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thedeathlysallows · 1 year ago

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Is It Over Now? (7)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Aemma Velaryon

Summary: Say the one thing I've been wanting

Warnings: canon typical Targaryen incest. Smut. Aemond finally gets it wet lol. Dom!Aemond. Oral (f!receiving), female masturbation, breeding kink (because of course Aemond wants her pregnant asap), name calling, dirty talk. Warnings aren't exhaustive. Proceed with caution.

This one... ended up hella long, I'm not gonna lie. 2.5k words. Here's what I listened to for vibes and inspiration!

"Robert Tyrell is nowhere to be found," the King proclaims as morning drags into early afternoon. He sits on his throne, looking down at his family assembled before him. "His family offers no help, claiming their son simply vanished. We can't have a wedding without a groom, can we?"

You sit with your head down, feeling every bit as pathetic as you look. Robert must have heard about you and Aegon. That's the only thing you can come up with. Why else would he just disappear as he has? He knows his duty as well as you know yours.

"I'm sorry, Mother," you whisper. "This is all my fault."

"Nonsense." Rhaenyra's voice is sharp as Valeryian steel when she speaks. She holds her head high, allowing no weakness to shine through. "Clearly this was an unfit match."

Aegon scoffs. "Unfit. Cursed. Take your pick, sister."

"People are expecting a grand wedding." Alicent glares at Aegon from her spot beside her father. "What should we do, your majesty?"

Aemond steps forward, hands clasped behind his back. He shoulders are squared and he speaks with all the assurance of a second son. "I will take Robert Tyrell's place if it pleases the King."

The room erupts into chaos in an instant. Jace and Luke are yelling obscenities while Daemon and Rhaenyra plead with Viserys not to listen. Aegon screams at his brother, his throat going raw and his hands shaking with the effort of not hitting Aemond.

And you?

You take a step back from all of it, from all of them, and simply watch it all unfold.

Helaena steps beside you and loops her arm through yours. "They'll destroy themselves."

"Over a fucking wedding of all things." You can't hide the bitterness in your voice. "I'm sorry. About Aegon."

"Don't be. He's more of a brother to me than a husband. I like it that way." She tilts her head and looks up at you. "You were never going to marry Robert Tyrell."

You don't quite know what to say in response to that, so you pat her hand and say nothing.

"Enough!" Viserys' voice carries over the loud din of your family. He looks exhausted from the effort of being that loud. "I've decided Aemond will take the place of our runaway groom. Maybe this match will teach you all the importance of family and getting along."

Helaena gives you a look that seems to say see? I told you, but you aren't looking at her. You're eyes are glued to Aemond and the way he stares straight back at you. When you were younger you always joked that it seemed like he could look straight through a person's soul. Now you aren't certain it was actually a joke. Even with one eye missing it still feels like he's tearing the very essence of you open layer by layer as he stares at you.

Eventually, you find your voice and manage to say, "if it's the King's will then so be it."

"The children have more sense than the adults." Viserys stands, breathless and in pain. "Get these two to the sept before anyone else disappears."

The next few hours of your life are a blur. You couldn't remember most of it if you tried. Very few things manage to stick, but you can recall the anger on Aegon's face. He burns righteous and villainous in your mind. And your mother... she's devastated as she watches you dance with Aemond. Jace and Luke don't fair much better.

Yet, through it all, Aemond's face is what stands out the most. Because of course it does. Your new husband never leaves your side, his hands lingering at your waist or the small of your back as people celebrate around you. He's charming and lively beside you, but you can sense the burning just below the surface of his skin. His expression could almost be considered victorious as he looks at the assembled crowd. It confuses you and you try to store the thought away for later, but then Aemond looks down at you and presses his lips to yours.

He's soft and determined. Dornish wine lingers on his lips, but he's nowhere close to drunk.

You're his.

He succeeded.

Well, almost.

You will be after-

"The bedding ceremony!" Aegon slurs the words, taking a long drink from his cup before grabbing you by the arm. His grip is punishing. His fingers dig into your skin so painfully you'll be surprised if there aren't bruises in the morning.

There are jeers and whistles from the crowd as men and women surge forward. You're quickly separated from Aemond, a group of lords headed by Aegon dragging you to Aemond's chambers. They jostle and paw at the crushed velvet of your white dress. The fabric gives easily. The night air is cool against your skin, sending goosebumps all over your body.

In your panic you search for your mother, but you can't find her over Aegon's towering form. He leers down at you, wine stained lips lifted in a sneer. He's never looked at you with so much disdain before. It turns your stomach and leaves your blood running cold.

"Don't touch," Aegon snaps at some lord on your left as you feel fingertips brush against your arm. "Think you're good enough for a princess, Bolton?"

You don't hear the young man's reply. You don't hear much of anything honestly. It takes everything in you to pretend you aren't naked in front of the entire court, being escorted to your new husband's chambers by your uncle. You're feet stumble over the granite floor while your mind goes fuzzy. You can almost pretend this isn't happening.

Almost.

Until a set of familiar dark wooden doors are flung open in front of you and you come chest to chest with Aemond.

With your husband.

Women tug at his clothes, but he bats their hands away with a practiced ease that makes you wonder how many times he's done that before. He doesn't take his eyes off of you as he dismisses everyone.

Only Aegon lingers.

"Shall I test her maidenhood for you, brother? Will you believe me when no blood comes from between those pretty thighs?" Aegon wraps his fingers around your wrist and tugs you closer to him, knee nudging your thighs apart as he presses up into your core.

Aemond observes him with a bored gaze. "If you're finished causing trouble, I believe you have your own wife to tend to."

Aegon's face flushes and he hisses something under his breath in Valeryian that you can't quite make out. He releases you with one last glare leveled at Aemond before storming out. Presumably to his own chambers. Or maybe Flea Bottom.

You know it isn't your problem- it never has been- but you still feel you're heart tug painfully when you think about him drowning his sorrows in alcohol and whores.

"Did they hurt you?" Aemond's voice snaps you from your depressing thoughts and you turn your attention to him fully.

You rub your arm. "Only Aegon. But isn't that always how it goes?"

"He won't bother you any longer."

"You sound confident, uncle."

"I am... wife."

Aemond's expression turns fond when he says the word, his one good eye sparkling with mirth in the firelight. You hum softly and your gaze drifts to his other eye. Briefly, you wonder if you'll ever be brave enough to see what you and your brothers did. You aren't sure. Maybe one day you'll be brave enough to face the consequences fully, but for now you simply reach out and touch the jagged scar covering his face.

"I'm sorry," you say simply. It's not enough, but it's what you can think to offer right now. "I'm so sorry, Aemond."

Aemond's muscles tense instinctually when you touch his scar, and he has to fight the impulse to shove your hand away. But that's no way to start a marriage, is it? So he stands still as stone while your fingertips on his skin starts to feel less foreign. He lets you apologize to your heart's content.

"The past between us means little to me now," Aemond says when your babbling slows. "It's our future I'm concerned with."

You blink, surprised to hear him say that considering how antagonistic his relationships with your brothers is. "Oh?"

He smiles, one hand cupping the back of your head as his other grips your waist and pulls you flush against him. His lips press to yours in what starts as a gentle kiss. He works you up slowly, nipping at your bottom lip and teasing his tongue against your own. You melt into him with each stroke of his tongue.

"Fuck," He moans out as he pulls away.

You simper out his name and a quiet please as you press closer to him, growing desperate for more despite any previous misgivings. Aemond's hand moves from the base of your skull to your throat. His fingertips dig into your pulse point in warning.

"Don't," he tells you. "I've waited for this. For you. I'll take my time and you'll thank me for it, understood?"

You nod pathetically, his words sending a wave of arousal through you.

His hand drops from your hip to your ass and he smacks you once before turning you around a softly pushing you towards the bed. "On your back. Spread your legs for me."

You do as he says, flushing with heat at the way he licks his lips while taking your body in.

"You're beautiful," he mutters almost to himself. "Better than I ever imagined."

"You've imagined me naked?" You know you should probably be upset, but all you can manage to feel is a selfish sort of pleasure that he's dreamed of you before.

"Many times, lovely girl." Aemond kneels on the bed and puts each of your legs over one of his shoulders. His lips are wet and plush as he kisses his way from your calf to your thigh, nose nudging the soft curls of your cunt.

"What else have you imagined?" You're breathless when you speak.

Aemond smirks, enjoying the way you squirm in his grip. "Would you like to hear about one of my favorite dreams?"

"Y-yes."

He hums in reply, teeth digging into the skin of your thigh. "It's you. Just you. You're alone in your chambers, night shift sticking to your skin as you sweat in the summer air. It's so hot you can't take it and strip naked. Your hands find their way to your cunt, bringing you pleasure but no relief because deep down you know only I can save you."

Aemond's eye flickers from your hand to your cunt and he says, "let me see if it's like my dream. Touch yourself for me."

Your hand is shaky as you move it down your body. Aemond eats up every second eagerly, tongue darting out to wet his lips. "That's it. Fuck, what a good girl you are."

"Aemond..." You say his name breathlessly, sighing in relief when your fingers meet your clit.

He watches closely as you toy with yourself, fingers dipping in and out of your wet core, arousal shining on your skin. You've never enjoyed getting yourself off, always preferring Aegon's help, but with the way Aemond watches you so intensely you feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge of absolute pleasure.

"Don't cum," he tells you when he notices your movements getting sloppy. "Not without my cock inside you."

Aemond presses your legs back so your knees meet your shoulders. You readjust to the new position, looking down as he teases you with the tip of his cock. He's bigger than Aegon. Thicker too. His tip is flushed a pretty pink and you've never wanted something inside you more.

"Aemond, please," you cry out. You're wet and throbbing and desperate and so, so close.

His expression darkens. He had no plans to make you beg tonight, but it sounds so pretty that he just can't help but to switch tactics. You want his cock? You can beg for it like that desperate whore you are.

Aemond buries his face between your thighs, lapping at your juices. His tongue swirls around your clit before dipping between your folds and coaxing more arousal out of you. You scream, a sob wrenching itself out of your chest as your fingers slip into his hair.

"Please! Please, please, please!" You're pleading as loudly as you can. "Aemond, please!"

He pulls away just enough to look at you, his fingers taking over for his mouth. "Please what? Use your words and maybe I'll give it to you."

"N-no..."

"No?"

You let out another sob, tears of frustration pricking at your eyes. You're so fucking close.

And Aemond can tell.

The bastard.

"Aemond, please, I want..." You moan when his long fingers brush a spot inside you that has your walls flutter around him.

"You want lots of things don't you, lovely girl?" Aemond presses reassuring kisses to your face. "Focus. What do you want the most?"

"Y-you... inside me..."

"I am inside you."

"Your cock! I want your cock inside me! Please!"

Aemond's breath hitches. The only outward sign of his self control slipping from his grip. Hearing those dirty words come from your mouth makes his cock twitch in anticipation. You're such a good girl for him. He kisses you deeply as he presses his cock inside you, swallowing your moans with his tongue.

"Gods, yes," he moans when he's fully inside you. "You're cunt was fucking made to take me. I knew it."

You're crying now, feeling overwhelmed and overstimulated as he thrusts inside you. You swear you can feel him deep in your stomach. Maybe it's the angle. Maybe it's the fact that he's just that big. Whatever it is, you find yourself thanking the gods for it as he brushes up against that spot from earlier with each stroke of his cock inside you. You say his name over and over and Aemond thinks it's the sweetest prayer he's ever heard.

"You take it so well," Aemond praises as he brushes hair from your face. He watches as your breasts bounce with each snap of his hips. They'll be so full when he has his baby inside you. And fuller still when your milk comes in.

Fuck.

He wants you round and heavy with his child and he wants it now.

"Aemond," you moan out his name as you grasp his forearms, nails digging into his arm. The coil that's been building in your belly snaps and your eyes flutter shut as the orgasmic high washes over you. Your body turns to pudding and you sink further into the mattress.

Aemond watches your expressions with rapt attention, his own orgasm taking over when your walls clench around his cock. He slumps down on top of you and welcomes your absentminded petting.

"We're married," you say as if the realization just hit you.

"As we should be. You're meant to be mine."

You don't know what to say to that declaration, so you say nothing and hope the morning won't be awkward. You'd hate to lose Aemond a second time.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you

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snootlestheangel · 1 year ago

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🔫🔫🔫

Anon, I'm gonna be honest, I completely forgot this was the symbol I chose to represent Break For Your Heart but I did so I had a very brief second of thinking you were being vaguely threatening. Which was honestly kind of funny?

Edit: forgot the taglist for this fic @stuffireadandenjoy

Anyways, here's another part, and it's a long one. AO3 link

Break For Your Heart Pt5

Interest

A week has passed now since Simon first showed up, and a rather bitter taste had formed in the back of his throat and refused to leave. He had yet to cry over his situation, mostly out of a desire to be seen as untouchable, unbreakable so as to keep himself safe. The other side of it was not wanting to cry in front of his bunkmate.

In the week he had been there, Simon and his bunkie Soap had formed a sort of friendship. Simon never really considered it a friendship due to the circumstances, but he was still comforted knowing he had someone to back him up. Soap remained glued to his side for that week, doing his best to ensure Simon learned the ins and outs of prison life without much issue. Simon knew his clinginess was a result of knowing about Simon's innocence, yet he found he didn't mind.

Soap was a conversationalist, and it helped distract Simon from some terribly dark thoughts. Dark thoughts that would lead him to spiral, which would lead him to tears. Granted, Soap was not a very good conversationalist, as he often said things that left Simon questioning the trustworthiness of the Scot. But once again, Simon would rather lie on his bunk debating how long it would take before Soap tried to kill him than think about how miserable his situation was.

Because despite the budding friendship with Soap, Simon still didn't want to cry in front of him. He didn't want pity, nor to make the other feel the need to comfort him. Simon has always dealt with his issues alone, and this whole situation forced him to keep more things to himself than before.

Besides, he had other things to worry about. Such as meeting the Warden for the first time.

In the week he had been there, Simon had heard several things about the prison's Warden. Most seemed to agree that he was a fair and just man and would let certain things slide with a mere warning not to do it again. It seemed their Warden was more likely to see their humanity and take pity, to try and keep civil with the beasts foaming at the mouths. And so, the Warden had gained a bit of trust and respect from most of the prisoners, even ones within their wretched cell-block.

But there were others still who hated the man with a passion. Those still who claimed him to be evil incarnate, a man just as deranged as any of them, yet sitting high and mighty on a throne passed down to him. There were those that believed he was one of the few wicked men whom fate treated well, whom fate favored and gave all her prettiest things to.

It was all very conflicting for Simon. To hear how the Warden could be merciful in certain circumstances and downright wicked in others. It especially didn't help that Simon didn't know this Warden, and the lack of knowledge on him made the situation a bit worse. And it really didn't help that Soap avoided conversations about the Warden like they were the plague.

Simon wouldn't get an answer to his questions until the eighth day he had been in prison.

The day started out like every day before; he woke to the shaking of the bunk bed as Soap sleepily found his way down, he rolled over onto his side to face the wall as Soap took his morning piss, he gave a grumpy response to Soap's overly cheerful 'good morning', he somewhat collapsed out of the bed as everyone began to line up for breakfast, and he walked in line like a good prisoner all while fighting back yawns.

Nothing out of the ordinary until they reached the mess hall.

Nothing unusual until, while forcing back yet another yawn, he nearly toppled over Soap. The Scotsman always walked in front of him, and they kept a good pace. Until that day.

"Soap, what the fuck?" Simon managed to spit out as he managed to keep both of them on their feet. Soap had gone rigid, staring up at the cat walks where a few guards would idly patrol while they ate. He either didn't hear Simon's question or straight up ignored him as he continued to stare at the walks. Simon frowned and followed the Scotsman's gaze.

There was a small gathering of people, a couple of uniformed guards and a couple of well-dressed gentlemen. One of the gentlemen stood with his hands clasped behind his back, eyes narrowed as he scanned the mess hall. The other man was speaking with the guards, yet the conversation seemed informal despite the seeming formality of their presence. The first man, an older man with a well-groomed moustache and mutton chops, finally saw Soap and Simon staring up at him. He quirked a brow before turning and asking the guard next to him something.

"Move." Soap growled, suddenly freed from his apparent frozen state. Confused, and slightly concerned, Simon followed. He wasn't sure what else to do. The guard answered the man's question, and he nodded, all while watching the two of them with an eagle eye. He said something to the man behind him, who pulled out a phone and typed something up quickly, dutifully.

And suddenly Simon remembered he had seen that man on his first day, when he first walked into that cell block.

And he realized he was staring at the Warden himself.

"Quit fuckin' staring." Soap hissed as he jabbed Simon's ribs, rather painfully. Simon flinched at the action, unused to such menacing behavior from his bunkmate. Quietly, and a bit more nervous, Simon followed Soap to their usual table. Soap sat with his back to the Warden, shoulders hunched and eyes downcast.

"That the Warden?" Simon asked and Soap grunted in response, briefly nodding his head before shoving a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth. Simon realized a bit too late that Soap seemed avoidant of the Warden, yet not in a fearful manner. There was an underlying rage behind the Scot's quick, sharp actions since realizing the Warden was there. But there was also guilt, a guilt so strong no amount of anger and hatred could cover it.

Simon decided to ignore the conflicting emotions falling from the man sitting in front of him, and instead settled for watching the Warden. Despite Soap's words to quit staring, Simon found himself unable to turn his attention to anything else.

The Warden seemed to notice, and he clearly knew Simon to be relatively new to the block. He nodded once at Simon, an acknowledgement, before he turned to join the conversation his guards and the other well-dressed man were having.

Well-dressed wasn't even a good description of the Warden, in all honesty. He wore a pair of slacks, and a nice pair of shoes, but other than that he seemed rather civilian. He had a nice plain shirt, a simple button up with the top two buttons loose, showing a bit of the white undershirt he had on underneath. He had moved his hands into his pockets and taken a more relaxed stance as he spoke, hips jutting forward as he made a comment. He seemed far too normal to be the scary Warden so many, apparently like Soap, believed.

"That is the ugliest fucking hat I've ever seen." Simon commented as he took in the Warden's appearance. And to him, it was true. A clearly old and well-worn fisherman's hat rested on top of the Warden's head, and it was such an out of place detail about the man's appearance, Simon couldn't help but feel tickled by it.

Clearly, his humor didn't rest well with Soap, as he quickly received a sharp kick to the shin.

"Shut the fuck up! Are you fookin' stupid?" Soap growled at him, sparing a glance behind him at the Warden. It was most likely that Simon's statement couldn't be heard by the Warden, but Soap seemed convinced the man possessed supernatural hearing abilities.

"What? It is, okay?" Simon muttered as he dug around his tray for something that wouldn't make him nauseous.

"Watch your mouth around him, for fuck's sake." Soap whispered, almost a desperate plea for Simon to stop his verbal assault of the Warden's attire.

"What? I'm sure he's used to being verbally abused." Simon said, shrugging it off.

"Aye, but he fuckin' hates me." Soap hissed, and that guilt he tried to hide behind anger flashed in his words. Simon frowned at him, but didn't get to push the subject as the two guards that had been with the Warden approached them.

"Riley, Warden wants to see you." One of the guards said, and Soap barely hunched in on himself, almost trying to hide so they wouldn't see him and realize the Warden asked for him as well. Confused, and now concerned for Soap, Simon quietly got up and followed the guards. He was surprisingly anxious to meet the Warden, unsure if the man was aware of Simon's predicament. It was a ludicrous idea, one that Simon would laugh at himself for thinking if he hadn't been so damn terrified.

He was walked through a series of halls and security gates before reaching an area of the prison that resembled more of an office space than the concrete blocks he had grown painfully familiar with. He swallowed nervously as he was led into a room, a small space with a desk just to the side of another door, this one labeled in bold bronze lettering.

"John Price: Warden"

The guards escorting him had a small conversation with someone sitting at the desk, and Simon realized it was the other well-dressed man standing on the catwalks. He was young, terribly so in Simon's opinion, yet his eyes gave away a sense of intelligence that he knew better than to test. He was showed into the office, where the Warden was busy pacing while reading something.

The Warden's face crinkled with a smile as he noticed Simon being led inside. He nodded to the guards, and they quietly left. Simon shuffled awkwardly on his feet, his arms crawling as the metal cuffs grazed his skin in an irritating way. Simon's heart sank into his stomach as he realized the file Price held was his own.

"I've not properly introduced myself yet. I'm John Price, Warden. But I'm sure you've figured that out by now, hmm?" Something in the way he spoke made Simon relax but also made him feel a false sense of security. It was this moment Simon realized why so many still didn't trust the seemingly great Warden; he was a deceptively smart man, and used it to his advantage.

"What do you want?" Simon asked, not nearly as confidently as he would have liked, but he was okay with just getting the question out. Price narrowed his eyes for a brief moment before he let out a sigh, leaning against the edge of his desk.

"Take a seat." Simon does as asked, seeing he's at a severe disadvantage. He's sure the Warden wouldn't hurt him, but he sees a glint of something in the man's eyes that has him nervous.

"I'm sure you're aware, but we do screen all incoming and outgoing mail here. You've received a letter, only a couple of days ago."

"A couple days ago and I've not gotten it?" Simon snapped and Price lifted his brows in shock at being interrupted by such a sudden change in Simon's demeanor.

"Unfortunately, I wanted to talk to you about its contents. You see, in your court case, you plead innocent the entire time. Your story and the prosecutor's didn't match. You claimed a man called Roba did that to Sanderson and framed you for it." Price continued, seemingly side-stepping Simon's outburst. A knot formed in his stomach as Simon listened to the Warden give a short retelling of the hell he went through to get to where he was now.

"What's that got to do with the letter?" Simon asked, rather cautiously, and Price took a deep breath.

"Your brother has claimed this Roba person is stalking your mother." If Price heard the small whimper Simon made upon hearing the news, he was kind enough to ignore it.

"Do you believe I'm innocent?" Simon asked instead of the hundreds of other questions racing through his mind. Price narrowed his eyes once again, tilting his head as he studied Simon.

"I think you're a good man." Intentionally dodging the question.

"And I think you should be careful while you're here." That was... not what Simon expected Price to add. His confusion must have been clear on his face as Price cleared his throat and headed for his chair.

"I'd hate for you to get in trouble in here. If you are innocent, staying on good terms will only help you. Doing something stupid will only hurt you. I know you're bunked with MacTavish. And I think you should be careful who you get close to." Price explained his train of thought carefully and slowly, but something about his words didn't comfort Simon. He felt an odd streak of protectiveness as Soap's name was roped into the conversation.

"What's So-MacTavish got to do with this?" Simon snarled, wishing he could cross his arms over his chest just to defy the man sitting before him. Price quirked a brow, but didn't comment on Simon's near-use of the Scot's nickname.

"His father used to be a guard here. For a very long time, actually. He was the only guard out of the older ones that was happy to see a supposedly young warden. He supported me, and I owe the man." Price paused briefly, looking down at his desk as he searched for a way to continue. Simon watched him, hesitant but now curious.

"There was a big riot. My first serious one since earning the position, and there were more casualties than there should have been. MacTavish was one of them." Price's voice trailed off at the end, and Simon felt the knot return to his stomach. Perhaps that was what the rage Soap seemed to harbor was for.

"I remember when I saw John and his mother at the funeral. He was in Uni at this point. Everyone knew the MacTavish boy to not be very... well in the head, so to speak. I remember trying to speak with someone when I looked over and saw him, just staring at the casket. And I just knew in that moment, John wasn't stable. It was a rough day for everyone when he ended up here. His mother stayed in contact for a while, surprisingly. I think she just couldn't accept who her son really is. That changed, of course, after the incident involving a couple guards. He stopped writing to her only a couple months ago." Price's words seemed to echo in Simon's head as he listened to the tragedy of John MacTavish. What a cruel, wicked world they lived in, yet Simon could understand why one would be so cautious around Soap. The Scot was indeed unstable, and Simon knew this. Yet he still didn't want to believe it.

"Why are you telling me this?" Simon practically whispered the words, unsure if he should even ask. Price didn't immediately respond. Instead, he got up from his chair and headed towards the door. He stopped just before opening it, and turned to look at Simon with a mixture of emotions, ones Simon couldn't put to words in the moment.

"Because he's broken. And I don't want you to cut yourself."

#break for your heart #it's unhinged!soap time #prison break au #ghoap prison break au #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #soapghost #ghostsoap #captain john price #john price #call of duty #cod mw2 #cod fic

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mintteapullet · 10 months ago

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Just finished The World that Stood Against Us (Made Us Mean, to Fight for You) it was fantastic.

Love literally everyone else immediately understanding the danger of Yuuji getting hurt even has Yuuji doesn’t understand beyond that he’s bleeding and was pushed because he’s a child and one of the other people in the world who will never have anything to fear from Gojo is so good.

“Yuuji, because he's a pup and doesn't know the beast who sits in his mother's skin, turns, and upon seeing Gojo-Sensei begins to openly weep.” << Obsessed with this line

Feral Omega Gojo is a gift. Love Megumi sweating bullets along with everyone else even though he’s the safest after the twins. Also someone get Ijichi a raise that man deserves one before his heart gives out from all the stress Gojo causes him.

Megumi getting angry about Todo calling himself Yuuji’s brother is also so good, that’s his little brother how dare you put yourself on his level. Calling him a suck up, Megumi being bitter about it I love it.

Also Yuuji being completely oblivious to the danger everyone else is in >>> only second to feral omega Gojo tbh.

Megumi over exaggerating and stepping in so no one starts that back up is so clever. His pride may never recover but it probably saved someone’s life considering how easily Gojo could be set off again if he hadn’t stepped in. They should all thank him. Not me though I was hoping Gojo was gonna spill blood. But the rest of them should.

Nobara hiding behind Maki is so sweet, Maki is her favorite and she’s not subtle about it nor should she be. Also please let Yuuji get his steak!

Love the Second years, Megumi, Gojo, and the twins hanging out. Gojo shielding the twins with Infinity after also goes hard. Of course he is one of his babies got hurt, he’s being overprotective but also it’s Gojo and that should be expected. Also there’s no way Megumi didn’t also have Infinity on him right? Your his pup too dude no way he’s not keeping Infinity on all three of you. Gojo teasing Megumi is also so good.

Loved this very much but I am left with one question: Who pushed Yuuji?

Ah!!!! Thank you so much!

Exactly! Yuuji is just a little kid, so any understanding of the world is gonna be centered around "I'm hurting and I want it to stop". He has no understanding that everyone else would have a reason to fear Gojo. His mother has never been a threat to him, so it isn't even a option

Im not even gonna lie, it was my favorite line to write. I love it when parents go from 0 to 100.

Im terms of Gojo's priorities it's basically categorized at the moment as "My pups and students" and then "everyone else". Tsk-tsk, Megumi should know better than to be even worried about his own safety. The twins and him are the ones who have zero chance of getting a scratch.

Megumi is such a bitter bitch (this isn't a drag against his character, I love that about him) and is still bitter about getting his ass kicked. And calling Todo a suck up was another favorite of mine to write. Megumi, while he tries to keep his distance, definitely gets a lot more privileges than he even realizes when it comes to Gojo

Even better when they go hand in hand. I needed more feral omegas who'll rip oit throats for their babies, and I suppose be the change you wanna see, lol

Maki is basically the coolest person in the universe to Nobara (and yes, Megumi was bitter about losing his little sister's admiration to his upper classmate). I like to think to satisfy both pups Gojo took them to some restaurant that served both

The second years are pretty used to their teacher and the pups, so this is probably a common occurrence. Gojo is very much a overprotective parent, but in his defense, assassination attempts on heirs are common as HELL and he's pretty shaken up from earlier. Usually his presence alone is enough to deter threats. I'm glad that Gojo teasing Megumi was enjoyable, I was a little worried it mightve been ooc and that I pushed it a little too far. It was fun to write though, especially Gojo complaining about what a grump Megumi had become.

I actually hadn't thought about who was the one to push Yuuji, cause I didn't want anyone maimed (though, Mai or Noritoshi would probably be a no, considering their involvement with other clans would immediately be taken as hostile action)

#Mint writes #Jujutsu Kaisen #jjk omegaverse #Omega gojo

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platoniccereal · 2 years ago

Note

Firstly if you find that Adoribull fic I hope you share and second if you have any fic recs for Bull in general I want to know 👀

Also autocorrect nearly made his name Bill. The Iron Bill, a legal juggernaut. Don't call him William.

...he's pretty well versed in fiscal affairs.

i'm going to rummage through ao3 as a treat so maybe i'll be lucky haha i'll send it to you if that's ok and if i find anything.👀

i started reading fics on ao3 not so long ago, so my collection is humble and classic, still...

these are purely gen/plot and character focused with rare nsfw scenes:

small secret spaces – i adore this absolute gut punch of a fic, it's about 2k words and is written from bull's tama perspective. absolutely heartbreaking as anything regarding bull's time on seheron.

there's also i can see us gather at the gates from the same author, a 36k words work in progress, bull x f!trevelyan. it studies them both in opposition to each other, this one got me thinking and feeling for days.

there's also a very short the sea is unchanged in the same series, i recommend lilith_morgana's works in general, because just as this one, they're always written with such love for the characters, as well as with wise, mature understanding of them.

ebasit – a different author, another character study, 12k. so far the only inquisitor!bull fic i've seen, not even on ao3, and by god it's tasty. it's adoribull and bull x josephine, but still mostly a character study. bull seems to be more serious and tough here than as a companion. there is also one thing about adoribull that'll absolutely break your heart in the best way possible.

but there's a twist is an almost 60k words modern au adoribull fic that's definitely worth checking out because i'm not overestimating when i'm saying that it's got everything. this will be painful, this will be sweet and rewarding. and the title does not lie. again, this fic seems to be just one of a kind, very glad a thing like this just exists. also, lilacsolanum is overall an amazing writer,

and vasaad proves it. i respect any fic that touches on vasaad's character because there's just so much angst potential in just a few words cole says in canon, and this one? nailed it. it's also 6k words adoribull. bull's got some baggage, bull's gotta understand that dorian's not afraid of it.

(there's also my father and his father before him from the same author, but even though it's an adoribull fic, it's more of a study of dorian. also highly recommend, gets you very invested in dorian's depressed shenanigans. also the best portrayal of halward i've seen.)

continuing with the vasaad theme, triptych is probably one of the most well-known works on this list. adoribull 41k words soulmate au. it's got such a good grasp on bull's grief. the soulmate au reality only enhances it. i was fascinated at how the system of qunari names was intertwined with the significance of names for the soulmate au. and vasaad? oh. he haunts the entire work, and frankly, it feels right.

cassandra and the chrysanthemum caper is going to be right up your alley if you enjoy older characters exploring pining and slow burning in 16k words while being rather oblivious about it. cassandra x bull, the divine and her bodyguard, and everything you can expect from these two. bonus points for bull with a disability.

stuck on the puzzle – ok, actually this one is the most well-known on this list. i don't really interact with content about cullen, and it's his pov in this cullen x bull 200k beast. but this is a very well-crafted and thoughtful work. plus, there is also an interesting exploration of characters and non-sexual bdsm. just very solid writing.

darkened room – sigh, who doesn't like good ol' ptsd-flavoured nightmares? especially when it's adoribull.

maraas kata – somehow whenever there's qunlat in the title you know it's gonna be good. i consider this to be a bull's trauma exploration. dorian and bull are visiting seheron, very bittersweet. bitter because of course, it's seheron, sweet because bull's got support, and he's not alone.

another country – and another fic from venndaai whose works are absolutely beautiful. not very long. it's adoribull, and i'm weak for time traveling. especially for meeting your loved one in the past. especially when it's this sweet and touching.

so shall it be – rather short bull x adaar, consists of a very technical approach to bondage while also being non-sexual. and it's just sweet!

also, there is some stuff i'm in the process of reading, but still enjoy and find interesting:

run home – i'm only starting reading that one, but i already know it's a high quality work that studies characters in-depth, bull x f!lavellan, bull is an adoptive father of a kid!krem, plus, it's little league au.

better angels – i'm still in the process of reading it, but so far i find it lighthearted and like writer's inquisitor and sense of humor. the plot of m!lavellan x bull losing their memory and trying to piece everything together seems interesting!

aneth ara – as it's easy to realize, i'm in the process of reading many fics. but whenever i see f!lavellan x bull exploration that's over 100k words, i just can't help myself. :) plus, i really like how it's written, it seems very well-built to me.

since it's bull, there's also a good chunk of pretty hot purely pwp stuff:

kindle and char and enflame and ignite – adoribull playing pirates. :) it's pretty lighthearted and sweet, very nice experience!

the summit shrouded in fog – this cullen x bull and x dorian will be your jam if you like more intense scenes. it explores how violent bull is and how it interacts with him being a dom among other things. that's actually not the thing i've seen discussed much before in various texts, so that's cool.

got 180 degrees (and i'm caught in between) – this is a pretty recent work on dorian x krem x bull, made me go !!! i just love krem very much.

come on, get higher – just wanted good ol' bottom!bull and i got it. this is adoribull. also, i know that justjasper created a big amount of works for adoribull in general, and afaik they all are worth checking out,

such as katoh, for example. a very touching compilation of moments between dorian and bull that are sharing the common theme of communication. i like when authors work with the watch word use, it's as important as a good scene.

rivers in the sand – i dunno how explicit it might be considered, so it goes here. adoribull, bull sees similarities between the seheron and the hissing wastes, definitely has a ptsd episode running as an app in the background. bonus points for dorian finding bull being a nerd hot because same.

anyways, thank you sooo much for asking and giving me a chance to rumble about fics i love about a character i love! sorry if i took the task way too seriously, haha. surely there can be much more even with my little experience of ao3, but i'll stop here.

#iron bull #dorian pavus #adoribull #fic rec #hope this will be useful to other folks i absolutely adore these writers and want them to have as much feedback as possible #even though some works were written years ago #my post #ask

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bellysoupset · 2 years ago

Note

I know you said you want Jonah to be a caretaker more, but I can’t help asking for him to be the sickee because he’s my favorite ;) and also because out of all sick fics I’ve read he’s the only character who’s a sympathy puker and I find that so interesting.

So to get to the point, could you write a fic about what happens when a patient throws up in front of him?

This is very short because I don't love writing about other randoms, but here's just a taste of Jon's personal hell hehe

---------

Jonah groaned loudly as he glanced at the file of his next patient. Fuck the flu, he thought sourly. It had been a pretty strenuous month at the hospital thanks to this bug. While he had managed to avoid the initial two weeks of it, soon enough even the doctors were dropping like flies and he could no longer hide in orthopedics. Wendy had gone down and then he had followed suit, so now he couldn't even pretend he was trying avoid contagion.

Jonah: i'll trade ur next patient for mine. I'll even pay

Wendy's contact turned green and then she sent him a bunch of puking emojis.

Wendy: mine is the flu too, no such luck.

Fuck.

He sighed and collected himself, ready to face his patient. It was a teenager, their mom hanging anxiously right next to them and the kid had already been given an emesis basin. Just the sight of it made Jonah's stomach roll.

"Hi Oliver, I'm Dr. Banks," Jonah lead the conversation, his full customer voice on. He listened painfully as Oliver's mom - Cathy - rattled off her son's symptoms. It sounded just like the flu, like the front desk nurses had put as prognostic, but still Jonah didn't like taking any chances.

"I'm gonna palpate your stomach, alright Oliver? I'm fairly certain is the flu, but we don't want to risk it."

Cathy looked visibly relieved as she aided her son climb on the examining bed, but Oliver not so much. He pressed a hand to his mouth, burping wetly, "it hurts..."

"I'll be gentle, I promise," Jonah promised, aiding the kid to lie down correctly and rolling up his shirt to the middle of his chest. He held the stethoscope to the teen's bloated belly, while pressing gently in the fashion had been taught to. Left lower quadrant first, right lower second- He pressed, then released suddenly and didn't get a cry out of pain, nor met any tenderness there. Rule out appendicitis.

In the stetoscope he heard as a gurgle moved through the boy's belly, followed by a nauseated burp, "doctor..."

"almost done," Jonah cringed, wanting to hurry the fuck up, but he knew he couldn't in good conscience. He pressed on the upper right, it was sloshy and gross-

"Doc-URrp-" Oliver grabbed on his mom to roll to the side, shoving Jonah off just as he brought up a splash of bright yellow bile all over the pristine floors of the office.

Jonah immediately gagged, but he pressed his lips tightly, planting a hand on the boy's heaving back, while his mom cooed and fretted about.

"Mrs. Grant," his voice didn't sound like his own, thick with nausea, "can you keep Oliver company for a second, I'll call in one of the janitors."

"Of course," she took the emesis bowl he passed her and then Jonah did his best not to run out of the door.

He hardly made it to the staff's bathroom, leaning over the sink as the coffee he had previously chugged came back up. It tasted bitter and that alone had him gagging for another solid minute, spitting up ropes of acid.

His stomach hurt, tender from all the abuse it had been going through lately. There was a knock on the door.

"It's fucking occupied!" He snapped angrily, washing his mouth, only for another wave of queasiness to have him gagging up the water. He panted, holding his belly, "fuck."

"Dr. Banks," Wendy's voice was like a balm, "do you need help."

Ah fuck, yes, Jonah sighed in relief and unlocked the door. Immediately Wendy entered, slamming the door behind her so no one would see him.

"Shit, Jon..."

"I need-" he burped again, squeezing his eyes shut, "janitor in my office. Patient-"

"Patient is still there?"

"Yes..." he swallowed the urge to throw up once more, "I can't do this."

"You can," she rubbed his arm in a reassuring manner, "I'll go deal with your patient, take my office. My next one is a broken leg."

He nodded, squeezing the sink, "thanks."

"No problem" she squeezed his arm, "get it together."

"Trying," he took another sip of the water, only for it to come back up as the smell of the puke flashed through his mind, "fuck-"

#mywriting #sickfic #emeto #emetophilia #sympathy sickness #jonah banks

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a-small-batch-of-dragons · 2 years ago

Text

Settlement

hiii feel free to ignore this if ur not taking request(im sorry if thats the case) but i love your roman angst fics and i know this isnt very specific but could you make some more roman hurt/comfort with janice? other than that i just really want to say is your writing is excellent, i think how you describe wanting to disappear really accurately(if that makes sense lol). as someone who has many issues with that when you write it it makes it feel more real. <3 – anon

Read on AO3

Warnings: none

Pairings: roceit, can be platonic or romantic you decide

Word Count: 1375

Some rivalries are best put to rest.

"Hey, you okay?"

Roman looked up and quickly wiped his eyes. Janus stood a few feet away, hands twisted into his cloak. "Yes. I'm—I'm fine."

He scuffed his boot against the carpet. "Well, you don't seem fine."

Shit. "Look—" he pushed himself to sit a little straighter, plastering a smile on his face— "really, really, I'm okay."

Janus gave him a look, eyes narrowing. Roman swallowed. His hands balled into fists and he looked down.

"Just go away, please?"

I'm not gonna cry in front of you. I'm not going to fucking cry in front of you. You're not getting the satisfaction.

Distantly, he heard footsteps get closer, then rustling of clothes as someone sat next to them.

"…I know I may not be the someone you want to talk to," came the quiet voice, "but I…"

He swallows.

"Obviously I'm capable of leaving you like this."

Roman's fists clenched. "You're never had a problem leaving me like this before."

Janus makes a noise of surprise. "I've never left you like this!"

Anger flared bright and bitter and Roman's head snapped up, glaring. "Yes, you have, I've just never let you see it!"

At the sight of Janus' mouth falling open in shock, he drew back a little. He's—okay, he may have never let Janus see how badly he was hurt, but he'd never seen Janus so visibly hurt. Not like this, at any rate. He decided he didn't like it.

After a few seconds, he looked at the ground again, absentmindedly chewing his lip.

Shouldn't have yelled. Should've been nicer. After all, here Janus was, genuinely trying to be supportive and what was Roman doing? Being a jerk, like always, and it's not Janus' burden to suffer.

"Just leave," he mumbled, hugging his knees to his chest, "you don't have to feel bad about it or anything. I'm sorry I yelled at you."

He missed the way Janus looked over, hurt and guilt fading behind concern as he watched goosebumps begin to rise under the thin white sleeve of Roman's costume. He missed the way his expression softened further, gaze flicking over his face once more. He missed the way Janus took a deep breath, as if pondering something, before letting it out as he came to a decision.

"Hey," he said quietly, nudging Roman until he looked up, "I'm going to do an impression of you."

Roman's chest clenched. If Janus was just going to mock him—

He gasped as warm hands cupped his cheeks, gentle fingers tucking bits of hair behind his ears.

"Shh," Janus murmured, his voice gentler than Roman had ever heard it, "I know it doesn't feel like it right now, but it's going to be alright. You're going to be okay. I'm right here."

Roman's eyes widened, breath catching in his throat. Janus shifted closer, one hand cupping the back of his head as another began to gently brush the tears from his face.

"I know it's hard right now," he murmured, still far, far too soft, "but you're doing great. I'm here for you, however you want me to be."

"H-how—"

A bit of the Janus he recognized reappeared as he smiled. "I told you, I'm doing an impression of you."

Roman stared at him, gaze darting over his face to try and find the lie, the trick, the deception that must be there. "But how did you—"

"Figure out it's what you needed too?" He brushed away another tear. "It's like you said, isn't it? 'We all eventually become the person we needed when no one was there?'"

"…you remember that?"

Janus blinked, a light pink dusting the top of his ears as he looked away. "I do listen to you, Roman."

If the warm hands on his face weren't still sending volts and jitters through his body, perhaps he wouldn't have asked. But the tenderness had blindsided him and he did.

"…what else is in this impression of me?"

"Well, normally, you ask if someone wants advice or if they just want you to listen." Roman nodded, still taken aback that Janus knew that. "Are you asking why I didn't do that?"

At his nod, Janus smiled and shifted, easing a cramp in his leg.

"I've seen you ask Patton and Logan," he said, "and the two of them jump to giving you advice, don't they? As if you haven't already thought of plans A-Z and tried everything yourself, Creativity."

The role, thrown in his face so often, sounds dangerously close to an endearment as it leaves Janus' mouth.

"So I figured you probably wouldn't want that."

Janus…knew that. He'd watched—he'd seen Patton and Logan try to help him when he was upset. And somehow he'd known—he knew it was wrong.

Guilt about snapping at him earlier settled heavily in his stomach.

"I didn't know you cared."

Janus paused, hands stilling. He swallowed, ears flushing again but this time, he held his gaze.

"I do," he said clearly. "Care, that is."

Far away, a car drove down the street, dull roars fading into silence. Roman swallowed and nodded.

Fuck it.

"Yeah?" Janus smiled as Roman inched a little closer. "Would you like some comfort?"

Roman nodded again, almost frantically. Janus just held out his arms.

"C'mere, then."

The angle was awful. Their knees were in each other's ribcages. Their shoulders wouldn't fit together. The sofa started digging into their legs, but it was perfect.

When was the last time someone held him like this?

"Hang on, let me just—" Janus moved his leg, sitting almost sideways on the sofa so Roman could scoot into the open space— "there."

One hand cupped the back of his head, another rubbing his back. He was so there, so warm and solid and so much better than sitting alone in the dark on the cold couch. The sobs he'd worked so hard to trap in his chest tore from his throat.

"Hey, hey," came the soft voice, "shh-shh-shh, it's okay, you're safe."

He felt the hold on him shift as Janus started to pull away and flailed, grabbing hold of him before he could let go. Sillily, selfishly, stupidly—

"Whoa, whoa, easy sweetie, I'm not going anywhere?" A finger tilted his chin up. "Are you okay? Am I hurting you? No? Okay."

Slowly, the arms returned, holding loosely at first before Roman whimpered and it tightened.

"Let it out," Janus murmured, "it's okay. I won't go anywhere."

He cried.

Janus held him the whole time, occasionally murmuring things like you're safe, I've got you, or try and match your breathing to mine, that's it, or shh, shh, I'm right here, I'm right here.

Eventually, he sagged against him, exhausted. Janus chuckled gently, helping him adjust until he was practically dipped in his arms. He brushed away some of the hair and smiled as Roman shifted, wiping his face with his sleeve.

"That seemed like a lot," he said quietly, "you feel any better?"

"Face is all poufy. And my head hurts."

"Yeah, crying will do that."

"Which one?" Janus just grinned. Roman sniffled again.

"Thank you."

Instead of something like no problem, or you owe me, Janus suddenly looked nervous. "I, um, forgot something. Of my impression of you."

"What?"

Janus leaned down and slowly pressed a kiss to his forehead.

Oh.

Why did you do that? How did you know I do that? How many times have you seen me do that? How many times have you wanted to do that? How come I didn't get to kiss you first?

What came out instead was: "You're gonna make me cry again."

"Okay," Janus whispered, kissing his forehead again, "crybaby."

The nickname never sounded so sweet.

General Taglist: @frxgprince@potereregina@gattonero17@iamhereforthegayshit@thefingergunsgirl@awkwardandanxiousfander@creative-lampd-liberties@djpurple3@winterswrandomness@sanders-sides-uncorrect-quotes@iminyourfandom@bullet-tothefeels@full-of-roman-angst-trash @ask-elsalvador @ramdomthingsfrommymind@demoniccheese83@pattonsandershugs @el-does-photography @princeanxious@firefinch-ember@fandomssaremysoul@im-an-anxious-wreck@crazy-multifandomfangirl @punk-academian-witch@enby-ralsei@unicornssunflowersandstuff@wildhorsewolf @thetruthaboutthesun @stubbornness-and-spite @princedarkandstormv @your-local-fookin-deadmeme @angels-and-dreams@averykedavra @a-ghostlight-for-roman @treasurechestininterweb @cricketanne @queerly-fluid-fan @compactdiscdraws@cecil-but-gayer@i-am-overly-complicated@annytheseal@alias290@tranquil-space-ninja @arxticandy @mychemically-imbalanced-romance@whyiask@crows-ace @emilythezeldafan@frida0043 @ieatspinalcords @snowyfires@cyanide-violence@oonagh2@xxpanic-at-the-everywherexx@rabbitsartcorner @percy-07734@triflingassailantofmyemotions @virgil-sanders-the-gay-emo@cerulean-watermelon@puffed-up-bees@meltheromanstan@joyrose-fandomer@insanitori@mavenmush@justablah65@10paradox10@uhhh-hi-there-i-am-nervous@cutebisexualmess@bella-bugatti-frogetti-baguetti@ultrageekygirl

#sanders sides #fic #dragonbabbles #roman sanders #janus sanders #deceit sanders #sympathetic deceit

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the-white-soul · 7 months ago

Note

Pfft... Seriously? You expect me to give you entertainment on a silver platter? No. That's not how this is gonna work. If you want me to entertain you, you might as well hire a jester.

*He scowls for a second, but then takes to note how bitter his mood is since he heard about Jack from Chara. He doesn't want to relax- he can't relax. But he shouldn't look so much pricklier than usual. He shakes his head and brightens up.*

Heehee, I'm just kidding! I'd play with you any day, Kara! Let's do something fun while we wait. *Flowey smiles luminously, seeming very cheerful.* How about we play… hmm… truth or truth!

I'll go first. Dess, when was the last time you lied, and what did you lie about?

(Noelle) "Hmm, *quick think of something Dess did* I once threw a rock out the window and blamed it on Santa Clause. Noelle was scared senseless. I told her the truth after I saw how terrified she looked."

(Kara) "Well, that sounds like Noelle. Scared of everyone and everything."

(Noelle) "*Phew* Ain't that the truth!"

(Kara) "For me, it was when I went to a class that only allowed monsters. It wasn't a segregation thing, it was just a class about monster anatomy I didn't need to take yet. I put on my fake devil horns and pretended to be a monster. I mostly did it because I had separation anxiety."

(Chara) "Aw dang it, you have cool ones. I just told my father I had 2 cookies instead of 3."

(Kara) "That's it?"

(Chara) "None of us have interesting things happening all the time!"

(John) "I'm going to talk with Rick now, If anyone needs me I'll be down the hall and to the left."

*John and Rick both walk to an empty room and sit.*

(John) "What the hell was that?"

(Rick) "You said it wouldn't be my fault!"

(John) "That was before I learned you tried to invalidate emotions, you psycho."

(Rick) "I punish my defendants to the best of my ability no matter what. I believed that was the best thing to say. You know the plea deal can still be made! I can talk the judge into it."

(John) "No."

(Rick) "Come on man! You and I both know that this is a near-impossible trial for you to win."

(John) "Near."

(Rick) "You'll always fight for what you believe in. I fight for whatever needs representation. If you believe in your defendant you'll become irrationally angry and make more mistakes. If you really want to win this case, stop caring about Asgore!"

(John) "Monsters will one day learn to be friends with humans. If we win this we can take that step forward! Think about the bigger picture. Monsters will be called weak if they just keep surrendering."

(Rick) "Fine. You want the bull you're getting the horns."

#undertale #the white soul #kara #flowey #ask flowey #noelle holiday #dess holiday #rick #john #court drama #Time flies by weird in my writings btw #hopefully it's not confusing

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declanlikesmusic · 1 year ago

Text

Today's Listens: Episode 004

August 8th & 9th, 2023

These past couple of days have been busy as fuck and I've neither had the time to listen to that many albums in each single day, nor write about them in those same days, so I thought I'd compact the two of them into one for a quick double episode! I listened to a variety as usual for as little time as I had and really enjoyed myself as usual, so here's what I heard!

Ski Mask the Slump God – STOKELEY (2018)

I kicked off the first day with simultaneously one of the most underrated yet underutilised rappers of the current day. I've always loved Ski Mask the Slump God's quirky yet menacingly skilled style and there are times where either he's punching under his weight or his label is doing that for him. (Bring back the original BEWARE THE BOOK OF ELI or I will take action.) I'm thankful to return to this particular debut studio album to end up finding a lot to love. Nuketown is the obvious big bomb highlight from the hype alone, but even the lesser appreciated cuts like the melodically sung So High and Save Me Pt 2 are fun jams, plus big hits like Faucet Failure, LA LA and Foot Fungus are great too. The whole thing is very consistently enjoyable, only really weak in a few notable spots. If you're a fan of trap rap, I can't not recommend this one.

7.6 / 10

Highlights: So High, Nuketown, Foot Fungus, LA LA, Save Me Pt 2, Get Geeked, Reborn to Rebel, Faucet Failure

Meteorological Agency – Night Coverage (2019)

Next one took me a long time to get to, I was pulled away to deal with other things after watching Jacksfilms livestream that day, so I had to wait until after my poker game that night to cover this half-hour signalwave album. This one's very sweet, lovely to hear and melodic, but it hardly exceeds more than that for me most times. I hate to kind of dismiss it like that, because it was still a good, solid time, but I was seeing a lot of praise for this out of other broken transmission albums and I hardly can say I walked away with too much compared to those who did. Still, good time, I'm keen on recommending it, just not particularly high priority.

7.0 / 10

Highlights: Indigo, Melancholy, Violet, Dream, Landscape, Rest

my bloody valentine – glider (1990)

I wanted to blaze through shorter listens because I didn't want this first day to be hardly anything, so why not throw an EP into the mix from the legendary my bloody valentine, though I had to listen to this through their EPs compilation. This was a very, very good time. It kicks off with soon from the end of their loveless album, which grew on me upon this EP and the rest from the strange title track to the almost great closer were a very pleasant time. If you want more shoegaze EPs in your life, this is a must-try among others of theirs.

7.4 / 10

Highlights: Soon, Off Your Face

HKE – OMNIA (2016)

Not gonna lie, I was kind of breezing by these albums on the first day, especially this one which closed it out, but at least it made me realise this was a little better than I remembered. HKE is a persistently bitter nutjob, I don't want to publicly endorse his music without telling you to proceed with caution, because this man's history in the vaporwave world is fucking wild. This record was ripe from the rise of the hardvapour subgenre and it's a decent time. I was kinda falling out of love with it and its persistent ambient interludes by the midway point, but once I reached OMNI, I was having a great, great time. Definitely one to enjoy whilst learning about hardvapour's messy, shitty and complicated history and its place in vapor as a whole.

7.1 / 10

Highlights: Omni, Requiem, Restore, Awake

SEA OF DOGS – Prelude (2018)

Now it's the second day of the two and I've spent all of it in the morning and afternoon being way too busy to be at home and sitting down for any of these albums. By the time it was finally evening and dinner time though, I had to kick it off with one of my favourite producers of all time. hyphyskazerbox, known as SEA OF DOGS here, put out a Prelude EP in 2018 that perfectly bridges the gap between her releases at the time. This was delightfully strange, a complete warping of music without being too plunderphonic-heavy, really genre-heavy in that matter. If you're going into this one, don't expect anything and you will receive everything, a little bit. The last two tracks are especially grounded into being more lyrical cuts with the former especially taking dominance with its atmosphere. This is another great time from an incredibly varied discography. I'd say check it out, but also know that there's others from her that don't sound quite like this that are even better.

8.2 / 10

Highlights: Hearing Her Name in Static, Warmed by the Rain and Sunny Thoughts of June, Beekeeper

Pendulum – Hold Your Colour (2005)

Finally, I've been waiting to go over this one for years now, the pioneering and genre-defining drum and bass prodigies known from down under as Pendulum with their mid-2000s debut album. I was worried I wouldn't love this one as much as I wanted to, but to no surprises at the end, this was actually a very great time. What's especially amazing to me is how basically this album compresses what would go down as several different subgenres for DnB into one cohesive record, from dancefloor DnB to liquid DnB and all sorts of others! Highly, highly recommend this one; I'm sure to EDM heads, this one is a stone-cold classic and it deserves that position greatly.

7.8 / 10

Highlights: Slam, Plasticworld, Fasten Your Seatbelt, Out Here, Hold Your Colour, Streamline

VECTOR GRAPHICS – DESTINE (2015)

This one's another EP, but just like with glider and Prelude, this one is not to be underestimated or undermined. Far from it actually, it's my favourite EP that I've heard since starting this series! VECTOR GRAPHICS, now known these days as .CASTING, is a prodigy of a slowly growing subgenre of vaporwave known as VHS Pop. There's a bunch of definitions out there, but the one that seems to be on the rise is classic vaporwave-infused hip-hop instrumentals with loud VHS fuzz. We can absolutely thank this EP for helping to popularise that sound, as its title track is often regarded as one of the best vaporwave songs of all time. I'm completely on the hype train with that, I especially think that the second of the three tracks sampled in this is completely transcendent. It's the longest and best cut on here by far, but every single track from before and after it is also a consistently great time. This EP is excellent and if I'd recommend anything in this post more than any other, it's absolutely this one.

8.7 / 10

Highlights: SURFING, DESTINE, ALBA83

Joy Division – Substance (1988)

I always like to do a slightly special record for every ten ratings that I do, even if milestones like this are as insignificant as 1330. For that, I tackled probably the last Joy Division record I will cover, their '77 to '80 compilation of non-album singles titled Substance. I've never been fully enamoured with their pioneering post-punk sound; I understand that it's for way more people other than me, but at least it was very fascinating to see this band evolve from a slightly amateur punk rock sound to a completely innovative one. The second half is especially good and consistent, but not to the level of great for me that I'd love. Almost every track here I felt that I should love and I very clearly almost do, but there's always something holding me back from that. It could be Ian Curtis's vocal styles, it could be some of the instruments played, it could even be the troubling recording quality of the late '70s as usual. The only track where everything truly clicks for me is the closing Love Will Tear Us Apart, which is very obviously their best here. I still think this compilation is very good and worth a listen if you're especially a fan of post-punk.

6.9 / 10

Highlights: Transmission, She's Lost Control, Atmosphere, Love Will Tear Us Apart

Massive Attack – Mezzanine (1998)

To finally close out this double special, I went to one of my favourite albums of all time for a proper rerating that I felt was undermining, when I last tried it. Massive Attack's Mezzanine is an incredible '90s record and my absolute favourite in the trip hop sound. I think the reason why I used to score it lower than I would've liked to is because what makes this record so excellent is often so understated that you'd have to really pay attention to find it transcendent most times. It's so eerie and urban, it feels dusty at points, but its highs are grimacing and haunting. I struggle to find new words for it, especially its first run of tracks from the incredible opener to the underrated interlude-type cut. Just dive in and absolutely check this one out if you haven't already.

8.8 / 10

Highlights: Angel, Risingson, Teardrop, Inertia Creeps, Exchange, Mezzanine, Group Four

Finally, I've got this two-in-one special right out of the way. This one had to be super delayed, I'm finishing this on the morning of the 10th, but I'm still very glad to be able to push this one out, especially as I'm freed from my job for a little bit. I hope you like what I've mentioned here and I'll see you shortly after for the next one!

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scottishaccentsareawesome · 5 years ago

Text

The earliest times TV writers betrayed me was: first, when they had Jackie and Hyde break up in “That 70′s Show” for the rest of the show’s run; and in the eighth season Jackie fell in love with Fez and they got together. (Sorry but that’s just lazy writing)

- The second time was when Jake Ryan cheated on Miley Stewart in “Hannah Montana” (Like who the hell are you kidding? You can’t have her choose him at the end of a special episode called “HE COULD BE THE ONE” and then he cheats on her! That’s just idiotic writing!)

#I'm still very bitter about that second one not gonna lie #bad tv writing #hannah montana #that 70s show #jake x miley #jackie x hyde #I will take this bitterness to my grave

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wmarximoff · 2 years ago

Note

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.”

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