#Victor is living his best life | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year ago

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He'll Follow me Down Every Street, No Matter my Crime

PAIRING: John 'Soap' MacTavish x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: You had an affinity for shiny objects. This time, a sting of pearls locked away in a mansion calls your name through the crowd of a party - only trouble? You have a hunch the man you help at the front door isn't all who he says he is.

WORDCOUNT: 11.9k

WARNINGS: Guns, blood, death, gore, heists, theft, suggestive mentions, mentions of sex, heavy flirting because reader's a tease, propositions of sex, drugs, the reader is loosely based on Cat Woman from DC, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You wouldn’t call yourself a good person.

Life had given you the short end of the stick early on, taking what little you had in your grubby hands and shoving it into the ground, making you watch as they stomped on it until all that remained was a remnant of hope. Like a shard of glass, you held it even as it cut your palms open. But there was only so much that you could hold until you longed for more of it—until you wanted to take the broken bits and try and form a mosaic out of them.

It started as petty crime—the theft.

You got good at it. Very good.

You remember the first time you tried to pick a man’s pockets; aged fifteen with a switchblade in your pocket that you had never used before, bought off a man in exchange for cigarettes. When you’d been caught, the man—looking quite like Albert Einstein, mind you—had snapped your wrist so far back you heard it snap in two places. It still aches on cold days.

In that moment, a firm resolve had taken over you. A rabid understanding.

No one was ever going to do anything for you, and if you can’t rely on your skills to get you through, then you only had yourself to blame when it all went bad.

As you said, it started with petty crime. Then it got a bit more serious.

You dabbled with blackmail and multi-level schemes that involved all sorts of money and luxurious items. Extortion.

You considered yourself quite the salesperson, admittingly.

But personality-wise: arrogant, prideful, and vain. The list went on and with no near end in sight. It was life, was it not? You were finally able to live it lavishly even from the time you’d just gone past the border of the drinking age.

But the best part about it was that you were entirely alone. Alone in every sense—not even a cat or dog to your name, much less a person to care for or about. It was perfect.

Years of this went on, and you mean years. This was a job to you, and as you slipped into the hugging form of a deadly red dress, and rubbed your lips with the exact same shade—#4A0000 Oxblood—it was enough to make your pulse thump with excitement. The thrill of this made you want to never let it go; adrenaline junkie down to the jitters in your fingers when you first got the invitation.

‘On behalf of Victor Lawson, you are formally invited to his mid-autumn get-together at his estate. Enjoy such finery as a five-course dinner, open access to his ballroom and gardens, and the pleasure of the host himself who’s eager to have you over. This invitation is viable to bring a plus one. We look forward to having you. ’

It was perfect. Perfect.

Chuckling under your breath, you think of the items that Victor had in that mansion of his—the jewelry and the raw cut gems. Your particular interest was a set of pearls that his mistress wore, well, wife now. Affairs are such messy things.

Slipping into black heels and looking into the full-length mirror, you smirk slowly at yourself, glancing up and down. You were the picture of elegant perfection—like a woman born and bred into money. Your penthouse was layered with the remnants of your spoils, stories on every counter or vanity; engraved into the pieces of fine metal and stone you wear on your wrists and neck. Bleeding wealth. Everything you have you had lied for, but did lies not take more practice than truths?

You consider yourself an artist.

“Perfect,” you clip the heavy earrings to your lobes, seeing the skin droop at the weight of rubies. Brushing down your dress, you hum, clicking your tongue at the thought of how pearls would better compliment the outfit. “No,” you grumble, frowning in disgust. “Nearly perfect.”

Walking out of the fabric curtain you have to block off your room, your heels click against the marble floors, creating a large echo over the vaulted ceiling; the place had a coldness to it, really. A separation.

Not that you cared.

Grasping the modest wool dress coat from the coat rack, you slip it on with a huff and fix the collar; hand moving into the pockets to take out your silk gloves and move your fingers into them. Last was the purse—a small black leather handbag that you let hang off of its strap on your right shoulder like another limb. The invitation was kept safe inside of the wool.

One last breath to try and keep your cool and stop the constant smirk that tries to force its way onto your face, and you call the elevator to your floor before stepping into it.

“The pearls are in the office,” you say, inserting your key and pressing the button for the lobby. “His wife leaves them in the glass display case if that maid’s words are anything to go off of. And tonight,” you hum, finger grasping your phone from your purse and pressing into the front to unlock it. A social media profile pops up and you stare, eyes half narrowed in lustful pleasure. “She’ll be wearing her sapphires.”

Victor’s wife is pictured in blues and silvers, and you had to admit, it wasn’t the correct color scheme for a mid-autumn ball. But you supposed she wanted to be the center of attention anyway, so her plan if that was the case would pan out perfectly. No one wears a blue that shade this late into the season.

You drop your phone into your coat pocket and shrug, blinking slowly as the small waft of the elevator music is interrupted by the ding of the doors; that sudden lightness to your head shows that it has come to a stop. Stepping through the opening, you wave to the doorman and plaster a sickly sweet smile on your lips.

“I’ll be back soon,” you explain. “Don’t miss me too much, then.”

He grins like an idiot. “Yes, Ma’am! Here,” the man scrambles, “I’ll get the door for you.”

“Oh, lovely, thank you, Dear.” Outside is a nice chilled breeze, leaves moving over the street only a small distance of concrete away—your driver is waiting patiently outside of it, the tinted windows up and the engine already running.

Your body moves to it.

“Ma’am,” he nods.

“Hello there, Buck,” you blink slowly at him, politely reaching out an arm and squeezing. “So good to see you again—and the Misses?”

“At home resting, thanks to you.” You hum, dismissing the comment as the man pulls at the car handle and moves to the side.

“It was the least I could do. Such a horrible feeling,” your lips mutter, “getting sick. If I only have to throw some of my money to get people to listen to their patients, it’s money well thrown. Do tell her I hope she feels better soon.”

“Of course, Ma’am.”

“Wonderful.” Sitting down on the seat, you carefully tend to your dress so it won’t wrinkle, picking at loose bits of wool from your jacket and gazing at your reflection in the glass. Such a vain little creature you’d grown into. Your eyes trail down your nose, lips, down the swell of your neck, and the bones of your face; running a finger over your cheek and trying to stop itching at the makeup you already long to take off.

But beauty takes time.

You’d look better with those pearls.

Buck gets into the car and locks the doors, and soon the entire vehicle is speeding off into the darkening sky. Your skin tingles with anticipation.

You enjoyed making those who’d broken the backs of others see a bit of your power when they realized you’d won, but the instances when you could go in and leave without a trace made you feel on top of the world. A woman with such a desirable position; an unforgettable ease of mastering a conversation.

It was addictive to watch them fumble around like idiots. Go crying to authorities about things they could easily buy again and again. It makes you want to never stop talking. Your fingers twitch at it—your heart pounds.

A sly fox’s smile comes to your lips, and you hum under your breath as the car brings you into the lion's den.

—

“Well,” Johnny grumbles, voice gruff. “I don’t understand why it needs to be me. Gaz looks better in a suit and everyone knows it.”

“Damn right I do,” the man in question replies, tossing a belt the Scot’s way, to which Johnny catches with no problem, slipping it into the loops of his dress pants with a heavy hand. “Don’t forget it.”

MacTavish's throat echoes with an unimpressed grunt, side-eyeing Kyle as he smirks. Grabbing the fly of his pants, the man runs it up, moving his feet to make sure he’s not stepping on any of the fabric.

“Garrick needs to be nearby in case of trouble. He’s your oversight.” Captain Price leans against the far table of the hotel room, glancing at his watch. “Five minutes, Sergeant.”

“Five bloody minutes,” Johnny groans, blinking as he tightens his belt. “Couldn’t at least have bought a bigger dress shirt? Suffocating over here, Sir.”

Ghost glances at him from where he stares out the window, arms crossed and fingers tapping his bicep. “You can blame Laswell for that.”

“Just make sure you don’t rip it in the middle of the party,” Gaz pats his shoulder, and Johnny glares, sighing out aggressively at the pull of fabric. The fellow Sergeant is smug and amused. “Can’t go in and bring you another.”

“Ah,” the Scot grunts. “Don’t worry, it’s just a little public embarrassment. Nothing I haven’t gone through before.”

“Story for us?” Simon utters, raising a brow.

“Not one I’m willing to tell.

John interrupts the banter session easily with a sharp command. “Alright, you can trade stories all you want later, we’re short on time and the driver’ll be here any minute. Soap,” Johnny blinks over, buttoning up his waistcoat and pushing the blue tie under it. Price stares, raising a brow, but his lips pause for a minute. “...Why are you wearing a bloody blue tie, Son?”

“What?” Johnny’s face pulls in, stubble shifting the scar on his chin. The sides of his eyes crinkle in. “Why’s that matter?”

John’s eyelids close for a moment before he takes a long breath and looks to the side, shaking his head. “No time,” he utters before coming back to it. “Go through it again, Sergeant. Slowly.”

“Target is Victor Lawson’s computer—located in his office at the back of the mansion. Three rights and a left is the fastest way there, barring breaking down the walls.”

“Good,” John grunts, seeing Johnny’s smirk at his joke. The Scot goes and grabs his suit jacket. “And?”

“One gun and a knife, hidden in the back garden with a silencer near the fountain,” the man licks his lips. Gaz passes over an earpiece which he hooks into his shell, clear and nearly invisible against his skin. “M9 with only one magazine. Fifteen rounds.”

“You don’t have to use it,” Simon weighs in. “In situations like these, opt for a knife. Less mess to clean up if you do it right.”

“Don’t want to think about the types of parties you go to, Lt,” Soap sends a sly smile the Lieutenant's way. “Think I’d shit my pants if I saw you at one. Mask or no.”

“I like parties,” Ghost says blandly back, blinking at him slowly. “They don’t skimp out on the appetizers.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Johnny mutters, moving back and hurriedly flattening out his suit. “Right! Time to get this over with, boys. I’m goin’ in—don’t miss me too much while I’m away.”

Price’s hand goes to rest on his shoulder, moving him out of the door as Kyle calls his good luck to him. The Captain moves a hand in emphasis on the words he ends up speaking.

“In the inside pocket, you have a USB,” he says, and Johnny’s blue eyes stare at him, serious with his lips flat. “We don’t need the entire system—just plug it into the box and let it do the work.”

“Rog.” Soap asks, “Anything I need to expect from this Lawson fellow?”

John grunts. “Negative. Man’s a drunk who likes to flaunt wealth, he’s in the background of his practice; has others do the dirty work for him. But we need his intel.”

“Then I’ll get it,” the Scot assures firmly, steel determination in his gut. “M’not so easily distracted, Price. It’ll be like takin’ a walk through the park.”

—

“I’ll be back soon, Ma’am,” Buck comments as he opens the door for you, sticking a hand out to assist you out to the red-carpeted grounds. “Call if you need to.”

“Thank you, Buck, I will,” you chuckle, nodding.

Walking past you run your hands over your jewelry, slipping your fingers up the inside of your wrist until you grasp the sleeve of your coat and pull it down more. It was growing colder out, and it was best to get inside the party as soon as possible. Already the air was thick with the noise of music and small talk, properly illuminated by lights that spilled out like water from a river.

Around you, the front entrance was guarded by the tall sentinels of rose bushes; decorations in the form of strung lights and pumpkins placed and carved to immaculate detail. The mansion itself was the biggest on the tree-strangled street, and cars were coming and going quickly; lights moving through the dark trunks.

Looking and walking slowly down the red carpet to the front entrance, your shoulder is lightly grasped.

“Ma’am?” You startle, head whipping around to the sound of a deep Scottish accent.

Your eyes lock with cobalt blues, a large man behind your form holding a piece of paper in his hand. You look at it quickly, the calloused and firm fingers extending the item.

He was in a black suit, and while you fight to raise your brow at the deep shade of blue for a tie, you find that the outfit suited his stocky build quite well. You could see the size of his biceps easily, and in the light, your face nearly went slack at them.

Not even mentioning the thighs.

“Apologies,” the stranger breathes, backing up a step and releasing you with a soft smile on his lips. “Saw this fall out of your pocket. I’d hate for you to lose it so close to the door.”

Staying silent for a moment, you quickly fall back on your natural charm.

“My pocket?” Your hand extends, brushing against the man’s own before lightly taking up the familiar shade of the invitation. You flip it over in your hands, eyebrows raising in slight shock. Your other hand pats down your coat pocket, finding no firmness besides the body of your phone.

“I didn’t even notice,” you chuckle lightly, focusing on the man ahead of you. A small flutter of upset moves in your veins. “Thank you very much, Sir. That would have been embarrassing.”

“Ah,” he shrugs his wide shoulders. “Don’t worry about it. And Johnny’s just fine, Dearie.”

“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Johnny,” you move up and lean forward, lips shifting to leave a delicate kiss on the side of his cheek. Hearing a slight hitch in his breath, you hide your smirk, leaning back fully to stare into Johnny’s slightly widened eyes and the reddish sheen to his cheeks. He clears his throat, mohawked hair shifting in the breeze as he turns his head to the side for a moment. “You’re a lifesaver.”

You tilt your head.

“So, here for Victor’s party then?”

“Ah,” the man recovers quickly, nodding as you turn and begin a slow pace. The both of you stay near each other as the stairs to the front door get closer. “Yes, Ma’am. Have you…been to one before?”

You humph, shaking your head. “No way, I only ever go to these things once. Waste of time, in my opinion.” Your eyes send Johnny a glance to find him blinking at you in confusion. “What? You thought I would be all snobby about it? Most of the people here can’t even take back a shot correctly.”

A shocked chuckle exits the Scot’s lips, eyebrows raising on his face. A far more casual smile now takes form on his part.

“What are you even here for then,” he asks cheekily. “If you don’t mind me asking?”

You smirk. “The spoils of war, of course.”

“You’re strange, you are,” Johnny utters, but finds he can’t wipe the grin on his face for the life of him. In his ear, Price’s voice grinds through like iron.

“Soap, stay on schedule.”

He grunts, rolling his shoulders. Johnny’s thumbs go to rest in his belt, looping the brown leather.

“War’s a big word, Bonnie,” his blues glint.

“Would you prefer quarrel,” you dart back, and your spirits seem to enjoy this conversation some. The man was…new, so to speak. There was something different about him that you couldn’t place; he felt more layered than the normal people at these events usually came. Like you could speak to him for hours and only crack the surface. But, even by just his eyes, you could tell that he was intelligent. Very much so.

“That might be more your speed,” you end with a tilt of your head, jewelry lightly clinking against one another.

“I think you’d be surprised.” Your chuckle is smooth and easy to listen to.

“Perhaps.”

Johnny hums, smirking as he pulls ahead a tiny bit. “And what do I call you, exactly?”

“My name?” You find a hand in front of you when you make it to the stairs, and you mildly get thrown off by it. Blinking quickly for a moment, you recover and delicately place your hand into the Scot’s, smiling as he helps you walk up.

His flesh is warm, and you can feel it even through your gloves as it bleeds into you. A warmth that pushes back the chill of autumn, sending winter scampering like a dog with a tail between its legs. You ignore how your breath hitches at that action.

“You can just call me Cerise.” Is what you say as the doorman draws near and as Johnny stares with an intrigued furrow on his brow. Before the Scot can speak, you’ve already walked away, heels clicking and your purse swinging; hand whispering out of his like it was never there.

Blue eyes watch, but they quickly snap out of whatever trance was there beforehand.

There were things to accomplish—adrenaline was already taking hold in Soap’s bloodstream, making his focus hone in. While your conversation had been…interesting, and you were quite the beautiful woman, of course, he had a job to do.

But first, he had to get through the door.

As you were speaking with the doorman, easily handing over your invitation, the man slips his hand into his pants pocket to get it ready; voices from other guests all around.

But his hand touches nothing.

Immediately, Johnny feels his stomach drop.

“Where’s the fuckin’ invitation,” he hisses under his breath down the line, trying to keep his voice low. Soap’s eyes darted about on the ground, thinking that maybe he’d done the same as you and just dropped it. But no, nothing.

John’s hurried voice moves through the earpiece.

“Sergeant, don’t tell me you lost the fucking invitation.”

“It was in my pants!” He growls. “Bastard things that are making my thighs go numb.”

You’re none the wiser to the conversation in the man’s ear, only pausing when you hear the implication of something not going right. As the doorman takes your invitation and looks it over, you turn your head to the side and watch for a moment in confusion as Johnny pats his thighs and backside, hands over the pockets and his body turning in a circle.

“Johnny?” You call, walking towards him. The man freezes, eyes snapping back to you. You grab onto the tips of your gloves and begin taking them off, stuffing them into your coat. “Are you alright over there?”

His jaw is clenched, eyes simmering with annoyance. “Just fine, Hen, no need to ask,” your eyes narrow, slowly dropping to where the obvious lack of an invitation sits in his hands. “Just…uh, seems I’ve gone and lost something o’ mine.”

He goes back to whispering under his breath, throat bobbing with irritation that could rival even yours on a bad day. Even his cheeks gained a sheen of red to them, and not from the wind.

You blink, sighing under your breath.

You weren’t a good person, but you weren’t heartless either. The man had been good company, the least you could do was repay him. A good conversation is so hard to come by these days.

“Oh,” you play off with a chuckle, turning back around and speaking loudly. The doorman looks up at you quickly. “I’m so sorry, I forgot to tell you about my boyfriend, Johnny.”

The air halts, and wide blue eyes snap to the back of your skull.

“It must have slipped my mind in all the excitement, you can understand how such a magnificent property just takes all of my attention.” You chuckle, pushing an embarrassed sheen to your eyes and body—hunching your shoulders in, gripping by the elbows, even bending your spine lightly forward to lean closer to the man. “It’s so beautiful here, I was so caught up in the decorations. He’ll be my plus one for the night.”

The doorman chuckles with you, glancing at the Scot who quickly clears his throat; taking this blessing for what it is and ascending the last steps in record time.

A hand hovers over the small of your back, a bulky body slotting beside your own. Your nose twitches to the scent of hair gel and…you pause, swallowing down saliva. Was that the tang of gunpowder?

“It’s just fine, Miss,” you blink back to the present. The invitation is put to the side. “You’re both welcome inside. Please, enjoy your time in Mr. Lawson’s estate.”

“We will,” Johnny grunts, nodding. “You have a good night, Mate.”

You smile politely, the two of you walking through the open doors. A pair of lips moves to your ear, the words said with low reverence.

“I owe you, Bonnie,” he pauses. “Big time. Nearly scuffed the entire thing.”

“We can’t have that,” you ease, voice like water. “Quickly, what’s your last name?”

You both walk side by side, yourself only stopping for a moment to shimmy out of your coat. Hands move to the back of the collar, helping.

“Last name?” Johnny asks, confused at the instant question. “Why?”

“They’re going to introduce us when we walk in—I need to know so I can tell the announcer.”

The Scot stares, holding your coat as you take your phone out and put it into your purse. He passes off the item to a man near a side door, who asks your name and scurries off when he has it.

“MacTavish, full first name, John.” He grunts, admitting, “There’s a lot more to this than I expected.”

“It’s all for show, Mr. MacTavish,” your hand moves to his arm, lightly taking him along with you and restraining the want to squeeze the muscle under your fingernails. The man was as built as an Ox—what did he eat?

“There’s always more to things like this,” you chuckle.

A small silence falls, but it’s broken when Johnny’s curious nature betrays him. The way you had lied to the doorman…it had been so natural for you it had made him pause now that he had the time to think it over. Hell, he’d half-believed you himself.

Price had even been silent in his ear since then, only a shocked grunt moving across the line. As you shift a hand-held mirror out from your purse and bring it up, looking into it, he speaks up.

“You were good at that,” the Sergeant mutters, looking around at the paintings and decorations in the hallway, hearing more people entering from behind. The noise echoes from ahead as well, the party in full swing. “It was quick-thinking on your part, any reason as to why you’d help me?”

A smirk flicks over your lips as you snap your hand-held closed, moving it back into your purse. “You’re asking if I want to get into your pants?”

Johnny nearly chokes. “N-no! Not at all.”

Your head tilts, side-eyeing him, heels hitting the floor and carrying your snake-like stride. Not once do you blink at him, studying; taking him apart. Johnny’s enamored by the way you do it.

He suddenly knew to be far more cautious around you than he had been previously. His fingers twitch at his sides, and he goes to push back his mohawk with a run of his palm over his hair. He licks his lips and turns his face forward with a heat writhing under the skin.

“It’s alright,” you explain. “I wouldn’t be opposed, but, unfortunately, tonight I have other things to fuck than you, Mr. MacTavish. Perhaps at a later date.”

The man is at a total loss, jaw as slack as a piece of paper in the wind.

But what shocked response he could give you is lost as you move into a far more open room, you both at the top of an overhang—pillars and a large chandelier, shining bright. Marble with real vines wrapped around banisters; tables full of food in such quantity it seemed excessive. But the people. Hundreds of them, all dressed their very best at the bottom of these double stairs.

Soap’s eyes went over all of them, studying faces in an instant and memorizing them for later. No Victor from what he could see…he just needed an excuse to slip away when everyone was occupied. He had to get to the garden first; get that knife and his gun that had been stashed. If it all came to worse, he couldn’t afford to get caught without one of them.

Gaz can only do so much as overwatch from outside.

You move to a woman at the left, smiling as you move to whisper into her ear your title and Johnny’s.

“Miss Cerise and her plus one, John MacTavish.”

The woman nods, and no later does she call into the crowd, moving her voice above the bob and flow of the conversation waves. Many of the men in the crowd choke on their drinks—eyes snapping up—at the mention of your moniker.

“The Miss Cerise and her plus one, John MacTavish.”

“Johnny,” you call, and the man blinks, seeing and immediately moving out his elbow so you can loop your arm through his. “I am curious about one thing,” you say as the scent of gunpowder returns.

“Yeah?” Soap asks, scanning the faces that now pause their speeches and look at the pair of you. He grows uncomfortable at the attention, but you seem to soak it up—particularly the glares from a few faces that you seem to be acquainted with. “What’s that then?”

“You’re not here for the party, are you?”

Bloody fucking Christ, who is this woman?

“What makes you say that, Bonnie?” He forces out, his muscles winding up; jaw working itself in a tight clench. The Scot’s stubble writhes with the force of it. Has he been compromised that quickly? Not possible. Johnny’s mind starts running, and Price gets into his ear to call a firm order to move away from you immediately.

But that would make your unblinking eyes worse, and Soap didn’t want that. The hair on his arms starts to rise, spine straightens like a stick. You felt it, feet going down the stairs without having to look at them, your head is stuck gazing at him.

“No offense, of course,” your voice even results in his feet wanting to disobey him, to turn your way. The way you spoke was hypnotic. A siren. Some womanly beast from long lost history, coming to haunt him when he had a job to do on a limited schedule.

You continue. “But you’re not right. You don’t fit into this crowd.”

“What?” Soap tries to push a flat joke. “Did my hair give it away?”

You study him, smirking. “No.” There’s no other explanation beyond that.

This was supposed to be simple.

Give him a gun and he’d be the most experienced shooter in this room; a jumble of cables? He’d have a homemade explosive in minutes.

But why the hell would they put him in a suit?

“Listen, Cerise, Hen,” Johnny levels, “I’d love to stay and talk, really, but I need to fuck off and find some of my friends. Thank you very much for the save at the door, but there are some things I need to take care of.”

“And here I thought I’d get to keep my fake boyfriend,” you pout, leaning into his side. He watches you tensely.

Your lips move in a laugh like a ringing bell. “But, yes, you’re right. I also have to take care of my entertainment for the night.” You move up to his cheek again, placing a kiss on his stubble as you both reach the bottom of the stairs. You whisper into his ear. “It was very nice meeting you, Johnny. Do tell me if you’ll ever take me up on the offer I gave you.”

Disappearing into the crowd, it’s like you were never there.

—

Johnny grunts as he tries to bend down, the fabric around his thighs and arms pulling tight enough to stop the blood in his veins.

“If someone doesn’t get me properly fitted,” he growls down the line, “you can find a new demolitions expert, Price.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Sergeant.”

“It was short notice, Johnny,” a Manchester accent follows.

Blue eyes glared at the bag hidden beneath foliage, a hand snatching out and grabbing it quickly.

“Ghost,” Soap huffs. “Good of you to join us with our late-night heist.”

“Figured you could use the support.”

“Oh,” Johnny scowls, “always. ‘Specially when I have to get myself surgically removed from this piece of utter shite.”

“Now you’re just being dramatic.” With a shake of his head and a growing smirk, the Scot takes out the M9 and the combat knife. Moving to attach the silencer to the gun. Blue eyes scan the garden rapidly; on the lookout for any guests or guards walking near the fountain at his back.

“Alright, I’ve got the gun.”

“Knife?” Ghost asks.

“Affirmative, Lt.”

“You’ll be smart to use it away from any prying eyes. Neck leaves too much of a spray—go for the gut and cover the mouth until they stop moving.”

There’s a moment of rustling fabric as Soap shifts the gun into the small of his back, the back of his suit enough to cover the grip but restricting the ability for a fast draw. Simon was right—the knife was the best option for him.

“You are stone cold, Simon,” the Sergeant smirks, eyes gazing over grass and gravel as the knife finds a home up his right sleeve, resting against his forearm. “Price, has Gaz checked in?”

“Affirmative,” the Captain comes back on as Johnny stands, re-hiding the bag into the bush. “Says he has eyes on from the neighboring mansion’s roof. He’ll lose you when you go inside, but if you need any guards terminated, lead them outside and he’ll take care of ‘em.”

Soap nods, head swiveling and brushing down his front. “Copy. I’ll keep it in mind.”

But as he’s walking, the Sergeant pauses, dress shoes getting brushed by the grass. A bead of silence lingers on him like a needle into fabric, a nagging feeling like an itch at the base of his skull.

“Price?”

“What is it?”

“I need you to look into someone else at the party, calls herself ‘Cerise’.” Johnny can practically hear the confusion over the line and he moves on to explain as he walks farther into the garden. “See if there are any files with that name. I have a bad feeling, and I can’t place it.”

“The woman?” Simon’s voice enters his ear.

“Aye, her. The things she said…they’re stickin’ with me.”

“Hate to tell you, Soap,” Price sounds slightly amused in his dim monotone way. “But the things she says stick to most men.”

He growls, face going heated as his chest tightens. “I’m not speaking ‘bout any of that.” Johnny’s head swivels up to the balcony of the ballroom, trying to pinpoint his location from the maps he’d memorized prior. “I’m talkin’ about how she—”

Speech halts in a fast instant of a choked-off sentence.

A flash of red catches his eye.

“Johnny?” Simon asks over the earpiece, confusion in his tone. But with a slack jaw, Johnny can only watch in awe and shock at the woman currently breaking into one of the locked balcony doors. And he knew they were locked. The informant had said they would be.

It was you.

Red dress and moonlight over your flesh, you look around the balcony before bending and opening up your purse, fiddling for a moment with the contents inside.

“Johnny, sit-rep.”

Unblinking, Soap watches as you take something out, moving closer to the door and inserting it into the door lock.

“She’s fucking picking the lock,” Johnny breathes, his breath making a cloud on the air.

“Who, Sergeant?” Price asks.

“Cerise,” Soap huffs, his jaw closes slowly, blinking as a hand comes up to rub at the back of his head. Only a minute or so later, you move back from the door swiftly, stuffing your items back into your purse and standing. Hand going to the handle, you push into it…and it opens with no trouble at all.

Walking through, Soap gapes as the door closes silently behind you.

“She got in,” he relays, and he hears Price order for Simon to contact Laswell—possible hostile inside of the mansion. “How do I go about this, then?”

“We need that intel—neutralize her if she interferes.”

Something swirls in Soap’s chest, but as he hurries to the stairs up to the balcony after you, gravel stuck into the grips of his shoes. With a grunt, he says, “Copy, Sir.”

Reaching the very same door you’d just gone into, the man slips inside without a whisper, clicking off his earpiece.

—

You trail a hand along the wall at your side, keeping to the barrier and resisting the temptation to fill your purse with expensive pewter statues and whatever other bits you can fit. But you can’t fight off the feeling for long, and before you take a fast right on the way to the office, your noiseless hand snatches at a small statue of a knight and stuffs it into your bag. A low chuckle breeds in your throat.

As you pass mirrors, you gaze at your neck, trying to imagine the glint of pearl and the way they’ll feel over your flesh; sitting heavy with wealth and dripping perfection down to the golden clasp.

“Three rights and a left,” you go off the words from the maid, pausing when you hear the sounds of staff or security. Heels muffled on the thin carpet, your body slinks along like a cat, red dress trailing with all its dangerous intentions.

You’re only one last turn to the hallway of the office when you’re unceremoniously grabbed by the scruff of your neck.

Eyes snapping wide, a sharp inhale is muffled on your lips as a hand settles over your mouth, ripped back along the carpet and shoved into the wall with a rattle of picture frames.

Ignoring the sting of your spine and the fingers that find purchase around your flesh, you blink away the sheen of panic and lock eyes into familiar cobalt blues.

“Johnny?” Your voice is muffled behind skin, and your hand snaps up to his wrist when pressure is set over your windpipe. Shock flies to every other emotion available, confusion taking precedence.

His face is rabid with anger.

“Who the fuck are you?” The words are snarled on his accented tone—lower than the bottom of a canyon.

Physical interactions, in this sense, were never your strong suit, of course. You specialized in getting out before anything like this ever happened, not when a hand was around your throat and starting to put pressure. In fact, now that you thought about it, the man ahead of you would have absolutely no trouble snapping your neck in a second. Despite all of your pride, a bead of fear moved up your back.

Yet, you still glare with all the venom you can muster over the barrier of Johnny’s hand. The weight at your neck stays, but the one over your mouth moves to lean into the wall beside your head.

“Get your hands off of me, you brute,” your words are tight, nails digging into his skin and making indents.

The man can feel your pulse under his hand, the thump of your blood as he looms, glaring heavily. He wanted answers.

“I asked you a question, Bonnie,” his jaw clenches, eyes unblinking. “I think it’s in your best interest to answer it truthfully, eh?”

“And what about you then?” You force out, “I guess my hunch was correct, you’re not here for the party.”

“I have a job to do,” Soap snaps under his breath, eyes moving the hallway as your free hand delves into your purse slowly. “I have a feeling you’re lacking in that department, Cerise, whatever the hell that name bloody means.”

“It’s French,” you snarl, teeth bared, and feeling insulted. “It’s elegant.”

“It’s a load of bullshit. That’s not even your real name, you minx.” His hand tightens even more, and your eyes gain a sheen of panic as your throat closes—his hold was unbreakable just as is, a trained and dangerous thing. Trained? Who was he? What did he want with Victor’s estate?

Was he a thief like you, or hired security?

“Answer me!” His face moves forward, nose nearly brushing yours and breath puffing your face. “Who do you work for?”

“Work?” Your voice raises, confused and angry. “I fucking work for myself, asshat! Do you think I’d waste my time doing this for someone else? Those pearls belong with me.”

His eyebrows pull in, face tight.

You lash out with the pewter statue in hand, aiming for his head. Halfway there, the man’s limb beside your skull flashes out and you find your wrist captured, shoved back into the wall, and outstretched beside you.

Gasping at the pain that ricochets your bones, your hand drops the item in an instant. Your brows go tight with old wounds, the memory of your first attempt at pickpocketing sparking up along with the pinch of marrow.

“Not very bright, Hen,” Johnny’s voice is graveled, glancing at the statue as it bounces along the floor. His lips twist, expression shifting as he takes in your prior confession one word at a time. The attack hadn’t even phased him. The scar at his chin roaves, as he huffs out as the hold on your neck loosens, “Now what did mean pearls—?”

Your knee reems itself upward and connects with his crotch.

Balking back, Johnny’s spine bends, curling in as a long and loud groan enters the hallway—a curse hurled out soon after. Not planning on lingering, you bolt off, jewelry jingling, and lungs heavy in your chest.

“What the hell,” you gasp, taking that last left and staring at the large wooden door at the end of the lineup; fancy gold handle. Fingers shaking and neck aching, you hear the sharp call from behind you as your body gets to the barrier.

Yet, there’s no time to pick the lock. A curt bark moves along the walls.

“Cerise!”

“Fuck,” you draw the word out, quivering hand moving through your purse to find your picks.

Johnny rushes the corner, one hand still on his aching lower body and the other pointing down the hall.

“Get over here,” he snaps.

“Fuck you!” You snap, glaring. “Stop acting like there was anything down there for it to hurt!”

“I am five seconds away,” the man hisses, “from dragging you out of here by your arm and throwing you to the fuckin’ security. You’re a damn thief.” He says it with utter surety, knowing as he puts all the pieces together.

“I am a businesswoman,” you back up a step as he moves even closer, the bulk of his body intimidating now that you know what it could do to you. “And, apparently, you think it’s acceptable to toss one around like you’re trying to have sex with it,” your eyes flare, back going flat to the window behind you. Johnny looms once more, arms caging you in as they go beside your head and the fingers curl. Both of you bark at one another with, at present, no bite.

“I’m not opposed to fun, Mr. MacTavish,” your smirk is venomous. “But I prefer to do it when I’m not on the job.”

“Stop talking,” he snaps, eyes darting to your lips as your gut spikes with adrenaline. His front is nearly flush with yours. “This isn’t worth it—you’re wasting my time. I need to get into that office”

“Then let me go,” your lips are near his, brushing with every word. Now your silver tongue has something to latch onto. He wants to get into that office just as much as you do. “We can help one another.”

“You?” Johnny scoffs, tilting his head as footsteps echo down one of the nearest halls. “Help me? Sorry, Dearie, but after that stunt of kickin’ my fucking balls in, you’ll have to wait for ‘em to re-drop before I put any sliver of trust into you.”

“Tempting,” you huff, both of your teeth bared like dogs—not once do either of you blink away. “But you can’t get that door to move without me.”

Johnny raises a disbelieving brow, and you elaborate.

“If the pins aren’t all moved in under ten seconds, and the door opened, an alarm goes off,” the man stills above you, and you smile in pleasure. “All security in the area will come rushing down on you and your horribly styled hair,” he snarls, eyes flashing, but you continue, face triumphant. “And I hate to say it, Mr. MacTavish, really I do, but I doubt you can pick a lock better than me.”

Johnny glares still, and this time, it’s far more sharp. Something moves behind his blues; consideration or exasperation, you don’t know. Hell, you still don’t know what he’s going to do when he gets into the office. But this is an alliance between wild animals.

The man is about to open his mouth, jaw already loosening, when a loud, questioning, voice moves from the end of the hall.

Both of you freeze, pupils going tiny from where they stare into one another's. Even the blood in your veins slows to a near stop; shock so potent it renders you speechless. Someone was coming down the hallway.

“Is anybody down there?” A voice calls, echoing off the ceiling. There wasn’t anywhere to hide.

Johnny moves back immediately, a hand going to the back of his suit to try and grasp at something as you hurriedly blurt out, “Kiss me!”

The man flinches, anxious eyes narrowed. He blinks rapidly. “What?”

“You heard me,” you snap. Footsteps get closer and the Scot looks at you like you’ve gone mad.

“I am not fuckin’ kissing you, Bonnie,” he says bluntly, a chuckle on his lips. “No way on God’s green earth.”

“Do you want to get caught or do you want to play it off as a mistake?” Your hand moves forward and grabs at his tie, yanking him back to you. He barely budges, raising an unimpressed brow. “I swear to God, MacTavish, do not ruin this for me.”

The man glares, snapping, “I’m not the one that decided to kick a man in the dic—”

“Hurry up and kiss me!” No time.

Someone’s shadow cusps the visible part of the hallway, and you stare with a pleading expression, Johnny glances over his shoulder before he moves his hand away from the M9. With a deep grunt of disapproval, he leans forward swiftly and slams his lips to yours.

Gasping at the intensity of it, your face is smushed as the Scot’s hand comes up, grasping under your jaw and keeping you attached to him, the other stuck at your hip where it creases the fabric.

For a moment you even forget why he did it, and your body melts slightly as he huffs through his nose—your fingers finding his waist. He shivers as they dig in, and he pushes you into the wall, making the dichotomy of warm flesh and a chilled window leave your eyes nearly rolling to the back of your head.

When your tongue brushes his lips, soft smacking meeting your ears, he hums, leaning into you harder. Neither of you fight it when your lips meet again and again, this time making your hand go to the back of his head, greedy mouth opening when he growls into your flesh. It’s nearly feral with clacking teeth and a massacre of senses. His fingers knead at your jaw slowly.

“E-excuse me,” Johnny rips himself from you, whipping around with a red face. Keeping you in front of him, his pounding heart makes his eyes blur for a moment, attempting to focus. You peek over his shoulder, face burning like a million suns, but a smirk forcing itself forward.

The man behind the mysterious Scot is older, and not part of Victor’s security at all. Just a partygoer who had gotten lost along his way. How he even got back here through the main way without being spotted was something of an achievement, you supposed.

He stutters into the heated air. “Sorry to…erm, interrupt, but I don’t suppose you two know the way to Mr. Lawson’s garden?”

The both of you are brainless for a second, Johnny’s hand still on your hip.

“Two lefts and a right,” you utter on swollen lips, eyes smug. “Door’s already open.”

He hurries off, without a glance behind him, and silence falls again.

You blink at the man now suddenly unable to meet your gaze, backing off of you like you’re made of red fire. Your head tiles even as molten heat rages in your bloodstream, pounding in the base of your throat.

“My, my, Johnny,” you draw out, leaning closer as he sends sharp glances. “I’m impressed, who knew you had that in you?”

“Stop it,” he ends the subject, voice fast and firm.

“And here I thought you’d be a bad kisser. Very attentive to a woman’s needs.” You smirk, slinking past him and muttering in his ear, “Gold star for you, Mr. MacTavish.”

“Get the door open before I change my mind!” He snaps, but you aren’t put off by the darkness of his eyes.

You raise your hands, tossing a look over your shoulder.

“How did I know you’d be so pushy?” The man’s jaw moves as it clenches, nose twitching. He runs a hand over the back of his neck and glares.

You kneel, opening your purse and snickering as you grasp the picks and twirl them between your fingers. They were metal—long and bent to be inserted into the lock and manipulated until you found the correct sequence of pins inside of the mechanism. Inserting the first pick, you take and turn the knob slightly to the left, keeping it like that as you hurriedly insert the second.

“Ten seconds,” Johnny utters, watching closely as his anger simmers down to annoyance with you. Yet, he can’t deny that he liked that kiss, either. “Bastard has a lot to hide.”

You hum under your breath, face close to the door and ear twitching with each click. “Not for long.”

White pearls glimmer in your mind.

Feeling around, the pressure from one pin to another is easily definable to you—years of practice moving from brain to brawn flooding out. With every bit of loose metal identified, the handle is moved by the first pin to keep them from slipping back down.

“Five seconds,” the man behind you forces out, looking back from you to the hallway, anxious about getting caught.

“Do shut up,” you sigh harshly, head tilting. “Stop breathing down my neck and make yourself useful.”

“Doing what,” he grunts, blues getting stuck at the back of your scalp.

“Hand near the door,” your voice is easily forced to sound hurried. “You need to push it open, shoulder and all.”

“When?” He barks, already rushing to hover his large limb over your head. You finally get the small snap of all of the pins in place, a click of achievement.

Your heart skips a beat, yet you say casually, “Now.”

He nearly barrels it down, and your eyes widen as he moves through with the force of a bull, your left-behind form kneeling as the man’s shadow dashes. You blink a few times, brows pulling in with distaste.

While you should have been happy, all you do is stare with a raised brow at Johnny as he stops the inside handle from making a dent in the wall, head on a swivel.

“I said to push it open, MacTavish,” you grunt, standing. “Not bring it down, you idiot.”

He turns as you fix your clothes, taking out your compact mirror once more and running your hands along your neck; slinking into the office. Johnny huffs, rolling his eyes.

“Forgive me, Cerise, if I didn’t want the entire bloody party comin’ to me.”

You wondered if now was a good time to tell him you lied about the alarm but decided it was better to hold off until you had your prize. The less he knew, the better.

“Yes, yes,” your voice is low, “are you going to tell me what you want with this place or am I going to be left in a well of intrigue?”

“You’re not gettin’ a peep out of me, Dearie,” he levels looking around slowly—always keeping an eye on you. Johnny doesn’t trust you, but, hell, you don’t trust him.

Shrouded in mystery.

You shut the door behind you, gazing with glee at the expensive decor and knick-knacks. Was that a gold statue of a deer, you spied? Oh, that would fit just perfectly on your foyer’s side table. Pity you can’t just carry it out of here.

“Such a tease,” you hum, sauntering like a fox over the hardwood. “But I have to admit, John, I don’t care a large deal. You’re not important to me.”

“Likewise, Thief,” he grumbles, eyeing the way your hips sway with every step.

There’s the click of a safety going off, and before your fingers can card along the glass case set into the side wall, keeping velvet boxes in their clutch, you freeze. The door’s lock is reinstated.

Eyes still, you stare at Johnny’s reflection in the glass, heart slightly pounding faster. His face is staring, lips pulling into a smirk.

“As much as I’m just loving our little session, Ma’am, I just need you to understand something, yeah?”

You don’t speak, don’t blink. You hate to admit it, but you feel a droplet of unease as it enters your bloodstream. Had he had a gun this entire time? Your eyes find it now, an M9 hanging from his right hand. It’s black body and the long silencer, an image of death if you’ve ever seen one. You’re not new to guns—no, no, not with how you’ve chosen to live your life; the world you’ve taken by the throat and throttled. But getting threatened with one never became easier.

“I think I understand just fine,” you say, smoother than you feel. Shifting your head, you look over your shoulder, raising a brow. “I have business to attend to, MacTavish. I suggest you do the same.”

“I can’t have witnesses,” you laugh, shrugging. Your hands go to the clasp of the glass cabinet, flicking it to the side with a slide of cold metal.

“And I can’t go without these pearls, do you expect me to care about what you can or can’t have? My needs outweigh yours.”

A low rumble. Johnny’s hips shift weight, and that gun still hasn’t risen from the side. He wasn’t going to shoot you, though you recognize that it may be a bit of a shock to him as well as to yourself.

“I very much doubt that,” enters the air with an accented drawl.

“Doubt it, then,” your bluntness is cold and precise, attention already taken as you move to grasp one of the jewelry boxes, pushing the top open with a squeak of the tiny hinge. A silver sigil ring meets you, and your lips twitch at its shimmering material. “Just stay out of my way.”

“Bloody fuckin’ bastard,” the Scot utters under his breath, shaking his head harshly before his feet take him to the desk set near the back. He allows you to stuff your purse to your fancy, even as his mind screams at him to just put a bullet in you and end this—there wasn’t time for games. Certainly not ones played with a damn fox like you.

The memory of the kiss still sears the man’s brain, until Johnny thinks of every interaction you two had had over this fast-paced and stressful night.

But now it was time to hone in. Clean-up later.

“Price, I’m in the office,” Soap mumbles through the line, clicking his earpiece back.

“Good,” the reply is swift. Johnny ignores your small intrigued look, not commenting on the amount of valuables you suddenly have bulging out of your purse. Like a kid in a candy store. The sight is almost enough to make him smirk at you. “Insert the USB and let it do its work. Should take a few minutes—hunker down and assess the exits. There are three floor-length windows behind the curtains; if it comes to it, break through and drop into the pool below.”

“Swimming lesson?” Soap jokes, patting his inner jacket pocket and producing a small black USB stick.

“Eager, are you, Sergeant?”

“Not particularly, Sir.”

“Coulda fooled me,” Ghost joins on, dry response adding to the choir of strange humor.

Johnny’s fingers move to plug the USB into the port, hearing the click of it inserting and stepping back as lines of code jump across the now illuminated screen—files pop up and disappear just as quickly, and the blinking light on the stick tells him all he needs to know about if it’s working or not.

“Johnny,” Simon pipes back in, and the man shifts his body to the side, hand coming up to his earpiece on reflex.

“What is it, Lt?”

Across the way, your eyes glint.

Lieutenant? So the man’s military? Jesus, that changes things. I thought he was just some guy trying to get dirt on someone he disliked. Business partner, maybe. But military?

Your shoulders get a bit more tense, but it doesn’t stop your fingers from brushing your real prize—the last box inside of the case; red leather. It was all but calling your name like a veiled ghost of lust.

“Got a hit for a file with an Unknown, alias ‘Cerise.’ Laswell dug through the records.”

“Do you?” Johnny licks his lips, feet backing up a step and swinging his weapon. “Lay it on me, then.”

“Not much to relay—multi-year investigation, borders on some of their top classified cases for untouched HVTs. Don’t even have a description. String of high-caliber thefts, blackmail, extortions, and suspected of multiple murders to end it all off. Woman’s been busy.”

“Well,” Soap draws, tilting his head with raised brows. “Isn’t that just lovely?”

But the last part stuck with the Sergeant—murders? Call him naive, but you didn’t seem the type for that.

Blue eyes linger on you, slipping up and down with a twitch in their lids. He sees your face light up as you pop open a jewelry case; lips peeling in a violent smile as the round bodies of elegant and expensive pearls meet the light. Hell, Soap nearly hears you squeal.

Murder? But he knows that looks are deceiving.

He addresses Price, peeling his eyes away and taking a long breath. “Any advice, Captain?”

“She’s not the mission. Get what we need and get out.” It wasn’t shocking.

“And Gaz?”

“Still on overwatch—getting antsy. Says there are more security patrols in the gardens but they haven’t done anything more than speak to an old man.”

Johnny blinks. “Say again, Sir?”

“Old man,” Price repeats. “Have him out by the gardens, moving about; asking questions.” A pause. “Why?”

“We might have a problem,” Soap growls, and not a second later there’s news being relayed.

“They’re moving up the stairs into the mansion, Soap.”

“Fuck me,” the Sergeant snaps, rushing to pull at the curtains behind him, seeing the pool far below—it would take a bit of a jump to land a safe distance from the concrete, but there were limited options.

Making out in a hallway pretending to be horny partygoers wouldn’t fix this.

You glance over at the ruckus, in the middle of clipping your prized necklace over your flesh, feeling the weight of it against your collarbone. The sensation of pleasure was so overwhelming your gut swirled with achievement like a storm at sea.

It was perfect.

Staring long at yourself in the glass reflection, your smile is wide and sharp—uncaring to the Scot’s sudden anxieties. You had your pearls and a few extra treasures, that was all that mattered to you. All that was left was your escape. Taking your phone out of your stuffed purse, you text Buck and tell him you’re ready for a pick-up and to park a little way down the street.

‘Need to walk the drinks off a little bit,’ is what you type, before hitting a firm send with a smirk.

Moving backward, Johnny still speaks hurriedly into the earpiece you had deduced that he has, and has probably had since the evening began. Fast-clipped sentences, and glances to the whirring computer, the USB stick you see inserted into its body. Your curiosity has always been your downfall, but you weren’t about to mess with whatever heist this was; especially involving the military and their forces.

That was a cat you didn’t want to drag out of the bag.

Making your way to the door, your hand is just about to grasp at it when you full-stop. Blinking slowly, your head tilts, your ear twitching to hear the muttering from beyond the barrier. With a moment of understanding brewing, a hand lands on the back of your neck and yanks you back, dragging you like a toddler for the second time tonight

Before you can shout at the brutish man, a hand is once more over your mouth, and a voice in your ear. Was this really the only way he could figure out how to keep you quiet?

“No speaking—you’ll just give away our position.”

You glare, unimpressed, until he releases you—blue eyes firmly leveled on your face in order.

“Keep it shut,” he harshly whispers. As your mouth opens, he raises a finger and clicks his tongue, moving away quickly as you stare past in insult. Jaw loose, your eyes glint with hatred, growl in your throat as you turn after him.

“I’m not fucking three, you asshat!” You exclaim under your breath. “I bet I’ve gotten out of more situations like this than you have. And would you quit dragging me everywhere?!”

The handle across the way is jiggled, Johnny glancing at the computer screen in desperation. It wasn’t done yet. He scoffs, face twisting.

“Debatable.” You vehemently roll your eyes, looking around the room. This wasn’t exactly good—but it wasn’t unsalvageable. Looking at the woodgrain of the door like a plotting snake, you decide you could always play it off as one of Vicor’s multiple affair partners. He had scores, no way the man could remember them all. Tell security that he’d invited you here to discuss child support or hush money; that had to be fair play.

You hum under your breath, sighing. How would you explain Johnny? A lover? Bodyguard? Your mind runs through scenario after scenario, until a large knife is shoved right in front of your face. You balk back with a choking sound, startled like a bird on a line.

“Take this before I change my mind,” Johnny grunts, grasping at his gun firmly.

Your eyes stare with a sneer at the combat knife, which wiggles as the man’s hand shakes it impatiently.

“I’m not taking that—are you mad?”

Soap’s face is as stubborn as stone. “I’m not leaving without my intel, and neither are you.” A look is thrown up and down your body which makes you straighten, heels situating themselves below you. “You wanted to be here, Dearie, so you can’t back out now, can you?”

“If I was here alone, none of this would have gone wrong,” you get into his face, eyes deadly. The door shakes as someone runs a shoulder into it—loud shouting from the hallway.

“You’re a vain little minx that plays mind games because she thinks it’s fun,” Johnny hisses, breath atop of yours and eyes unblinking. “Mind yourself, you hear? This is bigger than a necklace, you vain creature.”

You huff. “It’s funny you think I care.”

“Little—” The computer beeps, and Johnny’s head whips back around as the frame of the door begins to crack.

The USB’s light glints a steady green, and then goes off, just as the computer screen blackens.

“Price!” Soap barks. “USB is done uploading, I need intel from Gaz, now!”

“Everything below the window is clear, Sergeant—get out!

“I need something to protect the damn thing from the water,” the man is already moving back, gun clattering to the desk as he opens drawer after drawer for anything—even just a little bag of—

“Holy shit,” you laugh, picking up something that had fallen to the floor in Johnny’s rabid search. “Victor was getting up to it.”

Cocaine baggie—the Sergeant snatches it from you.

“Woah,” you huff. “Wasn’t aware you had an affinity.”

“I am beggin’ you to keep your trap shut.”

“Ooo,” you smirk, eyes shimmering. “I like that.”

Johnny seethes like a dog, looking at you as he dumps out the drug and rips the USB out, shoving it inside as white powder hits his dress shoes. From there, the thing gets shoved into his pocket with a heavy hand.

“Come here,” he takes you by the arm, pulling. With his other, he grasps his M9 once more. Your annoyingly smooth voice in his ear is a constant knife right to his brain.

“Of course, Handsome.”

“Sergeant, for the love of God, tell me that Cerise isn’t in that room with you.” Price’s voice interrupts the two dogs at each other's throats, baring their fangs with sharp intentions.

Soap tilts his head harshly, moving to the window with you beside him. For whatever reason, he fights his senses to leave you here to be caught.

“Then I won’t tell you, Sir.”

“Fucking hell, Soap.” The Scot huffs, smirk at his lips.

“In a worse way because of it, too.” His hand tightens on your arm and you only chuckle, fingers to your mouth as heat moves up Johnny’s neck. He clears his throat, looking away, muttering to his Captain. “Won’t bloody leave me alone.”

“Awe,” your free hand captures his bicep, running up the fabric of his suit jacket. “I’d never leave you alone, Baby.”

Soap suppresses a whole-body shiver, your heated kiss still strangling him every second he gets a whiff of your perfume. His feelings towards you were strange; potent like a snake to a mouse.

The worst part was that he didn’t know who was who in this equation.

Releasing you, your body jostles at the sudden lack of a brace, but you recover with a laugh and a raise of your brow.

Johnny takes his gun and sends four rounds into the glass.

Yelping, your hands go to your head, covering your ears and slightly ducking.

“Time to go, Sunshine!” Your waist is gripped, legs jerked up with a grunt. All at once your eyes widen, your brain understanding the total lunacy that’s about to take place.

“Wait!” You shout just as the front door is busted down. “I’m wearing tangerine quartz—i-it can’t get wet!”

He’s already in mid-air, a smirk on his face, peeling back the stubble on his cheeks as his body crashes through the broken glass.

There’s the sensation of flying, briefly experiencing what a bird lives before gravity takes over, stealing you just as it does your stomach. You yell sharply, but that’s all you get above Johnny’s heavy chuckle before water enshrouds you both. It sloshes over your head, and takes you down into its depths; chlorine makes your eyes burn before you snap them shut.

You’re taken by the first thing that strikes you as your waist is pulled back to the surface—Johnny hiking you upward with your back to his chest.

Who keeps water in the pool this late into autumn?

Gasping as your head breaks out of the water again, your nails dig into Soap’s wrist, loud commotion from far above, and the screaming of orders.

A bullet whizzes past your face.

“I’m going to need Gaz on this!” Johnny shouts, unwilling to let you go as his legs begin kicking, water running through his hair and flowing off of his nose.

There’s a muffled call before one of the security guards from the office window is struck in the head, a spray of red popping from the burst container of his skull—body slumping out of the hole. He hits the ground with a slapping crunch as you pant on fast breaths.

Getting forced back along with Johnny, you curse in the open air at the sight, eyes wide as your dress is utterly ruined by the pool.

You’re tossed upward, body grunting and skidding along the concrete as your palms slap the ground. Scrambling up, Johnny pivots with you behind him, taking his M9 and leveling it up, firing off a few rounds before the sound of your rushing heels strikes him.

Soap calls to you, but you’re already speeding away to the tree line, water leaving a long trail as you sprint to the best of your ability. The pearls around your neck glimmer, slapping against your flesh.

“What the fuck,” you gasp, heart rushing like a lion. “What the fuck!”

Grass moves near your feet, the estate slashing by—gunshots still echo, those loud booms moving over the night; you even hear the loud panic of the party, beginning to understand what they’re hearing.

Stumbling on a rock, your palms skin themselves along the ground, but you don’t wait to think about the sting. You push back up and keep running.

“Cerise!” Soap barks, running after, looking over his shoulder as his earpiece is full of loud orders.

A hand swipes at the back of your arm and misses as you pivot and grasp your purse strap, swinging it around until it slams into Johnny’s head.

“Fucking hell!” He snarls, hand raising to shield himself as you do it again.

“You’re crazy!” You yell, mind stuck on blood and bursting heads. Your purse is in the air, swinging from your raised hand; feet still backing up from the bulky form.

Blue eyes blink at you, occupied with both looking behind for pursuers and shots as you both move into the trees rapidly, circling one another even while escaping. “You’re shooting people?!”

“It’s my mission!” Johnny shoves out, jerking out a hand. “We need to leave—now!”

“I’m not going anywhere with you!” You yell, looking him up and down, backing up, and bringing your purse close to your chest.

Both of your eyes lock in a battle.

“Bonnie,” the man levels, “You’re not staying here with them—they’ve seen your face.”

“I like my chances better when I’m alone,” you swallow down your tone, evening it out to emanate the confidence that you always try to carry like a sword. You’re not going with Johnny—not now. Now you had to go through aliases; move again—run like a petty criminal. You had to hide your valuables and get your finances together.

Staring, you pant, water dripping from your nose.

You needed to disappear again.

“Don’t be a bloody fool,” Johnny hisses, moving closer. “C’mon, we need to leave.”

“You’re right we do—go, then.” It’s final. “I’m not following you anywhere,” your eyes darted his form, remembering how his weight had pressed you into your wall. “Enjoy your intel, Mr. MacTavish, but I have my own affairs to deal with.”

You slip your purse strap over your body and unclip your heels, dangling them by your finger as you stand back to full height with a deep breath. You’re scared now—nervous. Being around guns was one thing, but watching someone get shot was another.

No one was supposed to die tonight; you’re shaken.

“Cerise,” Soap opens his mouth, annoyance in his veins. But he looks into your eyes and pauses, seeing the fidgeting, the flightiness. The man stills, glancing at your visible heartbeat, gobsmacked.

You were afraid. The woman who’d smirked when he’d pushed her into a wall—the woman who had no terror of getting caught. Afraid of him.

He backs up a step raising his hand.

“Hey,” Johnny eases, lowering his tone. You don’t change your attitude.

“No, MacTavish,” you clench your jaw. “This is where our game ends. For good.”

Eyes lock; stare. They dig and they stay still, night aflame with chaos. The game had been fun, but, Soap knew the truth about this as well as you did. It was felt in the very air along the vibrations. He can’t drag you along back to the Exfil point—it would bring nothing of it but wasted time and energy. There wasn’t any time, and even as his instincts told him to level the barrel of his weapon with your skull…he couldn't do that.

He had to let you go.

There aren’t any words spoken; none said in parting or goodbye—in all accounts, the two of you don’t even know if you like one another. Both of you would aggressively deny any such thing, even if the pair of you were absorbed in how one another feels rubbing your hands along clothes. That dig; that pull.

In the end, you turn, and you disappear into the trees, rushing to circle back to the front of the property where Buck will be waiting down the road. Your heart patters, your jewelry bouncing, and your purse full of your stolen quarry.

In the end, blue eyes watch you for a long moment.

And then Johnny backs into the shadows of night, and neither of you seemed to have ever existed at all.

TAGS:

@sheviro-blog, @ivebeentrashsince2001, @mrshesh, @berryjuicyy, @romantic-homicide, @kmi-02, @neelehksttr, @littlemisstrouble, @copperchromewriting, @coelhho-brannco, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @fictional-men-have-my-heart, @sleepyqueerenergy, @cumikering, @everything-was-dark, @marmie-noir, @anna-banana27, @iamcautiouslyoptimistic, @irenelunarsworld, @rvjaa, @sarcanti, @aeneanc, @not-so-closeted-lesbian, @mutuallimbenclosure, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @gildedpoenies, @glitterypirateduck, @writeforfandoms, @kohsk3nico, @peteymcskeet, @caramlizedtomatoes, @yoursweetobsession, @quesowakanda, @chthonian-spectre, @so-no-feint, @ray-rook, @extracrunchymilk, @doggydale, @frazie99, @develised, @1-800-no-users-left, @nuncubus, @aldis-nuts, @clear-your-mind-and-dream, @noonanaz, @cosmicpro, @stinkaton, @waves-against-a-cliff, @idocarealot

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kurishiri · 1 month ago

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Jude Jazza: Episode.0 full (crude but detailed) summary

꒰ ִ ֺ ⊹ @ notice ⊹ ֺ ִ ꒱ this has some pretty translated lines, but this is largely a summary to help you understand what happens in his story. i think @.judesmoonbeauty will translate this story in full later! if you enjoy, though, please do consider reblogging!

An idle everyday, peaceful times, and a life without any pain.

Such things were, to me, farther than the moon.

some guy is attacking jude on the street and judes like yeah this is my every day. so much its a bore. jude gives him a fist to the nose and cue blood spewing.

so this dude is like “its all your fault my company-” and jude is like “yeah? well your company be sellin women so” then jude orders ellis to boot him to the lab.

jude holding a heart of vengeance like

Jude: Serves ya right. Everyone makin’ a fool outta me can drop straight to the pits o’ hell.

then he lights up a cig. the smoke floats? up to the sky and he reveals its a full moon out.

he thinking how the moon is so big it makes him sick or that it bothers him. in fact, he hates the moon, or so he claims.

The moon shone bright to the point it was annoying——and it would not let me forget the things I wanted to forget.

And the fact that, even if I wanted to look away, I still found myself looking up at it, disgusted me.

hes about to like let out another smoke when he notices a woman, who he immediately recognizes as a letter carrier (kate), looking up at the moon.

the girl is smiling softly, saying how shes gonna do her best tomorrow.

that was all she said before disappearing in the darkness, with the moonlight as her path.

judes like wow workin this hour, shes such a good person its shady. but then he wonders,

I wonder, since when was it that I felt irritation whenever I laid my eyes on gentle or beautiful things.

Was it since the time I learned such things were practically bait for evil and violence?

In this world, there were things that were better not to get involved in, and a great many things better left unknown.

the girl no longer there, jude thinks to himself how those who can live a carefree life, should live exactly that way.

time skip: jude is like then came the time i had forgotten about that night completely. that was around the time that girl “got lost in the darkness.”

now we’re like in the prologue tl and jude is like somehow i remember this girl (kate, who got splattered with blood).

jude is shocked like omg its that letter carrier?

The only thing I remembered was how her profile was looking up at the moon, but the more I looked at her, the more the memories of that night came together.

hes like the hell she doin here. and after hearing her story hes like damn her lucks out the window. (lit: her lucks ended)

then hes like crown is a secret org -> anyone who knows of it gets eliminated -> if they witness a judgment then even more reason to eliminate them -> this girl cant get away from death.

so he clicks his tongue and,

Jude: Tch…this is why I was sayin’ we should’ve locked the door.

then hes like “and then she met her fate by the hands of crown. and that was the end of that.”——or not.

kate gets assigned the role of fairytale keeper (who he calls the weirdo right hand of the queen) and hes like the hell is with this ‘fairytale keeper thing?’ sounds pretty damn worthless to me.

it sounded like a good thing, but it was basically a contract where she was gonna be worked while watched <- his words. hes like its hella weird to be bound to this unfair contract just ‘cause ya saw somethin ya shouldnt have.

jude is disgusted™️ but victor is like “please look after her jude” and judes like uh no i think the hell not.

but kates like “i look forward to working with you jude”

(What’s with that carefree tone o’ hers?)

(This girl doesn’t seem to get what she got herself into.)

so he offers to help her. with some biting sarcasm. and at first kate got a sparkle in her eyes but jude is like the hell? and says its a joke obviously.

(Ya can’t run from here for the next month. All ‘cause ya accepted everythin’ as they came.)

——All the things here now disgusted me.

Jude: Well, go break a leg. Though I won’t be surprised if ya can’t take a whole month and run off before gettin’ offed.

then he yeets.

hes irritated at everything i guess? but hes like “why the hell am i irritated at such little things?” and as if to distract himself he tried to light a cig.

but,

I noticed the moon outside the window, up above.

Tonight, the moonlight shone to an irritating degree…

(…Ahh, now I see.)

(That woman’s sparkling eyes…)

then we have a flashback scene.

???: Hey——promise me somethin’, will ya. When ya fill yer pockets, take me to the moon.

end flashback.

(Her eyes looked just like that person’s.)

feeling irritated, he looks away from the moon and lights a cig.

he then repeats a statement hes made before, that there were many things better to not get involved in and many things better left unknown.

And yet, the woman who followed the moon——had wandered into the darkness.

those who can live a carefree life should go and live that way.

(So that’s why…)

Jude: …Get the hell out as soon as ya can, princess.

Fin.

ko-fi☕️ ┊ comms🤍

#ikemen villains #ikevil #イケメンヴィラン #ikevil jude #ikevil jude jazza #jude jazza #ikemen villains jude #cybird ikemen series #cybird ikemen #cybird otome #ikemen series #otome game #otome

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judesmoonbeauty · 1 month ago

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My Thoughts & Spoilers On Jude's Route

This will contain detailed major route spoilers. If you do not want to be spoiled, please move on because I will not be filtering my review. Also, not all spoilers and details are being shared. This is intentional. Bear in mind this is written prior to my thoroughly translating his route, so the translation may have some adjustments to this information.

So, I really LOVED it!! It's a very good storyline. Am I biased? Yes. However, whether you're romantically interested in Jude or not, I feel like you'll like in route in general. I do highly recommend reading his and Ellis' Past Records before his route if you can. His route does bring up clips from PR, but it's very minimal and there's a lot of context and extra details in PR that you don't get in this MS. I did my best with this, but my thoughts are still every where, so if it doesn't make sense. My bad.

Tropes: Enemies to Lovers....of sorts?, Slow-burn. Key Side Villain Characters: Ellis, Nica, Victor New Side Characters For His Route: Theodore Walker, Gilbert Murphy, Oswald Simmons Love Language: Physical Touch (I'd just like to say that I called this.) Who Falls in Love First: Kate First Kiss: Kate Kisses Jude First Full Snu-Snu: Chapter 24 Both Premium ends Jude's Fate Tragic End: He will die bearing a grudge against/hating the world. Route CW: Violence, Smoking, CA, Neglect, Mentions of a child's death. Jude's Age: 28-30. Jude's Heritage: Irish-British Jude's Curse: 13th Fairy (An endless cycle of hatred) Jude's Fated End: To die with a hatred/resentment against the world.

Plot: In a nutshell, Kate is trying to find one good thing to like about Jude prior to her term of FTK (fairytale keeper) ending, as per their first promise made together. If she finds one, Jude must fulfill any one request she has. Amidst working for both Crown and Raven, Kate tries to come into her own in terms of standing as Jude's equal, seeing the world as he does, and essentially saving him from not only own his death wish, but from being framed for treason against their country.

My thoughts: Jude's route is very lively, it's got a healthy amount of funny moments, action packed moments, and it's quite wholesome overall. However, it still retains some darkness in the sense of his past, and the fact that he's literally on this tightrope of life and death.

Kate: She is not afraid of voicing her thoughts and feelings, or speaking sarcastically to Jude. I almost died when I read that she stuck her tongue out at him LOL. There's this scene where Ellis tells her she's thinking out loud when she doesn't realize it, so she apologizes. A few minutes later after she greets Theodore, she sees Jude behind him:

Kate: ....And thanks for your hard work too, Jude. Jude: Can ya please stop greet me so sourly? Makes me wanna vomit my mornin' tea. Kate: I wonder if I'm under a curse that'll kill me if I don't say something sarcastically...

So, she is very courageous and gutsy, but she also thinks things through. There are times where she wants to act because she loves Jude and wants to be there for him, but she also knows not to act rashly because her movements can hurt him and Crown, so she opts to bide her time instead.

Out of all of her versions, I think she is the one who gets the most frustrated, the most angry, and laughs the most at certain situations such as getting locked in the office with Jude. She is very optimistic and kind, but not saintly kind.

She is a fighter. She learns self-defense and how to use a gun, a lot this takes place off screen, but she does develop this over time. Which is nice because it's more realistic.

Jude & Kate Relationship: Starts off very rough, and I say it's an enemies to lovers trope, but no one actually hates the other person, they simply don't get a long and it has that vibe. Jude is trying to kick her out of Crown, and Kate is trying to find something she likes about him.

Overall, they bicker and banter a lot. It's cute because in MLE Kate says, "If I say one thing, he has 10 things to say", and in BLE Jude says, "If I say one thing, she's got 10 things to say." They're adorable together.

One scene I loved was when Jude is being attacked by a group of thugs in his office after closing hours, and Kate barges in with her gun. She yells at the men to stop what they're doing, and then she tells Jude to step away from them. And so, Jude and Kate are having this full blown conversation as they're surrounded by these thugs as to why she is at his office, who's fault it is, etc, etc. And when the head thug starts to complain, both Jude and Kate say, "Shut up!" at the same time. This seems like it actually becomes a thing for them, they say it in MLE as well.

Were they childhood friends? No. That was an AU thing only, and a clever misdirection from Cybird. I think key take aways from Dark IF and Prison IF are that they made promises to each other, and that Kate tries to return to little Jude in Prison IF. Additionally, it does hint that two children were involved in Jude's past, just the other wasn't Kate, it's his sister. While some may be disappointed by this, I loved that it turned out this way, it surprised me.

Love Language: Physical. Touch. Lemme say it again. Physical Touch. While their relationship is a slow burn, it's not without it's tension along the way, and the pay off is hella worth in my opinion. I just knew that Jude was going to tear into her, and he does.

But more importantly, Jude touches Kate a lot especially before missions. For example, in BLE just before Kate goes undercover at a criminal organization that is using Raven products, she and Jude are in his office reviewing the plans, and while he does this, he touches her bare skin, kiss or bite her, and then after the mission he'll make love to her. Why? Because Kate made another promise to Jude earlier in the route that she would never die before him, so he doesn't have to suffering loss ever again. So, prior to any missions, he'll touch her up to a certain point like a promise she won't die, and then finish once she returns safely. I can't...he's so damn precious.

They love each other very very much, but Jude doesn't like saying the words. "I love you." Not because he's a tsun, but because they're easily said. So, he'll convey his love to Kate with words like, "I'm taking you to hell with me." If you read his side stories, he'll tell you just how much he loves her, and he admits that there is no other woman in the world that he could ever love like her.

Important Side Characters: Theodore Walker: 21 y/o and he works in the sales department at Raven. Every one calls him Theo, even Kate. It seems that he's worked for Jude for a long time as well. He's very personable, and chatty, and he gets nervous about things like when the president forgets his custom fountain pen as he's on his way to business meetings. He even says to Kate and Jude that Kate is his type, and everyone is like.....um what? I'm really happy that Theodore isn't a traitor. I like him. I thought Cybird would use him the way that contract worker in Jude's first story event would be used. But no, he's just a loyal young man who cares about his job. I hope to see him again.

Oswald Simmons: He is the doctor who treated Jude and his sister after Jude memorized an entire medical textbook in a week. After Jude's sister was sold off, Jude ran to Oswald and asked that if he put Jude through school, let him lodge with him and provide him food, then Jude would pay him back with interest. Oswald agrees and in time, Jude does pay him back with interest. Oswald treats everyone equally, and he finds Jude's intelligence and ability to memorize things amusing. While he does not offer to take Jude in of his own initiative, Oswald does have a soft spot for Jude, as he tries to gift Jude a new pocket watch upon graduation and the success of his new company. He even tries to dissuade Jude from seeking revenge that will only force Jude into be lonely. In the route, he tells Kate to relay a message to Jude, that if he ever gets into a pinch to comeback and he'll give Jude a run for his money. To this day, Oswald still has the watch that Jude refused to take.

I honestly, hope that they reunite one day. Jude doesn't wish Oswald any ill-will (though he calls him a weirdo), and he wished Oswald a long life when he said goodbye.

Gilbert Murphy: He is a high-ranking officer of the British military who colludes with the Privy Council and a criminal organization to frame Jude treason and building military weapons. However, Gilbert truly does think that Jude is going to the moon for monetary purposes. While he is being an asshole for framing my beloved, his motives are to protect the people from potential weapons that can be created with Jude's research. Still, it's sullying Jude's innocent and pure motives. Still, he testifies in Jude's favor and takes the blame of the dead privy council member, as his own form of justice for trying to frame Jude due to his becoming blinded by his obsession to protect his country.

The other villains: Ellis: Ellis is Jude's right hand so he is heavily involved with the plot, especially in MLE. We know about Ellis.

Nica: Darius asks him to investigate Jude, so he does. Twice, he offers information to Jude that he's gathered after he lets him know he's aware of what he's building.. The first time, he tells him that a part from the criminal organization Jude has already been dealing with, the British military want his plans too. And wouldn't it be something if they teamed up to get Jude's research. He asks if he can snatch the robin away from Jude, but Jude says she doesn't belong to him, and no matter whom she dated she belongs to herself.

Nica leaves the bar after getting scolded by Jude, but prior to that, he tells Jude that the robin is in the most danger because she's around him. A few chapters later, Nica appears again and tells Jude that his assumptions based on the previous information given have come true, and because he didn't let go (of Kate), he's letting her know the facts. After he explains the situation to her, he tries to whisk her away on a date, but Kate declines. While Nica is a "playboy", it seems that he does care for Kate's well-being.....I am letting my current knowledge of his past events, and bond stories influence me by saying this.

At any rate, at the end of BLE, Darius asks Nica why he follows his orders so complicitly, and Nica says it's because he's on the winning side, and to him, Darius will be or is the winner. Darius is satisfied with this, and when he leaves Nica looks at his palm and says that he will be the happiest someday. It's already been established that becoming the happiest person is important to him, but this has now been reinforced.

Victor: Lore crumbs are very little, but what we do know is that when Kate asks him if he is angry, he tells her that he's forgotten loneliness a long time ago.

Further, when he approaches Jude and asks if Jude is hiding something from him and Crown, he tells Jude he has the means to help him. Jude asks if Victor isn't the one hiding something, and remarks that's why Harrison hates him so much because he knows he is lying. Victor simply smiles and stays silent. Upon leaving his study, Victor does tell Jude no matter what, he doesn't want their freedom disturbed and those are his true feelings.

Further, Victor later tells Kate in the BLE that when Jude says he abuses his power, Jude wasn't lying about that. Later in chapter 24, all of Crown are gathered together in front of her Majesty the Queen for a very important meeting. Victor speaks saying that they wish to grant Kate the position of fairytale keeper permanently, and when Jude finds out, he leaves angrily. In the middle of all this, the Queen never utters a word.

I don't think we learn anything new that we weren't aware of before with Victor to be honest, unless I missed something while reading. But, it's nice to know that we should see something big for his route. We better for how under wraps his lore is kept.

Jude's age: He can't be any older than 30 because in his Past Records he definitively says that he is five years old. In the MS, Oswald states the events he recounted to Roger and Kate took place over 20 years ago. Kate reason's that if it was 20 years ago then Jude had to be under the age of 10. I think he's 28-30.

Jude's Curse: Jude's curse was born when his heart was completely broken, and he vowed to get revenge on those who made him and his sister suffer. It's manifestation was described as a black flame of hatred in his heart. Essentially, Jude has entered a vicious cycle of hatred that never really ceases. Jude fuels this cycle by acting in a way where people want to get revenge on him, and a part of that is because he want's to die.

Jude's Fated End: Jude is fated to die bearing a grudge/resentment/hatred against the world. Jude himself says that his death will not be an honest one. Some have made comments that his fated end is a bit underwhelming, but I am pleased that Cybird left Disney alone, and stuck with Grimm's ending for the 13th fairy. I love it because no one knows what the fairy was thinking or what happened to it, it just simply disappears. This is something that is mentioned quite a bit in Jude's route.

In the MS there is a beautiful chapter with all of Crown gathered for a fireworks beach day, and while Jude is looking at the fireworks, Kate is looking at him. She thinks he is like a firework, beautiful, dangerous if you get too close, and then simply gone.

In BLE, Kate watches a Sleeping Beauty play hosted by local town children where she is staying and even though she knows that the outcome of the fairy is unknown, she is hoping for a different outcome. When the kids stick to the fairytale, it's then she realizes that Jude too - while still stuck in his cycle of hatred - will die. He will never know happiness, and disappear like the burnt body of cigarette smoke, like a firework in the sky.

In chapter 18ish, while Jude is being held captive and being tortured by the British military for information on Crown, he laughs self-mockingly and says that this is the perfect fit for him to die bearing resentment/grudge against the world.

Is Kate Trying to find a way to break the curse? No. Unlike Alfons and Roger's route, Kate is willing to accept Jude's fate, stay by him, make him happy and be his reason to live. That is her sole purpose, to make sure he doesn't die. Kate is obsessed with keeping him anchored to the world no matter the cost, and she even mentions to Victor that even though no fated ends have ever been avoided, that doesn't necessarily mean they are tragic.

Is Jude happy by the end of the route: Yes. Though he won't admit it out loud being the tsun tsun that he is, Jude's first glimpse of happiness occured when he told Kate about his dream and she didn't laugh at him. By the time he puts her to sleep and leaves her behind, he tells her that being genuinely liked wasn't so bad. And of course, Ellis asks if he can kill Jude in his BLE epilogue because it's obvious that he's happy......Jude tells him he can go die, and Ellis is like okay okay. FR though E, I need you to calm TF down.

The depth of his love for her is so great that he tells her that if she ever tries to run from him, she should just kill him. The reason is because she is his only happiness - she is the moon that he's been trying to reach for so long. He'd have no reason to live if she left him.....

Hmmm, here are some of my favorite parts in his route:

He tries so hard to protect Kate, from throwing her out of a window when a house is on fire and telling her she died in that fire so she wouldn't have to return to Crown, to lying to her and accusing her of making a 10,000 £ mistake and firing her from Raven, and other things.

I love that he even assigned people to watch her secretly after he's left her behind in a seaside town, with the intention of doing so for a long time since she is known throughout London for said involvement with Jude. He says things like, if she can live a calm, normal life, then that's enough for me. So, he's resigned to love her from afar.

He does everything in his power to protect even Crown from getting involved with his research so they aren’t crushed and hated by the privy council or others, even undergoing brutal torture.

Jude promises to make Kate the happiest he can before they go to hell, and there are many, many more things he does to endear me even more to him. I nearly cried when he introduced Kate to his sister at her grave he had made for her, saying she (his unnamed sister), was the only family he had left.

Even though he knows his dream of going to the moon is going to be difficult, he is more determined than ever to achieve it, because he's got two promises to keep.

Ultimately, we have our teasing Jude and Kate kicking ass together, and loving each other until their ends come.

Ugh, I'm gonna make myself cry. Well, this is it in a nutshell. Sorry for rambling!

#jude jazza #ikevil jude #ikevil #ikevil spoilers

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escapisttt · 2 months ago

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a little late for this but idgaf. my university shut down for election day so have my thoughts on redacted couples costumes!!

milo and sweetheart: morticia and gomez addams DUHHHH AND THEY ACT LIKE IT. this or kermit the frog and miss piggy (you can choose who’s who but in my heart of hearts milo is miss piggy c’mon now)

david and angel: toji fushiguro and the fucking worm from jujutsu kaisen. david was convinced because of how simple the costume is for him; just slapped on his black muscle compression t-shirt and found some big ass pants and called it a night. meanwhile angel slathered their entire body + their tank top and shorts in purple paint and put on a bald cap. (david carries angel on his shoulders the entire night)

asher and baabe: cruella deville and ash just as a dalmation dog (baabe is dragging him around with a leash and he’s living his best life) this or mermaid man and barnacle boy.

sam and darlin’: octavious and jedidiah from night at the museum come ON. literally no question about it. if sam was more fun, darlin’ would have them go as clawdeen and draculara from monster high, but he will probably never cave.

group shaw pack costumes: the walking dead themed. sam is rick. david is negan. ash is glenn. milo is michonne. darlin’ is daryl. sweetheart is maggie. baabe is carol. angel is carl. and they’re not dressing based off of the characters’ relationships within the show or else things would be weird.

vincent and lovely: just any tim burton couple. jack skellington and sally? emily and victor from corpse bride? edward scissorhands and the girl whose name i forgot? it’s either that or walter white and jessie pinkman.

damien and huxley: deadpool and wolverine (again you can pick who’s who but i think it’s obvious)

gavin and freelancer: donkey and dragon from shrek. to be clear gavin is the dragon and he’s wearing a slutty pinkish-reddish dress with his tail on full display, a pair of fake wings, and a full face of makeup while freelancer is in a donkey onesie from walmart or something. oh and caelum dressed up as the gingerbread man.

lasko and dear: if you wanna go basic, milo thatch and kida from the animated atlantis movie. but that’s boring and lasko doesn’t just wanna be himself. so if you wanna be fun and accurate about it, they’d be gimli and legolas from lord of the rings. lasko is gimli. let him live out his d&d, fantasy-loving dreams.

porter and treasure: phantom of the opera and christine. masc treasure can dress up in a white suit or just anything fancy and white, doesn’t have to be a dress. i just need phantom!porter hnnngh. alternatively if they’re feeling a little goofier they’d go as marceline and princess bubblegum from adventure time.

anton and his lover: no one talks about them enough i will bring them up at any opportunity. that being said, wall-e and eve. anton is wall-e and his lover is eve and they hold a little plant together. i’m crying.

#redacted audio #redacted asmr #redactedverse #redacted milo #redacted david #redacted asher #redacted sam #redacted vincent #redacted damien #redacted huxley #redacted gavin #redacted lasko #redacted porter #redacted anton #halloween

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bvidzsoo · 3 months ago

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࿐ྂ The Games ࿐ྂ

࿐ྂ Synopsis: A dystopian future that is full of pain and anguish. A ruler who is merciless and rids of those who threaten his reign. A spark is all you need. A spark that will bring hope and salvage what's left of humanity.

° May the odds be ever in your favor. °

࿐ྂ Author: bvidzsoo

࿐ྂ Pairing: Ateez members x female reader

࿐ྂ Rating: mature, nc-17

࿐ྂ Genre: Hunger Games!au, violence, gore, angst with fluff

࿐ྂ Status: on-going ࿐ྂ

｡˚ ° ↷ 1. Song Mingi x female reader ↶ °｡˚

Haunted me, haunting you

╰┈➤ Summary: After the 72nd Hunger Games, Song Mingi wasn't the same. The spark in his eyes was gone, his once bright smile disappeared and his face became ashen, cheeks hollow, he was merely a shell of the man he once used to be. It hurt seeing him lose himself to the trauma he was forced to endure in the Arena, still haunted by memories...memories of killing someone you both cared about, someone who meant the world to you. Will you be able to help Mingi before it's too late? But most importantly, will Mingi be able to let you in when you bear the very same face he was forced to murder in the Arena in order to become a victor?

｡˚ ° ↷ 2. Choi San x female reader ↶ °｡˚

Your worst mistake...

╰┈➤ Summary: Your innocence was stripped the day you were reaped for the 73rd Hunger Games. The life you had known, and the joy of living well were all just forgotten aspirations. The Games were cruel and terrifying, and they changed anyone who emerged as a victor, who took the crown and returned to the living. And was all that pain, terror, and haunting memories worth it? Was it worth living a life as a monster? Perhaps, yes, it was, if a man was determined enough to show you what tenderness and love meant, that to him you had never changed. But that man was Choi San, a stylist from the Capitol, another gem adored by the masses, so, could he really love you?

｡˚ ° ↷ 3. Jeong Yunho x female reader ↶ °｡˚

Thousand Miles, just to get you back

╰┈➤ Summary: You didn't want this, but then again, you were sure nobody wanted to face the repercussions of being a victor. You hated your life and you hated everyone around you, never trusting a soul again. Whatever President Snow has put you through after your Games was unforgivable and your only solace lay in Finnick Odair, who understood you and your pain. But it didn't end there, no, it never would with Jeong Yunho, another victor, always breathing down your neck and hogging you as if his life depended on it. You didn't like him and you didn't trust him after what he'd done to you despite being your mentor in your Games. And when the 75th Hunger Games come around and President Snow announces that the tributes this year will be the reaped victors, your world comes crashing down, forcing you to do things you never thought you'd do again. But if it meant Panem would be free, you'd do it again.

｡˚ ° ↷ 4. Kim Hongjoong x female reader ↶ °｡˚

Cravin', I'm cravin', I crave you

╰┈➤ Summary: Being in love with your childhood best friend was hard, especially when your feelings weren't reciprocated. Kim Hongjoong, barely a few years older than you, certainly lived a better life. He was a well-known, sought-after, and praised stylist in the Capitol, his creations renovative after the Civil War the Districts unleashed on Panem, against the Capitol . And you, well, you were still studying at the Academy, trying to figure life out and become someone on your own and not due to your parents' wealth and importance. You figured Hongjoong would pay more attention to you when you had finally decided to become a fashion magazine editor, but, no, it only seemed like that drew him closer to Tigris, the person you hated the most. Will you allow her to steal the love of your life? No, never, only over your dead body.

A/N: I was never supposed to turn this into a mini-series of sorts, but alas, here we are! Since four of our boys are getting their own oneshot's, I decided to make a collective masterlist for them, and who knows, maybe I'll add more members to it if a good enough idea comes across my mind. Tbh, I don't exactly want to start a taglist for this mini-series, but I suppose if there's a high demand then I might just. I might change the summaries for San, Yunho, and Hongjoong since their stories aren't written yet and I was going off based on their plots, but I'll see. All of these titles were inspired by songs, and maybe you should listen to Tove Lo's Thousand Miles if you haven't before because that shit was my jam in high school and I nearly collapsed while listening to it again lmao. I have nothing else much to say, except that I might post San's part around Sunday, and if not, then at the start of next week, hopefully. If you're as big of a Hunger Games fan as I am, I hope you enjoy these stories and ignore some inaccuracies, thank uu! See u around <3 divider1 divider2

↳Perm. taglist: @orshii @jjoongstar @tinyelfperson @thestarskiller @zuuhaa

@aaa-sia @gong-fourz @a-tinycarat @sooberryworld @hopefulrascalstatesmantoad

@anastasiamin860 @yunhogrippers @vcutparis @tunaasan @blvckarabixnvoid

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@kyeos4ng @samiiy20 @woosanhobros @aswho1estuff @khjoongie98

@ateez-main-yapper @kang-ulzzang @felixs-voice-makes-me-wanna @ginger-mingi @redzie02

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❀ complete the forms if you're interested! ^^

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twilightkitkat · 2 months ago

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Time travel GO!

OK let's go.

Like you said, it's a really interesting theory that Worst Wolverine is from the Origins Universe. It matches up with his story considering he seemed confused by Wade's existence, meaning that Deadpool likely wasn't an active vigilante in his universe. This would be plausible if Wade had been essentially "killed" (stripped of his free will) during the Weapon X program. Also, Logan in Origins was a little different than how he acted in the OG X-men films and his personality aligns a bit more with Worst Wolverine. Origin's plotline would account for him being extra cagey and distrustful of the world and the X-men, because his own brother and teammates turned against him in the past.

Logan always struggled with memory problems. Except in his world since he never joined the X-men, he never really fully "remembered" his past. He eventually discovered what Stryker did to him, but not the extent of his involvement in the Weapon X program. It bothered him, but eventually, he tried to move on.

Except he and Wade are up against a villain from another universe. With TVA's ability to time and dimension travel. Right as they're about to finish him off, he hits an emergency button on a device he has and sends them back in time.

Except he latched onto the point where Logan's memory was the weakest and sent him there in hopes that he'd fuck up the timeline enough to never come to Wade's Universe. So that he wouldn't fight them.

So Wade and Logan get sent back in time. Except that Wade remembers and Logan... doesn't. His memories were already spotty at best and were sealed behind a barrier.

The Origins Weapon X program was a little different from the one Wade remembered, but it was so nauseatingly familiar. When he sees Logan with his brother Victor, he damn near starts ugly sobbing. Except for the fact that Logan is ignoring him. He isn't looking at him or talking to him and he's acting like he doesn't remember anything.

It's only when he raises an unamused eyebrow and asks, "The fuck do you need, Wilson?" that Wade realizes how deep in shit he is. Time travel is hard enough, but without Logan's cooperation? In a time before Wade even had his fucking mutant abilities? No thanks...

Wade tries to get closer to Logan. To prod him to remember. Occasionally, Logan looks a little moved by his words, only to get a piercing headache and forget about it. He thinks Wade's schizophrenic and delusional and Wade can't do shit to change it.

So he switches gears. The best thing he could do right now is try to get buddy-buddy with past Wolvie, right? He starts following him on missions, separating him from Victor, and talking Logan's ear off. Logan is annoyed but it's also nice to be around someone who has a shred of empathy for civilians. Who isn't a bloodthirsty psychopath. So he reluctantly lets him in.

So they become close friends. Wade obviously feels more than that, but what can he do? This was a time when being gay was like a death sentence, and Logan was almost 200 years old. He'd had it ingrained into his head and it took years in modern society to undo that shit.

Logan starts feeling a little hot and bothered around Wade, but doesn't know why. The guy pisses him off but this isn't just that? He kind of wants to yank him closer and just... hold him there. But that can't be right. Firstly, Wade is a man. Secondly, Logan isn't Like That. He's a killing machine, an animal. He doesn't deserve nice things.

But Logan starts to have second thoughts. He starts to doubt what he's doing is right. And this time, with someone other than Victor around, he can share his frustrations. Occasionally he gets drunk enough let himself be vulnerable around Wade (only Wade). He tells him how he hates killing, how he just wants to live a peaceful life, how he can't keep doing this anymore. Wade listens to him and comforts him. Tells him he knows. (Holds him quietly when Logan finally lets himself cry. Logan might not say anything the next day, but he stays so close to Wade that their shoulders are brushing and that's all Wade needs to know he appreciates it.)

And so this continues until Logan decides to quit the Weapon X project. And Wade doesn't exactly know what overcame him in that moment, but he followed Logan. He knows he should let the plot run its course but he couldn't. Not when Logan was disappearing from sight and all Wade could remember was a much older Logan from the future about to walk away until he called out for him.

Logan turns around, angry and cautious and fucking terrified because he's leaving behind the only life he'd ever known. And there was Wade, who'd been there for him through all this shit, grinning awkwardly and holding out his dog tags.

"Twinsies?" Wade chuckles as he places them into Logan's hand. Logan can't decide whether to strangle or hug him, so he settles on a combination.

He punches Wade in the shoulder and mutters, "Asshole," and then wraps him in the most bone-crushingly tight hug he can manage. He clings to Wade like a lifeline, like he can't believe he's real, and it's only then that Wade notices he's shaking.

And... oh.

The realization hits him that it wasn't easy for Logan at all. To leave behind his brother who he'd been with his whole life, the only person who couldn't die like him and understood his instincts. To see Victor become someone unrecognizable, tainted by greed and bloodlust. To leave behind the only semblance of familiarity he knew because the guilt was eating him alive.

Wade can't just abandon him. Can't leave him alone to suffer and become the hardened shell of a man he should have become. He isn't thinking about the future ramifications when he takes Logan by the shoulders, grins, and says he knows a way out. Later that night, he manages to borrow a boat from a coastal settlement in exchange for a warning about Stryker. Logan looks dazed next to him as he easily manages to secure an escape route.

(How long would it have taken him before? When he didn't have a translator? How much did he suffer originally?)

And so they run away together. To Canada, where Wade knew Logan would choose to settle. And Wade meets the woman who would have been Logan's wife, in the original timeline. She's sweet and cute and reminds him of Vanessa in a way that makes him viciously homesick. He can see why Logan liked her.

But they don't end up together. Logan is oddly on guard around her, frowning as she chats happily with Wade. Wade might be a little wary because he knows she's a spy, but Logan should have no reason to be so cagey. When she turns to Logan to flirt, he shuts her down immediately and harshly. He storms off and drags Wade with him. (If Wade didn't know better, it almost looked like he was jealous.)

Later that night, Wade brings her up again. Says that she's pretty and seems interested in Logan. It pains him a little, but it's how the timeline is supposed to go. Logan sneers in response before schooling his face into an expression of indifference and asks him what he thinks of her.

Wade... doesn't know what came over him, suddenly, but he feels a sudden urge to be honest. Maybe it's homesickness or just being sick of bottling up his emotions, but he tells Logan that she reminds him of Vanessa.

Logan's eyes are piercing when he asks who she is. Wade says that she was someone he loved, once. That he thought he'd be together with her forever. That he planned to get married and start a family with her. It tumbles out suddenly, like it was stuck in his throat and he had to throw it up or it'd choke him.

Logan tenses beside him. He stares at his hands blankly, and asks quietly, "Do you miss her?"

Wade hears it for the question it is: "Do you regret being with me?"

So Wade drops against Logan's shoulder and grabs his hand and answers honestly, "I loved her, once. But I'm here now. This is my life." The you're my life goes unspoken.

But Logan hears it anyway, and suddenly he's surging to meet Wade's lips, desperately and hungrily. He's pushing him down and looking at him frantically like he can't quite understand his own feelings but he can't stop them either. And then Wade reaches up, cradles his cheek, and kisses him back. Logan melts into him and clings to Wade so tightly he leaves bruises.

Things are different, after that. Wade and Logan unofficially become a couple, away from the public eye. They live a simple but happy life. Logan and Wade both work at the construction company, with Logan as the lumberjack and Wade as one of the builders. It's not the best money he's made, but it'll do.

Except for the fact that Wade is aware their time together has a limit. And he's even more aware that if he goes down the same road as he did originally, he'll die. Narratively speaking, he replaced Logan's wife as the "leverage to use against him." He knew that meant that Victor would come for his ass first. And Wade unfortunately doesn't have his healing factor yet, which makes him even more vulnerable. He may be stronger and more skilled than Kayla Silverfox, but he can't win against an infinite regen hack.

So he starts planning. He gets in touch with some of the black market channels he knew existed at the time. He gets into some shady mercenary work, just like his past life. It's a lot easier when he knows the ropes. He saves up money and hoards it under the floorboards, alongside a special gun he'd managed to get. One with adamantium bullets.

Here's the thing: Wade loves Logan. He does. He had no intention of "fooling" him with their time together. But here's another thing: Wade isn't stupid. He can't live in the delusion that he'll somehow be safe just because he isn't Kayla. He knows how the story goes. And he knows that if he tries to explain to Logan, he'll forget it immediately. He can't work to create a plan with Logan when the universe seems dead set on keeping him in the dark.

But Wade has hope. Maybe he'll be able to escape with Logan, as soon as Victor's time to shine comes close. And soon it does. He's been keeping tabs on his ex-teammates religiously, so when he hears about the first death he knows what to do.

He brings it up to Logan, prepared to flee with him, to fight together to break apart Stryker's plans, and Logan... looks at him blankly. Like he doesn't understand. So Wade tries again, more frantically, and Logan's brain refuses to let him register it. He asks why he's upset, what Wade wants for dinner, and Wade...

Wade collapses to the ground, shaking. The universe wouldn't fucking let him. It was like an immune system fighting against the intruder in the timeline to cut off the infection. It'd let him stay by Logan's side, for now, and change little things... but it refused to let him change the key events. The anchor points tying the universe together.

Wade goes through the motions numbly, after that. Logan can clearly see something's wrong, and tries cornering him a few times, but Wade brushes it off. He can't deal with that again.

Logan's mind is clearly being fucked with. His memories were sealed from the beginning, and his mind seemed to reject any notion of familiarity. Maybe it was the villain's fault, instead of the universe's. In which case, what could be his end goal? This would just cause things to turn out like they did originally, which would be bad for him. (Unless he had a moment he'd step in. A single moment to intercept. Like them meeting in the bar.)

Then, on the night before Victor arrives, Wade puts his plan into action. He grabs the gun and the money stuffs it into his backpack before he leaves for work. He kisses Logan goodbye at their parting point and walks off with a grim look on his face.

The air has a chill to it that can't just be explained away by the cold. The forest seems distorted. Wade can just feel that it's getting close. He hides the bag in a place only he would know to check that wouldn't be suspicious if Logan caught his scent.

Then he "leisurely" strolls out into the woods, whistling with his hands in his pockets without a care in the world. (He's very tense, actually.)

It's then that Victor pounces. Pinning him to the ground, grinning viciously. "Wilson," he punctuates with his claws pushing closer to his throat, "what a pleasure to know that my brother keeps you as company."

But just as Wade predicted, he doesn't kill him. He cuts him, letting enough of his blood spill to be assumed dead, and then hauls him over his shoulder when he's assured Wade can't move. Fucking figures, they needed an experimental subject anyway.

He wakes up later, in a daze, to being chained down on a table in the lab. Wow, so original. Never been done before. He'd wondered how exactly his role as "Logan's wife" and "Deadpool" would meet, but this was roughly what he'd expected. His genes were the next best thing to Logan's, a way to test out the product with room for failure before the next big thing.

(He wondered how Logan felt when he assumed him dead. Did he storm up to Victor, like last time? Was he more or less mad? Did he cry? Victor wasn't here, had that happened yet or not?)

Wade was no stranger to the fucked-up-experimental-torture routine, so when Stryker entered, he didn't act surprised at all.

"Damn, that's crazy," he said blankly. "So you were secretly running a mutant weapon experimentation program this whole time? Weapon X was so cleverly named after the X gene? What a plot twist."

Stryker looks... shocked at his nonchalance. He gets pissed, too, but it's the anxiety as he asks how the fuck Wade figured that out that clues him in. So people other than Logan can still hear him loud and clear... interesting. He can still influence the world.

He riles Stryker up a bit more, pushes all the right buttons (imagines him as Francis, speaking in the exact same way) and he gets what he wants. Stryker snarls at him, tells him he'll show him how to behave, and decides to torture him.

Now's his chance. "Hate to inform you but I already got a free trial of the kitty cat claws. The only way you'd manage to shut me up would be to strangle me," Wade snorts.

And bingo. Stryker mutters that he'll suffocate him just enough to be painful, putting on gloves and eyeing him with a sadistic viciousness only rivaled in Francis himself.

Wade ignores the instinctive panic at the thought of suffocation and focuses on the bright side. Under the same circumstances, he should trigger his mutation early, right?

#kitkat #poolverine #deadclaws #deadpool 3 #deadpool and wolverine #logan howlett #wade wilson #deadpool movie #wade x logan #wade/logan #x men #wolverine #btw resi have i ever said i love you #these asks give me life #i loved writing this #i have sm ideas for a longfic but here's the plot i thought of #for the first part at least

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targaryenluvs · 1 year ago

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Idk if you are taking requests currently, but if you are…

Could you write a similar fic to our little dove, where Coriolanus doesn’t kill Lucy. I would’ve loved to see more of them arguing over who gets to spend time with the reader, and all three of them spending time together.

Or maybe a different ending where Lucy takes reader to pick up katniss with her. And whilst Coriolanus is in the cabin lucy convinces reader to run away with her… but Coriolanus finds both of them and takes them to the Capitol with him.

OUR LITTLE DOVE,, ALT ENDING

pairings: dark!lucy gray x fem!reader, dark!coriolanus snow x fem!reader, coriolanus snow x lucy gray

summary: you reunite with your dear songbird after the games, but it seems the capitol has followed her home, and taken an interest in the two of you. but it seems lucy gray is willing to share you with a certain peacekeeper, even if you aren’t.

a/n: here’s for all who wanted a different ending! the full fic is here ( our little dove )this is just a detour for everyone who wasn’t happy with the ending! DONT READ IF YOU HAVENT READ THE FULL FIC!!!

the trek back to town had you dying. it usually didn’t take so long but with coriolanus’s arm practically glued to you, the sun beating down on your trio and your dress sticking to you? fainting seemed very fun right now.

the entire routine was rushed, food stashed, no goodbyes to your family nor friends, just lucy and coriolanus wanting you on the train asap. they’d sprung their plan of going back to the captiol on you quite abruptly once you reached town but at this point you had no hope in your body of escaping them. so you obliged and followed like a lost puppy.

being in the capitol was worse.

you were completely and utterly alone. coriolanus was busy running the country, lucy was always working and you always seemed to be stuck on your windowsill. staring out onto the streets as the world passed you by. stuck in a prison of marble and luxury.

at first you had to endure lucy and coriolanus’s never ending arguing, always over you. when you still had an inkling of freedom. “are you kidding me? you chose what she wore yesterday lucy. will you just back the fuck off?” lucy’s jaw was dropped open, “excuse me? she was my-” coriolanus’s head tilted back as he dragged his hands over his face, “oh my god how many times are you going to use that? who the hell got her here huh? who provides for all of us? sure as hell not you. now don’t make this any harder. she’s wearing the red dress.” you sat there the whole time, just waiting for someone to notice you.

it always led back to you. but apparently kidnapping you and uprooting your life wasn’t enough since after time the duo fed off of eachother, delusions enlarging. seemingly everyone was out to get you, be with you, but you were theirs. coriolanus wasn’t president long enough yet to go around killing people without raising suspicion and alert towards him and as much as people did respect him, he couldn’t exactly go around killing everyone who looked at you and lucy even if he wished to. so he settled for the next best thing. keeping you away from them, out of reach.

and here you ended up, alone.

you had everything you’d ever dreamed of yet it all meant nothing. you were a shell of your old self and the two of them knew it. but all they cared was that you were with them. whisperings of the president having two lovers were imminent, lucy gray the victor, and the other. the unknown. and you weren’t sure if they’d ever know you. if anyone knew who you were, what you looked like let alone your name. even the staff of your prison did what was necessary, nothing more nor less. food, water, changed bedsheets and drawn baths was all the interaction you had with people that weren’t corio nor lucy.

you wanted to die, anything was better than living the same day over and over. the little flickers of hope came in the form of broken promises whispered during the dark nights, barely heard over the heaving breaths originating from yourself and the other two. promises of people, of the sun and temporary escape from here. but you’d learnt not to believe them.

“sweetheart, it’s not good for you to sit there all day. come, eat.” coriolanus asked demanded from the doorway of your library. the book at your feet long forgotten. coriolanus led you to the dining room where lucy was already eating. “there you are baby. somethin’ wrong?” lucy’s eyebrows were creasing as she took you in, empty eyes, emotionless face, slumped shoulders. you were nothing like the girl from twelve.

y/n l/n. sweetheart to almost everyone. a smile on her face as she went about her day. opening up to people and allowing others to lean on her. making sure her friends were okay when she noticed the slightest shift in feelings. always the lover. the carer.

but the girl who stood in front of her was so different and it broke her heart.

but she knew if she wanted to repair you she’d have to let you go. and as the three of you cuddled together in bed, your soft breaths lulling coriolanus and herself to sleep, she knew it was worth it, as long as you were here.

how selfish! she thought, but at the end of the day.

you’re our little dove.

#hunger games x reader #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow x fem!reader #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus x lucy x reader #lucy gray x fem!reader #lucy gray x reader #lucy gray baird x reader #dark!lucy gray baird x reader #dark!coriolanus snow x fem!reader

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charleslee-valentine · 2 months ago

Text

I wanna talk about this scene.

A head kiss is *so* significant as a choice. Obviously he can’t kiss her lips unless he wants to have his face superglued to hers, but to waste time getting upstairs to have kissed her at all is sorta what I get caught on. There’s got to be *something* going through his head to make that decision over damage control.

We know the abuse of these women, tying them up in a medical chair, is because of what he went through in his childhood. The duct tape bindings in his high chair, the experimental surgical procedures from his father, the neglect; it’s all mirrored in the leather straps, the chair itself and the identical one up at the house. But we also know Bo, despite probably killing at least Victor, has undying devotion to his mother and her legacy. Trudy slaps her child no older than three across his face without hesitation. What affection might look like or have once looked like in the Sinclair house is curious.

The forehead kiss, in the context of the abuse, can read of both possessiveness and distance. Something like staking a claim, less intimate and affectionate than, say, one on the cheek. A heavily controlled sort of relationship. But back to actual affection.

With the Sinclairs, it’s very skewed what that might be like. When Vincent and Bo interact on screen for the first time, Bo is critically injured and angry. He snaps at his brother, but his remorse is immediate and he uses words as a form of affection. Promises as apologies. Almost like begging, a kind of worship on its own.

Which itself ties into his relationship with their mother too.

Trudy is kept down at the church, having her perpetual funeral service. Bo is seen on screen for the very first time kneeling at her coffin in a probable prayer. But that kind of devotion I think is the Sinclair way of affection. As in religion, which has a recurring symbolism in House of Wax, and as such in the characters lives. Prayer drawing parallels to love isn’t surprising.

Something interesting is that in numerous religions, head kisses can be the passing on of a blessing. Bo forces Carly into the same bindings he suffered in for years, but he grants her a blessing before he leaves her there. It doesn’t seem affectionate at first, if anything it’s just kind of condescending, but knowing how Bo works is what makes it much more interesting.

The question is why?

Bo consoles Vincent after he hurts his feelings by talking about their mother’s blessing and legacy. All of Ambrose is a gift from a woman who treated them horribly, and they accept it. The killings are literally for her. In that way, I think Bo is apologizing. He’s inflicting on this woman something that destroyed his life, and he isn't some zombified, all magical slasher; he’s still very much a human being who feels pain and emotions. A lot more emotions than either of his brothers seem to show on screen, actually.

His role as the leader -or the preacher of this church they’ve built, hence why he finds Carly hiding under the robes in the church- isn’t without remorse. It’s do what’s got to be done. Which started with his parents. Victor says in the cold open, “I’m doing the best I can,” while wrestling a toddler. They call little Bo the monster while they’re actively hurting him. These excuses are pre-programmed into his complex.

In regard to further biblical imagery and the Sinclair parents, is the theater. Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? plays nonstop, with the specific scene with Carly being hunted in the theater taking place during Jane’s song. The first two lines of that say, “I’ve written a letter to daddy, His address is Heaven above.” There’s this idea of communicating with a dead parent again, just like Bo speaking out loud to Trudy’s corpse, but now it’s outwardly tying it in with religious beliefs. If Bo is the preacher, he’s simply passing along the holy message instilled in him by his parents above. Bo *is* Baby Jane in that way, but not for the most obvious reason. While yes, he is harsh to his brother, as Baby Jane treated her sister Blanche badly, there’s also the fact that he’s a washed up, desperate, abused child who craves love and validation and normalcy again. Using his communication with the divine up in Heaven above to spread a blessing is a way of getting approval. With a detached kiss to Carly, his crimes are the gospel.

A consistent theme here is not only his relationship with being abused, but also with Vincent. Biblically, conjoined twins are considered a mistake of nature. God creates two human souls, but it is the fault of nature that their bodies combine. However, because of the risks, it is also considered mostly immoral in the church to separate them if one or both will have their lives risked. For the Sinclair twins, their father did this surgery himself, at home, which is obviously wildly illegal and dangerous. That makes him a sinner and an obstacle to a perfect Ambrose, on top of being an abusive asshole. So he’s killed, implied to be shot by Bo directly. That bullet was his punishment as much as the highchair was Bo’s punishment. Vincent may not have gotten the highchair, but he does have the marks on his face to show for what Victor chose. The surgery, the sin of going against the new plan, left Vincent scarred and missing not just tissue but parts of the bones in his face. Having to wear the masks and being disallowed from leaving Ambrose is his punishment for Victor’s moral crime. God took from them both unfairly and I think, despite his devotion, Bo doesn’t quite believe in the faith fully because of that.

Again, he’s human. He has his doubts and fears. His reassurance to Vincent in the form of “Ma would be proud” goes for himself too. And his subsequent “She always said that your talent would make up for what God took away from you.” Vincent doesn’t need convincing though, he needs an apology. That’s what Bo’s speech about Trudy is, is an apology, but that doubles for both him and Vincent. And the head kiss too. Because again, he’s operating on what he’s supposed to do. It’s a routine.

At that point, I think Bo doesn’t get satisfaction from fulfilling God’s (ahem, Trudy’s) plan anymore. Carly, and by extension every other girl who was down in that cellar at one point or another, is a sacrifice to it. She’s duct taped in that chair because someone has to be suffering in order for the Sinclairs to thrive. That’s the way it’s been before. Someone has to be hurting to need God’s grace so badly as to keep up what they’re doing, rather than just forgetting Ambrose. But what makes me think Bo specifically has stopped deriving anything positive from that order, is that he also tells Vincent “We almost finished what Mama started.” Based on the number of empty seats in the theater alone, they could theoretically kill a lot more than just the six kids that night. Why stop there? Because of the sacrificial lamb down in his cellar. I think Bo thinks that his actions will trigger be some fateful event that’ll free them all of Ambrose. Some great flood or some such. And when it doesn’t come for an entire decade after Trudy’s death, I think his desperation is growing more and more over those ten years to where his faith is now slipping. Back around to the head kiss, the silent promises he makes to Carly is to reassure himself that she’ll be special and it’ll end with her.

Choosing Carly specifically, could come from a biblical Madonna-Whore complex. Bo saw the whole group the night before, only two of which were girls obviously. Between them, Paige is pregnant. The Bible states directly that she should be burned for that (as she is out of wedlock.) Ambrose is, to him, a Holy place, but bringing Paige in and keeping her alive, no matter for how short a time, would technically be making the entire land impure. So Carly it was. I do think he has an attraction to her, since whoever has the video camera that night takes special care to record her lips, and then he makes a comment about them after supergluing them. It’s just the fact he could’ve kissed her at any point before the glue came out, and chose not to. Just that little head kiss. Because as much as he’s preached, he has to resist temptation himself or it’s all for naught. Does that mean I think he doesn’t assault any of the women? No, absolutely not. There’s a sex swing in that cellar. It’s just a matter of repenting. The first time we ever see Bo’s face, he’s on his knees in the church. Out of all the empty buildings in Ambrose he chose to go pray at church before the group showed up. He knows what he’s gonna do and knows he shouldn’t. Hence the other meaning of the kiss again, the apologetic side combined with the resistance.

Bo is such a deeply, deeply complex character. He went through so much only to turn around and inflict so much. Going back to their father’s choice to do the surgery on his own, the impacts of having a whole person removed from the back of Bo’s head is so unknown.

From the way they were conjoined, their skulls may have very well been attached. Seeing as Vincent has impacts to the development of his brow bone, cheek bone, lower jaw, and nasal bridge, those bones would have to go somewhere, and the realistic answer is that they would’ve been fused to Bo, or at least the parts of those would’ve been there. All in the back of Bo’s head, directly against his skull. To me, it’s incredibly, incredibly unlikely that no impacts would’ve been made on Bo’s brain development. How much of his violent impulses are even his own, and how much comes from a traumatic brain injury, inflicted by their father himself. Certainly blaming that baby for being a monster, when it’s a consequence of his own behavior, seems about fitting with the rest of the manipulation processes that go on in that family. Which Bo had to learn from somewhere. Trudy was likely his biggest abuser, but I think Bo modeled a lot of himself, unconsciously, after their father. Killing him was just taking on that role, and the religious filtering of it all, is Bo’s way of processing that. The father, the son, and mama’s Holy Spirit.

#house of wax 2005 #how 2005 #house of wax #bo sinclair #vincent sinclair #trudy sinclair #carly jones #analysis #this is a lot of rambling but like. there’s so much in this movie and it gets written off as like ‘crazy hillbilly creeps’ way too often #like yes but also no. guys the curtains aren’t just blue there’s details and nuance please please please #on a very related note #i do view Bo as having religious ocd as well

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pyrodolls · 4 months ago

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can you write sounding with one of the yan boys or ignoring them because of something?

GIVING SUPERFAN! AND STALKER! YANDERE BOYS THE COLD SHOULDER HCS

WARNINGS: obsessiveness, sfw, some slight su!c!de references, bayani is basically a servant and victor needs a therapist, just overall unhealthy behavior cuz they're yanderes. (i do not condone yanderes irl and this is for writing purposes) gender neutral reader, no use of y/n.

A/N: hey guys i just found out my best friend might be dating my ex bf (that made me hide in my house for a year) which is funny bc he told me "not to worry about her" while we were dating. and my birthday is in 2 hours so it's quite an unfortunate time to find out that they've apparently been dating for a few months. if it's true, then whatever LMFAOOO now she's gotta deal with him and it ain't my problem. also thanks for 1k followers, you guys are awesome!! sorry for not updating much, i just don't have a lot of motivation these days

if you ignored bayani...

bro do you *want* him to jump off a cliff???

he is panicking. he is having a CRISIS

bayani lives to please you. if he's talking to you and you just ignored him for whatever reason, he would be heartbroken. absolutely crushed.

he would attempt to ask what's wrong, and fix it as soon as possible. as much as he enjoys being mistreated by you, he'd hate for you to be upset with him for an extended period of time.

his first instinct is to fix whatever he did wrong. he would automatically blame himself, even if it wasn't actually his fault.

he always seeks your love and validation. if you were to ignore him, he would literally sink into the floor and die.

if you forgive him and stop ignoring him, he would be overjoyed. and he'd be less clingy, and a lot more careful around you. he wouldn't want you to get mad at him ever again. that would be his worst nightmare. if you want him to return to his old self, let him know he can be clingy again. if you don't, he'll remain cautious around you for the rest of his life. he just wants you to be happy with him. he can hold himself back from showing too much affection if it means you'll approve of him.

if you ignored victor...

yeah no he's not having it lmao

he'd be so butthurt. and unlike bayani, victor would be very annoying and start hanging around you more. usually he lets you do the talking, or follows you around from a far distance. but if you started ignoring him, he'd become more talkative just to piss you off.

he hates being ordered around, so he's not gonna let you stop him from interacting with you. he's gonna keep talking to you and hanging around you no matter what.

it'd take about a week for him to get agitated. he'd wonder what he did wrong, and try to ignore his insecurities by pushing them on you. instead of drowning in his sorrow, he'd turn it into anger and blame you. you're the one being unreasonable, he did nothing wrong. of course he doesn't believe that, but that's what he would convince himself. he would rather take his anger out on you, the love of his life, rather than admit how unhappy he is with himself and how he treats others.

he'd find ways to punish you for your behavior. as much as he loves you, he won't accept any disrespect. he takes it as a huge blow to his (very fragile) ego.

BUT if you gave up and started talking to him again, he'd get a huge ego boost. of course you'd talk to him again, he's just irresistible! this was totally expected... even though he was crying in his bedroom every night wondering why you weren't talking to him and got very insecure, wondering what he did to make you mad at him. would he ever confess this, though? nope.

he's too prideful to admit that he missed your voice and attention, but he'd show how sorry he is by helping you with chores and work. if you bring it up, he'll say something along the lines of: "i'm not doing this because i'm sorry... i just think you weren't doing it right. i know how to do it better."

this insecure and bratty ass man child would rather sit naked on a hot grill than verbally say sorry lmao

#yandere x reader #yandere imagines #yandere #yandere boys x popstar reader #male yandere x reader #soft yandere #sub yandere #yandere headcanons #yandere oc #male yandere #oc x reader #yandere boy #yandere oc x reader #yandere oneshot #yandere bf #obsessive yandere #my ocs #masochist yandere

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wndaswife · 2 years ago

Text

meant to be yours | wanda maximoff & fem!reader

Nearly eight years after your breakup with her, you meet Wanda again when she enrols her children at the preschool you work at, evoking a multitude of old feelings and regrets.

Word count: 14 245

Tags: angst, fluff, pining that is a lot more mutual than it seems to either of you, mentions of marital issues, sorority!wanda & milf!wanda (best of both worlds), doctor doom makes his grand entrance

For the last few years, all Wanda has known how to do is compromise. It was a method of survival, a way to make sure she made something of herself as she aged.

The life she had made for herself wasn’t what she’d envisioned; ever since high school, Wanda dreamed of being a journalist for a fashion line. She loved writing and fashion design although the last time she ever had any large projects with either of those passions was in college.

Somewhere along the way, Wanda became convinced that the only thing she could ever be good at was planting down exactly where she’d always been — not taking leaps of faith lest she tumble and have nothing to fall back on.

That was why she settled for a life married to her college boyfriend, staying at home most of the time caring for her two four-year-olds, Tommy and Billy. They were raised to be good, sweet boys, and though Wanda had heaps of regrets, her sons were always her greatest joys.

Victor Doom was an aerospace engineer who focused on robotics and developing other technological advancements for the company at which he worked — the household’s breadwinner.

In college he was especially well-known for being one of if not the only campus frat boy with a working brain, who in his final year helped paton tech with his astrophysics professor, subsequently earning himself a position as an engineer at a renowned corporation where he’s since been employed.

All she’d been doing since college was compromise — where to relocate, when to have children, whether or not she pursued a career. Some days she was somehow comforted by the fact that she didn’t need to do any more than live in the providing shadow of her husband, for it meant that she never had to reach for anything above, and that meant she never had to risk failing.

But other days, when she was selfish, Wanda wished she had more. She wished she had more friends, she wished she had a better marriage and a fulfilling job. Then she’d make dinner for her husband and settle around the table with him and Tommy and Billy at the end of the day and realise that she couldn’t have what she sometimes felt she wanted.

How could she?

At thirty years old with no opportunity for anywhere but forward along the path she’d always been afraid to step off of, there was nothing more for her but this.

In the morning an argument took place in the kitchen, hushed and whispered so as to keep it muffled from the twins who were sleeping upstairs. Victor and Wanda had been discussing putting the twins into the summer preschool program for some time, as the private school they were planning on enrolling them in the fall semester had an optional preschool program.

He was on board up until this morning when Wanda brought up the idea that she use the free time to get a part-time job at a local newspaper company that was looking for journalists.

Upset at her suggestion, he called her selfish and accused her of intentionally suggesting bringing the twins to preschool so she could waste time on her own self-absorbed endeavours. She tried to tell him that she felt she had to do more with herself, and that she didn’t only want to be a stay-at-home mother, especially when she had the education to pursue a career like he did.

Rationally he couldn’t understand her wanting to find a job when he provided everything and more for their family, but it was her comparison of their likeness that set Victor off and he became furious and had trouble keeping his voice down, forcing Wanda to quickly abandon the idea of applying to the part-time job to keep him placated.

He left in a frustrated state though he ended up getting what he wanted, and Wanda woke the boys up for their first day of preschool.

The two young boys had moved to cuddle up beside each other through the night, with Tommy having switched beds to sleep next to his brother.

Wanda woke the both of them, running her hands over their tiny heads and soft hair, and she watched as their little noses scrunched up and their short little arms unwrapped from each other's warm pyjama-clad bodies.

As she watched them arise, she thought to herself how lovely it would be to care for her sweet sons like this for a very long time, and she realised how not-so-terrible living a life without pursuing her other dreams would be.

“G’Morning, mama,” Billy mumbled and his mother leaned down to kiss his scrunched up little nose.

Oh, it wouldn’t be terrible at all.

In the car after breakfast, Wanda explained to the twins what preschool was and how much fun it would be to meet new friends and play games a few days a week. The boys were thrilled and their mother was relieved, for Wanda didn’t wish to abandon the plan she and her husband had made by letting Tommy and Billy skip their first day, and she knew that if she let them stay home because of their whining, they’d whine all day until their father returned home in the evening.

But fortunately for her, the twins were ecstatic.

She didn’t know until her arrival that the first day was also when the parents were allowed a sit-in to allow the children to acclimate while also giving them a first-hand perspective of their child’s first day.

From the preschool calendar, she knew the potluck was on Friday but not that the first day was practically an orientation. If she knew, she would’ve insisted for Victor to take at least the morning off to join her in it.

The forty-minute long sit-in orientation where Wanda sat on a short plastic chair along the edge of the learning carpet along with all the other parents allowed for them to see for themselves that their children would get the most out of their preschool experiences, and that they could be relied on to care for their children.

As she gathered her things that were asked to be placed atop the class desks along with all the other parents’ belongings in the back, Wanda watched as the parents around her seemed to make fast friends. She wondered if they had all somehow known each other before the first day.

In any case, she felt lonely without her husband, especially as she watched her sons socialise joyfully with the other children of the class, watching the precious sight of their children take place without her husband with her.

She carefully slipped away along the walls from the groups of quietly chatting parents as they also gathered their things until a familiar voice made Wanda’s perk up as if she was suddenly summoned by dog whistle.

Darting her eyes around the busy room, Wanda walked forward slowly as her eyes raked through the classroom behind the heap of parents between her and the voice that seemed to come from the back of the classroom, to the right, and…

Wanda’s chest tightened painfully and her breath caught in her throat as she caught sight of you. It was you with your hair but longer now, your height the same as it had been, your voice that was a few slight tweaks worth’s difference from the one that had been echoing in Wanda’s mind, albeit fainter these days, ever since the last she heard it in person.

Her hand reached back and she pressed the pad of her finger into a sharp edge of the cubbies behind her, sending a sharp pain up the nerves of her finger and forcing sound through its muffled barrier and finally freeing her locked joints.

She tore her eyes away from you and stopped just before the doorframe of the classroom.

Carefully, when she had confidence in her breathing, Wanda raised her head and took another look at you.

All the different ways she’d start a conversation with you ran through her mind and she soon began thinking of all the things she’d like to say, all the things she’d like to ask you and all the things she wanted to know about how you were living your life now.

But her fingers tightened around the doorknob and she looked over to it, seeing the gold of her wedding ring reflect the classroom lights. Then she suddenly felt unbecoming and terrible about herself, so she looked back and saw her boys enjoying themselves under the watch of the preschool teachers before she quietly slid out of the class.

When Victor came home early and agreed to go pick up the boys to make up for his absence at the sit-in, Wanda quickly looked through her closet and searched for the letters she received from you the summer she was with you during which she had a three-week long trip to Saint Petersburg with her family.

As the tips of her fingers felt the base of a small rectangular box, Wanda began slowly running the pads of her fingers along the bottom until they caught onto the slim edge of an old sheet of paper.

Slowly as to not rip it, Wanda slid the paper out along the open space between the edge of the box and the other stacked mementos she’d kept since college.

Since you.

Before she opened the letter, she questioned why she’d even gotten the urge to look for it and what she was initially intending for when she began searching for it. She looked down and saw the familiar loops and lines of your handwriting and she abandoned the train of thought, slowly unfolding the sheet and raising it up so she could read it.

For some reason she felt guilty for how long it’d been since she last read from it, and the part of her from her younger years scolded her for stopping the way she used to run her eyes over every inch of your penmanship since the last time she was with you.

Anyways, Wanda read through the letter and felt an addictive pulse resounding within her chest, a lightness and a sort of prickly sharp wave that seized her throat and travelled down into her lungs.

As she let the recollection of having ever been worthy enough for this kind of love, reading the way you described how much you missed her while she was gone and how much you loved her, Wanda felt an odd sense of despair knowing such a thing could only ever exist for her through memory.

She couldn’t quite ask herself whether she was mourning the kind of love that was written on the paper or just who she received it from.

Still as she tucked away the letter and ran the tips of her fingers over the other stashed-away mementos in the box, Wanda still couldn’t figure out why she wanted to look for them in the first place, why seeing you today made her want to open the box hidden along the top back corner of her closet.

But she still sorted through it, seeing a flyer for one of your college plays in there and a music CD you put together for her, and more small trinkets all with meaning and all safely-kept through the years to keep the memory of you stored.

Downstairs, the front door opened and along came the excited footsteps of Tommy and Billy, and Wanda tucked everything back into the box and placed it back into the top shelf of her side of the walk-in closet.

Friday came around, and this time Victor did take a day off to go with Wanda to the potluck; parents and children alike from both the elementary and preschool were being invited to have lunch together for a traditional welcoming event for the start of the summer.

Since Tommy and Billy had already made a handful of friends and were by then already quite attached to the idea of playing with their friends outside the classroom, they were dressed in their very best for the sunny day.

Wanda made a conscious effort to look her best too, for she knew that today she was finally going to come up with the confidence to start a conversation with you. She tried to approach it from a professional point of view, to see it as practical if anything to make connections with the preschool’s instructors.

But she couldn’t deny the way she kept adjusting and readjusting her hair in the side mirror of the car as Victor drove them to lunch, and that wasn’t really required of her to be practical.

Tommy and Billy tugged at their father’s hands and pulled them towards the preschool, excited to show him what he’d been missing while he was at work.

There were a bit more people than Wanda anticipated though the expansive playing field of the preschool was certainly enough for the size of both the preschoolers and the kindergarteners from the private school. So she carefully slipped through the crowds and towards the potluck’s tables to set down the dish she made at home.

She saw you there too amongst a line of other parents along the edge of the table filling their plates.

You were one of the teachers’ assistants from what Tommy and Billy had told her during their many excited retellings of their days when they got back home.

Wanda inhaled sharply and kept the casserole dish in her hands as she subtly waited for the line of parents to clear so she could inch her way closer to you. She spotted a clearing on the table that was close to you and carefully set it down.

She pressed the pads of her fingers into the scalding ceramic to give herself some confidence and she looked up from the table of food, finally laying her eyes on your face within a metre from you for the first time in nearly eight years.

To seem as if she’d approached you naturally, Wanda cleared her throat a little and turned her body to face you. She tucked her hair behind her ear and parted her lips.

It all seemed like she was moving too slowly — mechanically — while the beating of her heart made her feel like she was moving too quickly — messily.

“Hi,” she said, stupidly. She got your attention at least and you lifted your head and looked at her.

It was then that Wanda felt she’d bitten off far more than she could chew as she felt herself seized by the sight of you.

Your hair was longer, like she’d seen on Monday. You looked older now, but the years had been very kind to you. She felt herself ache. You looked so beautiful, and she felt she would be trapped in this moment forever, unable to look away from you, feeling that if she had, you might suddenly disappear for another eight years.

The slight stutter in your greeting might’ve indicated to anyone else that you did recognise her and that her presence in front of you had stunned you momentarily, but Wanda, caught up and otherwise distracted by the sight of you, didn’t notice and so she introduced herself.

“I don’t know if you remember me from college, but–”

You nodded and interrupted her, “Wanda.”

Wanda hoped you didn’t notice how her eyes fell to your lips as you said her name, listening with her interest piqued the most beautiful medley of sound as it came from the way your lips wrapped around each syllable of her name.

It felt like an eternity had passed before your eyes garnered her attention again and she replied with a smile that looked relieved, perhaps because of the fact that you’d remembered her. “How have you been doing? It’s been a long time.”

“I’ve been okay,” you answered simply, almost hesitant to share your present life with a figure of your past.

You looked over to the other side of the sunny field where the twins were being carried on Victor’s shoulders. “They’re yours, right?” you asked, gesturing over to them. “Billy and Tommy.”

Wanda nodded proudly, looking over at her playing children before back over to you. “How did you know? Did they mention me?”

“Anyone who went to college with us still remembers the last name of the all-famous Victor Doom,” you said with a chuckle that might’ve seemed resentful to Wanda if she still wasn’t so taken by the sight of you.

“But, how are you?” you asked more seriously, straightening and looking at her. “You look great. What have you, uh, been doing? The last few years.”

She flushed when she watched you look down at her outfit and her hair and she fidgeted with her fingers, absently rubbing her thumb against tablecloth. “Not very much,” she answered. “I got married — to Victor, as you saw — then had Tommy and Billy.”

“That… sounds like a lot,” you said with a lighthearted laugh.

Wanda felt her heart beating against her ribs in a way that made her take in a breath to relieve the tension she felt in her chest as she listened to the way you laughed. She felt like a stupid flaky college sorority girl again.

“A lot, but not what I imagined for myself,” she confessed.

With an understanding nod, you then said, “You seem to be doing great for yourself, though.”

A cool wave of validation came over her and she beamed. “Thank you,” she responded.

“A-And, you? Are you seeing any–”

Before Wanda could finish her question, one of the other instructors, one whose name Wanda did not know, called you over. You excused yourself and Wanda completely understood, allowing you to head over to where you were needed.

Although she had chances to approach you again throughout the afternoon, Wanda instead kept looking over at you from afar between conversations with her husband or other friends she miraculously made with other mothers.

She didn’t want to press, and she was worried that the thrill of seeing you inflated her sense of reality, and she didn’t want to overstep or misread anything.

After all, the last you’d spoken wasn’t on very good terms and although the years may have done away with the wounds from what had happened, no amount of time could change a future friendship that might simply cease to exist because of the past.

So Wanda had to settle with having only a single brief conversation with the person whose letters she’d kept since college, and she left the potluck early with her husband so the boys could bring one of their friends home for a playdate.

To celebrate the start of the summer and the successful lunch, Wanda and Victor stopped at a farmer’s market that they passed in the car for ice cream with the twins and the friend they were bringing home.

As they waited in line, Wanda began to wander and eventually found herself in front of a handmade jewellery booth. She was initially looking in a solely appreciative way, not planning on buying anything but in awe of the shop owner’s talent until she laid her eyes on a pair of earrings.

She reached for them and brought them up into the light of the sun and out of her shadow so she could more clearly look at the tiny silver dolphins hanging from them. They were perhaps half an inch in size and really adorable and subtle.

The rest of her family caught up to her with ice cream in the young boys’ hands while Wanda had just purchased the dolphin earrings. She showed them to Tommy when he questioned what she’d bought.

“It’s so pretty,” Billy mused.

Wanda agreed, “It is really pretty.”

“Is it a gift, mama?” asked his twin.

“A little bit of one, maybe,” she answered with a contemplative hum then took his hand as the five of them headed back to the car together.

She’d wear it eventually.

Dolphins were your favourite animal.

That evening after the boys had gone to bed, Wanda straddled her husband’s hips in their bedroom, knees hugging either side of his lap as he guided her forward with his hands on her hips. He thrusted up into her while Wanda leaned forward with her hand flat beside his head to keep herself up.

She was too much in her head to enjoy herself — not that Victor cared whether she was involved during sex, and she couldn’t stop thinking of the letter she reread earlier that week and the dolphin earrings she bought and how pretty you looked at the potluck.

With a final grunt and a particularly harsh thrust into her that made Wanda wince beyond the mess of her hair, Victor released into her and soon untensed. He lifted her from his hips and ran his hand down the side of her bare thigh, perhaps meant to be some act of affection, before turning onto his side with a satisfied exhale.

Wanda cleaned herself up in the washroom and once she finished washing her face before heading to bed, she looked at herself in the mirror and felt something curious and desolate, so she stepped forward to get a better look at herself.

She wasn’t under any form of illusion; she was well-aware of how she’d aged over the years, from occasional periodic observations like how her skin looked a tad different in certain places.

But under the burning scrutiny of the washroom lighting, all Wanda could see were smile lines and signs of ageing and reminders upon reminders about how differently she looked from the last time she was with you in college.

Ever since she saw you for the first time in eight years on Monday, you were her landmark in time for nearly everything. She made dozens of comparisons a day, seeing how much things had changed and when the last time she thought of something was — minuscule things that seemed significant when she wondered about how you saw things from your perspective.

Tonight, she wondered how you might think of how she looked now.

She wasn’t sure what she was hoping for, but Wanda knew she’d been hoping for something because the very sight of how she looked in the mirror made her feel let-down, almost hopeless.

And you looked so pretty at the potluck.

There were things about herself that she was glad had changed since college, but she wasn’t in any way thrilled about how much she seemed to have aged.

Victor had brought it up a handful of times before, but it was only under the light of the washroom with the thought of you in mind that Wanda realised how right he was.

Wanda wasn’t sure how exactly she was feeling by the time she shut the washroom light off and went to bed, but she knew that she was certainly glad to finally pull her attention away from the mirror and to think of only you when she closed her eyes instead of her reflection.

Over the next week or so, Wanda tried her best to be impartial with how she approached driving the boys to and from preschool while also ensuring that she only behaved as any other mother would around you.

She allowed Victor to drop the twins off and pick them up without insisting she go along just to see you, and if she did catch sight of you, she’d try her best to wave only when it seemed necessary — when anyone else would’ve done it.

The feelings that buried themselves deep within Wanda’s chest ever since she first saw you nearly three weeks ago had begun to overcome her in a way that she could only rely on convention to ensure she was behaving as she should.

But after a while she began to miss interacting with you and after an amount of time she started to feel picky about how to approach you again.

Fortunately, Tommy and Billy’s birthdays were approaching and they were adamant about having you there; it gave her an excuse to start a conversation with you.

So while Wanda went to pick the boys up from school, she approached you while you were with the kids, waiting for them to get picked up by the rest of the parents as they played outside.

“Hi, Y/N,” she greeted with a smile, elated at the feeling of saying your name out loud.

She was standing on the outside of the picket fence while you were on the other side, turning to face her.

“Oh, hey!” you said and smiled too in a way that made Wanda feel like she wasn’t being too awkward. “Let me get the twins for you.”

Before you could leave, Wanda quickly interjected, “Actually, I was wondering if I’d be able to ask you something.”

You seemed the slightest bit wary and that brought about a twinge of sadness within Wanda, but she pressed on anyway; she could understand why you’d be doubtful of her intentions, even after all the years that’s passed.

“This is... a little embarrassing to ask,” she began hesitantly, “but the twins begged for me to invite you to their birthday party this Sunday, so I was wondering if you’d like to come. They talk about you a lot and I think they’d just like for their favourite person to attend.”

She probably talked too much.

“Favourite person, huh?” you repeated with an amused smile.

Wanda was reassured by your lighthearted response. “Their words,” she said.

“And their mother and father?”

“Forgotten — completely.”

You both laughed, though Wanda a moment after you as she was initially taken by the sight of sheer joy on your face, caused all because of her.

After taking a moment to seriously consider the offer, you said, “Sunday? I can’t do that day, sorry. Would I be able to drop off a gift instead on Saturday?”

“Oh, that’s fine!” Wanda reassured with a wave of her hand. “Actually, we’re having dinner with just the four of us on Saturday, so you’re welcome to join us then instead.”

You had a feeling that Wanda was sort of trying her best to have you attend something for the twins, but a part of you also felt she was trying hard just to have you there.

Though you knew you were completely free on Saturday, you took a moment before answering to look a bit less rushed in responding to Wanda’s offer.

“Saturday should work,” you confirmed with a nod.

Wanda perked up and smiled, thrilled at succeeding in inviting you over for dinner. “Alright. That sounds good.”

She watched as you pulled your phone out from your pocket and she swallowed, forcing herself not to hope too much from what you were about to do, as you easily could’ve been checking the time.

But then you asked, “Would you mind if I got your number? So you can text me the address and all.”

Wanda hoped her fingers weren’t trembling as much as she felt they were as she reached forward and took your phone with an attempt at a professional nod.

“Of course,” she managed to say, repressing the onset of an excited smile.

You caught sight of her flushed cheeks and the forming dimples as she held back a smile, but you weren’t entirely sure what it meant.

Years ago you would’ve pinned it as a flattered blush, hints of a heart tenderly-touched and a sensitive soul. But the Wanda you eventually came to know… was disingenuous.

Most things with her were.

You tried not to be bitter and childish about what had happened years ago though you were almost certain that people like her didn’t change; you had to look away.

On Saturday evening, Wanda had finished getting dressed in something casual for a dinner at home but formal enough for having a guest over, and she was standing in front of her vanity surveying the dolphin earrings in the palm of her hand.

She hadn’t worn them yet; she was saving them for a special occasion, for when she really wanted to make a gesture.

But the silver of the dolphins were too reflective and the shape of the animal would’ve been clear from even two metres away, and that wasn’t subtle enough for the steadily-budding rekindling between her and you.

So she opened her jewellery box and tucked the earrings away safely for a different time — a time she hoped would eventually come.

And most importantly, Wanda didn’t want to drive you away.

Wanda was in the kitchen putting together some drinks when you knocked at the front door, gift in-arm. She looked over at the door, feeling a fury of anxious butterflies burst in her stomach as the reality set in that she was going to have dinner with you.

Victor announced that he’d get the door and descended from upstairs where he’d been helping the boys get dressed for their very special guest.

From the kitchen, Wanda could hear you greet her husband at the door and she began to steady her breathing. She focused instead on carefully placing mint into the cocktail glasses.

“Is she… here?” she asked Victor over her shoulder in the most inconspicuous way she could when he stepped into the kitchen to check on the food.

“She’s waiting in the den,” he answered. “I told her you’d come around with drinks.”

Wanda told him it’d only be a few minutes until the rice and stir-fry would be ready, so he went back up to help finish getting the twins dressed before dinner was served.

On top of the fireplace in the den was a framed picture of Wanda’s college sorority, and leaning close to take a better look at it felt like peering into a sort of time machine. It felt like a completely different life, yet you could almost just recall things like when exactly the photo was taken as if it’d happened only months ago.

The photo was of the entire sorority coming together to take a picture before campus closed for a week for the holidays. It was during a sorority event at the city’s ice rink, and you recalled being dragged over to it by Wanda, who was your girlfriend at the time.

You were posed together near the corner of the group of other girls, Wanda’s arms squeezed around your shoulders while she stood on a pair of ice skates.

“I made this for you,” a voice approached from behind, and you turned to see Wanda walking into the den with a drink in both hands. “A mojito. But for yours, without any alcohol because I know you’ll be driving home.”

She was wearing a red turtleneck and slacks. She had an expensive-looking watch on and pearl earrings, and for the first time you considered how rich she must be now that she was married to Victor Doom.

Wanda saw the drink in the cocktail glass tremble slightly before you finally took it from her with a ‘thank you’ and she rubbed her palm down her hip nervously.

The warmth from the fireplace made her cheeks feel so warm, and the shade of the fire made your skin look so pretty and soft with the way the gentle orange flickered against your face.

“So you have this picture here,” you noted and took a sip of the mojito as you gestured to the framed picture. “Framed and up on the mantle.”

Wanda tapped her fingernail against the side of the glass as she looked at the photo over your shoulder.

Damn.

She forgot to take it down before you came, and now she looked obsessive and childish and overbearing. She would understand if you saw it that way, for there was really only one reason she’d ever have that photo up in her house, and she looked at it every single time she passed it since she moved in.

“Y-Yes,” Wanda stuttered and straightened, feeling the condensation from the glass trickle down her fingers. She smiled a little, because she was a bit proud of the picture.

She couldn’t read your expression, not when your back was turned, until you looked back at her and said in a lighthearted tone, “You must’ve not changed very much since college, huh?”

It wasn’t accusing or rude, and Wanda felt that it would’ve hurt less if you had said it as an insult; you said it as if you’d never expected her to be different.

Even if it were true that Wanda hadn’t changed since college, the realisation wouldn’t have even disappointed you.

You would’ve expected it, and that made something behind Wanda’s ribcage ache.

Her lips parted to say something, perhaps to protest, but she couldn’t figure out what she wanted to say before the shrill cheers of Tommy and Billy ran into the room at the sight of you.

Wanda stepped back and allowed them to tackle you excitedly before you set the mojito on the coffee table so you could lean down and hug them, wishing them both an early happy birthday.

She listened, partially-absent, as you told the boys you’d give them their gifts after dinner. She watched you mostly, and how little you’d changed in the way you laughed and teased.

Did it always feel like this, eight years ago?

Had she been so cruel with you that you truly couldn’t believe she was one to change after so long?

Was this the first time, out of all the inevitable others, that she realised the hurt she made you feel?

Victor called from the kitchen announcing that the dinner was ready and Wanda blinked out of her stupor to kiss the foreheads of her children and let you walk ahead first as the twins led you forward.

You looked so pretty wearing a knit pullover that made everything about you look so soft and smelling of sweet sparkling champagne.

The mojito made her a little tipsy and she felt her face’s warmth as she kept looking up from her plate and over at you across the table where you were discussing all sorts of things with Tommy and Billy, who were still practically buzzing with joy at having you over for dinner.

She watched your lips as they moved, imagined you reciting the words from the letter you wrote her years ago — imagined you meaning them like you did back then too.

Since she reread the letter for the first time in a while just three weeks ago, she could recall every word of it again like she used to be able to when she was much younger.

She felt ashamed of herself and looked away from you to spare her dignity, though it would not be the last time she did.

For most of the dinner, Wanda was silent; Victor was always more of the talker between the two of them, she liked getting to watch you without the fear of sounding obsessive, and she very much enjoyed listening to you interact with the twins without interrupting.

It was only during the gift-opening after dinner that Wanda blurted out in the middle of a conversation.

They were opening up a wrapped book to see a picture book guide of dolphins, and Wanda was only halfway into feeling shocked about the coincidence before Billy giggled and said, “You really like dolphins as much as mama said.”

“What?” Wanda all but coughed out.

Billy excitedly flipped through the book and insisted, “Mama, you said.”

“I…” She cleared her throat and her eyes flickered over to your face, half-expecting you to be furious for some reason. “I-I said what, Billy?”

“That Y/N likes dolphins,” Tommy answered and looked up from the book, now confused by his mother’s confusion.

Wanda shook her head insistently. “I don’t think I…” She trailed off and brought the rim of her mojito up to her lips to shut herself up.

Her avoidance of your eyes made her miss how you looked across the dinner table at her and her flushed cheeks.

Victor made a joke about how forgetful his wife was and although it was a tad too degrading for dinner with their children, Wanda was thankful for it anyways for it cancelled out any impending awkward silences caused by her inability to behave properly around you.

Just how much had she been thinking of you to the point of completely tuning out when she spoke about you in front of her children?

“We’ve been talking a lot about dolphins at school,” you said and wiggled your eyebrows at them. “We’re learning about our favourite animals.”

You reached into the bag and pulled out two adorable stuffed animals, a horse and a red cardinal — the twins’ favourites.

As they cheered and stood from their seats to round the table and hug you tightly, Wanda felt a mix of emotion whirling within her, a sense of shame and humiliation, but also so much adoration for you.

To the boys’ dismay, their bedtime came quicker than it felt it had and Wanda had to put them to bed. They both whined although having been given an extra hour to stay up for their birthday dinner with Y/N, but like the sweet boys they were, eventually listened to their mother’s delicate discipline.

Her greatest, greatest prides.

They were good boys.

Wanda had the twins say goodnight to you and thank you for coming, then excused herself for a moment to put them to bed. She’d come back down to see you out, but until then you promised to help clean up after dinner with Victor.

“You know, I remember a lot about you from college,” Victor told you as he handed you a glass to dry.

You placed the dry glass onto the rack beside the sink then replied, “I remember a lot about you too. Though, uh, we didn’t really talk, I think.”

“Yeah, but I talked a lot with Wanda,” he said. “And she’d blabber about you, like, every other day sometimes. So it feels like I know you well.”

Something about that made you bristle; you didn’t want to be known by Victor Doom.

When you were finished with the dishes, Victor dried his hands and leaned against the sink, scrutinising you in an odd way.

“You look good,” he then complimented.

The flicker in his eyes suddenly became perceptible, and you quickly picked up on what he was trying to inch closer to.

You eyed the front foyer then looked back over to him to continue seeing civil. “Thank you,” you answered simply.

He was tall.

Imposing.

“Are you with anyone I’d know from college?” he asked, moving the dish cloth between his fingers.

“No.”

He scoffed in teasing disbelief. “I’m not under any illusion that…” He trailed off with a chuckle, leaving the rest of his words to imagination. “Especially when time’s done you so well.”

You felt like tearing your hair out and you felt a dozen weights being lifted from your shoulders when you heard Wanda begin to descend the staircase.

“Give me your number,” Victor then asked in a hushed, hurried tone. “We’ll set something up.”

Wanda reaching the bottom of the staircase allowed you to quickly slip out of the constricting corner of the kitchen and you grabbed your things from the sofa in the den before following you out to the front porch.

Victor Doom was still a huge dick, and you were beginning to have a terrible perspective on the couple. They didn’t change at all, and you weren’t sure what you came to the dinner anticipating, but knowing that Victor was still the kind of man Wanda was comfortable being married to planted an indescribable bitterness in you.

“Thank you for coming,” Wanda said quietly as the warm silence of the summer evening soon enveloped the two of you alone on the porch when she closed the front door.

“The boys really, really enjoyed having you over. I’m sure they’ll be talking about it for weeks,” she added with a laugh.

You nodded and turned to look at her. “Yeah. It’s no problem, I really enjoyed celebrating with them. They’re lovely,” you answered.

Being in front of you now, Wanda wanted to say a lot and wanted to ask you about everything you’d been up to over the last eight years.

There was no one to interrupt now, and it would be alright and objectively appropriate to start some small talk about your life while also being able to hide her buzzing curiosity behind convention.

But all she could find herself telling you was one thing — all that she could get past her lips.

“I really… I really have changed since college, Y/N,” she uttered quietly, pressing her nail into the pad of her thumb in front of her stomach.

It was important to her that you knew that for some reason.

You regarded her for a moment then nodded, and Wanda seemed relieved at what seemed to her as trust established.

The moment you stepped onto the porch, you told yourself how irritated you were at both Wanda and Victor, how unimpressed and upset you’d felt because of how little she’d changed since college.

Yet all you could think about on the way home was her.

It felt that something was gnawing at you from the inside, pricking at your skin each time it fought its way closer to realisation, but still you couldn’t figure out why you felt the way you did with Wanda.

For years the feeling had been asleep within you, unwoken and put to bed the day of college graduation when you caught sight of Wanda trying to approach you before you left the graduation ceremony.

That was the last you ever saw of her before earlier this month.

It was painful to recall the time you used to spend with her, but freeing, in a way.

You remembered how idiotically in love you were with her at the time, how naive and new everything felt. It was torturous to recall how it all ended up, but… thinking about how she used to make you feel made you feel exhilarated and you wondered if what you were doing was some sort of sick form of masochism.

All the music CDs burned for her to play when she was away from you, the letters to her written with a careful hand — all so childish that it was worthy of some form of envy.

You questioned if you were envious of the childish-like view of the world that you had when you were in love with Wanda or if it was the love itself.

Either way, it was an unreachable thing of the past.

You grew up, and Wanda…. was Wanda. She always would be.

Weeks before the actual breakup, things had begun to dwindle between you and your girlfriend. She took frequent rain checks on your plans together to be able to tend to the sorority as the end of the year was approaching and the group traditionally began recruiting for the next year before the summer.

But at the same time, your theatre was finally putting on the show they’d spent all year putting together, months of hard work spent on funding and prop and costume design — everything from the casting to the lighting crew was created from scratch since the start of September.

You understood, time and time again, that Wanda had her own priorities with her own friends and hobbies. She helped with some things where she could, and you loved when she did.

Some late nights were spent designing costumes together because Wanda had always been interested in fashion, and oftentimes she helped with those designs while you worked on putting together props.

She wasn’t a college student or a sorority girl when you spent those late evenings together — she was just Wanda. But sometimes you felt like even Wanda didn’t know who she was during those years, and that was hard to keep up with.

In spite of missing your practices and flaking on days where she promised to read over your scripts or touch up on the costumes, Wanda vowed to make it for your play’s showing.

The only issue was that on the same day there was an initiation for the new recruits, and Wanda was required to attend as an upcoming alumni.

It would end before your showing and although there’d be an afterparty to celebrate, she also promised that she’d go right to the theatre to watch once the initiation ended.

Anxiously, you stood by the edge of the stage behind the curtains with a clear view of the front doors as you waited for Wanda to arrive. She had a seat in the front row where you could see her from anywhere to the right of the stage behind the curtains so you could watch her reactions to her performers wearing her designs.

Then a few anxious minutes turned into half an hour, and she still hadn’t come.

By then you knew that the initiation was over because Wanda gave you a definite time it would be finished by, which was well before the start of the play.

You sent her a few texts, but by the second to last act, you knew she wasn’t coming and you stopped messaging.

Maybe it was unfair to place her attendance on the kind of pedestal you did, because it wasn’t any sort of objective truth how important it was that she came.

It was a play you helped write while thinking of her, props you made sitting with her in the living room — just the two of you, hours upon hours painting and writing and designing all while trying to see the set through her eyes.

You imagined you knew her well enough to see from her shoes, anyways.

A whole year’s effort for her.

It wasn’t like you told her any of that; not even you knew how important Wanda had been to every single thing you did until you were broken up.

When Wanda finally arrived, she burst through the theatre doors, heels in hand. She looked like she’d been running, as she was out of breath and a bit dazed as she looked around at the empty theatre.

And the soft flush of her cheeks and the mess of her hair.

She was drunk too.

You were packing up the last of the props into boxes on your own when Wanda stepped up to the stage and looked for someone.

“Is… Did I miss it?” she asked, slowly catching her breath.

“Guess,” was all you could manage to force out from the bitter feeling that squeezed the air out of your lungs.

She caught sight of the props you were putting away; some of them were things she could recall making with you. She remembered helping you hot glue some of them together and pick out the paint and cut up the little details.

She felt terrible.

“Y/N, I’m sorry,” she apologised. “I lost track of time. Really, I did. I didn’t mean to miss your play. I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t mean to, but you should’ve cared about it enough that coming to see something important to me wasn’t an extra effort to you.”

You closed the stage curtains and stepped down from the staircase leading out to the side where the door to the theatre was, and Wanda followed behind you.

You placed the prop box down by the foot of the staircase.

“I know you were busy, but I just thought you’d prioritise your own girlfriend over some stupid sorority,” you muttered.

The anger was well-founded, yet the way you insulted Wanda’s interests wasn’t. But you were so upset and jealous and you felt so belittled.

Maybe she felt the same way too, because Wanda quickly countered, “You don’t have to make me feel bad about it. I just apologised. And besides, it’s not like you had anything that important going on here.”

Your face contorted and you turned to look at her.

“What?” you asked.

Although seemingly hesitant for a moment, the drinks Wanda had earlier catapulted her emotions forward and in the moment, she’d say anything to get a reaction from you just to make herself feel better about what she did.

“You wouldn’t know what it’s like to have something important happen to you, Y/N, because you always give me shit for pursuing the things I care about,” she argued.

With a disbelieving scoff, you replied, “I ‘give you shit’ sometimes because I want you here with me. I wanted you here! And I’ve always understood when you had other things to do.”

“You would want that, because you have nothing going on without me anyways.”

Sensing criticism in her tone, you questioned, “What does that mean?”

“It means that you could never understand having real things matter to you, because all you have is this idiotic nerdy theatre shit and nothing else important, so you leech off of me to make yourself feel better for at least having someone who’s actually doing something with their lives close to you.”

Wanda didn’t know why she said that, and even in the moment she hated the taste of her words as she spat them out. But she said them, still.

She loved how nerdy and creative and hardworking you were. She adored you so much — looked up to you.

Hours she’d spent listening to you talk about how much you loved theatre and watching performances with you online. She loved the part of you that loved theatre and film and art; she thought it was endearing and adorable, and it made you the most creative and sensitive person she knew.

The argument pressed on, both of you fueled by the insecurity of not being prioritised by the person you loved. Perhaps all either of you needed was to confess that you really did care about the other, for in your own ways, it felt to both of you that it had become lost somewhere along the line.

Wanda felt criticised and betrayed that you would look down on her, that you saw yourself as so different from her. The entire sorority paled in comparison to you, but the feeling that you thought you were truly that different from her, that someone else would be better for you instead, made Wanda say just about anything to get some sort of emotion out of you.

In a way you felt the same, constantly feeling that Wanda prioritised things more than she did you. You were patient and understanding with her and your love for her remained in the face of her distance, but where did that get you if she didn’t care about you anyway?

In the heat of the moment, someone accidentally nudged the prop box and made everything in it drop and clatter to the ground.

The loud noise of broken props you and Wanda had spent countless nights working on together put an abrupt stop to the argument.

There was a particular prop that tumbled out of the box and broke, a small chalice that took hours to design to make it as historically accurate as possible for the play, put together by an actual blacksmith that Wanda knew, and intricately decorated by the both of you afterwards over Indian takeout and the span of two movies.

Wanda felt so terrible looking at it, and how its base was bent and its handle broken off.

“I think I’m done,” you said suddenly and started getting your things from a small closet beside the exit. “I think we’re done.”

It took a few moments for Wanda to process your words, blinking in the face of watching you begin to pack up and leave her. Then she managed to utter, “What?”

“We should break up before the school year ends. Let’s stop pretending this is gonna work out, okay? Just focus on our own stuff while we can.”

Wanda scoffed out a nervous laugh and she approached you, stepping over the broken props. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re not breaking up because of… of this. Y/N. Come on.”

“Why not?” you asked and zipped your jacket up. “Be honest with yourself and try to tell me that you see this working out any better than it already has been.”

If Wanda were more sober and less overwhelmed, she would’ve told you just that, because she loved you and she knew she could give you what you needed — what you deserved.

She would gladly apologise for what she did and how she’d been treating you, and she’d be honest about how she’d been feeling too.

And if you were thinking properly, not acting rashly, not too emotionally, you would’ve taken a step back and realised how much Wanda did love you.

Maybe you still would’ve wanted more of her — more of her attention, more of her affection — but you would’ve told her that too, and Wanda would’ve felt like the most important person in the world for being wanted so much by you.

But none of that happened.

Instead, Wanda began pleading, “Please don’t leave me. Y/N… No one really likes me but you. You know that. No one knows me, really. You’re all I have.”

“You have your sorority,” you muttered and pulled your hat on.

Wanda started to cry then, almost immediately brought to tears by the suggestion that her sorority could mean anything to her like you do.

Was she so terrible that she'd led you to believe that was even possible?

“I don’t care about them like that, and they don’t even really like me. They don’t like anyone,” Wanda insisted tearily. “But you like me. I know you do.”

She wrapped her fingers around your hand and tried to hold it.

“Please don’t leave,” she begged.

Recalling it now made you feel like the worst person in the world — truly.

In spite of the situation and what happened, Wanda really had been trying. She was crying in front of you and begging you to see that your relationship was stronger than you thought it was, and that she cared about you more than you realised.

And all you could do was be bitter and cold and look away from her, pull your hand away when she held it and turn your back to her weeping.

What were you protecting back then?

Your ego?

Back then you wondered if it was a worthy trade-off, and today while you drove back home from Wanda’s house, you wondered the same.

In the morning you continued to think about Wanda, and for an inexplicable reason, even checked your phone for a message from her.

It’d been a while since you did that.

But you didn’t hear from Wanda until Monday when she picked the boys up from school, and by then you’d been thinking a lot about change and the breakup and if it was possible to be normal with each other again.

“I wanted to… to apologise. For dinner on Saturday,” Wanda said to you the moment she stepped down from her car, walking up to you waiting by the front door of the school. She was bold about it, didn’t hesitate before apologising for something you weren’t sure needed apologising for.

“What are you apologising for?” you asked curiously, looking between her and the children being picked up by their parents.

You doubted that Wanda knew her husband tried to get your number, but you were almost sure that she at least knew about the infidelity.

Had she really settled for someone like that?

Victor was who Wanda started going out with after you broke up, and it bewildered you that she was still with him.

Didn’t she at least once think that she could do better?

She indeed knew about the infidelity — she’d known since college. But what was she meant to do about it? She’d begged him for normalcy and to upkeep appearances for Billy and Tommy, but she couldn’t beg for him to love her like a husband did his wife.

Nor could he.

Wanda spun her wedding ring around her finger anxiously. “I just felt that things might’ve been uncomfortable for you, and I would never want to make you feel that way. That wasn’t my intention at all.”

It felt like she was talking a lot faster than you could catch up with.

“I-I can get ahead of myself sometimes, and if I said anything to make you feel… uncomfortable, I’m sorry.”

The sight reminded you all too well of that evening in the theatre — Wanda’s nervous fidgeting and her apologetic tone, and most of all, the pleading to keep you close.

It was different now, of course, because it was in a different context. But it was the same, really.

It was always Wanda begging you to stay with her.

“It’s… alright. You’ve done nothing to make me uncomfortable,” you reassured, and Wanda smiled.

Then you scratched at the back of your neck and looked away awkwardly before saying, “Listen, it’s kind of stupid, but I have, um…”

You hesitated to say it because of the subject matter, but Wanda was patient and so understanding as she regarded you with such kind eyes as she waited for you to continue.

For the first time you noticed how a part of Wanda had aged — changed, even. She looked older in the way she looked at you, the innocent levity ever present but now wrapped in the years that have passed and the maturity that came with it.

Wanda reached out a little and brushed the pad of her thumb across your knuckles softly, reminding you that it was okay to say to her what you wanted.

She did change — but not all of her.

Though you’d been so adamant about wanting her to be different from college, you found that you really enjoyed knowing some parts of her were exactly the same.

The parts you loved.

And the parts of her that were different you wanted to get to know too.

You’ve seen how hard she was trying with you, and you were finally determined to do the same for her.

“I have some play going on this weekend. I helped put it together with a few theatre friends from college,” you said finally. “So, if you wanna come, I can get some tickets for you and Victor.”

Wanda’s interest was immediately piqued and she straightened, her eyebrows raising as her lips parted to accept the offer.

But you added hurriedly, “But you really don’t have to come if you don’t want to. I know it’s not really your thing.”

“N-No! I’d really love to go,” Wanda insisted with a reassuring nod. “Would it be alright if I just went on my own?”

Imagining Wanda going alone to one of your plays made the offer a lot more intimate than you initially planned it to be, and the ease at which she suggested it made your breath catch in your throat.

Wanda took it as she was being too forward and she immediately began explaining, “It’s just that Victor gets impatient with those sorts of things and I wouldn’t want to have you waste a ticket.”

“Yeah, I get it. Totally,” you replied and cleared your throat. “Yeah, sure. Just you. I’ll text you an entry ticket and they’ll just scan the barcode on it before you go in.”

“Okay,” she said with a reaffirming nod and a wide smile. “So, this weekend? When, Saturday?”

You corrected, “Sunday. At eight.”

“I’ll save the date,” Wanda said, practically beaming. She couldn’t believe how lucky she’d gotten.

Maybe she hadn’t been as unfortunate with her attempts as she felt she’d been.

Was it apologising for dinner that got her an invite to your play? Or did the twins win all your affection for her?

Or maybe you just blurted out the invitation without really thinking it through, and you regretted it the moment it came out of your mouth.

If that was the truth, Wanda would try her hardest to make sure you’d end up enjoying having invited her. She’d be what you deserved eight years ago, and she’d show you that she still could be what you deserved now.

After that, she wasn’t sure what would happen; expecting anything more than your forgiveness would be selfish.

Almost every day until Sunday came, Wanda sorted through her closet and her jewellery box to put together an outfit for you. She’d be wearing it and it was ultimately up to her whether she wore it, but it was for you.

As she picked out a cream knit sweater and a floor-length black skirt, she thought about how you’d like her outfit and also wondered what you might think of the perfume she chose too.

When it was the evening of the play, Wanda put her hair back into a French twist — this she did with the intention of not seeming too much like how she looked in college, as never she wore her hair up in something so formal back then.

Wanda laid the dolphin earrings in her palm and surveyed it as she wondered whether it would be okay to wear it tonight. She worried about making too big of a gesture where it wasn’t appropriate, but there was a chance you wouldn’t notice she was wearing them at all.

After several moments of deep consideration, she took off her pearl earrings and put on the ones with the small silver dolphins hanging from them.

You swore you hadn’t been this nervous leading up to the play’s first performance until tonight. You’d worked on plenty since college and it wasn’t like this was anything like your first project since graduation.

Why were you so nervous?

Your phone buzzed in your pocket and you took it out to silence your notifications until you read the text message.

It was Wanda, and she messaged: I got a spot in the front row! I’m excited!

When you stepped out from backstage and stood beside the edge of the curtains to be able to get a little glimpse into the crowd, you looked for her, eyes sorting through the front row of the audience.

In the midst of the soft buzzing from the crowd’s chatter and an audience of nearly three-hundred people, you saw Wanda sitting in the front where she said she was. She wasn’t with Victor or the twins; she came alone like she said she would, even though you ended up sending her three extra tickets in case she changed her mind.

The very sight of her made you ache, a thrumming longing beating at your sternum as you watched her look around at the theatre and adjust her skirt.

Quickly, before the performance started, you messaged back, I see you. You look great.

You wished so badly to have been able to see her face when she read the text, but you were pulled over to help with the lighting last minute.

When the curtains finally opened, you checked your phone one more time and saw Wanda’s message: Thank you. :)

The theatre lights dimmed and lights from the stage turned on and your position at the far-left of the curtains allowed you to see her much clearer — like you’d wanted to do years ago.

You paid little attention to what was going on during the performance, though you miraculously kept enough focus to be able to do things like help keep the performers on time with their costume changes. But mostly you were watching Wanda.

In a theatre full of hundreds of people, she was your only audience.

During pauses in the script where the theatre was full of only silence, you could hear the pulsing of your heart and for a moment forgot it’d ever done anything but beat only while you watched how pretty Wanda looked in the pale light of the theatre’s stage.

When the play came to a finish and the curtains closed, the crew and performers gave their thanks to the audience before the theatre lights were turned back on and some of the crew and performers lined up by the door to thank people as they filed out of the theatre.

The line shorted gradually and the crowd of people made it so that you couldn’t spot Wanda, and though you’d completely understand if she already left — after all, she didn’t need to stay to do anything else — a part of you hoped she stuck around a little.

But not for any particular reason, for you didn’t even know what you’d say to her if she did; you just wanted to see her wait for you.

“Hi,” a soft voice greeted, and you turned your head away from the theatre doors to the woman in front of you.

Wanda.

The sight of her made you rather nervous, and you realised you’d been worrying a lot about whether she’d enjoy the play.

Your only audience.

It was her opinion you cared about the most.

With a smile that made her own widen at the sight, you replied, “Hi.”

“I really liked it,” she told you. “The performers were incredible.”

“I’m… I’m really happy you liked it,” you said, internally feeling pretty relieved. “Yeah, they’re super talented. We had to move around a few dates, actually, so they’d be able to perform for us.”

“And the script…” Wanda said, something brief and unsaid exchanged between the two of you as you looked at each other. But the question that was implied wasn’t answered when she added, “The script was wonderful too.”

Someone approached from behind and waited around Wanda to be able to talk with you, so she uttered, “I should leave. Thank you for inviting me. I really loved being able to watch.”

You nodded once and smiled cordially at her, but the sight of her turning and heading for the theatre doors reminded you all too well of something similar from years ago and you reached out suddenly and took her hand. She stopped and looked down at your hand wrapped around hers.

Her fingers twitched before she looked up at you.

“Stay,” you said and took a breath. “Until I’m done here.”

An unusual feeling began to grow within her as she ran her eyes over your face, seeing the hesitancy that seemed to make the corner of your mouth twitch as you anticipated her response and the look in your eyes that meant something she couldn’t interpret.

Her throat tightened and Wanda had to swallow to ease the tension there so she could reply to you.

“Okay,” she replied, hoping you didn’t hear the way her breath caught in her throat when your fingers tightened around her hand. “I’ll wait in the hall.”

Was she stuttering when she answered? She couldn’t tell.

She focused only on keeping her legs steady as she moved one foot in front of the other, her thumb rubbing at the heel of her hand as the feeling of your fingers running down her palm when you let go of her hand lingered even when the doors closed behind her.

Minutes felt like seconds in that hallway where Wanda waited for you. It felt like time simply ceased to exist there when her mind ran rampant with what it might’ve meant that you invited her to see your play and asked her to wait for you.

She wondered if things would’ve gone just like this if she had come to your play like she promised eight years ago.

The theatre lights turned off and you stepped into the hallway once the doors opened, exchanging a smile with Wanda who straightened from the adjacent wall and stepped towards you.

“Thanks for waiting,” you said gratefully. “Sorry for taking so long. There was a problem with the lighting again.”

“It’s totally okay. I didn’t wait long at all,” Wanda reassured. Then she said, “You’ve always been such a talented scriptwriter. I’m glad I got a front row seat to your play.”

Her words made you flush and the way she looked at you with such innocent and sincere optimism in her eyes that presently glistened with the dim light of the hallway made you stutter until you were finally able to thank her.

You cleared your throat and said, “You really do look great tonight, by the way. I mean, a lot better now because I can see you more clearly. Compared to before, like, behind a curtain.”

That made Wanda laugh and she nodded. “I get it. Thank you,” she replied. She was glad that you liked how she looked. She wore it all for you, after all.

Really, neither of you knew what you were expecting when you made time for each other alone. You didn’t know what you had wanted when you asked Wanda to stay, and she didn’t know what she’d been hoping to get out trying her hardest to be friendly with you again.

“Did you drive yourself here?” asked Wanda.

“No, I got a ride from one of my friends. He had to drop something off at his place, so he’ll come back to get me. His car couldn’t fit me in there with the set stuff.”

Immediately, Wanda offered, “I can drive you home. You don’t have to wait for your friend.”

“Really? You don’t have to. I don’t wanna bother you.”

“It’s not a bother at all. Tommy and Billy are out of town visiting Victor’s parents, so I don’t have to be home early to make them dinner or anything.”

Things seemed to be going well — really well. But you still weren’t sure what you wanted from all this.

Maybe there wasn’t anything to want.

Maybe you and Wanda would just end up being casual friends who went out for lunch sometimes when she was free or went with her to her pilates classes when she could bring a friend.

That was kind of amusing; you couldn’t ever imagine someone like her being a casual anything in your life.

Knowing Wanda would never be something casual.

“Would you mind if we stopped at my place before I drop you off? I have something I’d like to give you,” Wanda told you as she buckled her seatbelt then started the car.

With a piqued interest, you asked, “What kinda thing?”

“A surprise,” she teased and grinned at you.

That made you feel all warm. It reminded you a lot of how you remembered her when you used to go out. She was such a tease back then.

Seeing her behave in some ways like how you remembered her but now dressed in expensive jewellery and clothes with shorter hair and a more mature face made her teasing even more endearing.

She talked a little about the twins and how their birthday party went, all the while you were watching how the streetlights casted on her face. Her face had become less round over the years and the pale lights from the street she drove down made the angle of her cheekbones cast a particularly sharp shadow along her face, making her face look sculpted, but by hand, like a Grecian statue.

Her nose was the same.

Her eyes crinkled at the sides when she smiled over at you after perhaps noticing you watching her. That was different from when you were together — the way she smiled — and you liked that a lot. So you didn’t care that she caught you.

If you had looked away, you wouldn’t have seen how she looked when she smiled at you.

“Come in and wait in the den,” she told you when you arrived before leading you into the house. She set her purse down beside your things on the couch then started the fireplace. “I’ll just be a second. I have to get it for you upstairs.”

Somehow the room looked different now knowing it was only Wanda at home.

You looked at the picture you had been staring at the last time you were here, and even that looked different too. You’d noticed how Wanda was hugging you when you last saw the picture, but now you couldn’t stop looking away from her.

And how happy she looked with you.

Wanda came down from upstairs and you could see her holding something for the fireplace reflected off of what looked like metal.

When she stepped into the den, you could see she was holding some kind of prop.

It was the chalice the two of you worked on years ago that broke.

“Oh my god. You still have this?” you mused and carefully took it with both hands when she handed it to you.

Wanda’s cheeks flushed and she played with her wedding ring. “It’s all fixed up now,” she said. “I was really careful with it. You should take it.”

“No,” you immediately contested. “It isn’t right for me to take it from you after you’ve taken such good care of it.”

“It’s still yours. It was for your play. Please take it.”

You looked down at it, turning it carefully in your hands and reading in all the details of the prop the late nights you spent with Wanda making it as if the very metal and its details had words written on them. You wondered what she must’ve thought every time she saw it over the last eight years.

It belonged to the both of you if anything.

When you set the chalice down by your things, Wanda quietly asked, “Y/N… Was tonight the play you wrote for me in college?”

You blinked and were taken by surprise. You started writing a script for Wanda so you could have it finished by the middle of February, but you ended up breaking up before her birthday, and you never had the chance to give it to her.

Initially when you first met Wanda again last month, you thought it was by complete coincidence that you had also just found the drafted script from years ago and had just decided to finally make it into a show.

But maybe you truly had been thinking of her a lot more over the years than you originally thought you did.

“How did you know that?” you asked.

She confessed, “I read a few pages of it back then.”

“When I…”

“When you told me not to,” she confirmed. “But I was curious, and… Well, that was the play, wasn’t it?”

You nodded, and she couldn’t help but giggle.

“You wrote a play for me,” she said, teasing you.

Without taking your eyes away from her for a second, you smiled and repeated, “I wrote a play for you.”

At first your sincerity made Wanda swoon and her teasing demeanour melted into a warm flattered mess before guilt overtook her at the sight of how you looked at her.

You looked at her with so much admiration.

Wanda swallowed and quietly said, “I’m sorry, Y/N.”

“You apologise a lot.”

“I know, but–” She cut herself off and seemed to be recollecting things internally before she began again. She struggled with maintaining eye contact but she tried anyway, and you wondered what was so important that she had to try this hard to communicate it.

She said, “I should’ve gone to your play in college.”

You tried to interrupt her before she could apologise for something that happened so long ago, but she wouldn’t let you interject.

“It was important to you and I should’ve gone like I promised I would. I prioritised other stupid, meaningless things over you, and I’m sorry. I should’ve…”

She finally broke eye contact and looked down at the floor, pressing her fingers against her palm anxiously.

You weren’t sure if you should try interrupting her again until the light from the fireplace reflected against the silver of her earrings.

You reached out and laid the earring against the pad of your index finger so you could get a better look at it and Wanda looked up from the floor and ran her eyes over your face.

“Dolphins,” you said.

It was then that Wanda realised the feeling that had been planted deep within her the second you took her hand in the theatre, then blossomed rapidly until this very moment.

She was falling in love with you again.

Her eyes moved over your shoulder to the photo of the two of you from years ago, framed and showcased right on the mantle where she could see it.

She recalled how her eyes always found their way over to the photo whenever she passed the fireplace, even when she hadn’t any idea if she’d ever see you again.

The box stored in her closet of all the things that reminded her of you from when the two of you were dating years ago came to mind too.

She wasn’t falling in love with you again — no.

Wanda had always been in love with you.

“I bought them to wear for you,” she confessed, stepping closer to you so your knuckle accidentally ghosted against her cheek.

Your eyes left the earrings to meet hers. “They’re pretty,” you said.

“If only I’d have kept my promise,” Wanda whispered, “things would’ve been different.”

You ached as you realised how much guilt must’ve been on her shoulders the last eight years, how quick and easy it was for her to blame herself for what happened.

“Wanda, our breakup wasn’t your fault,” you told her. “I made mistakes too.”

She immediately shook her head and looked away from you.

“No, you didn’t.”

You insisted, “Yes.”

“It was my fault that–”

You had to cup Wanda’s cheek with your hand to make her look at you again and stop talking. She shut her mouth and looked at you, and that was when you sternly said, “It was my fault too.”

She began to tear up and you carefully swiped the tears from her eyes with your thumbs.

“I don’t care how things would’ve been,” you said. “All I care about is what it is now — what we are now.”

Wanda took in a shaky breath and quietly asked, “What are we now…?”

Your eyes fell to her lips and Wanda was too distracted by how you looked and how good you smelled and how warm your hand was on your cheek to notice you were leaning in for a kiss until your lips were pressed against hers.

She’d forgotten how good those could feel.

But she never forgot how yours felt.

Her arms raised and she wrapped them around your neck so you couldn’t back up from her too far when you parted from the kiss.

“I could… I could do right by you this time,” Wanda found herself promising the moment you pulled away enough so she could look into your eyes.

What was she saying?

“I could treat you right this time around too,” you vowed.

What on earth were either of you saying?

“Is that okay?” you whispered.

Wanda didn’t wait a moment before replying, “That’s okay. That’s… really, really okay.”

She leaned in and kissed you again, feeling you smiling against her own grinning lips.

──────── ⋆⋅✧⋅⋆ ────────

Until she filed for divorce from her husband, all Wanda Maximoff has known how to do is compromise, because until then, she never imagined a future wherein she could be any more than someone who lived in her husband’s shadows and never pursued the things she loved.

That night of your play changed so much for her.

It was painful to have to say goodnight to you and eventually have to drive you back home for her husband would eventually come back later that evening, but all Wanda could think about when she was in bed was how much things could change.

She thought about the kinds of futures she could have with you and the twins, the kinds of lives you could lead and the things she could do with herself.

But there was one thing she had to do before she could have any of that, and she wasn’t willing to wait and sit still anymore; when she turned to look at Victor sleeping beside her, Wanda knew she had to file for divorce.

It wasn’t that the filing was so uncalled for at all, and it was easy to build a case against him.

The infidelity on Victor’s part and arguments that they sometimes failed to keep quiet from Tommy and Billy and dozens of other issues had built up to the point where Wanda’s lawyer confessed to her upfront that she was surprised she hadn’t filed for divorce much earlier.

They were trying to keep it as delicate as possible for the twins were still young, and in spite of their differences, neither their mother nor their father wanted to subject them to the complications that parents went through during a divorce.

Wanda rented her own apartment large and comfortable enough for both her and the twins, and you when you stayed over.

You slept in Wanda’s bedroom, naturally. Though it still made you giddy recalling the mornings and nights you spent together in the same bed, in the same apartment.

Despite the relatively smooth move, Victor was still a very rich and power-hungry man, and he hadn’t been making the divorce process easy for Wanda. Oftentimes she was tired and drained, but also so impassioned.

It’d been a long time since she stood up for herself and what she wanted, and really, it was also first time she’d ever stood up to him.

“He wants to have them five days a week, each week,” Wanda told you presently, scoffing.

You leaned against the table and watched her as she worked.

“What’s his lawyer saying?”

“I don’t care what that asshole is saying. I’m not compromising, Y/N,” she said sternly. “I’m not settling for two fucking days a week with my children.”

Rounding the table, you wrapped an arm around her shoulder and hugged her against you. “That’s my girl. That’s good,” you praised and shook her around a little, making her stifle a laugh as she looked up and smiled at you.

You kissed her temple and told her, “It’ll work out, Wands. Be strong.”

“Is everyone ready for the picture?” a voice called from the front of the stage.

It was the start of a new season at the theatre and it was tradition for your company to take a photo of all of the crew during the very early days of production development.

“Oh, hurry, hurry!” you hissed and took the pencil out of your girlfriend's hand.

Wanda tried to protest, “Y/N–”

“Finish the costume design later. Come on. Come on, come on, let’s go!”

You took her hand and pulled her to the stage where the rest of the crew was getting together for the photo, the camerawoman standing by the edge with her camera ready.

Your arm wrapped around Wanda’s hips and she wrapped both of hers around your shoulders, squeezing each other tight and smiling widely together as the photo of the entire production crew was taken.

You asked, “Wanna see it?”

“Very much,” she replied.

You rounded the camera together and Darcy approached Wanda.

“Wanda. Hey,” she greeted.

“Hi,” replied Wanda with a smile and she turned to face the young woman.

“When you write the article for the newsletter, could you mention that we’re looking for backup dancers?” she asked. “There’s, like, several big musical numbers in this one and we were pretty understaffed for the last show.”

You frowned and looked over at her. “Okay, not ‘pretty understaffed,’” you corrected. “Moderately understaffed.”

While ignoring your lighthearted offence because you’d been the primary one in charge of performer recruitment for the last play, Wanda answered with a reassuring smile, “I’ll add it.”

“Thank you,” Darcy said with a relieved exhale.

When you turned around to look at the camera for the photo, Darcy mouthed at Wanda before leaving for backstage again, ‘Very understaffed.’

“Wanda, this is gonna look really great on the mantle,” you told her, turning the camera around so she could see the picture.

“Framed and right under the television in the living room,” she affirmed.

Wanda still had the picture of the two of you with her sorority, though now it was stored away in the box with all her other keepsakes from you.

It was always a symbol of the past, a reminder to her of a love she couldn’t ever get back. But now that things were different, Wanda didn’t need to think about anything but her future wherein you and the twins were always in it, no matter how many different lives she imagined for herself.

So there was a new framed picture put up where everyone in her apartment living room could see it — a photo of the theatre crew and you and Wanda right in the middle in the front row, smiling widely in each other’s arms with her cheek pressed against yours.

#gif credit to kcthrynns on twitter tho they are a deleted account now #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x y/n #wanda x reader #wanda maximoff fanfiction #marvel #marvel fanfiction #elizabeth olsen

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