#going further and further down the rabbit hole

[thewitchandtheassassin]

The Psychology of Love and Serial Killers Part Three (Wanda Maximoff x Reader)

Summary: Wanda's falling further and further down the rabbit hole and can't seem to find the bottom.

Words: 2110

Warnings: Mentions of murders, language, implied lust?

A/N: This story is my best baby.

-X-

That night, Wanda found herself sitting on the floor in front of her coffee table, files spread across every inch of the wood as she studied your case. Not how you’d killed them but the “victims” themselves.

Father Roger Lundy—53, male, throat slit, left in front of pulpit.

Christopher Allen—48, male, throat slit, left on merry-go-round.

Bronson Trent—31, male, throat slit, left at library.

Father Eric Donovan—62, male, throat slit, left in confessional box.

She typed the names into her laptop, searching. Not for their deaths but for their lives. Their redacted or expunged records. The reasons as to why they’d found themselves in your hands.

And what she found disgusted her.

Dozens of accusations against Father Lundy from the youth of his church that the congregation hid. Christopher was no better, having nearly thirty charges against him that were mysteriously wiped away and redacted but it didn’t take much skill to unearth the truth.

Fuck, she wasn’t lying, Wanda mused, skimming through the stacks of paperwork she’d uncovered over the last few hours. It would have been easier if you had been. If she could blame it on narcissism or lies or…

“Fuck, what am I doing?” she whispered to herself, rubbing circles along her temples as she tried to force the images from her mind. Tried to replace their crimes with yours, if only to make her professionalism easier.

Her next interview with you had already been approved. Friday morning—

“Keep your distance,” Maria had warned when she approved the request after you’d been returned from your excursion to the church. “She’s not your friend, Maximoff.”

“I know that,” Wanda had said, though she wasn’t sure what she truly believed anymore. And now, staring at the paperwork…

She wasn’t sure she wouldn’t have done the same damn things if she’d been in your shoes.

-X-

Two days later, the walk to your usual interrogation room seemed longer than usual. Maybe because some part of her was aching to see you again. Maybe because she could feel the tension permeating the halls, like an itch between her shoulder blades.

She bypassed the front desk with a flash of her ID, heels clicking softly against polished tile.

Interview Room 6.

Outside the door, Agent Rumlow leaned against the wall with all the smug assurance of a man who’d already decided he knew exactly how this was going to end and that Wanda’s services wouldn’t be required today. Across from him, Agent Ward paced slowly, flipping through a notepad like he gave a damn about subtlety.

“Maximoff,” Rumlow greeted, drawling her name like it was a joke. “You’re early. Or maybe… optimistic?”

Wanda’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “I have a session scheduled.”

“Had,” Ward corrected, not looking up from his notes. “Director changed the plan.”

Wanda’s jaw tensed.

“Why?”

Rumlow pushed off the wall, folding his arms with exaggerated calm.

“Let’s just say we’re curious. You got her talking the last few times you were here—good for you. Now we’re wondering if she’s warmed up enough for real questions. Especially if she thinks she’ll see you after.”

Wanda’s eyes narrowed in silent infuriation. “You think she talked to me because I pushed her? She gave me something because she chose to.”

Ward finally looked up, smirking. “Exactly. Which is why we want to see if that door’s open for anyone now. You soften her up, we crack her open.”

Wanda’s silence was louder than any comeback. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, hidden by the hem of her coat. From behind the one-way glass, the light in the interrogation room flickered faintly.

She could see you. Hands cuffed to the table again. Looking utterly amused and unfazed by the inevitable mayhem.

Ward stepped inside first, with Brock hot on his heels, and the door sealed behind them with a firm click.

And Wanda was left standing in front of the one-way window, heart thudding against her ribs like a caged animal. Watching. Waiting.

As something sharp and ugly began to coil in her gut. Because you had spoken to her—

And now they were going to ruin that.

You didn’t say a word as they strolled into the room, staring through them like they were made of glass. Beneath you; not worth your time or effort.

The silence in the room was thick with disdain on both sides, Rumlow snagging the chair reserved for Wanda, legs splayed wide in a way that could only be described as ‘manspreading’, as if he meant to intimidate you or throw his proverbial power around like it was earned.

Ward, more refined but just as smirking, folded his arms and leaned against the wall.

“We know you can talk,” he said lightly, like it was some inside joke. “You’ve had such nice conversations with the good doctor.”

Rumlow grinned.

“Don’t be shy now. She already cracked the ice, sweetheart. Why not let us take it from here?”

You didn’t flinch; didn’t move. You just watched them as if they were ants you were considering crushing beneath your boot.

Wanda, on the other side of the mirror, barely breathed. Her hands were balled at her sides, nails biting into her palm.

They’re going to ruin everything.

Rumlow’s smile faltered, just slightly but Ward picked up the slack, eyeing you with faux sympathy.

“We’re not the enemy here. We want to understand. That’s all.”

Still, you were blank faced, barely blinking as your eyes remained trained on the glass behind them.

The moment stretched, a brutal game of chicken.

Ward tried again. “Let’s talk about Father Lundy. Or what about the kid? The one you saved?”

No reaction.

Brock leaned forward, arms on the table, “look, we—“

“Agent Brock Lee Rumlow, formerly a beat cop who got pulled for assaulting an innocent woman at a routine stop for “suspected drugs” when in reality, you were collared for being upset she wouldn’t sleep with you as a bribe to make her ticket go away. Agent Grant Aaron Ward, ex-military turned bureau dog because your father is a senior agent," you recited their information to them with a cold, blank stare. “Failed your exams but your application was mysteriously ‘pushed through’.”

Rumlow’s smirk cracked like glass under pressure and Ward’s brow twitched, just slightly, like a muscle spasm born from surprise. For a moment, the entire room froze—like the air had been sucked out, and all that remained was your voice—your accusations—still echoing off the walls.

Rumlow leaned forward, jaw tight. “You think you know something about me, freak?”

You tilted your head just enough to make it a taunt without lifting a finger.

Ward raised a hand toward Rumlow like he was calming a spooked dog.

“Let it go,” he muttered, eyes fixed on you now, cooler but far more calculating. “You’ve done your research. Great. That means you know how this ends, too. You rot in a box, and we write the ending.”

Behind the glass, Wanda was smiling now—but not out of joy.

It was sick, twisted pride. You weren’t rattled by their posturing. You were thriving under their fury, like a predator circling a wounded gazelle. Teeth bared and they didn’t even realize they were in trouble until your mouth sunk into their throats.

The door to the observation room opened behind her—Agent Hill, watching her silently. “Director says give them ten more minutes.”

Wanda didn’t look back. “They won’t need ten.”

Inside the room, Rumlow pushed his chair back with a snarl, the sound scraping violently against the floor. “You’re just playing games.”

“I have been this whole time, you misogynistic Neanderthal. You just haven’t caught on that I’m smarter than you because while you’ve been learning the rules of checkers, I’ve already played three games of chess… and won.”

Rumlow lunged across the table at you—fists clenched, face flushed—but Ward caught his arm, yanking him back with a hissed:

“Don’t. That’s exactly what she wants.”

What truly infuriated him was that you didn’t move. Not a flinch, even as his hands were inches from your face as you stared him down like he disgusted you.

Behind the glass, Wanda covered her mouth with the back of her hand—not in horror, but in awe. That sharp, wicked awe that blooms only when someone sees art where everyone else sees splattered colors on a canvas.

Ward dusted off his pants like the conversation had left dirt on him. “We’re done here.”

Rumlow was still fuming, but silent now. A beast without claws, licking at his injured pride.

As they turned to leave, Ward paused at the door, giving you one last look—cold and clinical. “You think you’ve won, but you’re still the one in cuffs.”

Then they were gone.

And almost instantly, the door reopened as Wanda stepped into the room, eyeing you with something that bordered on want, even if she couldn’t admit it to herself. Watching you keep your unwavering calm beneath their goading?

It left her aching in a way she’d never expected.

“You didn’t talk to them.” A pause. Then, softer, with a knowing smile curling at the corner of her mouth:

“You saved it for me.”

Your eyes met hers and for a moment, she thought you’d give her the same cold stare you’d offered Brock and Grant, but as your expression softened, her heart thumped painfully in her chest.

“Good morning, doctor,” you murmured, smiling faintly.

She had prepared herself for silence, maybe even scorn, but the softness in your voice—measured, deliberate—slipped past every wall she’d put up on the walk to this room.

“Good morning.”

Her voice was quiet, but there was something trembling underneath it. Something hungry.

She took her seat slowly, not breaking eye contact. Exhaling, she pressed her palms flat on the table. “They’ll file their report. Blame your lack of cooperation on attitude or mental state. They won’t know it was because you were bored.”

Wanda leaned in slightly.

“But you’ll talk to me… why?” The question should’ve been clinical, but it wasn’t. Not as her voice cracked slightly.

This answer? It meant something—even if she didn’t want it to.

"Doctor Wanda Django Maximoff, twin sister of Special Agent Pietro Django Maximoff. Middle names both come from your father—Sokovian tradition, I suspect. You came here as children due to the extreme violence in Sokovia during the wars, both of you choosing law enforcement but different paths. He was shot two years ago in a standoff. Survived but is paralyzed from the waist down. On permanent desk duty these days."

Wanda’s breath caught so sharply it was almost a gasp. You had just peeled her open like a letter never meant to be read. Her throat worked around the lump forming there—part shock, part something far more intimate.

“How did you—?”

You tilted your head slightly, smiling. "You've served in several cases over the last ten years, most involving monsters—helping to put them away... a practicing psychologist but you tend to prefer crime to clinics.”

Her fingers were trembling faintly now, and she folded them together to still them. She tried to hold your gaze, but it was different now—not clinical. Not feigned detachment.

It was intimate. Vulnerable. Drawn to you like a moth too close to a bonfire.

“Is that why you spoke to me?” Her voice was lower now, like something private being shared in the dark. “Because I’m not afraid of what you are?”

“I learn a lot about the things I find… fascinating, Dr. Maximoff. I know plenty about the bureau but you are the most interesting thing I’ve studied in a long time.”

Wanda inhaled sharply, the sound of her name on your tongue sending an unwelcome tremble down her spine. She shouldn’t enjoy this—shouldn’t care that you find her fascinating and yet…

“Tell me more… what else you see…” she was almost breathless and she hated herself for it.

You leaned forward with a faint smirk. "You both survived a war no children should be a part of and instead of letting it make you hard, you decided to go into this life. Helping put rapists, murderers, monsters away. But I think, doctor... the more you see, the more you become like me. Disillusioned, angry... ravenous. And I think—“ your voice dropped lower, “���if you could’ve… you would have been just… like… me.”

You leaned back in your seat once more, hands flexing against the cuffs. “And when you’re ready to admit it to yourself, doctor… come see me again.”

[kingmlem]

Hi everyone! I'm here with part two of the untitled/unfinished angsty fic I posted last week. You can find part 1 here if you want to go read that before this. I don't know when I'll get around to posting part 3, because it's still in the outline stage (looks at open document with the word 'reconciliation?' written in comic sans) but it's somewhere in the list after 3hrs and the others. Anyway, here's the rough draft of part two (she was written immediately after the first part, I just never posted her.) I hurt you last time, I'll put a band-aid on it this time, enjoy! 🧑🏻‍🚒🧑🏻‍🚒

One of the main differences between First Presbyterian and Good Samaritan was the Jello schedule, and how you could bribe the nurses to 'lose' an extra cup of Strawberry Jello on your tray at Good Sam.

First Pres's resident Red Jello© was cherry, which always reminded him of the time he did Jello shots off of some girl at some college party- the time he puked because of her excess use of body glitter. Jello shots, not great coming back up. The memory always made him shiver, and Tuesday's Red Jello© at First Pres was usually casually pushed aside with a harried glance. If Eddie snickered, because he had in fact been told about the Jello Shot-Body Glitter fiasco, then that was just his lot.

Luckily, (not really but hey, at least he was alive and not in a coma this time) Sheila had slipped an extra cup of green Jello onto his tray, an equal exchange for the chocolate bar he'd 'accidentally' left out.

"Everything's looking pretty good, the swelling's decreased significantly," The doctor offered, swiping through a few pages on that tablet in her hands before looking up with a smile. "You should be out of here early next week."

"Next week?" His skin itched, stuck here for three days already. At least Eddie was next door, and Sheila didn't mind wheeling him back and forth between the two rooms too much, so he wasn't completely stir-crazy yet.

"Unfortunately, you're not completely out of the woods yet, Buck. We're still monitoring the clotting situation, given your history. Ideally, I'd like to see the swelling reduce further before sending you home." Dr. Daria looked once again at her screen, nodding once in her assessment before jotting something down. "Precautionary measures, that's all."

"Right," Buck sighed, resigning himself to his bed-ridden fate. He could already hear the lecture from Maddie if he tried to check out AMA, and now she had Jee to really back up the tear-filled scolding. He still had Eddie to bother, now that he was mainly recovering from surgery, and Sheila was always more than happy to make sure the two (hot- the nurse's station tittered) firefighters were okay.

It wasn't exactly a hardship to stay, it just gave him too much time to think, which wasn't... great, at the moment. Too many questions, too many thoughts about being trapped, about his thoughts spiraling... about how he was probably (definitely,) not as over his last relationship as he 'should' be.

Every time he thought of the moment before he'd crashed- the fear in Tommy's eyes that pierced right through him- it sent him further down the rabbit hole. Nothing like reliving the moment, over and over and over again.

"You could try to talk to him?" Eddie offered, snatching his own Jello cup back when Buck tried to sneak it off his tray (rude, Eddie knew green was a top tier flavor in Buck's book.)

"And say what? 'Hey, man, I know it's been a few months, and I know we haven't actually spoken, but somehow I've kind of fallen harder for you than before?'"

"Sounds pretty good to me-stop playing with my food, man." Eddie snipped, swatting at Buck's hand as he poked at a suspicious chunk of something in the pasta salad. A stubborn part of him wanted nothing more than to stick it out, adamant that it wasn't actually his fault in the first place. He wasn't the one who ran this time. Tommy did.

"So, continue being idiots, then. I don't know what to tell you." Buck huffed, eyes rolling at the wholly unhelpful answer.

He picked at a green olive slice, poking the red pimento piece farther down into the noodles below, fully ignoring Eddie's stare. He could be eating green fucking Jello- this was just karma.

Really.

Totally had nothing to do with the fact that his best friend was probably right, and talking probably wouldn't hurt... Unless of course Tommy had moved on in those three months. Found himself some other guy-

"Stop." Eddie's voice cuts his spiral short, eyes never once leaving Buck's face. "Jesus, I can see you overthinking this. Get out of your head and talk to him. Hell, yell at him if it'll make you feel better. It'd probably make him feel better." The last part was huffed under Eddie's breath, not really meant to be heard, but he was tired of watching Buck vandalize his (admittedly shitty quality) lunch. At least at First Pres he could get revenge, watch Buck turn practically green at the mere smell of the Cherry Jello. Quid pro quo.

"What- what's that even supposed to mean?"

Because what was that supposed to mean?

The thought of what it could mean sent a dangerous little spark though Buck's chest, a sparkle of what he's been trying to squash since Tommy walked out.

"Just- please, just talk to him, or I'm calling Donato, because apparently she's the only one who can talk sense into either of you." Eddie bat at his hand once again, saving the semi-edible vegetables from a fate similar to the mangled pasta salad. "I'm stealing your rice pudding, asshole."

"You wouldn't dare," Buck pulled his hand back and away, straightening too quick and wincing at the sharp stab of pain in his back. Which threat the comment was directed toward, Buck wasn't sure, both maybe. He really didn't need another Donato dressing down on top of all of this, and Eddie could pry Good Samaritan's rice pudding from his cold dead hands.

"I know where you sleep, Buckley. Now get out of here and let me enjoy Top Gun before Chris gets here." Buck flipped him off before scooting the wheelchair away from the bed, glaring at Eddie when he heard the familiar ping of his call button being rung.

"I can manag-"

"You boys all set," Sheila chimed, knocking once on the door jam as she poked her head in. Buck watched her expression change, her eyebrow raising as she clocked his hands on the wheels, his back hunched slightly (she'd ratted him out to Daria once, he knew she'd do it again.) He flinched when she clicked her tongue, shooting a glare at Eddie's poorly covered cough-chuckle. He didn't fight it when Sheila grabbed the handles of the wheelchair, flipping Eddie off one last time as she wheeled him back out of the room and into his own.

"You are just bound and determined to stay here, aren't you?" Buck smiled as charmingly as he could, one of his boyish grins that used to get him everywhere with the women he flirted with, huffing when the nurse only crossed her arms over her chest.

"I would miss your smiling face too much," Buck wheedled, moving himself into the bed with a wince. Sheila scoffed as she moved around the room, checking the tablet left on the table at the end of his bed.

"I'll be sure to tell Daria that's the reason you're still swelling." She was definitely going to rat him out again.

[temporary-joyride]

I just finished Disco Elysium yesterday and I have to say my favorite part, or at least that I find the most interesting, is that you HAVE to pass the Shivers check. Every other check in the game can be worked around someway or somehow, but you must pass the Shivers check. You don't have to be smart, you don't have to be strong, but in order to finish the game you're forced to feel. You have to face the music. You have to accept this reality you're in, despite trying to escape it through alcohol. You can't. This is your world. This is your life. Tomorrow is just a whisper away.

[vero-niche]

what's bóbita ? because you use that frequently

like my first reflex was to search it on google and what came up is Spanish, so i'm like, okay maybe you don't mean "little silly one" even though it makes a LOT of sense to use that word here so i added "Hungarian" to my search which made me even more confused because two things came up; my dear and love Wiktionary who said that it's linked to fucking bird or plants and this fucker

and like, i'm there, watching a children's song (that's great to be honest), and the only conclusion i have is that y'all saw a word in Spanish, thought "wow it's really fucking cool" and used it ???? which, totally valid, every language goes and looks around and takes words that think it's cool and uses it, but Spanish ?????

spanish hater here i got forced to learn spanish for seven years and i can only say my name and insult someone

hdhdhshdtdttszs oh this is amazing, didnt know bóbita meant that in spanish 💞

yes it is in a children's song (originally a poem by weöres sándor) but it is also a legit valid name you can give to a girl, because of this very poem. the first verse of the poem goes like "bóbita, bóbita is dancing / angels are sitting around her / armies of frogs are playing the flute / armies of locusts are playing the violin." it is a very popular work that most hungarian kids are familiar with.

and i use it a lot bc that's my dear mutual @g0om's chosen name 😊

[red-moon-at-night]

The Trojan Horse/La guerra di Troia (1961)

Ignore the complete mischaracterisation of Helen and the inaccuracy of events, you need to see this sequence of how Paris dies. It's absolutely WILD.

[livethrushit]

hxh spoilers abound in my trash pile of headcanon theories

i personally subscribe to the pregnancy stone theory. it's so aggressively ging. him being a stupid teenager who wants to EXPERIENCE EVERYTHING to the point where he's like "lmao yea lemme get pregnant" with zero thought put into it. just vibes and morning sickness.

but im kind of also obsessed with the idea of pre-transition pari being gon's other parent and *ging* being the reasonable one. like he probably has his first ever one night stand with shelia and immediately realizes the gravity of his mistake. pari's manipulator ability relies on vulnerability to work. ging having his first time with shelia was all it took. he can sense the power of their aura and knows it's unlike anything he's ever felt. it's oppressive, murky, and dark. he is keenly aware he has stepped into an abyss with no exit. it terrifies him, he knows it will end him. he must do everything he can to stop it from spreading.

now they have a baby in the mix & ging can't let that kind of upbringing occur. the kid could become a well trained monster. shelia lets him take the baby bc they like this little game, they like to see ging squirm.

so you end up with ging being an irresponsible deadbeat, but also he's trying to protect the overall population from probably the biggest threat to humanity they've ever experienced. like hang on son, mommy is using their nen to create dark continent human hybrids that will destroy the world as we know it, brb lol.

[l9vepotions]

makes me laugh when i see people HC hughie as this big, tough, threatening man who tops when he is the exact opposite!! that man is 6’3 but he is NOT topping anyone i’m sorry, especially not annie

still love him tho

[st4rbwrry]

the amount of strange blogs i’ve come across worry me.

[basshole-astard]

"what do you mean hEDS/HSD and ADHD are comorbid!? surely that's a reach!!" well. even disregarding the autism/adhd/hypermobility study - which you shouldn't disregard, considering they did think the overlap between hypermobility and autism was significant -

did you know there sure is collagen in your brain? did you know that EDS and its subtypes are caused by specific malfunctions in how your body produces collagen?

gee, i wonder why the disorders that affect collagen - which presents primarily as joint hypermobility - might also give someone a Brain Problems disorder? gee, i wonder what happens in your Brain if your collagen just generally isn't working correctly? GEE! i wonder!

[not-poignant]

every now and then i forget how bad my chronic illnesses are and every now and then my body is like 'hmmm you seem to have forgotten what it's like to be cripplingly bedridden and disabled and we don't want you to forget' and then i'm reminded and it feels a little like being yeeted into a granite cliff wall at full speed and leaving a dent

[shadowinthetreesbutcooler]

red team are FULLY going feral im so here for it, cellbit vouching for cannibalism and getting excited, baghera wanting to build a dirt shack and everyone wanting to crawl into a cave and chase people through the woods

[solid-six]

watched The Matrix for the first time in years the other day and despite still remembering practically every line and beat in my DNA, there was one that caught me so off guard I had to pause it - when Tank is saying like 'yeah...it's the last human city...we built it way down near the earth's core where it's still warm' asdhksdsdjk I BEG your pardon. that is, by a landslide, thee single most ridiculous yadda-yadda in this entire franchise IMMERSION RUINED

[bandsanitizer]

lowkey think people overlook p1harmony’s talent in lieu of their more comedic personalities and it’s cool they’re funny but also SHIT THEYRE TALENTED?!?!!!! LIKE!!!!!! NOBODY TOLD ME HOW GOOD THIER VOCALS ARE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[longelk]

i think kaycee would kinda believe in aliens/cryptids/the paranormal she wouldnt be a total nut about it or perhaps even admit it to most people out of embarrassment but i feel like its a fitting assumption especially after seeing the cursed disk (+maybe another reason she's predisposed to enjoy leshy's theming the most with his cryptids)

[illarian-rambling]

I just came to the realization that, of my two main villains, End is quite similar to your classic Lovecraftian horror. Very starry, lots of ooze. On the flipside, Vermir's closest villainous comparison is Frankfurter from Rocky Horror Picture Show...

[atracaelum]

This is just kvetching into the void but I periodically see posts on this here internet and website essentially trying to police the terms people use for their own art, ie "you can't call something a doodle if it looks finished (to me)" or "stop doing sketchbook flips that are finished pieces, it's supposed to be doodles and wips in a sketchbook!" and usually there's a reason given about these things setting an unrealistic standard either for other artists, or non-artists, and these irritate the piss out of me every time I fear.

Your 'finished piece' might BE someone's low effort doodle, that's just life sometimes! This is fine! It need not reflect on you!

Similarly, the sketchbook is the medium. Whether it's showcase of completed works or practice sketches is irrelevant. They are showing their sketchbook.

Much of this moaning is indirectly shot at people who are full-time artists, if not professionals, posting online. Are you under the impression their grasp of art terminology is just flat out wrong? Or is it just broader than you would like?

I can't take the fear of unrealistic expectations seriously, sorry. People are very ignorant, yes, but the cure is never a dumbing down of the topic, nor trying in vain to universalize it.

This all kind of wraps into how social media turns people sharing their art into this cut throat arms race, how divorced people become from means of actually learning their craft in that sort of environment, and the, to be blunt, sour grapes that grow from all of this. Sincerely, I just encourage people to worry less about other artists minding their business and focus more on personal growth. Maybe let yourself get inspired! And then we'll both win, because I will see less incessant whining out in the wild!