of the gunwale. Steadying yourself, your were finally able to wipe any remaining water out of your eyes with your other hand. Taking in deep breaths you took an alerted look around you. Your eyes were met with nothing but your body felt that something was there. Not willing to fuck around and find out you tried to make your way to the rear end of your boat as fast as you could. Trying to heave your body up and failing miserably so, you suddenly felt two strong hands gripping onto each side of your body, gently pushing you upwards with ease. While every thought in your mind froze instantly your body was at least still functional, moving on it's own and climbing back onto your boat. Knees falling onto the deck you scattered away from the gunwale in seconds. Heart racing and blood rushing in your ears you gawked at the rear end of the ship. Every muscle tense, lungs shallowly breathing you waited. Mind still trying to process what just had happened.

After another eternity something moved. Flinching you intensely watched as a taloned hand carefully placed a shell on the edge of the rear end. Unable to do anything you just continued to stare.

The hand appeared yet again, placing another shell on the edge.

You gulped, taking in a deep breath. What was going on?

Your body began to move again. Slowly, very slowly and as quiet as you could you moved over to the rear in a ducked position. Cautiously sliding up the ships wall to throw a glimpse over it. Nothing was there but you heard water splashing. So that creature was still there. Your eyes fell on the shells and before you could spare a second thought you finger softly pushed one of them over the edge. The shell fell and you heard a soft “blob” as it fell into the water. Crouching back down your eyes were glued to the edge.

After a minute the hand reappeared, softly putting the shell back. Your eyes grew wider.

And while you still felt freaked out you also started to burn up with curiosity. Maybe it was foolish but you felt like if whatever was keeping you company right know wanted to hurt you, it would have drowned you when it had the chance a few moments ago.

Fuelled by a hot wave of curiosity and boldness your finger slowly pushed the other shell into the water. This time it was retrieved a bit faster. Your the fearful glint in your eyes soon made space for a more awe one as you watched the sharp talons yet again placing the shell back with up most delicacy. The urge to reach out and catch a touch of them suddenly seemed overbearing and for a second you wondered what has gotten into you. You scoped closer to the ships edge, careful to not make any sound. Slowly getting up just enough to look over onto the water you pushed the shells in yet again. Hoping your plan would work, now eager to see whatever was down there.

Your gaze was fixed on the shell. Watching as it slowly sank down, softly glistening in the light until disappearing into the deep blue sea. Disappointment stung softly in your chest as nothing happened. You seemingly weren't as slick as you had thought of yourself to be.

Clank.

Your head flew to the side, spotting the shell.

It was apparent that this thing was smart. Whether or not it was playing games with you or was shy was still to be found out and you were determined to do so. You pushed the other shell at your disposal over board before swiftly making your way over to the other shell, pushing it in as well. You were sure that the creature was aware of your location on the ship, picking up your movements vibrating though the ship and into the water. But you hoped that if you were quick enough you could catch a glimpse or at least gather a bit more trust with your playful behaviour.

Waiting intensely for were the shells would resurface next your eyes constantly scanned over your boat, ears carefully listing for any sounds that could give away the creatures position.

The faintest of splashes echoed behind you. Turning around in slow motion – partly because you didn't want to startle the creature and partly because you didn't wanted to startle yourself either – your eyes fell on a rather human face, or at least parts of it. It took you by genuinely surprise, certainly not expecting anything like what you were currently encountering. The head just stretched out far enough for you to see it, eyes barely looking over the gunwale. Two mismatched eyes examine you, filled to the brim with unfiltered curiosity. Unable to do anything other than to directly stare back your mouth fell slightly agape.

Were you imagining things? Because if not for the eyes you could swear there was a man eyeing you up and down. It...He – you assumed it was a he- was bald. Bronze skin shimmering in the morning sun. His right eye was a pitch black, shiny orb. Eyes like a shark. Meanwhile the other one was coloured in a milky white, pupil tinted in a ghostly dull grey. You assumed he had lost his sight on the left side of his face. Backing up your theory by the plentiful amount of thick angry scar tissue surrounding said eye, spreading over his skull like a spiders web.

You couldn't bring yourself to tear your eyes away from his scars. In any other circumstance you would have felt awful for blatantly staring like this but right know your brain had stopped functioning properly.

Shivers ran down your spine and you weren't sure whether you should pity him or be afraid because of those marks life had left on him.

“What are you?”

The words fell out of your mouth without second thought. Your brain hadn't even registered that you had said them out loud at first. Not to mention that your voice was merely a weak whisper. But to your surprise you caught how the eyes of the creature ….man -whatever softly wrinkled. A clear sign of him smiling? Surely your mind was playing tricks on you.

“Wrecker”

You flinched, caught completely off guard by the strange sound of a raspy, deep voice. Nearly sounding human, but not quite enough for you to fully believe it. Fine hairs in your neck standing up. Goose pumps exploding across your skin. You couldn't believe your ears. Did it- he just speak? To you? Answering your question – understanding you?

“I'm Wrecker”, he clarified. Head swiftly disappearing behind the gunwale. Something snapped and you immediately rushed to lean over the ships edge, nearly falling of it again, in an attempt to get a closer look on him. Not willing to lose him out of your sight yet again.

“Wait!”

It was a sharp yell. A desperate attempt to buy you time. Staring onto the water you saw nothing but the deep blue. Cursing under your breath you mind raced.

“Wrecker, yes? Is that your name? Please come back”, you pleaded while restlessly searching through the wave. A carpet of bubbles appeared from under the ship, bursting open as soon as they broke through the waters surface. They were followed by a figure. The way the waves were rocking against your boat slightly distorted his facial features as he stared up at you just barley beneath the water line. Your wide eyes stared at him in awe, fascinated as you caught a glimpse of the rest of his body, or at least what you could make out from up here. Two wide flippers kept his body perfectly still, steadily floating. Only the upper part of him seemed to be human, the lower part had very strong similarities to a whale shark, at least colour wise.

He was absolutely massive. Even from what little you could see from your current position you were certain that he was huge. Three and a half meters, minimum.

It was clear as day that you were imitated by his size, by him. Period.

Your eyes as big as oranges and probably quite the ridiculous view from down there. He pulled his lips back, razor sharp teeth flashing underneath the waves and it took a moment to realize that he was grinning up to you- at you. Amused by you.

A short offended scream echoed through the back of your head. Was he making fun of you? A ridiculous thought but judging by the distorted sight under you a quite possibly true one.

Involuntarily puffing your cheeks your eyebrows knitted together. His grin spread wider even more.

Definitely amused by you.

You leaned down a bit further, hands securely gripping onto the ships edge. If you fell over again so be it. You were soaked to the bones anyway and maybe it would grant you a closer look at him anyway. He let himself sink a bit. Clearly toying with your attempts to get a better look at him. You huffed, scowling after him.

“A jokester, that's what you are”, you spoke into the waves, doubting that he could understand your murmuring underneath surrounded by water. However, his head tilt was a clear sign against your assumptions. His grin faltered ever yo slightly, shrinking into a smile, teeth no longer flared. His intense gaze broke free from yours. Looking somewhere into the wide open sea as of something else was catching his attention. Offering you one last glance he let himself sink further into the depths, massive body gracefully twisting with ease, diving into the endless blue beneath you.

Eyes catching the shimmers of light flashing over his dark tail you caught a quick glimpse of his strange looking dorsal fin. He was far to deep down by now to make out any more defined details which kept you yet again pondering about so many things.

But even from the short amount of what you had seen you couldn't help yourself to be amazed.

He was beautiful.

Tags (I hope that's okay since you guys mentioned you wanted a tag)

@moss-tombstone @marierg

[taizi]

i’ve got my eye on you

tmnt 2k12 pairing: don & mikey word count: 2k title borrowed from say yes to heaven by lana del ray

read on ao3

x

“Mikey?” Donnie says, hovering in the doorway uncertainly. “Can I talk to you?”

Mikey looks up from the dough he’s kneading with round eyes, more bewildered than anything. No one ever asks if they can talk to Mikey. His presence in his family’s lives is like sunlight falling on the planet, warm and touching everything and taken for granted. They can always talk to Mikey.

So Don’s question is a weird one, but Mikey doesn’t mention it.

“Pull up some counter, Dee,” he offers instead, patting at the one square foot of the surface that isn’t covered in flour. His fingers leave little clouds behind. “I’m almost done.”

Donnie props his hip against the island and leans there to watch his little brother work. Mikey’s ADHD is textbook in a lot of ways, unpredictable in many others; it’s definitely been a fun learning curve for his family. Don did a lot of research. He’s read that generally people with Mikey’s disorder tend to struggle with tasks like cooking, that it can be an outright Herculean task remembering to eat or even just mustering the energy to feed themselves.

But Mikey loves his kitchen. He gravitates towards it in all his different moods. It gives his pinballing thoughts and restless hands something constructive to focus on with a clear and present reward at the end.

Right now he seems pleased with the dough and gathers it up in a neat little ball before transferring it to a greased mixing bowl and covering it tightly with plastic wrap. When the bowl has been safely stored in the fridge to proof, Donnie joins Mikey in wiping down the counter, mostly for something to do with his hands.

Something’s baking in the oven. Music is playing on Mikey’s phone across the room, acoustic and downbeat and soothing. This room is where everyone in their entire extended family comes to feel safe, even if they don’t know or won’t admit it.

“So listen,” Don finally says. “About earlier. During the race?”

A grin splits Mikey’s face, likely remembering all the fun he had. They’d been looking forward to the ninja race for weeks, ever since Leo first floated the idea.

Leo has come a long way as sensei. It was hard at first, finding his feet, acclimating to this additional burden piled on top of all the ones he already had to carry, but maybe not as hard as it should have been. Leo has always been more of a second parent than a sibling to the rest of them. He’s always been the one they ran to first, even when Splinter was alive; the boy who had to grow up too fast, the one who tried his dad’s oversized jacket on over and over through the years until one day he was surprised to find he had outgrown it.

All this to say—Leo can always tell when his little siblings and pseudo-siblings are due for a break. He poured hours into planning this event, all for his tiny clan of six, and it really showed. The race was part relay, part scavenger hunt, stretching for miles back and forth across Manhattan.

They drew cards out of a bucket to decide pairs, divvying up into three teams of two. When Casey drew the card that matched Mikey’s, he lit up with a manic grin and whipped his head around, a reaction Donnie wasn’t expecting.

“Oh hell yeah!” the human whooped, lifting both hands over his head for a double high-five. “We’re gonna make this night our bitch!”

“Language!” Leo barked, scandalized, like they each hadn’t already heard—and said—a lot worse.

Mikey, for his part, slapped his palms against Casey’s, giggling madly. Donnie looked between the two of them with a frown forming on his face. He had the distinct feeling that he missed something. They all tended to live out of each other’s pockets anymore, trauma-bonding at its worst. Its best? Whatever. If Mikey and Casey were buddies, Donnie would know.

They were both adrenaline junkies, sure. They both liked going fast, living on the edge. As a ninja clan, that was sort of the norm anyway.

But Mikey in particular could outrun anyone in his family any day of the week. Nothing moved fast enough for him. They tried to keep up with him, but sometimes he got too far ahead. He wanted to walk on his hands to feel the grit of asphalt on his palms and the blood rush to his head, or spin in circles in front of the stove while the water boiled, or cartwheel during katas because morning meditation ran too long and his full quota of focus was all used up.

Understimulated, touch-starved, eager for attention, desperate for—something.

Donnie just didn’t realize how desperate until he and Leo crossed paths with Casey and Mikey halfway through the race. From the rooftop, Donnie could see that the token the other boys were gunning for was on the opposite side of the BQE—across five lanes, up on the massive signage structure towering above the expressway. They were on the wrong side when they spotted it.

Smugly, Donnie thought, Tough luck—they’ll have to find a way around. That’s gonna cost them some time.

And then Mikey flew over the guardrail, sprinting straight out into traffic.

Donnie’s heart jumped up into his throat and stayed there.

He was rooted to the spot, like someone watching a train barrel down the tracks toward an inevitable collision. His body forgot how to breathe.

It took his little brother all of fifty seconds to dodge box trucks and SUVs like it was a children’s game, to a chorus of blaring horns from drivers that did not slow down. An eighteen-wheeler missed him by a foot.

Mikey scaled the structure, retrieved the token, and shoved it into the pocket of his over-sized hoodie. Then he waved both arms back at Casey, and pointed down at the guardrail immediately behind him, clearly indicating that they should regroup underneath the overpass. They both disappeared from view on their respective sides of the freeway, off to the next leg of the scavenger hunt.

Don just stood there numbly watching cars go by until Leo doubled back for him.

Raphael and April won the race by all of four minutes—and with it bragging rights to last the next two months, unfortunately for everyone else—but Mikey was in high spirits the whole way home anyway, bouncing with every step. Their brothers must have assumed it was those endorphins from a full night of high-speed play doing their job.

Leo rubbed the top of Mikey’s head with his knuckles fondly, and Raph said something like, “God, you just don’t slow down, do ya?” because they had no idea. They didn’t see it.

Donnie trailed silently at the back of the group, heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat, his eyes, his hands. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from Mikey, afraid of what might happen if he let his guard down for even a second, replaying that scene on the expressway over and over and over. It took him hours to muster the courage to finally approach his baby brother in the kitchen.

And now they’re standing here together, and Mikey is humming under his breath, hands beginning to tap restlessly on the countertop. Donnie’s going to lose him in a matter of minutes. Trying to think of a delicate way to say it is getting him nowhere. He takes a page out of Raph’s book and just barrels in.

“I saw you run across the BQE for a token,” he blurts.

Mike tilts his head the way Icky does when she hears something she doesn’t understand. On one hand, he doesn’t deny he did it. On the other, more alarming hand, he also looks blatantly confused about why Donnie thinks it’s worth a discussion.

“We had to get the tokens to win,” Mikey points out, like Don isn’t the one who helped Leo with the rules and regulations.

Clenching his fists, and then folding his arms so Mikey can’t see his fists are clenched, Donnie says, “You wanted to win that bad, Mike?”

He can’t stop seeing the speeding cars; the smear of headlights in the dark; Mikey weaving his way across the lanes, his figure tiny and almost indistinguishable from the rooftop where Don was watching.

Donnie’s remarkable imagination provided the additional details: the way displaced air would have sucked at Mikey’s clothes at each near miss. The sting of the hot asphalt under his feet. The passing lights lighting up his face in fits and bursts, for seconds at a time, and maybe something distracted him—maybe there was a piece of glass or metal on the road and it cut him or he tripped—maybe a reckless driver merged lanes without warning—maybe, maybe, maybe one of a hundred things happened and Mikey was captured or crippled or killed, ripped away from his family because of a stupid, needless risk he took during a game.  

They’ve been dragged through war, outer space, time travel. They’ve all been hurt before, in big ways and small ones. It's just. It’s different this time, because it was a game.

Maybe Donnie should be angry at Casey for enabling this behavior. Casey may not be their brother by blood but he’s their brother by every other known metric science has to offer and he should have dragged Mikey off the expressway by the hood of his stupid pink sweatshirt and lit into him for being so reckless the way Leo, April, Raph and Donnie all would have.

But Casey has his own reasons for doing what he does—a dead mom, an alcoholic father, a little sister CPS took away—and if he were a regular, neurotypical, well-adjusted teenager, he never would have put on his painted mask in the first place. He never would have fallen into Donnie’s family.

Casey would have been the one to run into traffic if Mikey hadn't beaten him to it.

Like recognizes like. That’s why they were thrilled to be on each other’s team. They’re both chasing something. They both have too much going on inside their heads to ever just be still.

And Mikey is always all smiles, always the first to offer his siblings a hug or a shoulder to lean on or a safe place to hide from the rest of the world and something sweet to eat in the meantime. Mikey, who hasn’t cried in front of his brothers once since the night their father died, who hasn’t come into Donnie’s lab after a nightmare in even longer than that. He smiles and plays and supports everyone and gives them reasons to run and shout and vent frustrations and groan in exasperation and laugh until they get sick.

No one has to ask the sun to shine, it just does that. And it will until it runs out of fuel, some five billion years from now. The star death was always going to be inevitable. Constant output, finite resources. Nuclear fusion that will hopefully last for as long as it needs to, but not forever.

The sun will get tired one day, and then it’s not going to shine anymore.

“Dee?” Mikey says loudly, in a tone that makes it sound like he’s been saying it over and over. Donnie blinks and he’s back in the kitchen, and Mikey is in front of him, more than a bit confused, more than a bit worried, but here and safe and whole.

Not even a scratch. If Don hadn’t seen it, he never would have known it happened.

He unfolds his arms and opens them. He doesn’t need to say anything for his little twin to spring forward, their plastrons colliding with a solid knock that would have winded a human person. The counters are clean but Mikey is still covered in flour and so Don is covered in flour now, too, and it’s wafting to the floor in tiny cloudbursts every time they move.

It’s the kind of mess Splinter would have made them stop and clean up. But it’s not hurting anything to let the kitchen be a little messy. And it’s Mikey’s kitchen. It’s the one place in the world where what he says goes.

He winds his smaller arms around Donnie’s shell and squeezes as tight as he can. Smushes his cheek against Don’s shoulder because he isn’t tall enough to hook his chin over it the way he’d probably like to. He’s warm and he smells like butter and baked bread and summer and boy. He’s survived every single thing he’s ever done.

Donnie closes his eyes and tries to replace the lights he can still see on the freeway with the ones here at home.  

“Can I be on your team next time?” he says.

“Hell yeah, let’s do it,” Mikey agrees instantly. His voice is shaped so much like a toothy grin that Don can see it without looking. Mike doesn’t even know why he’s promising it, just that Donnie needs him to. “We’ll do a clean sweep, nobody’ll know what hit ‘em. B Team’s the Best Team, baby!”

He’s everything warm and light and safe about Donnie’s whole world, and he doesn’t seem to understand how dark every day would be without him. He doesn’t know what he would be taking from his family if he took himself away.

Donatello’s other siblings are self-destructive in obvious ways. Michelangelo, who is loud and obnoxious and has never known a secret he could keep for longer than a day, is somehow more subtle about it.

But now Donnie sees it. He knows what to look for.

[leiawritesstories]

So Soon

Rowaelin Month, Day 2: Accidents Happen

Word count: 1,061

Warnings: none ;)

enjoy!!

@rowaelinscourt

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

“Hey.” Rowan accepted Aelin’s call, thankful for the Bluetooth connection in his car that allowed him to drive and talk to his wife at the same time. “What’s up, love?” 

“I…I don’t know what to do, Ro.” Aelin’s breathing was choppy, coming in hitches and gasps. It was the way she breathed when she was on the verge of an anxiety attack. 

“Fireheart, I’m right here,” he reassured her, keeping his voice as calm as possible. He flicked a quick glance at the GPS. “I’ll be home in eight minutes.” 

“Unless there’s traffic?” 

“I’m past the traffic now.” 

“Okay.” Her voice was small, quiet. “Don’t break any laws, Ro, but come home quickly.” In the background, a baby started crying–their eight-month-old daughter. Aelin exhaled deeply. “Lana needs me, love. I have to go.” 

“Okay.” Though she couldn’t see, he blew her a kiss. “I love you, Ae.” 

“Love you too,” she whispered. The call ended with a beep. 

Rowan blew out a sharp, worried breath and drove five miles per hour over the speed limit for the rest of the drive home. He pulled into the driveway of his and Aelin’s townhouse and rushed inside, barely remembering to grab his work bag and lock the car behind him. “Ae? Fireheart? I’m home!” 

“Dada’s home, Lana lovey!” Aelin’s coo floated out of the living room. Rowan set his bag down, kicked off his shoes, and hurried into the room, finding his wife curled up on the couch with their baby daughter in her arms. Lana squealed excitedly as Aelin lifted her up high enough to see Rowan come into the room, and she flailed her little arms, babbling. 

“Oh, I missed you, little love!” Rowan beamed and scooped Lana into his arms, swinging her up into the air. She screeched in delight and released a gale of baby laughter, the most musical little sound he’d ever heard. “How’s Mama?” 

“Stressed and way too tired,” Aelin admitted. She stood up and wrapped her arms around her husband’s waist, melting into his warmth. He tucked Lana securely against his side and curled his free arm around Aelin, bending his head to kiss her. 

“Do you want to tell me about it?” 

“Yeah.” There was that uncertainty in her voice. “Food’s ready, though. Will you get Lana into her high chair? I’ll get her food–” 

He cut her off with another kiss. “Sit down, Fireheart. Let me get dinner set up.” Lana wriggled in his hold, babbling baby nonsense. “How about you get our very hungry caterpillar all settled, and Dada will bring her dinner over?” A grin crinkled the corners of his eyes. “She’s certainly got her mother’s love for good food.” 

Aelin chuckled softly. “I should hope so.” She took her daughter into her arms. “It’ll be a sad, sad day when she has to eat cafeteria food.” She settled Lana into her high chair, clicked the tray into place, and fastened a big plastic bib around her neck. “Ready for dinner, lovey?” 

Lana squealed in confirmation and banged her little fists against the tray. 

Rowan laughed as he brought in her green plastic plate, filled with cut-up noodles, pureed carrots, and applesauce. “Here you go, little miss.” 

Aelin followed him back into the kitchen and leaned against the island, keeping an eye on Lana as she prepared to deliver the news that had rattled her so much. “Um…” 

“What is it, love?” Rowan came to stand in front of her, resting his hands gently on her waist, grounding her in his presence. “Are you sick? Are you hurt? Are you okay? Are you–” 

“I’m pregnant, Rowan.” The words poured out in a breathy rush. 

His jaw sagged in shock. “Aelin…”

She pulled three pregnancy tests from her sleeve, each of them definitely positive. “I’m terrified, Rowan,” she croaked. Tears glittered in her eyes. “Lana isn’t even nine months yet!” Her voice swooped up into a near-sob. 

“Fireheart,” he whispered, adoration blanketing his whole face, “it’s going to be okay.” One of his hands slipped down to her stomach, resting gently, protectively, over her skin. “Do you want this baby, my love?” 

“Of course I do.” Her hand joined his, their fingers interlacing. “I’m just…in shock, I guess. I wasn’t expecting baby number two so soon.” She cracked a half smile and lifted her eyes to meet his. “Though I probably should have been, since you can’t keep your hands off me.” 

“What can I say?” He winked cheekily. “I’ve been head over heels for you since the day we met, and becoming a mother has only made you more beautiful.” 

The tears Aelin had been holding back broke free of her control and slipped down her cheeks. She laughed through the tears and halfheartedly swatted her husband’s chest. “Damn hormones. You can’t say those things to a pregnant woman in her first trimester, Ro.” 

“I can, and I will.” He pulled her into his arms, letting her rest her head against his shoulder. “I know we weren’t exactly planning this, Ae, but…” He swallowed thickly, his throat bobbing. “I’m so godsdamn excited.” Kneeling, he brushed an impossibly soft kiss over her lower stomach. “Love you already, little one.” 

Sniffling, Aelin tangled her fingers in his hair and smiled down at him. “Is now a bad time to mention that I scheduled an–lovey, no!” Abruptly, she hurried over to the high chair, where Lana was busy smearing her applesauce in her hair. 

The baby girl’s irresistibly big green eyes went wide and innocent as her mother rushed over with a washcloth. She smacked her chubby little hands and her plastic spoon against the high chair, babbling away as if to say, “Look what I did, Mama!” 

“Looks like someone’s going to need a bath,” Rowan laughed, taking the washcloth from his wife and cleaning some of the mess out of Lana’s fine, blonde hair. “I’ll take care of her, Fireheart.” He kissed her, soft and slow. “You and baby need dinner.” 

Much later, after Lana was (finally) asleep in her crib, Aelin lay curled atop Rowan’s chest, his hand on her stomach and her ear against the rhythmic pulse of his heartbeat, and wondered how on earth she’d handle having two kids under 2. With him at her side, though, she knew she could, no matter the unexpected surprises that came their way.

~~~

A/N: the idea for this came from one of my favorite social media couples (Matt and Abby/ The Unplanned Podcast) :)

~~~

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[moralesmilesanhour]

hellooo! it says your request are open to ask so here I am requesting a fic where a black reader and miles are in the kitchen cooking any kind of ethnic food. (whether it be from miles or reader’s heritage) just reader and miles jamming out to some music while cooking and being in love 😭🫶🏾

Miles felt the mattress shift and raise as your weight moved off of it. Still half-asleep, he didn’t have the energy to call after you, so he kept one eye open instead to watch you stand to leave.

You stopped to remove the scrunchie from your wrist and tie your braids back into a messy bun. This could only mean one thing: kitchen.

Miles gave himself five minutes more to sleep before the sound of cutlery clanging together piqued his curiosity, and he swung his long legs off of the bed to follow you. He made no attempt to keep his footsteps light as he bounded down the stairs, and took a seat right behind you in front of the island table.

“I heard that. You not tasting anything until I’m done,” you called out to a seemingly empty room. You put down the knife you were chopping red bell peppers with to turn around. Miles felt his heart skip a beat when your sharp eyes managed to meet his. He swore you had a ‘Spidey-sense’ of your own. When you raised an eyebrow at him, he re-appeared with a mischievous grin plastered on his face.

“You can’t stop me if you can’t see me,” he remarked, earning an eyeroll from you before you returned to chopping.

It wasn’t long before you heard music begin to drift around the kitchen, mingling with the scent rising in steam from the pot you had been stirring. You instinctively turn to look behind you and expect to see a floating speaker, but it is sitting undisturbed on the table. You think that Miles has gone back upstairs when you feel a warmth wrap around your waist. His deep brown arms suddenly appear, along with the rest of him, and you let out a laugh.

“I didn’t peg you as a Beyonce fan,” you said over the steaming pot of jambalaya. You had never in your life heard any RnB in his playlist, but here he was blasting ‘Plastic Off the Sofa’.

“I’m not, but you wouldn’t stop sending me all those damn links,” he teased.

“Aw, you actually open those?”

“Sometimes.”

You were holding up the wooden spoon with the intention of bringing it up to your lips to taste, but Miles swiftly grabs your wrists and puts it in his own mouth instead.

“Miles, are you serious?” you exclaimed as Miles happily chews, his body shaking with laughter.

Unable to stay agitated for too long, you plant a kiss on his cheek before playfully shoving him away from the pot.