#this project has been SO long in the works lol

[justmymindandstuff]

Can you do Aemond x f!reader? And the reader being a lot like Helaena (I'm projecting lol, I want an autistic reader basically). Just fluff between them, maybe newlywed?

Learn to Love you - Aemond Targaryen x WifeReader

summary: Aemond tries to understand his new wife, but you are too much like his sister. He can't get through to you. One evening he tries it with direct confrontation and is rewarded with a glimpse of you and hope for the future. After this evening his wife is not a complete stranger anymore.

words: 2.818

warnings: softAemond, a bit angst

a/n: based on the request above. Unfortunately it didn't turn out quite as fluffy as it should. I hope you like it anyway :) I'm not autistic myself and don't want to hurt any feelings with the portrayl of the Reader. I based her on Helaena in the show.

Gif not mine// English is not my first language// no use of Y/N // AO3 // not proofread// requests are open

Aemond moves quietly through the halls of his home. The Red Keep slowly goes calm. The sun has already set, and most have retreated to their private chambers. Aemond is tired and longs for his own chambers and his bed. He had spent the evening a little longer than usual talking with Ser Criston. The sworn shield of his mother and he had trained together in the courtyard in the morning. Criston had discussed a few improvements with him. If his sore muscles would allow it, Aemond would try out the improvements tomorrow. But before he can retreat for the evening, he still has a task to complete. He still has his evening visit with his wife to attend to.

His marriage is not really how he imagine it would be. It's been almost a week since you two got married. You've known each other for 10 days. When you arrived at the Red Keep and he saw you for the first time, he had been relieved. A pretty face and a friendly smile had greeted him. Aemond tried to get to know you and realized that you are more than just a pretty face. You are nice, polite, smart, well-read, but strange. Often you drift off into your own world. Captured by your thoughts. You will be in a place where Aemond cannot follow you. And he quickly realized that you can't stand it when he touches you.

During your wedding ceremony, you didn't touch him more than necessary. The touch of your lips almost triggered a panic attack for you. You tore your hand away from his. Aemond would have liked to hold your hand a little longer. On this night, he did not dare to lay with you. This didn´t change over the last week, so you are still a maiden. Not that Aemond has told anyone, and as far as he knows, you haven't said a word either.

Maybe it's because he is a stranger to you? Aemond doesn't really know what to do. He doesn't like the situation. But he also doesn't know how he should change it. His usual solution, Vhagar, will definitely not work here.

He tried to seek advice from his brother. I don't know. With Helaena, it was different. I knew her well before we got married. For your wife, you are just a stranger. Aegon is right but Aemond didn't know how to change that.

So he went to his mother. Give her time to get to know you.

Both pieces of advice only led him to visit you every evening and try to get to know you. However, you mostly sit there in awkward silence and do not look at each other. You still feel uncomfortable in his presence he knows this.

Arriving at your chambers, he takes a deep breath once more and steps inside. The room is still lit by a few candles. He closes the door and watches as you pace restlessly in front of the fireplace.

"You are later than usual." you say, stopping in your movement. Now that Aemond is here, the unrest fades a little. Still, it bothers you that he doesn't come to visit you during his usual time frame. It's actually almost time for you to call your maids so they can help you change and you can go to sleep.

“I apologize for being late.” Aemond says even though he doesn't understand why it bothers you. Have you already gotten your hopes up that he won't come today? You look at him for a moment and then nod.

Without saying a word, you sit down in the armchair by the fireplace where you sit every evening. Aemond takes off his sword belt and places his weapon next to the door. He had considered that it might make you nervous that he carries a sword with him. So he puts down his weapon every evening before he sits down with you. Fortunately, you know nothing about the dagger in his boot.

Aemond even had a dagger made for you as a wedding gift. A beautiful weapon, with a gracefully curved handle and on the blade, just before the hilt begins, is a small dragon embossed that is inspired by Vhagar. Aemond hasn't had the chance to give you this gift yet. He knows that you need to get to know him better in order to understand the thought behind it. You should always be able to protect yourself, in case he might not be able to someday.

He shakes off the thought and sits down in the other armchair next to the fireplace. You don't look at him, but into the flames. Just like every evening. When you start to speak in a quiet voice he almost flinches.

"Why are you later than usual?" your hands are playing with the fabric of your skirt. You haven't changed for the night yet. You´re never when Aemond comes into your chambers. Even your hair is still braided into tight braids. Aemond feels like a visitor in his wife's chambers.

"I discussed my training with Ser Criston. There were a few problems this morning," he replies honestly.

Your face shows no reaction as you respond. “Are you hurt?”

Are you worried about him? No. Why should you? He is a stranger to you. But he still worries about you even though you are a stranger to him. After all, you are married. He wished he could read your thoughts.

"No, I am not hurt. Even though I don't really want it, Ser Criston is always a bit cautious during training with me." he is trying to ease your worries. If you are worried. Again, he tries to read your expression, but your face remains still. Your only reaction is that you turn your head to look at him. The fire in the fireplace casts warm light on your profile and your skin shimmers almost like gold. Once again, Aemond notices how beautiful you are. You look at him, and your gaze prompts Aemond to continue speaking. "I don't want him to hold back because, in a serious situation, my opponent won't hold back either."

"Which serious situation?" you still ask in a quiet voice.

"I don't know. If my family is in danger." and then he adds quietly. "If you are in danger."

The corner of your mouth twitch slightly and you almost smile. Then you turn your gaze away again and look into the fireplace. Aemond suppresses the urge to reach for your hand in your lap. Silence spreads again between you. The uncomfortable silence causes a hot burning sensation in Aemond's gut. Still, he can't take his eyes off you. You seem a bit sad. He decides that it can't go on like this. Aemond has to swallow and gathers all his courage to speak again.

"You are not happy."

This time you turn not just your head towards him but your whole body. He is surprised when your gaze meets him and you look directly into his eyes. Rarely can you hold his gaze. Your eyebrows furrow slightly as you think. It takes a moment before you respond.

"No. No, it's just that it's hard for me. My father brought me here, and this is a strange place for me. All the people around me are strangers. I miss my family and my home. Everything I knew was taken away from me. I was used to everything at home. I had my routines and everything. It's hard for me to adjust to all these new things around me. But it doesn't have anything to do with you."

Aemond is surprised by your words and needs a moment to truly understand what you have said. Guilt overwhelms him. It is his fault that you were kidnapped from your home. Because you had to marry him.

"I'm sorry," he says. Now it is him who cannot withstand your gaze and he looks at his hands.

"I don't blame you." once again, you surprise him your voice is now a bit firmer. "It wasn't your decision to marry me. Just as it was not my decision to marry you. That was agreed upon by our parents." you sigh. "You are not happy either. And that is my fault. I know that I'm weird."

"No! I don't find you weird."

You laugh softly and at the sound Aemond's heart skips a beat. He is looking at you again, he wants to hear you laugh once more.

"You don't have to lie."

"I am not lying. I don't find you weird. You remind me of my sister."

Your eyes start to shine. "Hel. I like her a lot."

He feels a slight tug at his heart. Aemond knows that you usually spend your days in the company of his sister Helaena. He has seen both of you walking in the garden a few times or engrossed in conversation while eating. He would be lying if he said he wasn't jealous of Helaena.

"Yes, I know. Do you spend a lot of time with her?“

You nod. "Yes. I enjoy being with her." "What are you doing all day?"“ Aemond is clinging to every strand. Everything is better than this uncomfortable silence between you.

"Oh, very different things. Sometimes we read together, or she explains something to me about insects. Sometimes I read one of my poems to her. Or I’ll give her one to read."

Aemond is captivated by the sparkle in your eyes.

"You write poetry?" he asks, annoyed with himself for not knowing this about you, but Hel did. Your cheeks are slightly turning red, and for the first time, Aemond feels like he can read your emotions from your face.

"Yes, among with other things. I also enjoy reading poetry. My favorite poet is Marcus Hill. He writes incredibly well. My poems are not even close to being that good. But I don't just write poems, I also write short stories. This helps me organize my thoughts better. But I like most writing poems.“ you speak a little faster than usual, which reveals your excitement to Aemond. He can't help but smile at the sight. Now that you are passionately talking about your interests, you are even more beautiful.

Suddenly you jump up from your chair. Aemond's hand instinctively goes to where his sword's hilt usually is. In the next second, it becomes clear to him that there is no danger, and he relaxes again. You didn't notice anything because you turned away immediately and took a few uncertain steps through your chamber before turning back to him. Uncertain, your hands begin to play with the fabric of your skirt. You take a deep breath and then search for his gaze for a second before looking away again. Aemond leans forward a bit, tense with anticipation. Finally you start to speak. "Would you like to… I mean just if you want? You don't have to." You stop yourself, take a deep breath and gathering your thoughts. "Would you like to read one of my poems?" you ask softly.

Aemonds heart skips a beat and a pleasant warmth spreads within him. "Yes. Very gladly."

You nod, turn back around, and walk to your nightstand. You pick up a book with a leather cover and open it. Aemond notices from his seat that it is stuffed with written pages, and almost every book page is filled with your neat handwriting. You rummage through the loose papers and then pull out a page before you close the book again and carefully place it back in its spot. You are coming back to him.

"I wrote this on the day of our wedding," you say, handing him the sheet of paper. In that moment, your fingertips brush against his. The touch is so fleeting that Aemond is not sure if he might have just imagined it.

He turns his gaze away from you and directs it to the folded paper between his fingers. He wants to open it to read your poem, but before he has really moved his fingers, your hand shoots forward and holds his hand firmly. Aemond skin tingles and he lightly closes his hands around yours.

"No. Please don't read it here. That would be too embarrassing for me. Please read it later and tell me tomorrow what you thought," you say quickly. Aemond looks up again and directly into your eyes. He saw you that close for the last time on your wedding day in the sept. A shiver runs through his body and he can only nod. You also nod and allow him to briefly squeeze your hand before you pull back and sit down again in your chair opposite to him. He already misses the feeling of your soft skin under his fingers.

Aemond folds the paper with your face completely again and then puts it in the pocket of his shirt. Suddenly, this piece of paper is his most precious possession.

"Now you know something about me." you notice. Aemond can't gauge whether the fact bothers you or not. He hopes it  doesn´t. Before he can ask, you are already speaking again. "You like sword training. I could watch your training?” you suggest.

Aemond thinks about the training courtyard. About the loud clashing of the swords striking against each other, the sreams of the knights, the swearing and the rough manner of speaking among men. And then he thinks of you, his gentle, fragile wife. Sometimes the gentle background music that plays during dinner is too loud for you. You would hate it.

"No, this is not a suitable environment for you, my Lady. The men do not know how to behave in the presence of a princess." he explains.

"Oh."

Aemond sees how you stiffen a little again and turn your gaze back towards the fireplace. The fire is almost out. Aemond is afraid that the closeness he has found today will slip away from him again, and as a result, he starts to speak a bit too quickly.

"But if you want, I can join you on your walk tomorrow?" he is momentarily afraid that this will disrupt your routine, but you look at him again.

"Yes, that would be nice. I always take a stroll through Queen Alyssa's garden after afternoon tea."

Aemond must suppress a smile. He is, of course, well informed about your daily routine. Even though he hasn't really been able to talk to you until today, he has always kept a close eye on what you're doing. "I am happy to be allow to accompany you." his gaze falls on your hands folded in your lap, and once again, longing pulls at him to reach for your hand. "When we go for a walk. Would you allow me to hold your hand then? I know you don't like my touches. But...

"No. It's not your touches that I don't like.I don't like touches from anyone, regardless of who." you clarify things quickly. "But yes. I will allow it. I know about it know, so I can prepare myself for it. If I´m prepared I can hold your hand.”

This time Aemond cannot suppress his smile. A pleasant anticipation for tomorrow fills him and he feels as if he has made a significant step forward in his marriage today.

The ringing of the bell in the great sept makes you both flinch. Startled you look out the window, then you get up and walk through your rooms. "I have to call my maids and go to bed.It's already past my usual time."

Aemond quickly gets up as well and nods. Bad conscience about the fact that he disrupted your routine today weighs on him. He turns to the door and goes to his sword belt to put it back on. As he just fastens the buckle and turns to leave, you turn to him once more.

"Thank you, Aemond. Our conversation was good for me. I enjoyed it very much. I´m looking forward to our walk tomorrow and I'm curious to hear what you think of my poem."  and then you smile directly at him for the first time.

His heart starts to race immediately, and Aemond is sure that he has just fallen in love. Unconsciously, he places his hand on the pocket where he has put your poem. Then he returns your smile.

"Yes, I also enjoyed it very much. Good night, my Lady Wife. I will see you tomorrow."

"Good night, my Lord Husband.” you respond still with a smile on your face.  

Aemond nods briefly and then leaves your chambers. His steps are light, and he intends to speak with the steward first thing tomorrow morning so that he can arrange for the poet Marcus Hill to be invited to the Red Keep as soon as possible.

[soporificlily]

The progress I made on Midra, after like... what? Seven days? ugh I need help (╥_╥) I couldn't decide on the skin cuz like, yeah, the grey skin looks cool but then I thought he'd look too much like Goldmask, but then my partner just told me that it looked better grey and i agreee aaaaahhhh after looking at this dummy's face in the game he looks way fleshier than grey. Plus, he bleeds so like... his skin has to have redness to it, right? I'm taking a break from this one though. I need to work on another project or I'm gonna lose my mind.

More thoughts under the cut.

I started this project on the 16th I think and since then I've just figured out how to shade and color better so like, I put so much detail into the brooch thingy and then I wanted to go back and fix everything else so it would all look consistent, but it's taking wayyyy too long and I'm struggling with skin tones and stuff. I have no proper art training, I've just been figuring it out on my own. I don't even have the patience to watch videos lol so... It's taking too long, I think. Too long for one project... Maybe? Is this normal? I don't know, I'm just so frustrated that I can't manage to make it look like I want. I need to figure out the whole shading thing and color theory or whatever, even some anatomy.

AHHHHH how do people do this? I loved every second of it but god damn. My brain is melting. Also feel so guilty for spending so much time on this and not with my partner smh I haven't even played Elden Ring at all except to take reference pics (ಥ﹏ಥ)

[ii-zi]

sister tested positive last Friday & my father+me are symptomatic lol had a kitten fall ill for several days and literally just yesterday got better made 2 notebooks out of scraps + started painting mini painting in those tongue pushing wooden stick thingies as PT bc my hands are getting worse ever day but I've been lucky overall bc of a slight decrease of other like. Symptoms. Oh also my mother is Literally gaslighting me like she's outright stated multiple times already that I'm making up having been sick for months bc it's impossible and I'm crazy like. ????????????

[dragonherder2030]

Reblog to say sorry to your mutuals that you have been inactive

[emilysobservatory]

An original, non-fanart work?? Whaat?

Alright, so, here’s an animatic I made through SVA’s Continuing Ed course on Storyboarding. Been meaning to learn the principles & software of boarding for a while now, to see if it might be a worthwhile avenue to pursue, &to assess if I could actually shift art-making into my full-time job--?! &Thus, this is my first foray into that terrain. Thanks to my sister & her husband for voicing & for lending me the inspo of their ridiculous D&D misadventures!!

Now, sit back & tune in to...:

“One Froggy Funeral”

Join Naseem, Aluvian, and Tanzy on their latest quest through the Faewild Forest as they seek bounty! Glory! And! ...Some general direction in life. On today's journey, the two elves alongside their fairy muscle discover an abandoned tower and a felled hot air balloon. What might they find on the tower's peak...? Who is this "Talavar?" And, more importantly, can our heroes focus long enough to find out??

[cantquitu]

.

[sysig]

Up to shenanigans as always

[someobscurereference]

please use this ask as an excuse to infodump about any au/headcanon/personal project you might have wanted to tell folks about recently

Ooooh, this is a huge open book, anon. And I very much appreciate the platform to do it. Let's see what I have under my hat that (I hope) I haven't spoken about before...

Semi-Erased AU

This is the title I have for it in my documents because I got inspired from the anime Erased (and some asks ask I got like 2 years ago asking me who among the Trio I thought was older/younger that I can no longer find but I Never Forgot About), but it has almost nothing to do with the original anime/manga. I'm nearly 29K into it so far and not nearly done, lol. I will be shocked if I finish before the end of the year.

However! The basic premise is it's a modern AU where Inigo (just turned 16), Severa (14 at the start and then 15 later), and Owain (12 at the start but later 13) in Ylisse get visited in the dead of night by a strange wizard man (Anankos) who pops out of a portal and begs them for help. Anankos does not elaborate on what this help is or what the Trio need to do other than they need to decide Now, they're needed in Another Country, it's going to involve some Time BS (so don't worry about your parents noticing you're gone, kids!) and he's really, really earnest about it. Inigo, unable to say no to a man so desperate and really awed at the fact Holy Shit Magic Is Real, joins Owain (who wants Adventure so bad) and Severa (who wants to be Independent and why would she say no to this crazy magical opportunity??) in helping out this strange but earnest magic man.

...Which ends up with them getting portaled to Nohr in the dead of night, given fake names, a place to live, some money, etc., told to not contact their parents by any means, and oh, right, they're starting the school year in a few weeks. Good luck!

(Inigo: Wait, you're not staying?? Anankos: Only you can do this! Goodbye! Inigo: But what are we-- Anankos: *already gone*)

(Oh, and of course Xander, Camilla, Leo, & co. also happen to attend this fancy Nohr private school the Trio are sent to. Is this related to the mysterious task Anankos has set them on? Maybe!)

I have more written than this already (again, about 29K of it) but basically it's part slice-of-life coming-of-age, part teenage romance, part magical adventure, etc. Inigo, Severa, & Owain are two teenagers and a 12 year old living in this house with no parental supervision, and they are Not Friends at the start of this fic, lol. The circumstances would be hard even if they were besties going into this mess, but they're definitely not. They make friends (and crushes) with others! And rivals. And acquaintances. And their relationships with others (and each other) will change over the course of the fic! But they're not besties at the start, lol. Oh, and POVs alternate by the month! (Fic is divided into month sections. Ex: Inigo narrates August, Severa narrates September, etc. )

I have the general plan for why Anankos brought the Trio there, what's going to happen at the climax, how their relationships will change, etc. and a Bunch Of Notes for everyone's ages and background characters and whatnot. The plot just needs to be written out in scene format. However! Since it will be such a long time before it gets finished, here is some snippets from scenes that I have already written as a teaser :3

(1)

September

“Why is the ten-year-old balancing a checkbook?” Xander asked flatly.

“He’s actually twelve,” Laslow corrected as Owain swung his legs under the table and scratched another wobbly number onto the page. “He just looks young. Don’t worry. He does this all the time.”

Somehow, Xander looked even less impressed by this. Laslow—and how strange was it that he was still getting used to that name a full month after this whole endeavor had begun—had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing or otherwise commenting on Xander’s early developing wrinkles.

“Children should not be worrying about their family’s finances,” said Xander. “They—"

Wrinkling his nose, Owain blew a raspberry at them from the kitchen table. “I’m not a kid!”

(2)

August

The strange, inhuman Anankos came the evening before his sixteenth birthday in what Laslow—then Inigo—had graciously decided not to call a kidnapping.

Inigo had been in the middle of brushing his teeth when he heard a strange noise he could only describe as the sound of air being sucked out of a vacuum. He turned his head just in time to see a flash of blue light and watch a tall hooded figure step out of a rift in time and space in the middle of his bedroom.

He choked on the toothpaste and bent over the sink to cough white foam onto the porcelain.

“I’m so sorry for startling you,” said the hooded figure. “Please, drink some water.”

...

The hooded figure said, “Wait—”

“Dad!” Inigo called down the stairs, making the hooded stranger flinch. “Did you summon any ghosts or demons in the house recently?”

The reply was almost immediate—a returned shout up the stairs. “Nope! Your mother forbid that as of last month!”

There was a bit of shuffling on the first floor.

“Why? Is there a ghost or demon up there?”

Inigo looked over his shoulder and very seriously asked the figure, “Are you a ghost or a demon?”

The figure paused for a moment, as if that wasn’t a totally reasonable question to ask at this point. “No. I am… not either of those.”

Very reassuring.

“Just checking!” Inigo called downstairs.

“Alrighty! Let me know if that changes!”

“Will do!”

(3)

“Nice to meet you,” Keaton repeated. “This here is Fang, Shadow, and Casper.”

He pointed to the very large, very middling, and very tiny set of three dogs that had accosted Selena. All three of them perked up when their names were called.

She looked at the animals, a bit curious despite herself, and then point to the largest dog—a huge mutt with shaggy white hair who looked like it could easily fit Selena’s whole head in its mouth. “That one is Fang?”

“No, no.” Keaton pointed to the chihuahua. “She’s Fang. Shadow is the black one, and the big fellow is Casper.”

Fang looked like she weighed about three whole ounces soaking wet.

“…Okay,” said Selena.

(4)

“Hark! Who goes there?”

Other students leaving the school were turning their heads, looking for the source of the overly loud, barely-into-puberty voice. Selena’s stomach sank at the sight of the middle schooler standing at the bus stop.

Odin pointed at them dramatically. “Is that Selena of the fiery skies that I spy? Partaking the journey back home, are you? And who is this?”

“Oh!” Camilla startled, sounding horribly delighted. “Is this your little brother?”

People were still looking. A pair of teen boys ribbed each other, and one girl giggled to her friends, shooting glances between Odin and Selena.

She forced a laugh. “Haha! No! Absolutely not!”

“Selena and I do not share the bond of blood,” Odin sniffed.

“What a shame,” said Camilla, and she seemed genuinely regretful. “I have a little brother of my own. I thought they could be friends. Leo could use the company.”

“Leo?” Odin dropped the pose he was striking in surprise. “The same Leo who always has his head in a book? And goes to school here?”

Camilla brightened. “Oh, you know him? Do you share a class?”

[icharchivist]

this is why i always use hAve A greAt trip as an exemple of Banri and Yuki being good friends AND fashion buddies because they have SIMILAR TASTE IN FASHION. "stores for the brands WE like".

There's a lot of it in Into the Night too with how they both got involved in the competition because a new cloth store they liked was going to open and they wanted to go there TOGETHER because THEY LIKE SHOPPING TOGETHER for clothes, and they hammer it in a lot in Into the Night evne more so when they start to torture Itaru about him bringing them in even better clothes store they both agree on.

But here as well, they're in a foreign country and they want to spend this time TOGETHER because the two of them are on the same wavelength about it and like the same clothes stores and want to discuss it together and it's FUN for them. Especially considering at this point it's been established multiple times that it's something they like to do together.

Like it makes me really soft because when you look at the two of them you don't think they would have similar clothes tastes, but they respect each other's choices a lot and Yuki is generally extremely chill about Banri's opinions about clothes in a way he's not with anyone else. Because they care for each other's opinions on stuff and they value each other a lot.

If at this point Yuki had comments to do about Banri's clothes he would have done them by now.

They're good friends alright and their friendship means a lot to me.

[orcelito]

TFW I’ve already almost put “Nico” instead of “Goro” in my writing

Smh

[icewindandboringhorror]

I’ve barely made any progress on it since I rarely have time to get it out and start working on things, but I’m still trying to remodel that dollhouse from a while ago lol! Most of the rooms are like this one, in a kind of half-finished state where I have paint on the walls and stuff, but no details and no furniture, but I made the bed and finished one of the windows and put down some rugs, so this one actually seems like it’s taking shape. I still have to balance the colors (I think it will look more cohesive once all the furniture is in it?), but it’s improved from the original version so far lol. Two hours of progress is better than none! 

[unproduciblesmackdown]

Do you think we'll see more of Winston in this season of billions ?

well in last tuesday’s pac-man tattoo episode, during the tour of will’s dressing room there’s uhh definitely some kind of object up on the shelf? is it a box with a thank-you-alcohol? possibly? that will identifies as “a gift from my friends at billions, watch season four, i’m all over it” and he doesn’t seem to be like, sarcastic about it

plus apparently the direction the plot is going in means the random employees of taylor mason capital (which includes winston) are probably going to continue to be called upon to Do Important Things…it’s also already heartening that not only has winston continued to be around for more than one plot point, but has also been named for real instead of just being “quant kid 2.” i would truly be surprised if winston’s potential arcs here involved getting a boyfriend, but like, i can at least hope that the plot isn’t Cruel to him or anything. truly it seems like even the terrible main characters feuding with taylor and co. have some ethical scruples and so maybe nobody’s about to be murdered, but i don’t want winston to be set up as like, oh, this is a character the audience and the other characters aren’t wildly invested in so he’s expendable, maybe he’ll accidentally get in over his head thanks to naivete / inability to see the bigger picture until it’s too late, maybe he’ll be taken away from the company one way or another b/c so far he apparently really is an amazing asset to taylor and seemed to be a crucial element in taylor getting their own company in the first place. and now that that company is having further Big Complications maybe he’ll be called on again to work further wonders, but this time he’s not secreted away in the quant basement and so people might realize that he’s a Key Player and thus could be considered a weak point for a company that’s apparently already relying on a smaller staff and needs to take full advantage of every resource it has

tldr yes i do and they better not be mean to him :(

[j-esbian]

bro i swear to god. ever since i became cognizant of how cold my room is and how much it’s impeding me from. doing literally anything. it’s just gotten colder and colder.

now that i have plans to fix that and be warm again and i’m preemptively building motivation, it’s just exponentially frustrating

[cursedcola]

Synopsis: They say something hurtful to their s/o and make them cry 

Characters: Ace Trappola, Jade Leech, Leona KingScholar, and Riddle Rosehearts 

Warnings: This is MUCH longer than part one. 

Part (2/2)

Read the first half: here

{A/N: Hi everyone! Here’s the second edition, as promised! This took 3 sittings to write lol. Sorry for the boring formatting but I don’t think I have the guts to deal with tumblr today.} 

Ace Trappola 

Ace doesn’t have the guts to seek you out immediately

He’s too busy holing himself up in his room. Likely wasting hours laying down; either staring at the ceiling or tossing a baseball in the air. 

His braincells are working overtime (a very rare occurrence in his case), and he’s got the classic ‘Angel vs. Devil’ advocate on each shoulder 

Ya know, think Kronk from Emperor’s New Groove 

According to his Angel, you’re better off alone. He’ll just make things worse and that’s the last thing he wants. The best option is to let himself brood and you have your space. He can wait for you to come to him, and then he’ll apologize. He needs to reflect to be better for you.

As for his Devil, he’s pissed that you ran off without him in the first place. It whispers that the issue wasn’t big enough to warrant a scene. It was only some mindless teasing, and telling him off would have been better. 

It’s a game of tug-o-war between the two. Ace’s pride doesn’t want to admit that he’s in the wrong, and wants you to apologize to him. It wants to march over to Ramshackle, demand you talk to him, and to keep going like nothing happened 

The Devil nearly wins, but somewhere in the back of his mind the Angel has an ‘ace in the hole’. One holding back that sinful pride 

It says that this fight, while small on the surface, is one that would repeat itself if left alone. It’s not the first time Ace’s teasing has gone too far, and he knows it. He has always chosen to ignore it, thinking that you can handle it. He projected himself onto you in many ways, and that’s the real problem. 

If he wants you to stay with him, then it isn’t the teasing that needs to stop. It’s the projecting. He needs to try listening more and treating you like his partner rather than a friend with benefits. 

In the end, his Angel wins

Yet he is still Ace. Patience is not his virtue, so the Devil will have his advocate. 

The fool bolts to Ramshackle, ignoring the protests of his upperclassmen and his dorm’s curfew. Not wise, considering the punishment awaiting him, but he’ll deal with that tomorrow. 

For now, all Ace is concerned with is getting to you before he passes out or does something stupid again 

Without concern for your sleep schedule, he’ll bang on the door “Oi! Open the door (Y/N)! We gotta talk,” 

If you don’t respond, he’ll keep banging until you do. It will progressively get louder and he won’t let up for a moment. It is in your best interest to open it and let him in 

When you do choose to open it, you’ll find him a mess. He didn’t bother to clean himself up after his little existential crisis. 

Once inside, he at first gets cold feet. He initially planned this long ramble about how he would be better, but one look at you makes his thoughts become static 

In the end, all he can manage is to pull you into a tight hug. One he hopes conveys how sorry he is. For earlier, and for overlooking your feelings 

If you hug him back, he’ll calm down significantly. Ace won’t want to go back to his dorm in fear of riddle so perhaps offer him merciful refuge. Give him a glass of water and let him go wash his face. 

You can sentence him to the couch, or spend some time together. He’s okay with either, but you can’t go to bed just yet. Now that he’s calm, he’ll try to scrounge pieces of what he wanted to say earlier but couldn’t.

“Hey,” he starts, facing you with his characteristic determination, “I’m gonna be better. I don’t know how just yet, but that’s my problem to figure out. Just know that I'm gonna do better by you. The next time I make you cry, it’s going to be because you’re so damn happy and can’t help it. I won’t accept nothin’ else, alright?”

.......

Will you give Ace a second chance? 

Jade Leech 

Jade is not one to act on impulse. Every move he makes is done with intent.

Every word is weighed against all others in his vocabulary

Every step is taken considering the optimal route 

Every hour is maximized, even for personal affairs and hobbies 

Jade has always been this way ever since he was a child. How else does a person become so meticulous in everything they do? You noted his behaviors early on, surprising him.

Drawing conclusions based on past experience, deducing his nature should have labeled him as cold-hearted -unapproachable- in your eyes.

 Definetly not someone to be loved or admired 

Yet, you remained fond of him. Finding security in his planning and trust in his words. If he always chose his actions carefully, then he would never lie or hurt you. He found the refreshing point of view charming, agreeing with it.  

“Many may try to harm you, but I am the least likely to,” is what he said. However, even then his words were picked selectively. Even then, he secured himself. 

‘least likely,’ is not definite. If you noticed, which he is certain of, you had not commented and instead played along. 

That conversation had been months ago, yet Jade found himself reflecting on it more in one day than during the timespan between. 

After your argument, he had steeled himself to forget his emotions until your ‘situation’ was taken care of. He met with Floyd and Azul in the VIP lounge, quickly informing them of your whereabouts and why he would be working the night shift. 

As always, he spoke guarded. Only reassuring that you would not be leaving the dorm for the rest of the night and leaving out information on the ‘lovers spat’. Utterly useless, since Floyd and Azul knew Jade well enough to sense there was more. However, neither pried.  

Instead, they readjusted the system. Now Floyd would accompany you through the day, Azul would escort you home, and Jade would personally track any abnormal behaviors from a distance. 

Needless to say, the targeting did not last much longer. Floyd may be decent at tracking, but he’s always been the one to strike in a hunt. Now Jade? He was still on your schedule, yet not bound to your side. With Floyd on guard duty, he was easily able to follow the clues after every ‘accident’. 

Two days

Two days and it was done. He had a hunch before, but it turns out that multiple people with grudges teamed up for this plan which is why their tracks were covered well. Jade still found them though, and his brother was just itching for a good squeezing. 

Unfortunately, Jade held no pity for them. Though he did offer them one last solace. 

“You have succeeded, albeit only temporarily. I grant you the mercy of this knowledge. You have also hurt someone precious, and so I will let my brother here handle your punishment. I have some loose ends to tie in the meantime,” 

With that, he leaves and lets another important issue cloud his mind. 

Jade had lost his composure with you, which normally wouldn’t be too harsh since he does have his moments. They normally appear as taunts or light teasing, but that is not the issue 

Even if he lost control over his voice, he still could have acted.  He hurt you, but instead of fixing it he chose to use the situation to his advantage. Using your moment of distraction to handle the more pressing issue, and letting your emotions fester. He also made you feel unsecure by lying though omission, despite doing it for your own safety 

Now Jade wonders, how well can you truly predict him? Enough to know he did not mean what he said? Enough to understand why he did not resolve your misunderstanding promptly? 

He first finds Azul near your dorm, who informs Jade that you’ve gone to the botanical gardens to relax. The two experience a silent communication, and Jade knows his absence has hurt you. Likely more than his words or lie. 

He finds you seated on a bench, laying back and watching the wind sway the trees. You are unsuspecting, calm, and now Jade understand why you were targeted over himself. 

“If you stare hard enough, perhaps the trees will bend to your will. Although you will then no longer need Grimm for magic lessons...” he permits himself to sit next to you without asking. You glare at him from the corner of your eye, and Jade deflates slightly. 

Something tells him that you know everything. That he spoke impulsively, that he purposefully ignored you, and that someone was after you because of him 

Yet something itches, that you do not want an apology for those issues. His only clue is how you haven’t left, and merely sit defiant as a way to say ‘we’ll? I’m waiting...’

“I suppose that an apology is in order,” he breaths, reaching out to lay a hand over one of your own, “If I am correct, you are already aware what I spoke the other day is not true,” you nod, “that I purposefully distanced myself,” you nod again, “and that I withheld knowledge concerning your safety” you nod for a third time

“I am sorry for hurting you, but not for trying to keep you safe. I do not regret that and never will. Yet -above all else- I am sorry for being distrustful and leaving you alone,” 

......

Will you accept Jade’s apology?

Leona KingScholar 

The moment the door slams, Leona is out and chasing after you. If his underclassmen know what’s good then they won’t get in his way or spread anymore gossip. They are the reason he’s in this mess anyways. 

He tried fixing one problem, but ended up with one much worse. Leona could handle your anger. He’s not the type of guy to hold his tongue, and that gets you both in many fights or troublesome situations. 

Yet those are petty fights. Normally about how he talks to your friends, skips class, or carries you around like a rag doll. He could brush them off and so could you, because deep down you were aware that he never actually aims to do harm

When it matters, he’s straightforward and heartfelt. You believe that when things get serious, he would never ditch you. Not for a moment has he lead that trust astray, until now 

In your eyes, he put his “ pride” over your trust. The initial plan was to brush his dormmates concerns off, but Leona took it too far. Though this isn’t the first time one of his schemes evicted bad karma 

Leona catches up quickly. No matter how fast a human you may be, speed is a lion’s game. 

He grabs you by the bicep just before you are able to enter the travel mirror and leave Savanaclaw. 

“Quit running before you get hurt...” he trails off, the scent of salt hitting him again except more powerful than before. Without letting go, he reaches out his other hand to wipe your tears, only to get pushed away 

While he’s startled, you rip your arm from his hold and push through the mirror. Leaving him with a last warning.

“Go away! I never want to see you again!” the command rings in his head. His arm drops limp to his side, before he growls and punches the rim of the mirror in frustration. Leona curses under his breath, before turning around and letting you go 

He can’t chase after you now, no matter how much he wants to. There is a reason Leona did not want his underclassmen to think your relationship is serious- why he told such an abhorrent lie. 

In his culture, the most respected person in an individual’s life is their partner. The moment you accepted his companionship, you became important to Leona. Which means that if you want it, then it happens. He may complain, he may groan, whine, talk back, etc. 

but whatever power he has, is now yours. You just don’t realize it. 

The same cannot be said for others. People that have bad motives. So, he lied as a preventative measure. Used his pride as a scapegoat, asserted his dominance, and planned to brief you in later. 

He tried to set things right before matter became worse, and failed. Now Leona needs a loophole. Some way to fix this without confusing you or overstepping a boundary. A way that involves a medium. 

More like an errand boy. Leona can’t send Ruggie, because the hyena by default is required to respect you as much as Leona. Jack Howl? No ties. Hates drama. No ulterior motives. 

Perfect. 

A quick bribe, pull at the heartstrings, and before Jack realizes it he’s already delivering a penned note to your dorm. 

“The house-warden is pretty bent out of shape these days. Snappy, moping, and honestly a real pain in the ass. Give the letter a chance, maybe he’ll surprise you,” Jack said upon leaving the note

Refuse him or not, you will take the letter. It’s enchanted to keep reappearing until opened by the intended recipient

 If you ask why Leona has not come himself, Jack will simply emphasize the letter again with a huff 

“Your word is binding, understand? I can claw, scratch, scream -do whatever other stupidly desperate thing you’re picturing right now- but I can not come near unless you say so. Now that you know this, let me explain everything first, and if you still want to run away then go ahead. Just know that if you don’t show up, I will keep hassling your bushy-tailed friend. Maybe I’ll enlist the gluttonous cat? All the tuna in the world in exchange for the stubborn prefect; what will he choose?”   

......

Will you return to Savanaclaw?  

Riddle Rosenhearts 

Riddle tries to follow you. He screams in his head to move, find you, explain himself, and bring you back 

Trey is looking at him expectantly, as are the rest of his dormmates. In his frozen state, his eyes scan their faces. Some of sympathy, others withholding frustration, and a few near ready to go after you in his place 

Riddle understands, you are beloved by all. You have a place here. A place with him. 

Resolving to move, he pushes his chair back to make haste. Yet, he pauses midway in a panic to stabilize himself against the table. It’s then he realizes how his legs are like jelly, and how afraid he is to speak with you again. 

Riddle nearly falls over, with Trey steadying his shoulders at the last second. He hears his name being called, yet is too absorbed in his thoughts.  

Most specifically, the voice whispering for him to let you go. 

It is no secret that Riddle has changed since meeting you. He’s become more sympathetic with his peers, and has somehow managed to become more than just respected in their eyes. He is grateful for the impact you’ve made on his life, and only a fool would not notice his adoration...

What has he done? What can he offer you? He has joked many times that you will find no better in all of Twisted Wonderland 

Does he truly believe that? No, and now you have the chance to go home. A world he has never seen before, where you can be happy. If he lets you go now, then it will make separating much easier. There will be no goodbye. He will simply return home to his mother, and when the new year begins it will be like you never entered his life. You can be free from everything-

His face stings. Riddle’s sight finally focuses on those around him, specifically on the rageful freshmen glaring daggers into his skull and with a hand raised

“Just shut up already and go after them! You’re such a big baby- ‘boo hoo I'm holding them back. My name is Riddle and I talk superior but really I’m just afraid of everything’,” Ace mimics Riddle’s voice, pretending to sound like a crying toddler, ”that is what you sound like. Damn straight you aren’t good enough for them, but you better finish what you started or someone else will,” at the end of his lecture, Ace points towards the rest of Heartslabyul’s residents and nearly all agree aloud. 

Riddle goes red, all self-deprecating thoughts vanishing at the taunt and mixing with embarrassment. Ace tries to push past him yet gets halted. Not by a collar, but merely Riddle standing in his path. All signs of jello-legs gone, as he looks his underclassmen in the eye. 

“That,” Riddle says through his teeth, “is not necessary. Rest assured that they will not be leaving Twisted Wonderland. I swear it on the name of Rosehearts,” he dismisses the final unbirthday party of the year and sends Trey to retrieve some spare stationary. Once received, he bids all a goodnight before returning to his bedroom. 

The next day arrives, and Riddle is carrying his suitcase to where he’ll be staying over summer break. On the way there he stops to release a messenger crow, one carrying a very important message. 

He walks up the steps to the house, nervous about the previous day’s events and his mother’s reaction. Waiting for a response letter will also be very stressful. The list seems to only grow...

He takes a moment to steel himself, and knock on the door. Once. Twice. Three times. As the rules dictate. 

He hears steps grow close and clutches his suitcase firm. When the door opens, he offers a meek smile, “may I come in?”  

Too surprised to speak, you step aside wordlessly and usher him inside Ramshackle dorm. 

“I am aware you may not wish to see me after yesterday,” he begins, setting his suitcase down to take your hands, “but I cannot let that be our last meeting. If visiting home is what students do over break, then I will be staying here. I want you to stay in Twisted Wonderland. I want to spend time at your side, and I am sorry for leading you to believe otherwise. I am willing to spend the entire summer earning your forgiveness, but do not leave. Please,”

.....

Will you remain in Twisted Wonderland with Riddle? 

[chickenfetus]

part 2

[wmarximoff]

Prompt: y/n is best friends with Pietro, he knows everything about his ex who cheated on her . (Y/n doesn't know that Wanda is Pietro s sister)

So what will happen when Pietro introduces his sister to Y/n not knowing that they are exes .

just tonight | w. maximoff

summary: it should just be a night out with friends that you weren't even interested in going to. it wasn't in your plans, of course, that your ex-girlfriend who cheated on you would be your best friend's twin sister.

warnings (18+): heavy angst, cheating, hints of internalized homophobia, brief smut, oral sex (Wanda receiving), drinking, smoking.

pairing: Wanda x fem!reader

word count: 7k

A/N: okay, that's sad. i'm sad i wrote this, not gonna lie (but it's not like i don't like angst content lol)

(by the way, if anyone is interested in a closed ending for this fic, I suggest you read this little thread here about the possibilities after the end of the story)

|masterlist|

༺ᱬ༻

The aroma that permeated the atmosphere was a distinctive mix of freshly brewed full-bodied coffee and a compact cloud of despondency typical of towering over the heads of tired adults; those who wake up early to go to work only to return to their homes, exhausted and hungry and lacking of doses of patience, when the sun has already said goodbye to the horizon and the white of the streetlamps have already been lit – a wrapper of annoyance, a set of tired faces gathered inside the same room like an adoption fair of dejected people.

It was a rectangular room, spacious and well-ventilated, though sparsely surrounded by second-hand furniture, lit by large glass windows set behind skinny blinds of cheap plastic – a beam of golden morning luminescence penetrated the room through the cracks open there, sunrays that crossed your still warm coffee cup, projected in three specific points through the serene countenance pierced by the placid extension of your face.

You were seated at one of the many small circular tables dotted around the room (in the middle of the open door was a brass plaque that spelled out the words “staff room”). The Staff Room, that place whose lands are outside the students' domains.

From the medium cup you then sipped a long sip of warm coffee, your eyes spilling over a handful of papers chaotically deposited on the face of the table as if you'd accidentally spilled the entire contents of your bag there.

So, in sequence, you picked up the last traces of the drink by sliding the tip of your tongue along the commission of your lips, the bitterness of the coffee courting the harshness of a freshly smoked cigarette on the face of your tongue, to which you added both woody palates in a single homogeneous flavor inside your mouth. The inside of your throat was grateful for the momentary source of heat.

It was cold in Westview. Cold enough that you would have left your house on the lower north side of town, still in the preamble to that very morning, braced by your thick polyester coat and a high-necked shirt made of dark wool, your armor draped over your body for a battle waged against a merciless cold – or, perhaps, a severe hypothermia. A pair of thin-rimmed glasses peeked out from the bridge of your nose.

Wintry coldness took possession of the small town so that the leaves of the trees took on endogenous shades of orange and red, and the sky, in turn, became more gray and opaque each day, instigating mornings covered by clouds so gray and thick as the down of a wild raccoon. But despite the seasonal frosts, it still hadn't snowed.

More swigs of coffee came and went until a male figure passed through the front door (he was wearing a thick beaten leather jacket and a navy blue scarf around his neck), his short hair dyed in a platinum color that reminded you of those wedding cake frostings, drawing the ugly scowls of some of the elderly gazes (thick glasses, bald heads, pompous, incongruously old-fashioned hairstyles) from the little table that held the group of older teachers, the ones who weren't very fond of you or the young lad who was Pietro.

The elders, still drinking from that out-of-date fountain from back when teachers were real devils in the lives of a bunch of lost teenagers, muttering insults among themselves and following Pietro with a contemptuous look, just thought you were a couple of incompetents for being so much younger than them (Miss Harkness, with the profuse dark hair, who always had that brooch pinned in her lapel, was a welcome exception, but perhaps she was only friendly because something in her liked to take drags of your cigarettes in between classes).

But your friend didn't give a damn about such a bad reception, and so you chose to do the same, keeping your eyes down on the line you read in a ninth grader's essay. A student who thought the musical Hamilton was inspired by a Shakespearean play. That piece of paper deserved to be marked with a big, red, round zero.

Pietro, therefore, merely pulled out a chair opposite your own and sat down, placing his leather mailbag there on the table, next to your papers, with a yawn hollowed out in your direction like a newly awakened dog.

He was charismatic and charming, a real hit with impressionable students who always asked you if he was your boyfriend, but to you Pietro was nothing more than a friend figure, even a brother just a few months younger than you – the best of them, perhaps the only and most sincere among the others, but still, just a friend. He had a half-bitten doughnut in his right hand, and sugar porridge pasted at the corner of his lips.

“So,” he had said, who coached the school’s football team (the Avengers), known for being averse to getting out of the sheets on cold mornings, “You’re going tonight, aren’t you?”

“Good morning to you too, Piet,” you teased morosely, still not setting your gaze on the blue of his irises.

“Yes, I'm having a lot of fun checking these hundreds of essays about students' familiarity with Shakespeare's works, thanks for asking me. And how are you on this cold morning?”

Pietro, however, never touched by your condemnations of him, just brandished his bitten doughnut in your direction.

“C’mon, Y/n, I scheduled it like, two weeks ago,” and then, he finally took another bite of the fried dessert, barely bothering to chew and swallow properly before resuming his own speech.

“You need to go, it's important to me that you go. I want you to be there! My sister recently moved to town, you know, and I want you to meet her.”

The enthusiastic fervor in Pietro's voice didn't go unnoticed. Not when you remember him parroting about his twin sister left and right throughout the course of the last week – like an intersection, it was that one project of his, a well-crafted, weird project that he was working too hard on to your liking, like a kid building a volcano for a school science fair.

After all, his beautiful, cool, amazing single (single!) sister was in town after recently asserting her sexuality to the world, and it turns out you were the only queer person he knew who was single too – so it was a match, a perfect couple forming before his eyes, as a screenwriter then makes the two main characters of his play consummate a kiss with a happy ending so longed for by the audience.

For Pietro, it was like a well-accepted convenience – two worlds colliding, two of his favorite people together in one place, two single (single!) and financially stable adults of the same age, in comfortable careers and experienced enough not to be sacals, that he, as a good older brother and a then discovered true matchmaker friend, should bless and sponsor in a relationship that, in fact, was only planned within his utopian daydreams.

“I have to grade the exams from last week,” you replied in a monotone, a little dull in your words.

“Fury will be pissed if I pass the grades to the report card late again, you know how he is. Last time this happened he was talking my ear off for a week.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I know. But you can do that on Saturday,” reiterated the man with the neatly trimmed beard, always so adamant when he wanted to be convincing.

“C’mon, it's just a Friday night to drink with friends, have a few laughs, relax a little, take your mind off work for a change. Have fun. And you sure need some fun in your life, dude.”

“Please Pietro, don't start it,” you huffed.

“But it's true! You know it's true!” Exclaimed Pietro back, raising both of his thick, dark brows, “Your life is all work and home, Y/n! You need to relax a little! Maybe hang out more with us, or maybe even go back to the dating scene–”

“No way,” your gaze then finally unscrewed from the papers to soar up to your friend's vigorous face. Behind your glasses was only expressive displeasure, translucent in irises sprinkled with disdain.

“You know I have no interest in this at all, man. I don't really need this in my life, not again, not right now. I have better things to do than go on stupid blind dates with people I know will lead me to absolutely nowhere.”

“C’mon, Y/n, everyone likes a little fun now and then,” he whimpered, though he wasn't at all really bothered by his friend's grumpy mutterings.

“And you really need to get laid, you know? You need to relax more, man. Do more with your life besides being a boring high school teacher. Did you download Tinder like I told you to?”

“Christ, no,” the word was unrolled from between your lips, dry as a rag, “And I'm fine just the way I am,” you muttered grudgingly, then groping with your open right hand for your cup of coffee, “I don't need more than that to live well.”

“All you need to do is grade exams on your days off, watch some Netflix late at night, and then gorge yourself on coffee and cigarettes the next day to stay awake and working? Really?” he teased, as if to put it in other words that your lifestyle, in fact, was just boring.

“Yeah,” the lenses of your glasses fogged up, as they came in contact with the puffs of steam emanating from the coffee cup held up to your jaw height.

“And you only think it's different now because Monica started dating you. Until last month everything you said was about how the fun of life is being single and not having to give anyone satisfaction about all the shit you do out there.”

“Yes, that's exactly what I'm talking about! I'm a changed man, Y/n!” He smeared a donut-sugar hand on his chest like a fussy child.

“And I'm much happier now, if you ask me. And that's why I want you to get someone too, because I'm your friend and I want to see you happy.”

“I don't need someone in my life to make me happy,” the bitterness in your mouth hadn't come from the coffee, of course, but maybe it was just always there, little by little growing and branching inside you.

“This is a very problematic thought, you know that? I’m happy alone and I intend to stay that way, thank you.”

“Dude,” he sighed. Blue eyes scanned your face in an unpleasant glow of pity.

“Seriously, you need to give it a chance. Just once. I mean, I bet there are a lot of nice, pretty girls out there who would love to meet you, and why are you going to miss it? Because of an asshole who clearly didn't deserve you and who broke your heart what, ten years ago? You deserve better than that, Y/n. And I mean it.”

The grip of your right fingers screwed into the circumvallation of the styrofoam cup increased the pressure a little, your digits pressed into the fragile material, and for half a split second, shooting daggers with a glare, you just needed yell at your friend to go fuck himself. Fuck you, Pietro. Fuck you.

Your brows creased between your forehead, pressing between them a beam of wrinkled skin. You just frowned, as if Pietro had said the greatest nonsense that a human being could speak.

There was a brief grunt inside your stomach armed with a meager breakfast (half an apple with cereal and milk flanked by a wilted granola bar found in the bottom of your bag on the way to school), and getting angry sounded like a good defensive option, like the quills of a porcupine—after all, there came a quick inhalation into your lungs as your lips curled into a sour line, and into your polyester coat, your shoulders heaved for a moment, mouthful like an angry lion ready to roar.

You held back because you just didn't want to be mad at Pietro so early on such a cold morning. After all, he wasn't there. It would not be fair.

He didn't even know you in college, having graduated in California, on the other side of the country – a promise of the football sports leagues, Pietro found himself obliged to say goodbye definitively to any and all chances of joining a pro team after a calamitous hamstring injury sustained from lack of stretching, which made him come home to lick his wounds like you, in a way; his dream was nothing more than a stillbirth, like every good child's dream when in contact with the hardships of the adult world.

He hadn't been there then, and he just didn't know anything but the story told from your own mouth, like tasteless gossip told from lips soaked in hot beer – the story of how your ex-girlfriend made you an idiot in your senior year of college, when you planned to propose to her. How she slept with a smug philosophy student because she didn't want to like sleeping with you that much. And who respects an idiot? Your side teeth chose to press the flesh on the inside of your cheek together. Idiot. He was an idiot for making you feel like an idiot.

“Six years ago,” you mussed, your eyes darting into your coffee cup as if there, soaked in the dark liquid, there was some answer to your baggage of grievances, “Six years, not ten.”

“Six years, ten years, whatever, it's been a long time anyway,” he waved his right hand dismissively, as if shooing away an imaginary mosquito, “You deserve to give happiness a chance again, Y/n.”

“When did you become a therapist, hm?”

“When I realized that my best friend needs to smile more,” and, in agreement with his own speech, Pietro gave you a gracious sideways smile – the one that several teenagers sighed for when he walked through the halls.

“You really need to go tonight, Y/n. Please, it’ll be fun.”

Between you and him there was a momentary breath of silence. But soon a lame sigh was sucked out of your nostrils in a blatant sign of giving up, not having the patience to impose yourself much longer on your own emotional limitations as you were.

“Two beers and I'm gone,” was your first offer, a generous suggestion to your catatonic state of mind. Pietro's smile spread at the corner of his lips.

“Four beers and you're not leaving until nine o'clock.”

“Two beers until half past nine,” you scored, “And I'll be there at half past seven.”

He looked at you for half a second, indigo blue shimmering in his irises, but before he could work any response out of his lips, there was the continuous high-pitched chirp of the bell that signaled the start of first period in the morning. With a click, then, Pietro scrambled to his feet, and both of your eyebrows shot up at the fact that the chair he was sitting on hadn't hit the floor.

“Shit, I've got practice,” said the platinum-haired man, before practically flying to the door of the room, but not before turning his chin over his left broad-shouldered in your direction just to say an “See you at seven then, Y/n! And if you don't show up I'll pick you up at your house!”, before quickly leaving the room.

An embarrassed sigh escaped your lips.

“What the fuck...”

You rasped, acid in your words, the upper part of your back leaning against the chair and your arms crossed in front of your chest. Your head still didn't hurt, but there were signs of an upcoming migraine pressing into the back muscle of your neck. Maybe not showing up and then blocking Pietro's contact from your phone would be a good idea.

ᗢ

You lifted the glass of beer and brought it to your lips, sipping more of the thick foam than of the golden cold liquid itself (a cordial act and of a performative, mechanical nature, since you were not a true connoisseur of the alcoholic beverage from barley). You licked your lips in displeasure and never touched the glass again, despising it on the round table awash with chatter and remote happiness, but somehow bordering on comfort at its mellow core.

Seated right in front of you were Natasha Romanoff, the red-haired gym teacher, and Bruce Banner, the introverted chemistry teacher, who narrated the facts that made up the account of the day they exchanged the weirdest and frilly kisses at a party in the freshman year of college in which they studied together, for a challenge, with tongues and teeth and tons of saliva, propelling loud laughter from across the table.

There, everyone present had just congratulated each other in a euphoric toast – in all, there were seven glass cups clinking loudly to each other inside the restaurant, extended above their heads.

But there was one person in particular who was nowhere to be found – Pietro's sister hadn't arrived yet, and so you were a little disappointed, although you weren't entirely sure what to do with it. You didn’t understand why you feel that way right away about someone you'd never even seen before, whose name Pietro never even bothered to mention.

You then were casually chatting with Steve Rogers, the kind-eyed history teacher, and you knew that if you continued at this pace you would be quite snuggled between your blankets even before midnight, and nothing about that thought bothered you so much.

“But yeah, now Peter's been suspended,” Rogers informed you, as he sipped (far more willingly to do than you) from his large serving glass of beer.

You, however, frowned at him, “Wait, Peter Parker got suspended?! But he’s such a great student! He never had any problems in my classes.”

“Yes, he’s a great student. He's a great kid, too. But he saw Flash Thompson getting rough with a freshman and things just got out of hand,” Steve breathed a gust of air through his bulging nostrils, shaking his head, “You know how problematic Thompson is.”

“Of course I know,” you claimed, “I've mentioned him to Fury several times, but the boy's parents always manage to get around it. This is so fucked up, man.”

“I know it is,” agreed the blond man, “By the way, do you remember when—"

“Oh, fucking finally!” Pietro's clamor caught the attention of everyone at the table, such pleasure lavished on his astonished words, "Finally, I thought I was going to drag you here by your ankles!”

You've blended your brows into the middle of your forehead, “What's that...? Oh.”

Aiming at the fact that everyone present there seemed to focus their pupils on something behind your head, you, in procession towards the others, tried to turn your neck towards the final purpose of their gazes, and, over your left shoulder it was that you turned around, facing the sudden, fortuitous, incalculable, pleasurable red – unique and so striking, singular and unmistakable, your need taking the form of agony. The air froze inside your lungs.

The scarlet coloring seized your senses, everywhere, a throb in your throat and a gasp in your nostrils, a flare in your lungs. You came back with your face forward before there was eye contact between your irises and that deep, empty pool of ecstatic green.

What else could you do, in front of such a beautiful and magnificent deadly creature, with crimson tones and warm eyes? What else could you do in front of Wanda Maximoff? It was like wanting to throw up and cry after a long night of drinking.

“Are you okay, Y/n…?” Steve's tiny voice came from somewhere your brain couldn't capture. It was her. And she was there.

“I–I... I... I’m fine… I’m fine, Steve.”

Though the once earth-dark locks were now dyed with a copper-red dye, Wanda had matured her features as the years had passed, and, like a rose that blooms, she had aged as well as the most expensive of wines – and, like wine, you could drink it to the last drop, intoxicating in scents of cinnamon roses, your youthful college sweetheart, there, fully blooming before your eyes, even after so many years of speculation and of solitude.

The frigid winter air had driven her into a shelter that was the long coat she wore, and the heels of a pair of high-soled boots made her a little taller than you remember in your memory. But it was still her, no room for error – the scrunching of the nose and the rabbit smile were unmistakable, easily recognizable, still so vivid in your memory. The simple tip of her porcelain nose was flushed like a button in the icy weather outside those walls, and at that, your heart throbbed hard inside your chest, pumping adrenaline through your swollen veins.

Polite and refined, Wanda greeted them all with a smile on her ungodly peach-colored lips, sitting in a chair next to Pietro's (and therefore also next to yours, in which you inspired from her warm aroma, so full-bodied). You stared at her for long seconds, as if she were indeed an apparition or the most beautiful of mirages your sanity-deprived brain could rave about. Wanda. Oh, Wanda. How you hated her.

“Hey, hi,” a small smile reverberated through Pietro before the red-haired woman, who then just looked at him, her older twin brother.

“Sorry for the delay, but I ended up stuck in this meeting with my editor later than I expected, and… shit, what a day.”

“That bald old man?”

“Don't be like that,” Wanda smacked her right palm on Pietro's shoulder in playful rebuke, “But yeah, Xavier, yes. He's a great professional, but he's kinda... too harsh, I think."

You blinked, wordless, gazing at her as if she were an unchanging deity, the red-haired woman as beautiful as you remembered her to be during the college day – though at the time, still dark-haired, Wanda was a young adult rising into the bosom of youth, and now she was a true, complete woman.

You'd heard from her brother that she was now a writer, having in the past dropped the psychology degree she never got after dropping out of college in her senior year. Increasingly attractive, the inimitable Wanda Maximoff.

“It's okay, you're the one driving back home anyway,” Pietro teased, touching her shoulder with his own playfully, a complicity of twins closing them in a private bubble.

Of course, Wanda Maximoff was Pietro Maximoff's twin sister. You could have punched yourself for never putting one and one together inside your head; the sister who was taking a psychology major at NYU, who dropped out of college in her senior year after some vague love affair that he said was similar to what you had. The twin brother who was studying in California, who for inconvenience you had never crossed paths with even in three long years of dating her.

Both of Sokovian descent, children of immigrants born in Novi Grad. The way he reminded you so much of her figure in certain situations, in the same tone jokes and in the similar laugh. Coincidences, just coincidences.

A need (never felt by you before, in the deepest core of your soul) to sip your beer became latent in your throat as suddenly dry, craggy as if you had swallowed a cocktail of broken glass – for that was when that the newcomer raised her left hand towards her white apollonian cheekbones, aiming to tuck her shiny, soft hair behind her ear with her nails varnished in black enamel, that your brief glance towards the red-haired woman ended up tie a knot in the mouth of your esophagus. Through a band of Wanda's auburn hair, Pietro was looking at you with a smile.

“Hey, Y/n! That's my sister I told you about, by the way,” Pietro exclaimed, with the good nature he'd always had, pouring a smile between you and her, “I told you she's pretty, didn’t I?”

Oh, fuck.

“Y/n...?” her face turned toward you, copper-colored hair swishing to her left, and a pair of eyes studied you for half a split second until the healthy smile on Wanda's lips vanished like smoke in the middle of the room.

Her brows made a twitching movement that betrayed amazement, as if you had materialized in your seat like a ghost from her past. She seemed to feel stupid for not having noticed you there sooner. Your lungs felt heavy as two bowling balls. That voice was familiar to your ears.

So familiar to your hearing, that same velvety voice that woke you in the morning with poetic whispers in your ear, reciting a unique romanticism that would make Jane Austen sincerely envy in her grave that she wasn't the first to conjure up such simple words, so beautiful when joined in amorous prose.

That voice that intoxicated you, brought you to your knees and made you for a moment just be yourself, made you be real and see real things. The voice that managed to be clear and pure as snow and after that to be dirty and say impressive obscenities, as was the case of Wanda Maximoff. You knew her better than anyone. You knew who she truly was.

"W-Wanda..." you mussed in a low breath in front of that verdant immensity, because there was nothing else to do.

Not when she looked at you that way. Not when she looked at you like she wanted to cry over what she broke in you.

“Hi, Y/n.”

ᗢ

You notified them, at the latest, that you would go out in the company of the gloomy fog of night, like a stray cat, wandering senselessly through your paved alleys, to smoke a mere comfortable cigarette. The air was an icy, nose-bad amalgamation of beer and frying.

“You know, that shit will kill you soon,” Natasha had vetoed you before you left the table, but you, as relaxed as you could be, placid in front of your coworker, only gave her a thin, cold smile and shook your head in consent with her words. There wasn't much else you could do other than that.

Leaning against the brick wall of the alley beside the restaurant, your cigarette burning on its end like a firefly in the middle of the night, puffing puffs of smoke in the air like slovenly dancers, you stared down at your own feet – your poorly laced Doc Martens boots, as white as the white winter snow.

As absorbed in your own smoky daydreams as you were, however, you didn't even notice the crimson specter that, like a bad memory crawling inside your head, walked towards you, heavy boots crunching on the cement pavement as it walked in search of the scent of smoked cigarettes that only you could squander. A lustrous red darkness came to you to engulf your soul and forsake your senses.

“You're gonna freeze to death out here,” had said the voice that was so familiar to you, though it sounded just as remote as a utopian dream, “It's as cold as the damn Arctic in here, for Christ's sake.”

You, however, as stagnant as a marble statue, remained still, mute, blinking with your eyelids in a lethargic act – it was as if you blinked her name, Wan–da. You looked towards Wanda as if you wanted her to rip your soul out of your mouth, parked in a feeling of bitterness that only seemed to grow and swell inside your ribcage.

“I... can I get a cigarette, Y/n?”

“You don't smoke,” Wanda hadn't said a word to you in response; her actions spoke for themselves, as she raised, towards you, her pale right hand as if in a begging manner.

“Well, I do now.”

You stared at her for half a second, before your gaze strayed to a dark spot on the floor. The ambient sound of the bar was muffled by the brick walls. You finally held out the little cylindrical object, but avoided at all costs your fingers touching as you did (acting as if Wanda was a damn leper, a red plague).

With the usual dexterity and clumsiness of addicts, Wanda wedged one of the nicotine sticks between her parted rosebud lip, feeling your studious gaze burn into the rosy high of her pale cheekbones. The gloss had left traces on the yellow part of the cigarette filter, and she turned to face you with a kind of acted innocence, masking temptation, gently blinking her moss-dark eyes.

“The lighter,” both of your gazes were screwed into one line, “Light it for me, please?”

You stared at her for a few seconds, pupils dilated in a vortex of darkness, before reaching for the lighter in your jacket pocket. The thick smoke left Wanda's lips pink not long after you did, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

For a few minutes, there was the silence between the two of you like a curious third person who wanted to know more than what you had to say. Wanda took a drag on her cigarette, and after that, you mirrored the action.

“I didn't know you'd gone back to smoking,” the red-haired woman had said, dissolving the stillness like the smoke leaving her ivory lips, “You quit in our senior year.”

“And you're a redhead now,” you muttered grudgingly, an unstoppable dryness in your raw facial expressions, “People change. Shit happens. Old habits return.”

The green of her gaze pierced its way into your pupils well-placed behind the stems of your prescription glasses.

“You've stopped wearing your contacts, too” Wanda continued, however, unabated, blowing more wisps of smoke through her parted lips, “I... I've always liked you wearing glasses, Y/n.”

“Fuck, why are you doing this?”

There was silence after your speech, a silence that was cutting like the edge of a sharp blade that was embedded in the middle of your chest. Wanda pressed her lips together, trapping a cloud of cinereous smoke between them. She was speechless for a few seconds, cluttering with the crimped bone of her jaw.

Illuminated by the night-light in artificial and unnatural colors that bloomed from the long lamps of the poles nearby, her long copper hair was like a waterfall of fire that poured down to the middle of her back – it was as if they were one, the blinking ember of the cigarette and a lock of her auburn hair. Wanda discarded her cigarette butt next to a garbage can crammed near the door that led back to the back of the restaurant, shimmering faint streaks of sharp silver, sending a measured sigh out of her nostrils.

“I'm sorry, I just,” her voice trailed off, as her emerald eyes dropped to the frigid cement beneath her feet, “I just wanted to talk to you, Y/n. Really talk to you.”

Wanda pressed both of her eyelids together, lingered in the action, and then opened them, blinking once at the brick wall after doing so. At her speech, however, a tightness was attributed to your esophagus – it was as if the smoke from your smoked cigarette was concentrated hot just behind the flesh of your cheekbones.

“There's nothing left to say, Wanda,” you spat, in pure, articulate fury, a cover for the hurt exploding inside your chest, “There's nothing you can tell me that I haven't already heard or that I want to hear it now.”

The air was made damp by something not well related to the winter weather, oxygen hard to suck up into your nostrils, your lower jaw jutting out, bruised and vengeful, gritting your teeth so hard you were just sure Wanda could hear the enamel of bones rubbing against each other—for that was when strained eyes flickered toward you, amid the dim lighting whose alleyway was engulfed, as if there were an ancient lantern hanging just above you head.

“What you gonna say this time, huh?” your right knee shot up in a hard, yielding stride toward her, like a predator hunting in a dark forest.

“That you didn't want to do that? That it was a drunk mistake? That you weren't sure what you wanted but knew you still cared about me? That you didn't even know his fucking name? That one was certainly comforting to hear, you can be sure of that.”

Your tone was immersed in an acidic deluge of biting, erosive cynicism that welled up in the pit of your stomach. You were then close enough to the auburn-haired woman that the tips of your noses almost brushed against each other in midair.

“And I've heard it all before, Wanda. Again and again and again. That night in your dorm room when you told me you did that shit, in the fucking text messages you sent me three years in a row, and even in that letter you sent me on my birthday two years ago,” you gasped for air was warm against her pretty face, both the collars of your coats covered in an opulent scent of smoked cigarettes.

She could feel the muffled beer on your breath.

“So, what's new this time, huh? That he wasn't even that good? That he didn't even make you feel like I did? Because that doesn't surprise me at all. No one will ever know you like I did. No one will ever touch you like I touched you, Wanda. And you know that.”

But you were close, dangerously close like a moth to a lamp (close to imminent death), and for half a second you found yourself pondering the idea of Wanda's pretty face being frozen by the cold, because her jadish gaze oozed from inside your pupils to pour between the contour of your nose and then, as if in a prize for the race won, waited in a lingering fall down the height of the outline of your upper lip.

“Let me,” Wanda then moved her elbows close to her ribs inside her coat to smooth both of her scrawny open palms across the lapel of your polyester coat, catching a single lock of your hair between two fingers and sliding it down to the tip, “Let me have you tonight, Y/n. Just tonight.”

Her thick dark lashes were on top of that dark moss green that had crept like an infectious disease in her irises, and you leaned in for a while, wiping the pulp of your own lips with the tip of your tongue, so you could feel the ghostly taste that wasn't there yet, that took you back to the distant past.

“I hate you,” you muttered under your breath, “I hate you, Wanda. I hate you. You broke my heart. You betrayed my trust. I fucking hate you.”

“I'm sorry,” she whispered back, in a small voice, “But I really need to have you one more time, Y/n. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. But I need to remember what it's like to have you.”

The tone was needy, limpid and clear, translucent like crystal crossed by a beam of red light. It went beyond the hate, the tendrils of lust that threaded itself between the two of you like a tight noose. The world around you was nothing but a winter's ember, when did Wanda reach for your torso under the protection of her arms, pressing her warm body against you by virtue of her desire.

“I wish you knew how much I miss you.”

And she smelled like cigarettes, but also like flower perfume and fig moisturizer. She smelled like Wanda. Like the Wanda who slept and woke up next to you in your younger days, where life was troublesomely easy and she still hadn't allowed herself to be touched by anyone other than you.

“And I wish you hadn't cheated on me. I wish I had married you.”

“I'm sorry,” her voice was muffled by the fabric on the left shoulder of your coat, “I missed you so, so much...”

“I hate you,” you whispered against the crown of her orange-haired head, in a tone as if you confessed your feelings to her on a summer afternoon, “I really fucking hate you.”

Wanda cupped your face by the sides with both cold hands and merged your lips in a timed kiss in harmonic cadence, which quickly had you whimpering in dizzying helplessness prickling through your veins. Your heart pulsed explosively in the left side of your chest. The taste was still hers, warm crimson pouring into your lungs, your stomach. You could get drunk on the taste of her saliva.

“Please,” she breathed in a short pause to get some oxygen, “Please make me yours again, Y/n.”

“Shut up.”

The kiss deepened when you projected your lips to take hers in a click of tongues, your tongues entwined until you were both softly panting, your foreheads ruffled touching each other. You snorted against the commission from Wanda's swollen lips. Your coat felt too thick against your shoulders.

“Just… just tonight,” you squinted at your eyes, a strand of reddish hair breaking through your gloomy, empty vision, “Lie to me one more time just for tonight, Wanda. I’ll believe anything you say.”

ᗢ

“F-fuck-fuck- ah! ”

The lascivious voice growled, reverberating like an echoing breath through the four pale walls of her room. The red-haired woman trapped her lower lip with her own incisors, confining a moan to the very core of her being. With the void present there, a thin wind howling in hissing outside, only the wood of the floor could hear the whimpers uttered by a Wanda so unsteady, with a tight mouth and a pink face like a peach in her cheeks, feeling empty in the flesh, but so satisfied in essence.

Pale fingers were fondling between the bundles of your hair, her red head bent back, her mouth half open, her mascara smeared, making her into some sort of sound, but nothing was what left her throat.

You, crouching below her level, turned your face away from the gap between Wanda's opalescent thighs, still throbbing on your tongue, between your teeth, the vigorous taste of honey coming from the red-haired woman's fruit—the skin of your chin gleaming in a glow from the overwhelming orgasm of your ex-girlfriend contorted just above your head, chest heavy, breathing unreasonable.

You, equally deprived of any clothing to cover up your natural nudity, stretched your knees on the bed, hoisting yourself out from between Wanda's inner thighs without much to say after completing your mission.

Before you could even entertain the idea of picking up your clothes scattered on the floor like in a war scenario, however, a hand pressed the back of your neck and, in an inordinate way, ripped it off for a harsh kiss, Wanda sipped from her own cum accumulating through the gaping breach in your mouth buffed by the height of her own orgasm. You took the inside of her mouth with your tongue and, fierce, Wanda curled into the muscle of your mouth cavity, drinking in your ecstasy there.

And just as quickly as it started, you ended the act with a deferential bite to her lower lip, pushing her away across her face as if she were nothing, as if you hadn't been between her legs a few seconds ago, the leading into the ether of jouissance in a way that no one had ever done before, and in no way could do afterward. Wanda was your glory, but she was equally your downfall. You wanted her as much as you hated her.

She remained mute when you got out of bed to put the crumpled clothes lying on the floor back on your body, as if to go back in time, hours before, when you were still dressed and none of that happened between your and her. The only sound in the room was that of fabric being stretched, rubbed and smoothed.

“I wish things were different,” Wanda's voice told the night air, into the wee hours of the morning, “That I could go back and do things differently. That I could have been… been different with you, Y/n.”

“You've always hated having things out of your control, I know.”

She then hummed against the pale pillowcase of the pillow, which exuded a wilted scent of post-orgastic sweat. You had your back to her, standing next to the foot of the bed, sticking your outstretched elbow into the hole in the right arm of your coat.

“Y/n,” she then called out, casting her gaze in your direction, “Are you… are you going to come back, someday?”

You just sighed, letting out a bitter murmur in your speech, “Maybe for your bed, but for you... I really don't think I should, Wanda.”

“Never again?” she tried.

Something in you hesitated for a moment. In slow strides, you then walked over to her side, sitting on the edge of the bed as you tucked your knees into your pants. Your right hand, warm, rested on the sharp of Wanda's cheekbone, giving there a charitable squeeze, so at odds with your words.

“Never it’s a very strong word,” you whispered, “And honestly, I'm not a strong person. If I were, I wouldn't even be here. I would’ve told you to fuck off several hours ago.”

The touch known to both of you, which was accompanied by the intoxicating aroma of cigarettes that was so familiar to her – for you were there, sitting right next to her, with your compassionate eyes conveying, through your gaze, a nostalgic sense of affection swallowed by life’s bumps.

“Don't walk away,” she uttered then against the palm of your hand, in a choked tone that denounced an approaching burst of tears, “Don't walk away, Y/n. I'm sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Please, forgive me."

“It's a small town,” you whistled in response, “We're going to meet each other again at some point, Wanda.”

 You declared, in a breath of voice – and then, again, you placed a languid kiss on the pale shoulder bone of the naked woman lying on the bed, mouth agape.

“It will be as if nothing ever happened,” you kissed her in a crack of skin down her clenched jaw, “As if you hadn't cheated on me and if I hadn't just let you use me again ‘cause I'm a fucking weakling.”

 In an instant you were in front of Wanda's face, whose lips you pressed together in a soft kiss, “We're going to get to know each other again. As if nothing had happened.”

And then, you bent over so you could place a chaste little kiss on the red-haired woman's forehead. And her tears came when you stood up.

“Maybe this time it will be different. Maybe this time you won’t break my heart.”

“Y/n...” she whimpered, her eyes sunk in emerald pools that were dimly lit by a lamp lit on the nightstand beside her bed.

“Good night Wanda,” you mumbled, pausing at the bedroom door just to look at her, “I really wish next time will be different.”