#its ship art if you squint | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ginnsbaker · 1 year

Text

In Losing Grip On Sinking Ships (5/?)

Chapter summary: The "calm" before the storm. Wanda’s tentative friendship with you is off to a good start

Chapter word count: 5.4k+

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader, Yelena Belova x Fem!Reader (heavy on this chapter)

Notes: don't need to squint for fluff in this one, also kind of a filler before we get to the much dreaded part 6

AO3 | Masterlist

Next Chapter: Six

Five

Wanda’s tentative friendship with you is off to a good start. There’s a silly smile on her face as she puts the harness on Sparky; and the energetic pupper struggles only slightly when Wanda coos at him.

“We’re going to see Y/N,” Wanda says, and Sparky wags his tail hard at the mention of your name. “Who’s an excited little boy?”

She proceeds to hook the leash on the harness and then temporarily secure the hand loop around the doorknob.

“Stay there while mommy puts on makeup.” Wanda commands and feeds him a treat from her hand.

Wanda studies herself in front of the mirror. It’s a problem putting on the liquid foundation because she can’t stop smiling, the product caking along her laugh lines as a result.The last time she was drunk on happiness was when she got that job at the art gallery and you surprised her by taking her to a romantic dinner cruise around the island. While there, you both mapped out the plan for her to eventually be the senior art curator–a position that eventually went to Agatha Harkness. Wanda had been bold to give herself only two years to work her way to the top, and it wasn’t purely of her own accord. It was being with you that she felt she could dream anything. It was you that removed all her fears and doubts.

If anything happens, let them happen, she thought to herself. As long as she had you, the rest was just confetti.

It didn’t mean that Wanda’s ambition and everything else outside of you were just background noise; it only meant she knew it wouldn’t be the end of the world if she failed.

Wanda ends up just applying a bit of lip gloss on her lips, recalling how often you used to tell that you prefer her more natural look.

Her phone buzzes with a notification. Wanda unlocks it to find a text from Pietro, who she asked to man the cafe until afternoon.

You owe me a free batch of those macadamia cookies for this. - P

I’ll bake all the cookies you want for a discount. - W

Thank you for doing this. - W

Agatha agreed to help in the morning. - P

You text with Agatha??? - W

:p - P

Please don’t flirt in front of my customers. - W

No promises. Enjoy your date with Y/N. - P

Wanda grins from ear-to-ear.

It’s not a date. - W

You wish it was. - P

Wanda chooses not to answer that and slips her phone back in her purse. Then she turns to Sparky who’s been fiercely watching her all this time.

“Ready to go, bud?”

–

“You look nice.”

It’s offhandedly delivered after you take the reins on Sparky, yet the speed at which she blushes from the compliment is almost embarrassing. Like always, she makes it a point to look good for you.

You and Wanda chose to meet at the Conservatory Garden in Central park, taking advantage of the spring weather. Its main path is littered with trees and benches, and an overall perfect spot for people watching. Sparky was the first to spot you, and he started barking the second he picked up your scent and ran towards your direction, dragging Wanda along with his leash. Tears almost fell from her eyes when she watched your touching reunion. You fell to your knees to gather Sparky in your arms, while he made sure to lick every part of your face.

“I missed you too, bud.” Wanda heard you whisper over the back of Sparky’s furry head. Sparky made a whining noise, and you knew he understood.

“I was surprised you’re available on a Wednesday,” you say. You and Wanda are strolling side by side, Sparky in tow, moving in circles around you and occasionally around Wanda too.

“Pietro covered for me.”

“I didn’t know he could bake or make good coffee for that matter.” you say with a light chuckle.

“I baked everything in advance this morning, so all he has to do is take care of the register. Also, he’s caffeine dependent and very particular about his coffee, so he already knows how to make the ones on the menu.”

Though, what Wanda really wants you to know is that she woke up at 3AM just to be able to walk Sparky together.

You raise your eyebrows, half-impressed and half-skeptic. “I’m curious if he’d make them as good as yours. I mean, you make pretty darn good coffee.”

Wanda bites her tongue to maintain her neutral expression. Another compliment. She wonders how many more she can squeeze out of you. The reality is she’s a nervous ball of energy. Worse than College Wanda was nervous when she first realized her feelings for you.

“Thanks, Y/N. It means a lot, coming from you.”

“Aren’t you worried I’m just being biased?” you quip with a devious smirk. Wanda feels a strong urge to wipe it away with her lips. “After all, you did train my tongue to like your cooking.”

“I did not!” Wanda passionately protests, blushing when her mind wanders to what else she trained your tongue to do in the past.

You surprise her by letting loose a laugh; a real one, blissful and unrestrained; playfully challenging her with a, “Then explain why I love overcooked chicken.”

Wanda’s still thinking of a smart comeback, when your ringtone goes off in your pocket.

“Excuse me, I should take this.” you say, handing back the leash to Wanda.

“Hey, stranger,” you happily receive the call, and Wanda curiously watches you from the corner of her eyes.

“This Friday? Yeah. Aside from dinner…? No, I don’t think I have anything else planned.”

Plans this Friday? Wanda muses, trying to figure out if said plans are platonic or not. The thing is, she can’t tell with the tone of your voice alone.

“I’m a Knicks fan, yes,” you confirm something Wanda already knows. “You cheer for Brooklyn? You’ve got to be shitting me.”

You only talk that way to your best friend. Were you talking to Natasha?

“A long time fan, huh? So you’re saying you’ve been rooting for New Jersey all this time,” you laugh. “Nope, you can’t take that back cause I’m recording this call.”

The cheeky way you’re addressing this person is not sitting well with Wanda. Sparky comes up to Wanda and jumps at her, poking her knee with his paw.

“Not now, Sparks.” Wanda hisses at him the way someone would scold a child.

“Count me in. How much does the ticket cost? What? I can’t let you do that… Fine, popcorn’s on me then. Uh, huh. We’ll see about that. Simmons is not who he used to be. Alright, we’ll continue this in the game. Yes, you have me for the whole night, I promise,” you say, your mouth splitting into an amused grin.

Wanda’s head cranes towards you, no longer bothering to pretend she’s not eavesdropping. You catch Wanda’s green orbs and lower your voice as you end the conversation with, “Anyway, I have to go. I’ll see you. Bye.”

“That was Yelena,” you say after tucking away your phone. “Natasha’s sister. I think Nat’s mentioned her to you.”

“Natasha doesn’t talk to me.” Wanda says, keeping her tone light.

You gawk at her. “That’s insane. Of course, she does. I mean not now, because of, you know, what happened.”

“No, she doesn’t. Whenever the three of us are together, we talk to you.”

You hum in confusion, your mind drifting through countless dinners the three of you shared in the past. You suppose Wanda’s claim had basis; Natasha’s seems more reserved in Wanda’s presence.

“Well, I–maybe you heard about her from me?”

“I just know that Natasha has a sister. I never knew her name, though.”

“Ah,” you say, face warming up and sweat gathering around your upper lip. The heat of the sun is at its peak, making you feel incredibly hot. “I thought I'd mentioned her before.”

“So, Yelena,” Wanda starts, wanting to know more about this person despite the pang of jealousy that has crept into her chest. “What’s her story?”

What’s on Friday? Why does she have you for the whole night?

You stop and sit on one of the benches. Wanda follows and plops next to you, leaving just a few inches of space between your bodies. Sparky immediately stands on his hindlegs, trying to jump into your lap. With care, you scoop him up into your arms and cradle him like a baby.

“She’s Natasha’s sister.” You dumbly repeat, not really knowing where you should start telling your ex-wife about the woman who just asked you out on a date.

“You said that already.” Wanda says; though she manages a smile that’s convincing enough, her tone is clipped and rather distasteful.

“What do you want to know?”.

Wanda looks pensive for a moment, before she says, “How come I’m only hearing about her now?”

“She flew to England right before freshman year and then we lost contact right away.” you say.

“And when did she get back?”

Your eyes flit away from her for a moment. “Two years ago.”

“You’re saying you’ve been friends again for the last two years?”

You refuse to let it bother you that she’s obviously jealous even though she has no right to be.

Sighing, you say, “Why does this feel like an interrogation?”

“I’m just curious.” Wanda shrugs, scratching Sparky in the area near his tail. He seemingly looks like he’s fallen asleep on you, but his tail still wags at Wanda’s attention.

“Were you?” Wanda prods. “Were you in touch with her in the last two years?”

For a while you don’t say anything. The thing is, you could lie. You don’t owe Wanda anything anymore. But with Wanda’s line of questioning, it's like she’s almost trying to assert herself and redefine history; perhaps even make it seem like you weren’t so innocent in all of this after all.

Except you were innocent. You never flirted with the idea of other people. Not even that time you ran into the other great love of your life. So with confidence, you tell Wanda the truth.

“We ran into each other five or six months ago. But we recently just reconnected again.” you say.

Wanda does the math in her head.

Oh.

“You didn’t mention that when we–that was before we–”

“I didn’t think it was worth mentioning,” you say coolly, your patience wearing thin. “It happened that day you asked me to retrieve a painting from Agatha.”

It’s Wanda’s turn to be speechless. Though you never talked about what really went on that Tuesday afternoon when you clobbered Vision with a vase, Wanda had an inkling that you had something to do with the missing paintings in his room: the one he was working on for his final project and the one she gave him.

It’s still a sour topic; seeing the way your jaw hardens at the mention of the paintings. Wanda backpedals, reeling in the possessiveness she still feels towards you.

“I see…” she trails off.

Badly, she wants to know more about this Yelena, but she’s afraid that she might push you too hard for answers; answers that you don’t have to provide in the first place. Wanda feels somewhat ashamed of having taken advantage of your kindness (yet, again) to get what she wants.

But where does she draw the line?

Wanda wanted you still. She needed to know if there were other people in your life competing for the same thing. She couldn’t just stand meekly in the corner and watch you fall in love with someone new.

“Sparky looks chunkier. Is he chunkier?” you say all of a sudden, rubbing his belly.

Wanda is more than grateful for the change in topic.

“He is. He gained five pounds last time I checked.” she says, smiling fondly at the scene before her.

“So he’s basically happy without me?” you ask, more relieved than downhearted by the fact.

Wanda shakes her head. “I don’t think so. Maybe he’s just eating his feelings, you know? Like I sometimes would.”

You cast a funny look at Wanda. “That sounds implausible.”

Wanda’s laugh fills the air with its melodic resonance. “Why don’t you find out? Take him from me for the weekend. See if he’ll miss me enough to gain a few more.”

It must be so blatant how she’s trying you get you to see her again so soon after today. Though it doesn’t seem like you noticed.

“This weekend?” You pause to think about your schedule despite having all the time in the world to do absolutely nothing. Aside from cleaning up the apartment and doing laundry as part of your Saturday routine, you’ve been wanting to visit your mother in Montauk.

It definitely wouldn’t be a problem if you take Sparky with you.

“Sure, why not?” you say.

“Great,” Wanda beams at you. “I’ll drop him off at your apartment before I open the shop?” she inquires softly, hoping she could get your address.

“Sounds good. Did I already give you my address?”

Wanda does a little victory dance in her head. “You haven’t.”

You text her the details right away.

“Listen, do you want to have lunch before I go?” you ask, getting up and putting Spark back on his feet. “And thank you for this time with Sparky.”

“No problem.”

You’re still ridiculously polite. Still kind.

Still her Y/N.

“You’re late.” Pietro grumbles as soon as Wanda arrives at the cafe.

He has an overly-complicated coffee order waiting, and two customers waiting for their food orders. Agatha has already left two hours ago.

Wanda shrugs her shoulders, placing the eco bags she’s carrying in both hands on the counter. “I went to the grocery store to buy some supplies.”

Pietro mutely hands Wanda her apron and she quickly starts working the espresso machine.

“How did your date go?”

Wanda doesn’t bother to correct him this time.

“It was okay.”

Pietro doesn’t look convinced at the very least. “That’s it?”

“We walked Sparky and had lunch.” comes Wanda’s nonchalant reply.

“Ah, lunch,” Pietro flashes a leering smile at his clearly smitten sister. “Were you the one to ask her?”

Wanda grins with a dazed look. “Nope.”

“Congrats, sis. You’re on your way to getting back with your ex-wife. Which, if I may add, was your plan all along even when you agreed to a divorce in the first place.”

On any other day, Pietro’s sarcastic humor would normally push her buttons in a snap, but right now Wanda couldn’t care less if she tries. The memory of her time with you and the scent of your perfume is still fresh. There’s nothing that could ruin her perfect day.

The door chime sings to signify the arrival of a customer. Wanda quickly draws a simple latte art on a coffee order, and then proceeds to serve it to the customer by the window. Her eyes briefly brushes the customer who just came in, and is taken aback when she finds the woman staring at her expectantly.

Wanda carefully places the mug on the table for her other customer, before very quickly fixing her hair to greet the new arrival.

“Hi, welcome to Second Chances. Dine-in or take-out?”

“I’m here to get Pietro.” The woman says with a bored expression.

Wanda grits her teeth. Her brother really knows how to choose them. “And you are?”

“Shannon,” she drawls. “His fiancé.”

“His what? I mean, that’s–” Wanda is stunned beyond belief, and looks over at Pietro who’s pointedly trying to avoid her gaze. “–amazing news. Congratulations.”

“He proposed months ago.” Shannon deadpans, like she’s used to Pietro’s people not knowing he has a fiancé or a girlfriend for that matter.

“He didn’t tell me.” Wanda says.

Shannon doesn’t acknowledge that information. Instead, she says, “Nice little cafe you have here.”

“Thanks.”

“Though the Spanish Latte needs more sugar. I had it earlier this morning.”

Wanda has to ball her fist to refrain from using them on this woman.

“Actually, we have a suggestion box.” Wanda says, gesturing to the aforementioned box by the counter, designed to look like a mini treasure chest. “If you could write it down, we’ll get to it as soon as we can.”

Shannon forces a smile that’s undeniably fake, possibly for lack of trying.

Pietro approaches them slowly, his rounded eyes reminding Wanda of a wounded puppy.

“Hey, babe,” Pietro mumbles and pecks Shannon on the lips. “I’m ready to go. Let me just change, okay?”

“Five minutes.” Shannon prompts in a stern voice.

At this point, Wanda would rather see Pietro flirting with Agatha than have to watch him be pushed around by this woman with his tail between his legs. A barrage of questions run through her mind, starting with why her brother is marrying this bitch.

“You’re wondering why he’s marrying someone like me.” Shannon says wryly.

“You read minds?” Wanda tries to joke.

Shannon isn’t having it. “It’s a mystery. I, myself, am wondering why I’m still hell-bent on marrying him.”

Wanda tilts her head at her with a quizzical look.

“Oh, you don’t know.” Shannon’s laugh is devoid of humor of any kind.

“Know what?”

“I caught your brother in bed with different women… more times than I can count with one hand.” Shannon explains so casually like she could have just been talking about the weather.

“And I still won’t quit him.” she adds as an afterthought.

“If you’re telling me this because you think I can talk some sense into him–”

“I don’t expect you to do that.”

“Then why are you telling me this?” Wanda asks, no longer holding back her ire.

“Pietro told me what happened with you and your ex.”

“He had no business telling you that.” Wanda says through bared teeth.

Shannon looks unnerved by the evident irritation of her future sister-in-law, and says, “He’s your brother and we do run out of things to talk about.”

“Is there a point to this conversation?”

Shannon drops her gaze to the floor in thought, before they flit up back to Wanda’s eyes which have narrowed into slits.

“Pietro cares about you. The reason he refuses to go back to LA is because he’s worried about you. I just want to give you something to think about that might help all of us.”

Wanda says nothing and merely waits with her hands on her hips. She already doesn’t trust whatever piece of advice she’s going to hear from this stranger.

“Love is forgiveness. If your ex couldn’t forgive you for straying once, then you’re better off with someone else who will accept you for your mistakes. Because believe me, you’ll never run out of them.”

Wanda’s anger slowly ebbs away until all that’s left is bafflement at the insinuation that you’re not good enough for her.

That you’re not worth it. That she’s stupid to chase a love that should overcome anything including infidelity.

“And you’re that person for my brother?” Wanda says, smiling in contempt.

Shannon lifts her chin. No, she wouldn’t go as far as verbally claim it, but the Alpha behavior more than proves that she thinks so highly of her capability to love. Wanda feels an overwhelming urge to throw this woman out. Instead, she turns her back on Shannon to stalk towards the staff room where Pietro is changing.

“I don’t like her.” Wanda states as soon as the door swings open, expecting a half-naked Pietro.

He’s cross-legged on the floor, watching YouTube videos on his phone.

“Which is why you’ve never met her. And before you say anything, I did try very hard to keep it that way. It’s not my fault that you came back so late.”

“What do you see in her, Piet? You haven’t eloped, right? You can still get out of this.”

Pietro shrugs his broad shoulders; shoulders that would have taken him to superstardom, if not for the series of injuries that plagued his short career.

“Look at me,” Pietro says in a languid manner. “I’m a fuck up, Wands. I’ll always be a fuck up. It’s in my nature. And she loves me anyway. Maybe I just want someone who will always have my back no matter what.”

“That’s not love. That’s codependency, you idiot.”

“No offense, sis. But it’s not like you have the moral high ground to lecture me about relationships.”

Wanda’s lips press together into a hard line at the proverbial mirror in front of her. They were both fuck ups. The only difference is one of them has already embraced it with open arms.

After a beat, Wanda asks, “Are you, at least, happy?”

Pietro considers it for a moment, before saying, “She’s not so bad once you get to know her.”

The Knicks versus Nets game is starting in thirty minutes, and the thick crowd is scrambling to get their pre-game ritual done; long lines in the restroom, the merchandise stores and the snack bars, fans taking group photos in-front of giant cutouts of NBA players. You stand in the middle of it all, a giant bag of popcorn in each of your arms, when Yelena shows up alone at the assigned gate for your seats.

Her blonde hair is up in a tight bun, with just a few stray strands falling in front of her eyes. She’s wearing considerably less makeup than she wore in the club, which you think makes her even more beautiful.

Not that your preference has anything to do with how Yelena presents herself, and you certainly wouldn’t let her know that.

“Where are your friends?” you ask, eyes darting everywhere behind her..

“They canceled at the last minute. Kate got called on an assignment.” Yelena says with a huff.

“What a waste.”

“Kate sponsored the tickets and she doesn’t mind. It’s just her change.”

“Kate, huh?” you teasingly look at Yelena.

“Really, Y/N?” Yelena mutters, feigning offense. “You’re breaking my heart, you know? I said I like you. Don’t pawn me off to someone else.”

Your cheeks warm at her directness.

“Shit, sorry. You’re right. I was being a jerk.”

“You were.”

You offer her one of your priced popcorn. “Will this make it better?” you ask, lower lip jutting out into what you hope is an adorable pout.

Yelena takes your peace offering and then candidly says, “Fine. But stop being so cute or you’re going to regret it.”

You flush even further and feel a jolt deep in the pit of your stomach.

Somehow, the game is the last thing on your mind right now.

The Knicks are down ten at the half, and Yelena’s trash talk isn’t letting up anytime soon. You’re on your third bottle of beer, and the intimacy of how Yelena is half-leaning on your side, her weight solid against your own body, is keeping you tethered more than anything.

You positively look like a couple, despite the fact that neither of you has acknowledged that this has turned into a date.

“Wanna bet on how many bricks your team will make in the second half?” Yelena goads with a self-satisfied smirk.

“They’ll find their shooting, you’ll see.” you say with a toothy grin, unfazed. Truthfully, the games’ outcome is the farthest of your concerns now that Yelena’s fingers are inching towards your lap as she shares an anecdote about her workmates. She tells the story rather animatedly, and you can’t help but be mesmerized by the girl you practically grew up with.

Towards the end of Yelena’s story, the crowd around you goes wild. You look up to see the kiss cam land on you and Yelena.

You both shake your head in refusal, gazing up at yourselves on the huge monitor in the middle of the arena. People start booing at the two of you, and as a consolation, you put your arm around Yelena’s shoulders and kiss her on the forehead. It’s enough to pacify the crowd and the kiss cam moves on to another couple who gamely makes out in front of everyone.

When the moment passes, you suddenly realize what you’ve just done. The line has been dangerously toed, and you sheepishly retract your arm the same time Yelena straightens her posture.

“I’m s–”

“Don’t,” Yelena stops you before you could utter an apology. “I wanted to kiss you, but I was worried about overstepping any boundaries.”

“Nat won’t be happy about this.” you murmur, still keeping a respectable distance.

“For once, don’t think about what other people want. Think about what you want.”

The remaining two quarters is not enough to think just that.

You see Yelena off to her apartment after the game. Sharing a ride is cheaper, since your own apartment is less than thirty minutes away by foot.

“...and that’s how Kate and I met,” Yelena concludes after a minute-long summary of how she ended up crashing with her current bestfriend. “Why do I feel like I’ve been talking too much about myself for the last hour?”

“There’s more than a decade of stuff for us to catch up on,” you say, feeling a bit regretful about the time that has passed of not being in each other’s life. “There’s a lot I don’t know about this new you.”

“What “new” me? It doesn’t feel like I’ve changed too much.”

“You have,” you say. “But you’re different in a good way. I like both Yelenas.”

Yelena ducks her head. “You’ve changed as well. But judging from how much fun we had in each other’s company, I say the important bits of us remained the same.” she says.

Your eyes sweep over her. She’s right. She’s just Yelena, Natasha’s younger sister and your first love. Beneath the changes that had accumulated over the years, your soul still recognizes her soul.

“I had a really great time.” you say before you both turn the corner to her place.

Through the remainder of the distance to her apartment, your pace slows down to a crawl. It’s a familiar ritual: the walk to her doorstep, fishing out for keys, playing for a while with those keys, an exchange of awkward smiles, and then–

The pinnacle of a first date, where the magic happens.

Yelena shuffles her feet, fiddling with her keychain. “This is a date, right?”

You swallow dryly. “Yelena–”

“If you mention my sister’s name again, I might have to strangle you.”

“It’s not just Nat,” Out of habit, you thoughtlessly reach for your left ring finger to play with the wedding band that is no longer there. The action doesn’t go unnoticed by Yelena.

“Is it Wanda?” Yelena crosses her arms in a slightly defensive stance. “Are you still in love with her?”

The question has been plaguing you long before Yelena drew it out in the open.

Shaking your head, you lean in and kiss her.

The next morning, Wanda’s at your door at exactly six. She texted you thirty minutes ago to inform you that she’s on her way but received no reply. Now she’s worried that she might wake some of your neighbors with her forceful knocks. If not, then Sparky’s yelps certainly would.

It takes a few more seconds before she hears your familiar footsteps on the other side of the door. The door swings open and Wanda’s heart skips a beat at the sight of you; in your pajamas; hair messy from sleep; fabric marks on the left side of your face, indicating that you still sleep on your side in the direction of where Wanda used to be when she slept next to you.

“Good morning, Y/N.” Wanda can’t help how quickly her smile reaches her eyes.

“Wanda? What are you doing here?” you mumble, rubbing the remnants of sleep from your eyes.

Wanda frowns. Did you forget?

Sparky takes it upon himself to remind you with a small whine as he lifts his paw to scratch at your leg.

You look down to find him with his tail a blur, wagging from side to side, and it automatically puts a lazy smile on your lips. “Hey, buddy!”

“You agreed to take him for the weekend.” Wanda says slowly, gauging your reaction. “But if the plan has changed, then–”

Your eyes widen when, at last, the realization sinks in. “No. Sorry. I just lost track of time. I didn’t know it’s Saturday already. I still want to take him.” you say, flushing in embarrassment.

“Great,” Wanda breathes out, and then motioning inside your apartment, says, “Can I, uhm, use the toilet before I–”

“Of course!” you exclaim, opening the door wider to let her in. “Sorry, I’m still out of sorts.”

“Rough night?”

“Hmm,” You hum pleasantly. “Something like that. The bathroom’s that way.”

Wanda doesn’t miss your little indulgement in reminiscing last night’s affairs. Definitely not ‘something like that’. She heads to the bathroom with Sparky following behind her. He curls on the floor as he waits for Wanda to finish her business.

“Do you want some coffee? Or maybe not coffee. I have…” you yell out, searching the fridge. “Beer and soda.”

“Water is fine.” Wanda says as she approaches the kitchen.

She picks a chair that’s nearest to the counter where you’re busy making coffee and pouring Wanda a glass of water.

Wanda surveys your new home. The lack of decor and the monochromatic paint job screams Natasha; the best friend who’s attached to your hip, but is obviously not present at the moment.

“Where’s Natasha?” you hear Wanda ask.

You think whether or not you should disclose the news about Natasha. You figure it’s not necessary anymore for Wanda to keep tabs on your friends. “She’s visiting a family member upstate.”

“Oh, I didn’t know she had family,” Wanda states, feeling a little silly. Natasha’s an important person in your life, and this is the kind of information she’s supposed to know already.

“It’s good she’s spending time with them.” she adds.

“Yeah.” you mumble, feeling remorseful about the little lie. “Made me think of mom. I’m actually heading to Montauk later. I’m taking Sparky there if that’s okay with you?”

Wanda gives an enthusiastic nod. “Just don’t forget to pack some water on the trip.”

“And some healthy treats too, I know. I’ve got it, Sparky’s Mom.” you say with a quiet chuckle as you bring over a tray of water and two large mugs of black coffee.

Wanda rolls her eyes at the nickname, secretly elated.

“It’s like we’re co-parenting him.” she blurts out without thinking.

By the look on your face, the idea of it hits you in a different way.

“Is…that what we’re doing here?” you say, only half-teasing.

“I’m not insinuating anything. It’s just somewhat comparable if you think about it.”

You’re quiet for a moment, and it drives Wanda on the edge.

“I know I’m the one who wanted kids, but I’m glad we didn’t have them when it happened.” you say, and it surprises Wanda beyond anything–the trivial way in which you said it.

“I don’t know, Y/N, ” Wanda whispers. “Maybe if we had kids, things would’ve been different.”

Your eyes are unreadable as you ask, “Different how?”

Wanda couldn’t think of anything to say except what’s really on her mind.

“Maybe we could’ve avoided separating altogether.”

“Because you think having kids would have made me stay married to you?” you say, in a tone of voice that makes Wanda’s knees buckle and her heart squeeze in regret of her words.

“Because maybe it would have stopped me,” Wanda says in a rush. It’s the wrong thing to say, but it might even be more wrong if she chooses to lie about it. “Maybe it would have given me a different purpose. Would have made me into someone who isn’t selfish and didn’t lose sight of what truly mattered–”

“You’re saying that our childlessness is what motivated you to cheat on me.” you say, and Wanda watches you flex your fingers; shaking away some numbness.

“That’s not–” Wanda grapples for words.

There’s none.

“I didn’t think this through.” you whisper to yourself, eerily calm and collected.

“What do you mean?” Wanda asks frantically.

In the absence of words, you merely look at her with a pained expression.

“Y/n?” Wanda gapes at you and her soulful green eyes widen in panic. “Wait, please, I’m sorry. If we can just–”

“I’ll drop Sparky at your apartment on Monday.”

Wanda pauses momentarily at the door; but you’re already walking back to your room, indifferent to what she chooses to do.

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff x you #wanda x you #wanda maximoff #ifiss 2 #ilgoss #yelena belova x reader #yelena belova #unbetad #my writing #my fic #elizabeth olsen x reader #elizabeth olsen

462 notes · View notes

haleswallows · 5 months

Text

A wee gift for @little-dreams-of-life based on a prompt from the HxH server. Thank you for the inspiration <3

Timothy Drake is home alone. The Drake Manor is big and quiet around him. He fills it with noise.

This isn’t new or exciting. Tim is home alone a lot. What is new is the crate a FedEx employee insisted on carrying inside when Tim answered the door. The guy asks for an adult to sign for the package, but Tim just stares at him. Tim signs for the thing.

There’s a worried glance tossed in his direction as the courier leaves. But Tim shrugs it off like all the others and closes the door, then does up the locks and security system like he was shown.

Tim is home alone and he goes back to his homework without a second thought to the crate. He fills the quiet house with his own noise. When he needs a break, he skateboards down the hallways. The skate park is better, and Tim thinks about checking the weather report to see if it’ll be nice enough to go after school tomorrow.

Tonight is supposed to be clear. Probably a good night for birdwatching.

He pauses at the top of the stairs, one foot on the floor and the other on the deck, idly kicking it forwards and back. There’s a school field trip soon. Tim won’t be going – there’s no one home to sign his permission slip. If anything, he realizes, it’d be a great day to spend at the park. Even though he really wants to go on the field trip too. There’s nothing to be done about it. He resolves to make the day as good as it can be despite the loneliness that sits like gargoyle on his chest.

The crate sits innocently in the Entrance Hall. Tim peers down at it from the top of the stairs. He purposefully lets his DCs slap loudly on the hardwood of the steps as he gallops down.

There’s no note on the outside. Tim crouches down to look it over, but most of the markings are just shipping labels like “FRAGILE” and “THIS WAY UP – DO NOT TURN”. He doesn’t recognize the consignor address. Last he knew, Jack and Janet Drake were in Cambodia and the crate is from Ireland. But he is familiar with his mother’s handwriting on the Customs manifest in the outside pouch, so at least he can assume it hasn’t been shipped to Drake Manor as a type of postal assault.

The top is nailed down and Tim thinks of the hammer in the groundskeeper’s shed. It takes him only moments to find, but takes almost an hour to prise it open. He’s sweating and annoyed when he finally slides the top off.

Anti-climatically, he’s greeted with packing peanuts.

Rooting around in the offending Styrofoam unearths a folded note – also written in his mother’s hand. The note is definitely not addressed to Tim, so he sets it aside then continues digging. Tim slowly unearths his parents’ newest relic collectibles, like his very own archeological dig. It’s all the same-old-same-old, old stuff and whatever his parents think is worthy of purchasing. Ceremonial relics, cultural artifacts, ceramic vases and bowls and small votives. There’s one odd wood carving that looks like something he’d have to make in art class.

Nestled in the bottom of a crate is a small wooden box, polished to a gleaming deep brown. The brass hardware stands out against the dark burnish. Tim turns it over in his hands and admires it, appreciating the way it fits neatly in his palm. It’s quite high quality, even Tim can see that. But of course, the box is only an accessory to its contents. There was a fleeting consideration to shake it, but Tim stamped down on the urge. Afterall, whatever was inside was an antique, if not ancient.

Tim puzzles over the small metal figurine inside. The purple velvet lining makes the pewter look like silver. But Tim has no clue what the shape is or what it represents. He squints at it in the waning afternoon light of the hall. The pronged circle attached to a wide rectangle vaguely resembles an ancient depiction of a human, if humans had horns. Or maybe the circle is a torso and the prongs artistic rendition of limbs? The prong is flared, almost like it has a crown.

There's a leather throng looped through the head. Tim thinks it's ugly and wonders what type of person would wear it. Sometimes Mother wore the ancient jewelry they collected, but this wasn't to her usual taste. Thus there must be something culturally important about it.

A mystery. Tim likes those. He likes solving things, he likes worrying his mind over pieces that don't fit until they do. Afterall, it's how he figured out Batman’s and both Robins’ identities and started birdwatching.

He pushes to his feet and jogs up the stairs. The computer in his dad's office has an internet connection. No one ever notices Tim using it. The housekeeper won't be around until tomorrow when he's at school. She won't suspect a thing as long as he turns it off and doesn't make a mess.

When he reaches the top of the stairs, Tim trips over his abandoned skateboard. In the moment between losing his balance and hitting the ground, Tim thinks “oh crap” and prepares mentally for impact. Tim is no stranger to the fickle ways of gravity. You don't learn to skateboard without becoming the proud owner of scars and bruises. Tim automatically outstretches his hands to catch his fall

The strange pendant, still clutched in his hand, catches the soft meaty flesh of his palm. Tim hisses in pain, knee smarting. Gathers himself to sit cross legged and kicks the skateboard, annoyed at himself. He carefully uncurls his fingers, then gulps at the large gash on his hand.

Oh god, Tim thinks while blinking at the deep cut. That definitely needs stitches. Oh shit, who can he call to get stitches? Who can take him? Tim glances around himself as if expecting someone to appear, to come running at the sound of his fall, to coo over his cut.

A cold feeling fills his belly. Stupid. Tim knows there's no one there to help. But still he looked. Stupid.

Blood drips onto his jeans. He needs to get up, find a first aid kit. Skating is going to suck like this. He blinks back tears.

The light in the hallways shifts, darkens. It's getting late. He really needs to get up. With a sigh, Tim scolds himself then pushes to his feet, hurt hand cradled to his chest. But as he stands, the light continues to ebb away, darkness swirling around him. Tim freezes. The air pressure shifts and Tim shivers in the sudden chill.

“I am Fright Knight, Lord of Fear and the Spirit of All Hallows's Eve. Who dares summon me?” a voice rumbles, echoes, rings through the hallways, deep and haughty. Tim whirls towards it, hands halfway to covering his ears.

And nearly trips again on his skateboard. A man in a pure black suit of armor, glowing a menacing green, floats half a foot over the ground. Tim can't see the man's face as he towers over him, but the green glowing eyes bore into him.

“Who the fuck are you and how did you get in here?” Tim snaps. Ok, dumb move probably. But what else is Tim going to do? He's twelve and home alone.

The suit of armor tilts its head. Oh right, duh, Tim. It answered that.

“Right, Fright Knight, summoned. Was it this?” He shows the knight his hand and thoroughly bloodied pendant. They both stare at his hand. A quiet plip-plip of blood dripping onto the floor accentuates the quiet.

“Where are your guardians?”

“Not home.” Tim isn’t an idiot. He knows better than to tell people his parents are out of the country. Or that he’s home alone.

“When will they return home?”

Tim stares at the floating suit of armor for a long time. There’s an impression it is squinting at him. He shrugs.

Plip-plip goes his hand.

(Remainder of the fic on ao3!)

#dc x dp #dc x dp crossover #tim drake #fright knight #my writing

106 notes · View notes

wildweavewriting · 5 months

Text

✫ The Pond ✫

My fic for the @ssoblrbigbang 2024, organised by @froggistain! I was partnered with the talented @natduskfall, who made this beautiful piece of art!

6k+, art by @natduskfall

Your parents used to warn you not to go down to the pond. It made sense, even though you might not have felt so at the time. To you the water didn't seem deep at all, and one could easily keep an eye out from the house.

But then you were very little. And perhaps a bit accident-prone. And you didn't know it yet, but father was having difficulty moving down slopes; and mother didn't like water very much, no matter how shallow.

It was funny in hindsight, how you'd sit at the chicken coop all moon-eyed, straining to catch a glimpse of creatures in the water. A sheltered child, projecting all this yearning for the outside world onto a tiny pond.

Your horizons did broaden over the years, of course, as they do for all. Clinging to your mothers hand you found the lake behind the pond, and then the village and its people beyond the lake.

Over time you started to recognise those who came to visit, traced people to their nooks within a larger world. And inevitably, memories from young childhood clicked into place.

There was the pretty girl who had come to help out on the farm each summer. Her strong build had fascinated you, as had her way with animals. She would always indulge you for the season, answer your incessant questions.

With every late autumn you'd forget of her existence, and you hadn't even realised she wasn't coming over anymore - until you found her again, settled down with a woman at the edge of town. It answered some questions and brought up new ones you hastily shoved aside.

There was the young man from far away. He'd come every winter, and he too had your questions to endure. He was a bit less patient perhaps, something you easily forgave. After all he and your mother had serious things to discuss.

What you found harder to forgive was when he asked your mother to join him for his months away. Your clear discontent led to perhaps the first proper talk you ever had with your mother.

She told you of suddenly being ripped from all she knew, of her time on a rickety ship, of desperately staying afloat. Of the home and the people she missed.

She said that no one else in these parts would know many of the words you had taken for granted. Told you for the first time which nicknames had their roots in dialect; seemed surprised you didn't intuitively know these things, but how could you?

You cried silently as she left, gripped all you could until she really did have to go. Her warm hand stroked your head one last time and your chest squeezed painfully; a small frame struggled with feelings too big for it to contain.

Then there was the old lady with trembling hands. She had always been around, came over for tea far more often than anyone else. Before long she started handing over the medicine for father in plain sight, told you how to get to her shop.

She walked the path with you a few times that summer, just for good measure, and after a while it turned into something more aptly called meandering. You had a chaperone to keep you company, she had a stronger arm to hold her up if needed.

With her you rediscovered the pond.

The sun had set and left you in a dim twilight, and you had to squint to make out what the apothecary was pointing at. It took you a while to see it for what it was. Its banks were overgrown, what little you could see through the yellowed reeds covered in lily pads.

You moved on. Father would be worried if you arrived much later. Still, you spent the way back quietly musing on old times, exchanging stories of childhood and waters and longing for a wider world.

That night in bed you decided to return there soon. The stone walls around your farm had been erratically added onto over the years so there was hardly a view to pretty up, but maybe the pond could do with some clearing.

A few days later you informed father of your plan as you packed up your late lunch. He happily sent you on your way with his leather gloves, a worn book on plants and a stern reminder to slowly and thoroughly announce yourself as to not startle the wildlife.

The hill was steeper than you’d thought, your boots not particularly secure on the slippery grass. You ended up carefully winding your way down, eyes on your feet and hands clutched on your basket to keep it steady. At the bottom you heaved a sigh of relief and finally assessed what work you had ahead of you.

The day was overcast and grey, the pond still and rather dreary looking. You were pleasantly surprised to spot a path through the reeds though, opposite of the side you’d arrived at.

You made your way over as you leafed through your thin book, basket awkwardly hooked on your arm. Right as you made it to the gap, you found some pages with illustrations that seemed to be water plants and their flowering periods. There was even a little schematic with indications of how common they were and which parts were edible.

It didn’t seem wise to clamber over the trampled reeds with the basket swinging around, so you set it down and tightly grasped the book. You were glad to have the free hand when the litterfall shifted underfoot at your cautious first step, it gripped a fistful of reeds before you’d even fully processed what had happened.

You made it over slowly but safely, stepped in a damp spot somewhere along the line and scratched your palm open, but your ankles remained intact and untwisted. When you crouched at the water’s edge you were pleased to find the lily pads had a wide triangular notch in them, which matched the somewhat crude drawing you were looking at.

It was marked to be in abundance, and though this information was clearly old you figured not much would have changed, not with how these were growing. They were only just beginning to flower though, so you didn’t want to indiscriminately rip out anything that seemed unimportant. Only out with the visibly dead, then.

You carefully pulled a larger patch towards you and got to work plucking all decomposed flowers and stems out of the thicket. Once or twice you accidentally ripped a pad loose, one even coming out of the water with soil at the bottom, but you managed to not damage any of the flowers themselves.

Some of them already were damaged though, you couldn’t help but notice. It seemed an animal had nibbled on them, a few leaves were just bitten straight through with broad teeth. When you looked more carefully you also found that several of the larger plants were oddly tangled, their stems weaved into knots as though they’d been sloshed around in the water. You left them as they were.

Working your way through just the part in front of you took ages and you resolved to come again on a sunnier day, maybe wade through the pond as you cleaned up the waterlilies. The water was surprisingly clear after all, your hands only really dirty from the rotten leaves themselves.

Once you were done for the day the pile next to you had grown so big, you would have difficulty carrying it with two fatigued arms. Your poor knees creaked loudly as you straightened up and you laughed to yourself at the state your body was in.

You were glad not to have taken your fathers’ gloves with you for this particular cleanup, they would only have been ruined. But as you slowly teetered back to your basket you thought your future self might thank you if you cleared the path a little, and your hands were still a bit scratched up from your earlier panicked grab.

So you dumped your pile on the ground, thoroughly wiped your hands, put the gloves on, noted and admired the darkening sky for a while, and turned back to the pond.

There was a horse in the water.

It was a lovely white, lounging among the lily pads as though it had always lain there. There was an odd shine to its face that suggested it had just dunked its head underwater, you could even see some algae stuck in its mane. It gave off a strange sense of familiarity – this horse was undoubtedly a friend.

Its soft blue eyes just barely peeked up above the water’s surface, facing you head-on, and though you shouldn’t be you felt unsettled. There was an unease that came with the certainty of its good intentions. It had you rooted to the spot, unsure of most everything, so you just stared at it in bewilderment.

This horse did not belong to anyone in the area, you were sure of it.

Then it stood up and broke your impasse. It moved slowly and heavily, bespeaking a familiar strength you were used to from lumbering draught horses. The water around it barely even rippled, just seemed to part for it in advance.

It was headed straight for you. The first snap of fallen reeds was what finally broke you out of your stupor and you quickly stepped back. You hadn’t encountered many wild animals in your life, but mother had made sure to impress on you the importance of never crowding any one, regardless of size.

Unfortunately the horse seemed to not have been taught this lesson. You were moving away slowly, unwilling to turn your back, and its long legs meant it was catching up to you fast. You decided to accept your fate.

It was even larger up close. You made sure to look just to the side of it and anxiously twisted your fingers in your clothing. Aside from a slight tremble you were stock-still when you felt the first hot breath hit your face.

Its muzzle was velvety. It was nudging you, those puffs of hot air tickling you and displacing small hairs. You absent-mindedly admired the gradient of grey on the snout and its softly tapered ears, though you still dodged eye contact in your apprehension.

At a particularly harsh huff you chuckled lowly, out of genuine amusement and a desire to test its limits. The horse remained calm, it mostly seemed curious, and so you took a deep breath and lowered your shoulders.

You wanted so badly to move up a hand and pet it, but your gut told you to just wait this out. So you did. You waited and let the horse investigate, watched its ears and flank and feathering that still glistened with water, and grew increasingly fond of the creature as you stood there.

The warmth it radiated was more than welcome in the quickly chilling evening air, but it was also a reminder of the passage of time. It was late, and climbing up the hill would be no easy task in the dark. So even though you didn’t want this moment to end, you stepped away once again.

The horse looked at you, head slanted to the side and eyes oddly intelligent, and didn’t follow this time. You felt almost compelled to step back to its side, warm and comforting, but your eyes snagged on the gloves on your hands and thoughts of a worried father brought you back to reality.

You moved around it in an arc, giving it space to move away, but looked back when you reached its hind end and found it looking back at you, ears pricked forward in interest. Careful not to startle it and wary of its legs, you fully extended your arm and stroked its sloped croup in farewell.

A strange and childlike delight filled your chest when it snorted and lowered its head with a little shake. It seemed to have understood the gesture for what it was as it trudged away, flicking its wavy tail.

You gathered your stuff with a stupid grin on your face, it only fading with a pang of regret when you realised you wouldn’t have the time to clear the path. That would be first on the list next time, then.

This had been fun. Getting your hands dirty somewhere other than the farm was invigorating in a way you hadn’t expected. And with a bit of luck your companion might show itself again.

You came home sweaty and excited, munching on the lunch you had completely forgotten about during the day. Your father indulged your tales with a gentle smile and questions at just the right time, and your sleep was content and filled with dreams of waterlilies.

To no one’s surprise you went again the next week, earlier in the day this time. Your previous cleanup had wiped you out completely, body tired and aching, and you’d only just managed your daily tasks. But now you were raring to go, energy levels back to normal.

You started with the path of felled reeds, methodically ripping out any that were still rooted. Your previous pile of mush was gone, which was a shame. Your father had indicated he might find a use for detritus, and though you’d been a bit sceptical you were happy to indulge.

When you felt a presence at your back you smiled happily, and even at the risk of looking foolish you started talking to the assumed horse. You kept your voice low and soothing, discussed nothing of importance and enthusiastically agreed whenever it made a noise.

After a little while of patiently standing behind you it evidently decided enough was enough and levelled some more of the reeds, carefully shouldering past you as it made its way into the pond. There it splashed around a bit as you worked up a sweat.

It was nice to have the company. The horse was lovely to look at whenever you got out of breath, its coat shimmering in the sun and the mystery of its strange eyes fun to ponder. It even seemed to understand what you were doing, moseying over and yanking on some reeds with its teeth.

It didn’t do much, they were so slippery even you had difficulty getting a good grip, but it got a startled laugh out of you and this was apparently reason enough for it to keep trying. You took pity on it after a short while and moved on to the next task, chucking off your shoes to join it in the pond.

As you made your way into the water you considered the nagging unease you felt whenever the horse moved away.

You’d wanted to dip your toes from the start, it had even been the plan before your fateful meeting last week. You were in no danger, and so you continued on your chosen path.

It was interesting though. The horse was strange, that much was obvious. It moved just that bit too silently, and you had never seen such glassy blue eyes in an animal that could still see. And there was a tugging in your soul, telling you things you already felt but slightly to the left.

You weren’t usually this moved by gut instinct, which was the main oddity really. Surely nothing you couldn’t handle.

All of that was forgotten in the pond. You and the horse played around, splashing and nudging and clearing up. It was remarkably effective at weeding, though it also had a penchant for eating healthy plants.

You even dared touch it without gloves, very casually stroked its neck and shoulder when you got the chance. It was softer than you’d imagined, coat silky and strong muscles rippling under your hand. You wondered how long it had been without human contact when it leaned into you, seemingly unaware of its own size.

It was difficult to tear yourself away from its side.

Time got away from you very quickly after that, as you alternated between weeding, petting and generally splashing about. When the soil and your toes grew icy cold you looked up to find the sun was already down, so focused had you been on your patch of pads.

Your companion had left some time ago, as it had done for short periods throughout the day, so it seemed you wouldn’t get to say a proper farewell. You only hoped it had simply decided to leave on its own terms, and wouldn’t come back to find you gone.

You stood up and stretched your arms up high, taking a moment to admire the evening sky. The sickle moon had already been visible during the day, now the thin silver crescent was due to set any moment.

As you waded out of the water you found your feet were far too dirty to put your boots on, so with barely contained glee you decided to walk back barefoot. Father was always strict about wearing footwear, but you had a good excuse.

You softly hummed under your breath as you gathered your things and looked around one last time, hoping to catch a glimpse of the horse. You were rather curious where it went off to – if it spent its nights outside, under the stars, or had a home to get back to.

It took you a while but you thought you spotted a familiar blurred shape over by the lake, so you decided to make a slight detour. As you moved closer you found your suspicion had been right, and you felt some pride at being able to recognise it from a considerable distance.

Your pride promptly shifted to terror when the horse walked straight into the water.

You knew this shore – there was a steep drop down only a few meters in, part of the reason you’d been warned never to swim there. You let out a strangled shout in your bewilderment and stumbled into a panicked run, not thinking past the need to get to it.

Luckily it heard you. It stopped moving and looked back at you, eyes patient and ears relaxed – seemingly just waiting for you to join. You cursed it in your mind’s eye as you desperately splashed into the water, only hoping you were strong enough to get it to move back to shore.

When you reached it you put your hand on its croup once more, the spot you always used to steer the working horses, and tried to soothingly pat it. Your hands were shaking horribly from a combination of adrenaline and cold, but –

Your hand was stuck.

You stared in shock at this incomprehensible turn of events, dread violently taking hold of you. Your hand was glued to its coat, you weren’t imagining things. No matter how you tried to pull it seemed to only sink further into the suddenly adhesive hairs; had its coat always been this thick?

The horse snorted softly and your head snapped up, eyes wide in panic, fear only increasing when it looked ahead at the dark water. It stepped forward and you stumbled along, completely mute and embarrassingly pliant.

You sagged in relief when the horse stopped just before the drop-off, turning back and nuzzling at you. You half expected it to lift its lip and reveal razor-sharp teeth, but instead you had to tear your eyes away when you noticed the weird angle of its neck. With your heart in your throat you murmured nonsensical reassurances.

Then it nudged your hand, and just like that you found you were released.

All you could do was stand there, stunned, as the horse slipped down into the deep.

You came home tired and shivering, unwilling to tell your father what had happened. He might have had his suspicions and worries, but he only made sure you ate a hot meal and slept soundly. When you checked on the animals the next morning you found them well taken care of and promptly went back to bed.

Despite what had happened you needed to go back. You dodged more of your fathers questions and didn’t dare ask the apothecary what and if she knew, decided you were unable to gather information without causing unrest. There was no surefire way to predict consequences, but you felt strongly that discretion was in order.

You almost missed your fathers growing apprehension, but when you next asked to go to the pond it was unmistakably there. He didn’t deny you, perhaps more aware of the rift it would have caused than you were at the time.

So you went, sure to show your father the red twine around your wrist before you left, and whenever the horse showed you wore your gloves. It hadn’t changed its demeanour and, as luck would have it, didn’t seem particularly keen on dragging you under, so you slowly unwound again.

You had wondered just how intelligent the presumed water spirit was, considering how purposeful the reveal of its nature had been. Over the next weeks it behaved like a normal horse however, if a bit more careful with touch, so you chalked it up to the intellect you often saw in animals.

Summer changed to autumn and your cleanup was done, but you regularly went down to sit at the pond’s edge on your way back from town and admired the bright yellow waterlilies. The horse kept you company, always a welcome warmth at your side.

The gloves came back off. It was inevitable really, fear over what could happen had never been strong enough of a deterrent for you. You obediently took them with you still, to give your father some peace of mind.

The red twine stayed, for whose sake you weren't sure.

When your hands started trembling it didn't come as much of a surprise, though you were far too young. It was odd not to have your mother there for what like such a fundamental change in yourself. Any version of you she pictured would be steadyhanded.

You tried to imagine how her hands would have changed and found you couldn’t.

Your world shrank again, slowly but surely. You couldn’t walk the same distances you once had, energy zapped in a way that was frighteningly familiar in hindsight, and you were lucky to make it to the settlement once a week. Before long father was the healthy one in the household.

A child from a sizable family came to live with you, to aid on the farm whenever needed, and after a few months of miserable existence you begrudgingly accepted that things would only get worse from here. So you officially excused yourself from obligatory housework and tried your best not to get snippy with what in your most cynical moments felt like the spare heir.

You fled whenever you could, anything to avoid the hushed whispers during the apothecary’s visits and the melancholy look on your father’s face. Soon the pond was the only place you could reach, the horse your main companion.

Father asked you not to stay out too long during winter, but more often than not you’d sneak out well into the night. The moonlight would guide your slow journey down the hill, and as you walked down you’d see your friend move the now well-trodden path to the pond.

There you’d meet, and with a content snort it would lay down next to you, and you would press yourself into its side where you stuck like glue, finally rid of your full body tremor.

One moonless midwinter night the horse nudged you further onto its back, ever so gently, as it made to stand up.

You moved to lay with your arms around its neck in a warm hug, desperate to ward off the cold creeping into your very being.

And so, with full trust, you melded into one.

There was a song in the air.

It was sweet and sorrowful and heavy, and it couldn’t be, because he was in a crow’s nest and the wind should have whipped away any sound before it reached him.

Being up there hadn’t been the punishment it was meant to be so far, seasickness yet to reach him, but now there was a sudden lurching in his gut. He swallowed down a horrid mixture of bile and cold air and clutched the railing, the splintered wood grounding in its familiarity.

His frozen fingers fumbled for his spyglass and he hastily scanned their surroundings, but there was nothing so see – the shoreline was still dark and far and tranquil, no movement there. No other seafarers around either.

The moon was low on the horizon, its reflection a thin strip on the wide ocean. The night was bright, easy to navigate, and he once again cursed his lot. One of the younger ones should’ve been up there.

His head whipped around when he thought he saw something – there, a shape in the water, near the ragged rocks closer to shore. He squinted, forgoing the spyglass in favour of keeping an eye on it – if it was a spirit it could disappear any moment.

There was a shuffling and low shouting down below, his fellow sailors undoubtedly roused by the siren song. Though he’d been at sea most of his life he’d never had an encounter himself, only heard the tall tales – he was suddenly grateful to be up here, to not be in the midst of the dogged determination to get away.

He whistled low under his breath in hopes of a good air current, but to his horror the tune shifted and melded into the one on the wind.

At his wits ends he sank down, unable to stop whistling and unable to do much else. His palms burned from where he’d scratched them on the futtock shrouds on his way up and it was a peculiar thing to focus on, but that’d hurt like hell if he ended up in the briny water.

The song had turned harrowing in its grief, and when he heard a horrible shrieking underneath him he knew they were doomed.

The village is the same as it has always been.

You marvel at the way time seems to stand still here as you move down the cobblestone road. Even the shop is offering the exact same saddle pad you bought a few months ago, though the windmill seems a bit more quaint now that you see it with fresh eyes.

The beehives are abuzz, the sun is warming your skin and you don’t think you’ve ever been so happy to be somewhere. You knock on the green door in your usual pattern, and you’re greeted with a bright smile pretty much immediately.

“Well well, look who’s finally back!” Pamela says as she ushers you in, apron covered in flour.

“Just in time, apparently. Apple pie?” You neatly place your shoes by the door and shuffle past her into the kitchen, where you’re welcomed by the delicious smell of cinnamon and sugar.

“Hmm, had to make good use of my first batch. I had the craving of a lifetime yesterday. Stick around for 15 minutes and you’ll get a slice.”

“I could do with some comfort food,” you say as you sit down with a heavy sigh, “and in the meantime I’ll get right to the important stuff, if you don’t mind.”

“Yes, we probably should,” Pamela says, tone subtly shifting. “I was worried you’d have difficulty finding your way back, G.E.D. have been spreading out across the entire mountainside.”

“Yeah,” you say with a wry smile.

“Ah,” she hums, “of course. Couldn’t go through Stormgarden, huh? Jian locked the gates a few months ago to keep them out, kind of forgot that happened after you left.”

You look at her imploringly, and though she rolls her eyes there’s a kindness to accompany the teasing edge in her voice when she continues.

“I’ve only spoken to Ming Yue a few times, she spends most of her time over in the fields or at the old house. I just bring them supplies when needed and make sure they’re really all right. It’s a bit awkward talking through the fence, and I’m not acrobatic enough to attempt a break-in.”

“Fair enough,” you huff. The walls are higher than they look, and some of the stones deceptively loose. “Anything exciting happen, other than that?”

“Not really. I just held the fort down as usual, while you were off doing whatever it is you do,” she says with a sly look. Pamela knows not to pry, but she never turns down a riddle or allusion either.

“Things went surprisingly smoothly,” you concede with a tired but satisfied grin, a bit shy to be the sole messenger of a group’s effort.

“Oh!” her eyebrows shoot up, “well that’s news worth celebrating!”

Pamela bustles around the house for a bit, getting you a drink and an assortment of gifts she’s made you in the time you were away; candles, honey balm and your favourite hand soap, which she gathers up in a picnic hamper.

You sit and bask in it for a moment, the safety of lounging in your friend’s cozy kitchen, and let it sink in that you really did succeed, and now you’re home. A home beset by G.E.D., yes, but that’s a problem you’ll solve another day.

Pamela gives you a plate with the best apple pie you’ve had in months and you exercise the restraint of a lifetime by not just wolfing it down.

“Anyway,” you say through a mouthful, “how’s good old Diogenes?”

“Being his usual grumpy self. He disappears into the swamp daily, gets back covered in insect bites and mucus. He’s not camping out though, so if you’d like you can just crash in my guest room.”

You consider her offer, despite your first instinct to politely decline. Hayden’s place is nice enough, but also really just one big room. There’s not a lot of privacy, which is fine when he’s away, but gets bothersome for both of you when he’s constantly in and out.

Your mind is made up. “That might be nice actually, your place is probably the homeliest option I’ve got.”

“I try,” Pamela laughs.

“And succeed gloriously,” you nod sagely.

With that you get yourself settled, putting your meagre belongings away and quickly washing off the dust from your travels. When you get back to the kitchen Pamela has gotten started on a vegetable stew to last the next few days, so you help her cut some and chat a bit more.

Frederik’s campaign against swamp water is still going as strong as it did when you left, which is to say not very, and there’s been a bit of hubbub around a new vet that moved in, a refugee from old Hillcrest apparently. Pamela has slowly been getting to know her and thinks she’s a good candidate for CHILL, what with the obvious grudge over what happened to her home.

Pamela’s clearly excited for you to meet her, but also tactful enough to realise you’ve got plenty on your mind.

You excuse yourself early in the evening, only to restlessly sit in your dark and silent room. After you’ve spent entirely too long zoned out you reach for your bag and blindly grab your red string, twining it around your fingers and untwisting it again in a calming little ritual.

On a short trip to the bathroom you catch a glimpse of the waning moon, and the sight lures you out into the cold night. You want to burn some energy – besides, no one other than Hayden tends to be out at this time, which means there’s no one to scold you for unwise decision making.

You set a brisk pace and keep fiddling with your string, unwilling to part with it if you don’t have to. Without thinking you walk up the hill to Stormgarden and are faced with a closed gate, as expected.

For a few minutes you just stand there pathetically, staring into the dark, then turn around and stomp back the way you came, eyes burning with something you can’t put in words just yet. You need to move.

And you do. You wander, not caring where your feet take you, so of course you end up in the forsaken swamp without even the excuse of a wisp having lured you.

You’re miles from town now, and there’s a noticeable shift in the air. It’s humid and stale, a heavy fog curling around the weeping willows as if trapped underneath them.

It’s comforting though. It’s like a blanket around you, pressing in, accompanied by a wall of noise – random splashes, croaking frogs and a low buzz from flying insects. The night doesn’t feel so lonely like this.

You heave a sigh and with sore arms dab at the sweat gathered on your face, settling against the trunk of a tree that’s leaning dangerously over the river. The entire bank is covered in reeds but there’s a bit of a gap here, and you blankly stare out into the wetland.

It gets harder to keep your eyes open after a while – you’re honestly not sure whether you’ve nodded off or not. Your string almost slips out of you hand, so you make sure to tie it around your wrist and triple-check the knot with bleary eyes. You wonder if she still has hers.

You dazedly jerk up when there’s a hollow snap just on the other side of the river. You just glance over, ready to dismiss it as a figment of your overtaxed brain’s imagination, but do an incredulous double take when you see a fucking horse.

It’s got a long shaggy coat, a pure shimmering white heavy and dripping with water. You’re hit with a wave of worry when you realise it’s way too thick for this time of year, the poor thing must be overheating. No wonder it dipped into the relatively cold waters, an array of aquatic plants comically draped over its back the definitive proof.

You’re shaken out of that specific worry when you take a closer look though; there’s a sickly green tint to either its undercoat or skin, you can’t really tell, but it looks wrong – and then it turns its head, and moonlight glints off empty blue eyes.

You freeze, breath caught in your lungs and heart hammering in your chest. You’d counted on a mere wisp at most, this is something far worse. Your eyes meet.

Its sclera turn inky black and it fluidly lunges back, thundering into the river without making so much as a splash – the water simply opens up to swallow it into its depths.

“What the fuck,” you whisper, so softly the volume barely rises above the sound of your own uneven breathing. Then for good measure you whisper it once more, with feeling.

And then, of course, your reckless spirit overtakes you and you sidle down the river bank. You blame your fried brain and the undoubtedly dangerous swamp fumes, but really you just have to know, have to touch the water in the hopes it’ll somehow ground you in reality.

You crouch with a flinch at your loudly creaking knees, and blink in awe when you look up and find the change in angle has suddenly shifted the moon into view once more. It peeks through the clouds and bathes the water in light, so bright compared to the surroundings it has you squinting to adjust.

You still can’t reach. So you scooch forward, hands slipping on the warm mud behind you, and try again. Your fingers lightly brush the moon’s reflected light, make it ripple. The water is cool and soft to the touch, and you put your flat palm on the surface as if to stroke it, loose end of the makeshift bracelet around your wrist dipping below the surface.

Then the moon disappears behind a cloud and you flinch, bodily jerk back from the glassy water because there’s pale round eyes staring back at you.

It’s just there, silently floating right where you had your hand, a dark shape with its lip pulled back over glinting needle-teeth.

You scramble back up the riverbank, foot slipping and water rushing into you shoe, and you don’t look back once you’re on the road. You clutch the wrist with your damp red string tied around it and dig your thumb into the pulse point, match your breath to the stupid squelching of your boot.

You stare at the moon as you march back home.

The next morning you’re notably absent-minded, Pamela has to bump you out of the way several times as she prepares for a visitor. The vet, you think, the name went in one ear and out the other when she told you during breakfast.

Camilla, apparently. Pamela insists on having lunch outside, so the three of you settle down on a big plaid picnic blanket underneath her apple tree. You force yourself to snap out of your dazed mood, because the spread is absolutely lovely; a lot of effort has gone into this.

You chit-chat for a while, stick to safer subjects. Pamela masterfully redirects any questions about your whereabouts for the past months, for which you’re grateful. The main distraction is goat’s cheese, surprisingly – you spend maybe half an hour discussing grazing options for hypothetical goats.

You only slip up once.

“The weather’s finally reached a point where I might risk a dip in the lake later,” Camilla says, theatrically fanning herself, “I’ve never been one to swim, but at this point I’m desperate to cool off, if even just a bit.”

You balk in a horribly obvious manner and Pamela shoots you a baffled look, but luckily picks up the slack immediately.

“Not a good idea, we don’t swim in these waters,” she cautions, voice stern in that way only Pamela can be.

“Why not? It looks just fine to me,” Camilla says worriedly, side eyeing you – which, yeah, fair. You’re mentally reconciling what happened last night with what you know of the area, so quite frankly you’re miles away.

“There’s a dumping ground for G.E.D.’s toxicity just past the lake,” Pamela says, unable to resist the snide pun. “Their, ah, actual toxic waste, I’m afraid. Likely leaks into the lake as well, best not risk it.”

“Oh,” Camilla says, “but don’t you have your animals graze nearby?”

And just like that you’re back to animal husbandry and grass quality. As the picnic winds down you only barely manage to conceal just how badly you want to be alone for a while.

You help clean up and affirm Pamela in her decision to induct Camilla, managing to sound convincingly enthused about her vast knowledge when it comes to both human and animal health. And you do mean it; you’re just really not in the right headspace to be social.

You find an out by telling Pamela you’d like to visit Hayden today. She’s always glad to, in her words, let you drag him out of his shell a bit, so she send you on your way with a pot of honey to butter him up.

To your surprise you actually encounter him – he’s on his way back home, packed like a beast of burden, and you manage to corner him on a bridge to lend some credence to your excuse.

“Hmpf, you’re back,” he says, and it’s more of a welcome than you were counting on.

“Since yesterday,” you answer his unasked question. It’s always best to be brief, spare him the socialization neither of you are very keen on. “How is the marsh today? Calm waters?”

He hums and eyes you shrewdly, gaze drifting down to your one muddy boot, and you’re suddenly hit with the suspicion that he knows.

“Calm, yes,” he mumbles. “But the waters here have never been safe, not even back in my day.”

With that he shoulders past you, clearly done with the conversation, and mutters a last little “youth”, just loud enough for you to hear and fondly huff a laugh.

You continue on your set path, not even all that surprised when you see a white shape over by the moon spring, half submerged in the water. Its feathering is idly flowing around its legs, its ears twitching restlessly.

Water doesn’t part for you the way it does for the creature, so there’s some unceremonious sloshing when you wade in to stand beside it. You twiddle with your string, twine it around your fingers.

The horse looks back at you, something wild and imploring in its gaze, and though everything in you screams that you really shouldn’t –

You slowly reach out.

#sso #star stable online #ssoblr #ssoblrbigbang2024 #sso fic #Go check out the art and give it all of the love and appreciation it deserves!

53 notes · View notes

minsarasarahair · 5 months

Text

Reasons why you must watch Shao Nian Ge Xing donghua (Me trying to convince people)

Its free. You can bingewatch it in Youku animation or Bilibili youtube channel with english subs. Its very accessible for international watchers.

Its ongoing and has already 3 related donghua. Aside from main story, you have the assassins' own spin-off and prequel about uncles' youth story.

Its a must watch if you like handsome characters, and bromance. Like I feel Xiao Se and Wuxin look gayer in the donghua. They have a scene in the donghua that was deleted. It just means it look too gay so they deleted it. I remember watching that scene but I can't find that particular scene anymore. I'm definitely not delusional because they still show that scene in the donghua opening visuals. Its very real and not figment of my imagination.

One of the good coming-of-age Wuxia donghua out there. The fighting scenes are so good. You can really feel that they are powerful characters. If they are a threat or a veteran, that's definitely the aura they gave you.

Did you know the drama adaption used the storyboard of the donghua for the earlier episodes and the donghua's theme song? Meaning the donghua is that good if the storyboard and theme song can be use again. It has great useable value and donghua has established good reputation.

Dark River in the donghua is so good in terms of character designs and compelling complex agenda. They have the coolest character introduction ever.

Xiao Se in the donghua is more sassy, has older friend vibe and has attitude problem. The drama tone it down, of course. His facepalm, the way he squint, his droopy eyes and the way he raise his eyebrows are very entertaining to watch.

They don't force the romance in your face. They slowly introduce Qianluo as Xiao Se's love interest and at the same time they show how the characters have great brotherhood with his friends. I think I ship the bickering dynamic of Qianluo and Xiao Se in the donghua but never in the drama.

The battle of the 3 Princes in donghua is like a cautious chess game. It don't feel like a fight between 3 siblings but more like a fight among 3 ambitious people who know their own goals. Their drama version is more straightforward. The emperor is still biased for Xiao Se so even if they are against Xiao Se, I can't help but sympathize with them.

They have strong female characters. Yes, they are the love interest but they have their own story to tell and can stand out on their own as characters. For example, Ye Ruoyi actually want Xiao Se to join the battle for the throne because she support him even if she's also Lei Wujie's love interest.

The 3D animation is quite decent. I actually watched this before so I can get used to 3D donghua as preparation for SVSSS donghua. As my first 3D donghua, this is definitely a good experience.

Its a good mix of court politics and jianghu politics. If you ask why jianghu play a big role in the story, the King of Langya(Xiao Se's uncle executed because of a crime accusation) is like a bridge to Jianghu and Palace. Since the emperor ordered to kill him, it heavily affected the jianghu because that's like their friend and you killed him so they obviously felt betrayed. Xueyue city is protective of Xiao Se because he's close with his uncle and he questioned the emperor's decision back then that resulted him being exiled and assassinated that destroyed his martial arts core.

#shao nian ge xing #blood of youth #great journey of teenagers #youth and the golden coffin #donghua #wuxia

34 notes · View notes

triple-starsss · 3 months

Note

I just got here and I love the art and au btw! Very creative:) but I have a question are any ships envolved? Or are they just 3 guys chillen in their house/apartment just wanna know

THANKS!!! and yup we got a couple ships in the au but they're mostly for less prominent characters

there's blazamy, vectilla, espilver if you squint reaaaally fucking hard, geraldoom because i think they're funny and wavouge but that hasn't been mentioned all that much

there's also sonjet but they're exes in the au so its more or less just them bickering all the time abshhfd

overall shipping is very lowkey when it comes to the story so if i ever mention it its most likely for a joke BAJSDHF

#HAD TWO ASKS IN A ROW ASKING ABOUT SHIPS CRAZY #but yeah it is NOT the focus of this au #asks #triple☆s #t☆s txt

31 notes · View notes

kukurykunapatyku · 4 months

Text

[I.D.: Drawing of Usopp and Vinsmoke Niji from One Piece. They're both seen from the side, circling around each other, Usopp is aiming his slingshot and Niji is brandishing an electrified sword. Usopp wears sniper king mask, red cape, green pants, brown shoes and blue-white arm warmers. Niji wears black cape with blue '2' on it, blue costiume and yellow-blue boots, he's smirking. /End I.D.]

Vinsmoke shipping week day 4: Red string / Hero x Villain

The neferious Germa group is terrorizing the streets, but fear not, because the great Sniper King is here to save you!

Strawhats are semi-superhero team. Luffy doesn't care about crime, it just happens that bad guys usually target his friends for some reason. Nami somehow convinced him to at least cover his face when they beat up guys on live television.

Niji gets a crush on two people at once and tries to deal with it in completly normal matter - by proving they're actually the same person (he's right).

⬇️Fanfic under readmore⬇️ also on Ao3

Niji carefully pinned the photo next to the others. He frowned, adjusted two more to fit the rest better and stepped back to admire his work. Photos, bus schedules, discarded papers, shard broken off the Sniper King mask, piece of fabric - all gathered together. There was just one thing to do and his board would be complete. He grinned, pulled out a ball of red yarn and began connecting the pins until they formed one massive web of evidence. And like a spider ready for dinner, he finally found that one fly that was pulling at its strings, and come to the single possible conclusion.

"And why, pray tell, do you think one of your regular customers is part of the superhero team? The one that always thwarts father's plans no less?"

"Don't you see?" Niji slammed the board. "It's all here!"

"All I see is an, admittingly ambitious, art project made of coincidences and stalking tendencies."

"Listen, it's too much to just be a coincidence, at this point it's proof."

Ichiji sighed and closed the book he was reading.

"Fine, lets indulge you. What proof?"

"First of, they drink the same coffee - both take exactly two sugar cubes, one puff of cream and two pumps of caramel syrup."

"Why do you know how Sniper King takes his coffee?"

Niji looked at him like he was stupid

"Because I asked him? He's my nemesis, I need to know those things."

"Your nemesis?" Ichiji stuttered. "Since when??"

"About two months ago; we were picking them, don't you remember? You took the witch."

Ichiji tapped his fingers on the table. That didn't sound right, he was sure if something like this happened he would have remembered. If they did it there must have been a purpose, but what? Battle strategies? Did father know? Was Ichiji supposed to tell him? And he picked the Weather Witch? What on earth could Niji be talking about-

Suddenly very tired, Ichiji put his hand on his face and slowly pulled it down.

"Niji. We played 'Fuck, Marry, Kill' about the Strawhats. How did this turn into nemesis thing?"

"Ain't that the same thing? Anyway, we're getting off track." He pointed at the blurry photo of a dark alleyway. "See?"

"See what?"

"Argh, do I have to do everything here? Look, here, it's Sniper's cape!"

Ichiji leaned forward and squinted. True, in the left corner, near the bins, there was something that could be a fragment of red fabric. Or an unlucky rat.

"I followed Usopp one evening and I lost him somewhere here," his finger followed one of the red lines until it reached a cutout of city's map, with big circle drawn in the middle of it. "But I'm sure he didn't walk much further, because he was carrying four of those babies." He tapped on the stock picture of an ice-cream package. "There were other shops on his way and he only stopped to buy them here." Next map had a red cross slapped on it. "Which means he was probably coming closer to home. Other stores in the neighborhood are over there, there, there and there. Since he didn't visit those, he must live somewhere before the road could reach any of them, or he would have just buy ice-cream there."

Niji looked at his brother expectantly. "See now?"

Ichiji blinked a few times. That was impressive recon work, and he could probably agree with him... If he knew what point he was even trying to make.

"So... you think the coffee guy lives somewhere between these streets." He pointed at the marked portion of the map. "But what does it have to do with your theory?"

"Everything! I just showed you, I found a piece of Sniper's cape next to the houses there, it's evidence!"

Ichiji massaged his temples and counted to ten. Did he have to do this? He could just leave. Maybe call Yonji so Niji could bother someone else.

But then, a voice in his head said, you have no excuse if father suddenly decides he wants an audience to hear about another freaking death ray.

If he had to listen to his family's ramblings...

"It's just red fabric, it doesn't necessary mean anything. Plus, your guy could be going to his friends house, or a party. Four boxes of ice-cream is a lot for one person."

Niji waved him away.

"Oh no, I know Usopp will eat it. He once told me he can do even five if he puts his mind to it. Calls it his 'depression repression' meal. And!" He pulled a clipped cloth Ichiji failed to notice before. "Sniper doesn't use any shabby materials! His cape is waterproof, fireproof, really hard to rip and can even withstand acid for a while. And guess what? This piece I took from the alley is exactly that!"

Ichiji sincerely hated that he actually started to consider this. "Still, you can't be sure. A lot of people live there. Plus, if I was trying to hide my identity, I wouldn't throw damming evidence with my garbage. It's more likely, if it even is the same material, that it was thrown there by somebody passing by."

Niji sneered, annoyed that the argument actually made sense.

"We all are hiding our identity; why 'if'?"

"Father's hightech company is one letter away from just spelling his evil codename, we lost a member around the same time Sanji, very publicly, left the family and we barely cover our faces when we go out. Are we hiding our identities?"

"It's different, we're rich. We can do whatever we want and so one will accuse us."

"That just proves my point. I doubt Sniper can afford being find out, so he's probably more cautious handling his leftovers."

"Maybe he's rich too, you don't know that. I mean, he's not since I know it's Usopp, but. Well. Doesn't matter, because I have even more evidence!"

He gestured at another portion of the board, with two papers on it. One seemed to be a photo of Sniper taken in the middle of battle, even more unfocused than the others. The other was a printed selfie of darkskinned guy around 20 years old, with long curly hair and wide smile. But the first thing that caught attention was his- Oh no.

"As you can see," Niji gloated, "they have the same nose!"

Ichiji slammed his forehead on the table.

The twin bang could be heard across the city, in an unkempt apartment (that on paper was shared by five people, which really downplayed how many actually passed by it).

"For the last time Usopp, your favourite barista is not Dengeki Blue just because the hair match!

34 notes · View notes