#Vu Television

[sam-not-sammie]

i cannot IMAGINE how insane it was being a first AD, Script Supervisor, or Producer during Deja Vu

Sam really said psychological torment for Cast AND Crew

[akhilsu12]

VU TV 55" in India on Amazon : Review & Buying Guide

VU TV 55″ in India on Amazon : Review & Buying Guide मित्रों, आज पुनः होम एण्ड किचन एप्लायंसेस पर आपका हार्दिक स्वागत है। आजकल प्रत्येक घर में Smart TV है। आप भी चाहत होगें कि एक अच्छे ब्रांड का smart TV आपके पास हो? इस क्षेत्र में अनेको कम्पनियां है। उनमें आपके लिये चुनाव कठिन हो जाता है। मित्रों, आप पढ़ रहे हैं। लेख, VU TV 55″ in India on Amazon : Review & Buying Guide. वह भी तब जब आपको…

[fyeahcamcountry]

'Flew to the big 🍎 to walk the streets like a superhero… also I sang Till There’s Nothing Left on @livekellyandryan #TTNL'

📸 @chelseanicolekornse

HMU: @laurendaniellemua

Dress: @onauratoutvu

Boot: @victoriabeckham

[oceanusborealis]

The Gentlemen: Season One – TV Review

TL;DR – While the characters are a delight in this wacky world, the story struggles in the end.   ⭐⭐⭐⭐ Rating: 3.5 out of 5. Disclosure – I paid for the Netflix service that viewed this series. The Gentlemen Review – It wasn’t all that long ago that I sat down to watch a truly bonkers yet very rough film called The Gentlemen. I hadn’t thought in a while, but as I was watching, snippets came…

[heian-era-housewife]

The Pebble

Synopsis | The pebble-picking courtship rituals of penguins may just be the key to winning your heart and saving Sukuna's sore tushy.

Content | fem!reader x Sukuna, fluff, sweetness, smol angst, penguins!

"Nothing!" You say, completely unprompted, voice cracking slightly as you shove a suspicious something-or-other into your pocket. You turn to face Sukuna as he closes the distance down the sidewalk where you'd ran ahead.

"Again?" He he deadpans, voice flat and thick with judgement. "Like you need any more."

"This one was kind of pink...like your hair," you pout with childlike innocence, scuffing your foot.

"Where are you even keeping all of these rocks?" He asks, knowing fully they've been dotting odd corners of your home as of late. He's found them popping up on windowsills, countertops, even clunking around in the laundry on the not-so-infrequent occasion you forget to take them out of your pocket.

You offer a shrug and non-commital murmur, still sulking.

"Fine," He yields, annoyed yet secretly enamored with your odd fixation. "Let me see it."

Smiling brightly, you plunk the little pink stone into the palm of his large hand, bobbing slightly on your toes, awaiting his appraisal.

"Hmm. It is kind of pink." He concedes, squinting down his nose at it with the air of a much older man.

****

Returning home later that week, seeking the comfort of his favorite chair, he sinks tired and battle-worn into its plush cushion only to be met with a sharp jab to the rump. Jolting up from his seat, he swipes away a jagged stone from its cushion, cursing as he plops himself down once more, scorning your infernal hobby.

=JAB=

Jumping up a second time, he flings away the cushion revealing another lumpy pinkish rock that slipped its way beneath the plush seat making a mockery of his sore and sullied behind.

"Woman..." he growls.

****

Another night, over dinner, you wave your chopsticks fervently, demonstrating as much as telling a zoned-out and seemingly uninterested Sukuna all about a program you saw earlier that day.

"-and the male penguin searches the whole beach for the perfect pebble, right?"

"Mhm," he chews absently.

"He'll walk all over looking for the best one. It can take days sometimes!"

"Mm..."

"They usually look for the shiniest ones and then when they find it they- Ryo?"

"Hm?" He grunts without looking up.

"Are you listening...?"

"Yeah, sure."

"I, uh. Then they-" you fade out watching as his eyes glaze over. "Nevermind..."

He looks up just in time to catch your polite yet sad smile as you return to eating your dinner in quiet.

*****

He's not sure what started it, or even why you're upset. All he knows is a fight has broken out between you. Nothing too serious, but enough that you've taken a drive to clear your head, something you've rarely done before over an argument. It worries him.

Sukuna is used to fighting. He does it all the time. You could argue it's his favorite passtime. But not with you. Not here. His home is his sanctuary and you are his refuge. An unfamiliar feeling of guilt and unease settles in his stomach making him shudder. Absently turning on the TV and moving to his chair, he decides to sit, remembering to check for stray rocks this time. Staring blankly into space, wondering what he's done to set you off and how he might fix it, a feeling of déjà vu reaches his mind from the distant voice on the television.

"-he's spent days searching for the perfect stone. Now, as he makes his way back toward his chosen mate, the male penguin is hopeful she'll accept his courtship offering."

His eyes flick to the screen with rapt curiosity as the penguin offers the beach's shiniest pebble to the waiting female.

"Placing the pebble carefully within the center of her nest, she displays the male's offering as a sign of their successful pairing. Now the two will continue to hunt for rocks with which to complete their nest together."

Sukuna bites back the ridiculous urge to pump his fist in triumph for the hopeful male. Springing to his feet, he knows exactly what he must do.

*****

Later that evening you return, the bitter sting of your earlier argument now a soft ache in your chest. You decided to run some errands while you were out, huffing through the door with the entirety of your grocery run split between your two straining arms.

"Woman!" Sukuna's voice cuts through the quiet, its usual edge replaced by doting concern. "Let me help you!"

"It's fine, Ryo, I-" you stop dead in your tracks, eyes landing on a fixture you've never seen before. A bag slides from your slackened grip, punctuating the silence. "Ryo? What is that?"

"Do you like it?" He asks, eyes cast timidly to the side, one sheepish hand stroking the back of his neck.

"You...you built a shelf for all my s-stupid rocks while I was...gone?" Your words catching in disbelief.

"I can take it down if you don-"

=FWUMP=

All the bags hit the floor simultaneously as your arms wrap tightly around his middle, face buried against his chest. Salty tears stain his robes as you babble incoherently against his heart's steady beating. After a moment, he taps your shoulder.

"There's a new one, too," he hums in a low voice. Pointing toward the shelf's center a glittering pebble the same shade as your eyes catches the evening's fading light. "I didn't spend hours searching an entire beach for it..." he jokes softly, "...but I hope you'll still..."

Reaching up, you pull him in for a salt-stained kiss- the first of many more that evening. The fear that you bore him, the occassional worry that he doesn't care to listen to the ramblings of a half-mad woman in love, swept away by the lessons of a penguin and one perfect, shining pebble.

[spamgyu]

SVT VU - Orange Peel Theory // Drabble

orange peel theory is making it's rounds on local tiktok and twitter. this is my humorous take on how the VOCAL UNIT discuss/deal with the orange peel theory with their significant others.

[hhu] [pu - coming soon]

JEONGHAN

"thank you." she grinned up at him as he placed a plate of oranges in front of her. she had been nose deep in her laptop, trying to complete her last email of the week when he unsolicitedly placed the snack in front of her.

much like all other times he had done when she was far too busy with work to remember to eat.

jeonghan placed a kiss atop her head as she happily munched away on the snack, a sly smile slowly growing on his lips as she grabbed another slice.

"would YOU peel oranges for me?" jeonghan crossed his arms over his chest.

"yes?" his girlfriend was taken back by the sudden hostility.

all while she was preoccupied with her daily zoom meetings and endless emails, jeonghan had brain rotted away on his phone – stumbling upon videos of girls testing their men .... with oranges.

he didn't understand why this was up for debate, knowing he would peel millions of oranges if it meant making his girlfriend's day all the better.

but he also wanted to have fun; setting up his own phone away from her sight as he captured the video just for him to laugh at.

he always did enjoy messing with her.

JOSHUA

joshua sighed for the third time since they had sat on the couch.

which was only about 5 minutes ago.

he glanced over at her to see that she had yet to take notice of the sound he had made, this time letting out a much more dramatic sigh.

giggling, she finally had taken the hint; taking her eyes off the television and looking over at him. "yes, honey, can i help you?"

"everyone else's girlfriends are asking for oranges..." he pouted. "peeled."

joshua wasn't much to keep up with trends, let alone be chronically online the same way his members were. she didn't think he would be well aware of the current debate taking over social media – and frankly, she didn't care for it.

it was just an orange.

"did you want me to ask if you would peel an orange for me?" she asked with raised brows.

"duh..." he nodded. during today's practice, he had overheard seungcheol and mingyu exchange stories of how their significant others had tested them with the theory – the rest of the boys soon joining in. everyone else seemed to have their own share of stories... but him.

"i– it's hypothetical though. it's more of if you're willing to peel–" she watched as he pouted once again. "would you peel an orange for me?"

joshua grinned, digging into his hoodie's front pocket to pull out two oranges, a banana, and an apple.

"apple?"

"i'll use my teeth."

"no!" she cried, grabbing the fruit from him.

JIHOON

"have you guys heard of the orange peel theory?" soonyoung asked, shoveling a spoonful of rice into his mouth.

she and jihoon shook their heads at their unsolicited guest who somehow managed to make himself a little too comfortable in their shared apartment; claiming that before she came along, he was jihoon's babygirl.

she didn't care to fight soonyoung over it; jihoon did enough of that himself.

"isn't that a gym?" jihoon quipped.

"that's orange theory, babe." y/n corrected, grabbing another shrimp from the middle of the table.

soonyoung always came over unannounced, but never empty handed – arriving today with seafood boil for all three of them to share.

"ah..." he nodded, taking the shrimp from y/n's plate – peeling it for her.

she was shit at peeling her own shrimp and jihoon was more than happy to make sure she didn't ruin her perfectly manicured nails.

soonyoung rolled his eyes at the couple who never stayed up to date with the latest internet trends. "sickening." he mumbled.

peeling shrimp was far more romantic than peeling oranges, anyways. but if anyone were to ask jihoon, he'd skin anything she asked him to.

including their unannounced guest.

SEOKMIN

he didn't exactly fail her humorous attempts to test him on the orange peel theory.

but he didn't pass either.

in his defense, she had asked him in the middle of the night – waking him from his slumber to ask if he would peel an orange for her, only to reply "tomorrow."

and he knew she wasn't mad. there was no reason to.

it was a silly tiktok she had seen while she scrolled next to her boyfriend who was deep asleep – practically shaking their walls with his loud snores.

but seokmin felt guilty after he had read the groupchat he had shared with his members, each of them sharing how their significant others had managed to bring up the hot debate topic circulating social media.

if he had known....

"babe... why is our fridge full of peeled oranges?" she laughed. she had originally gone into the kitchen to grab a drink only to be distracted by the lack of bottled waters.... and an abundance of orange filled tupperwares.

"i'm sorry."

glancing over her boyfriend who stood at the doorway of their kitchen, she let out another laugh – walking over to pull him into a hug. "did you peel all those?"

he nodded into her shoulder, making her giggle.

"i didn't take it personally."

"i did." he pulled away, bringing his fingers up to her face. "and now i smell like an orange."

SEUNGKWAN

"look what i brought!" he sang as he kicked off his sneakers, shaking the bag in his hand.

seungkwan had paid his family a visit, coming back from the tiny island just south of the mainland with various treats he enjoyed growing up.

including a bag of tangerines.

"ooooh!" she clapped, following him into the kitchen – digging into the bag of his mom's homecooking. "these are going to be so good. can you–"

before she could even finish her sentence, he had placed a peeled orange on top of one of the containers; a large smile on his face.

"thank you?" she reached for the fruit hesitantly; wary of the strange smile on his face.

"i'd peel oranges for you."

popping a slice in her mouth. "i know... thanks."

"any mundane thing, i'd do."

she nodded, still quite confused with his actions. "i know."

"just getting that out there." he clicked his tongue.

"okay... weirdo." y/n chewed.

seunkwan frowned at her reaction.

"i take it back." he snatched the fruit from her hand.

"hey!"

@thegirlwhoimagined @ohmygodwhyareallusernamestaken @f4iryjjosh @akeminy @yonabutnotyuna @tacosandbitch @vanillacheol @aaniag @bettybotterboughtabitofbutter @xbaekcult @alwaysalmostthere @ashkuuuu @morkswatermelonnnn @isabellah29 @lottogyu @bubbly-moon @lllucere

(for some reason it's not allowing me to tag some who wanted to be added to the perm tag list ... cries... pls check ur settings so i can for future posts)

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Summer Breeze 10

Warnings: age gap (reader is 22, Andrew is mid 40s), dad’s friend, Andy being Andrew, other dark elements. As usual, be mindful of your content consumption.

I also beg of you to leave me some tuppence in the form of a comment and/or reblog. You are cherished!

Enjoy, my loverlies.

The next morning is a slog. You’re still tired even after sleeping until your head aches. You drag yourself downstairs, the smell of coffee filling your nose. You blink through the crustiness and wipe it away with your knuckles. 

Andy’s back is to you. Deja vu strikes you as his naked back greets you and his growls at the coffee machine as it brews. You stop in the doorway, not sure if you should turn back or not. He shifts, angling so he spots you from the corner of his eyes. 

He coughs and straightens up, “oh, good morning,” he faces you from across the island, “you--” he stops himself and gives wry smirk, “you don’t drink coffee so I won’t offer. Even if you look like you need it.” 

You scoff and shake your head as that simple act makes it pulse, “ugh, just water.” 

You look around but he’s quicker. He has a glass in his hand and under the fridge filter before you can get your bearings. You try not to stare at his naked torso. He doesn’t seem to notice himself. 

“There are lemons in here. Surprisingly. Not much else,” he pops the door open, “want a slice?” 

You accept in a dull drone. He takes one out and sets the glass down. He searches around and finds a cutting board and knife. He cuts it into wedges and pops one in the water, sliding it towards you. You thank him and take a deep gulp. 

“You doing okay?” He asks then winces, “besides everything.” 

“I feel awful,” you rasp, “I slept too heavy, I think.” 

“Yeah, I was tossing and turning,” he says. 

You’re silent as slowly the memory seeps into your brain. His voice through the wall, the slap on tile, and his thick grunt. You hide behind the glass, taking another drink before you steady your hand. 

“You know, I can check on your dad today if you want to rest--” 

“No,” you insist, a bit too quickly, “no, I have to see him.” 

“Yeah, sorry, I just... you stress yourself out too much and might do more bad than good, you know.” 

“Right, I’m fine,” you say, “really. I’m tired. So what?” 

“Just checking in, sweetheart,” he coaxes. “That’s all.” 

“I’m...” you take a breath and slowly release it. “I’m sorry, I’m just worried. I don’t know what to do. I’m...” 

“What about your mom? She on her way? You called her, right?” 

You roll your eyes, “I’m lucky she picked up.” 

“Oh,” he nods, “well, yeah. I guess that makes sense.” 

“Yeah,” you shrug. 

“Well, if you need any help, I’m right here,” he offers, “what did insurance say? You get the bill sorted out?” 

You try not to show your unease. You’re trying not to think about that call. You nod and try to smile, “yep, got it figured out.” 

You turn with the glass of water, “um, I’m going to...” you look down at your PJs and cringe, “change.” 

“Oh, aha,” he chuckles, “guess I should do that myself.” 

You don’t look back. As helpful as he is, you can’t help but feel yourself sinking into a pit of doom. He can’t do everything. You wouldn’t ask him to. 

🌅

Your dad’s quiet as you enter his room. It’s not very unusual. You often sit in comfortable silence with him. The odd part is he doesn’t even have the television on. He just stares blankly across the room. 

“Dad?” You speak as you sense Andy behind you, himself hesitant to break the lull. 

He grunts and looks at you, a scowl creasing his face. You flinch. He looks mad. 

“Everything alright?” 

“Would you keep it down,” he sneers. 

You reel and look over your shoulder at Andy. He seems equally perplexed. You turn back and smile, “sorry--” 

“I said shut the fuck up, Charlene!” 

Your mother’s name catches you off-guard. 

“Doug,” Andy chides, “that’s your daughter.” 

“Get the fuck out!” He barks. 

Andy touches your arm and gently steps ahead of you, “what’s going on, buddy?” 

“GET OUT!” Your dad pushes over the rolling table next to the bed and it crashes to the floor, sending the jello cup and tray scattering. You gasp as he continues to holler for you to leave. 

A nurse startles you as she brushes by, calling your father by his last name, “don’t you act like this.” 

You’re too stunned to react. You just stare. What the heck is happening? That’s not your father. That’s some sort of animal. He refuses to listen as he snaps at the nurse in a similar vein. 

“I’m so sorry,” she speaks over her shoulder, “sometimes with head injuries, there can be some... emotional side effects.” 

“Oh?” You frown. 

“Is he okay?” Andy asks. 

“It’s early. He’s just woke up and things are a bit muddy,” she can barely be heard as your dad clangs on the bed rails. “Maybe you should step outside.” 

“Dad?” You croak around her and his eyes meet yours. He looks at you with such hate that it makes you want to shrink down to nothing. You step back on your heel and spin, fleeing from his wrath and the room. 

You hear Andy thank the nurse before you get into the hall. He isn’t far after you and another nurse squeezes by him, closing the door behind her. You face him as your eyes gleam with tears. You don’t know if you can do this. You don’t know if you can look at your father and face the stranger he’s become. 

It only took two days and he’s someone else. It’s like you’ve lost him already. You fan yourself as you feel the heat rise up your body and settle behind your eyes. 

“Hey, it’s going to be alright--” 

“No,” you blubber as the tears finally erupt from you, “no it’s not alright! None of it is alright.” 

You cover your face with your hands and shake with sobs. You can’t hold back any more. It’s too much. This is too much. You’re not ready for any of this. You feel Andy wrap you up in his arms and you hear him say your name, but it’s a blur behind the wall of your grief. The world can wait while you fall apart. 

[raekensluver]

rekindled bonds (2)

introduction, part one, part two,

description: you and spencer are paired together for a hotel stay but theres only one bed...

pairing: spencer reid x bau agent!fem!reader

contains: talks of typical criminal minds violence, fluff, one bed trope

song rec: lovers rock by TV girl- "you like a pretty boy, with a pretty voice."

w.c: 2.3k

an: one more part to go! i'm a sucker for the cliche what can i say?

months had passed since your first harrowing case, and over time, the bond between you and spencer had grown stronger. the late nights at the office, poring over case files and bouncing ideas off each other, had turned into a routine that felt as natural as breathing. outside of work, you'd discovered shared interests, from obscure documentaries to a mutual love for a quiet cup of tea.

spencer had become your confidant, someone who knew the real you, not just the tough exterior you presented to the world. he had a way of peeling back the layers with his soft-spoken wit and disarming smile. it was in those moments, when you were both exhausted from the weight of the job, that you found the most comfort in his company.

his quirks had grown on you—his endless supply of facts, his meticulous organization, and the way he'd chew on the end of his pen when he was deep in thought. it was in those quiet moments, surrounded by the chaos of an ongoing case, that you realized how much you'd missed having someone who truly knew you.

you remembered the summers spent at his mother's house, the two of you running wild through the neighbourhood, coming up with imaginative games that lasted for hours. the way his eyes would light up when you'd introduce a new twist to a story, or how you'd sit for what felt like an eternity, trying to solve the puzzles he'd pull out from under his bed. those memories were like a warm blanket, a reminder of simpler times when the biggest challenge was keeping up with his boundless intellect.

now, standing in the lobby of a hotel late at night, you couldn't help but feel a sense of déjà vu as you both looked around at the unfamiliar surroundings. the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow over the plush, overly patterned couches. the scent of stale coffee and a faint hint of cleaning solution filled the air, a stark contrast to the excitement of the outside world. the team had just returned from a long day of interviews and surveillance, and the weariness was etched on each of their faces. spencer leaned against the reception desk, his tie loose, and his shirt slightly wrinkled from the day's exertions.

the lobby was mostly empty, save for a few bleary-eyed travelers checking in or out, and the occasional yawn from the night clerk. the silence was only broken by the muffled sounds of the television in the corner, broadcasting the latest news story about the case that had consumed you all for weeks. it was a grim reminder of the gravity of the situation, of the lives hanging in the balance of your investigations. yet, amidst the somber atmosphere, spencer's eyes found yours, and for a brief moment, you shared a look that spoke volumes without saying a word.

prentiss looked around at the team, a hint of exhaustion in her voice. "alright, everyone. we're all booked into the same floor. try to get some rest tonight. we've got an early start tomorrow." the team nodded in unison, dispersing to collect their keys from the desk. as you approached, the clerk looked up, a friendly smile on his face. "you two together?" he asked, holding out a single keycard with a flourish.

spencer opened his mouth to correct him, but you were too tired to bother. "yes," you said with a yawn. his eyes widened slightly, but he said nothing. the clerk handed over the card, not noticing the unspoken tension. "you're in room 314. have a good night."

you both turned towards the elevator, the echo of your footsteps the only sound in the deserted hallway. "you know, spencer," you began as you stepped inside the small metal box, "i hope you're okay with this." you nodded towards the card in your hand. "i just sort of…assumed."

spencer's cheeks flushed slightly, and he shrugged. "it's fine, really," he said, his voice barely above a murmur. "i mean, we've known each other for years. it's not like we haven't shared a room before." but his eyes searched yours, looking for any sign of discomfort or doubt.

you couldn't help but smile, the warmth of his words spreading through you like a gentle embrace. "true," you agreed, "but it's been a long time since we've had a sleepover." you playfully nudged his shoulder, trying to lighten the mood. the elevator dinged, and the doors slid open, revealing the quiet, carpeted corridor of the third floor.

as you made your way down the hall, spencer glanced at the room numbers, counting under his breath. "just a few more," he murmured. the anticipation grew with each step, the weight of the day's events and the looming case pressing down on you like a thick, suffocating blanket. finally, you reached room 314.

you inserted the keycard, the lock clicking open with a sense of finality. as you pushed the door, it swung inward to reveal a modestly sized room with a king-sized bed dominating the space. a small living area, with a couch that looked suspiciously small, was neatly tucked into the corner. a small, round table held a coffeemaker and a couple of mugs, along with a few complimentary packets of instant coffee. the curtains were drawn, allowing the streetlights to cast a soft glow across the room.

spencer hovered in the doorway, his suitcase still in hand. "i can take the couch," he offered, his voice tentative. but the thought of him being uncomfortable on a makeshift bed was too much for you to bear after the long day you'd had.

you rolled your eyes playfully and padded over to him, taking the suitcase. "spencer, you're being ridiculous. we're both adults, and we can handle sharing a bed." you said, your tone firm but gentle. "plus, we have a big day tomorrow. we need our rest." you added, a smirk playing at the corners of your mouth.

his eyes searched yours for a moment, looking for any hint of insincerity. but all he found was the same reassuring warmth that had been there since the day you'd met. with a sigh, he relented, allowing you to take the suitcase and set it by the bed. "thank you," he mumbled, his cheeks still flushed.

spencer began to unpack, laying out his clothes for the next day with meticulous care. you couldn't help but chuckle at his fastidiousness, a stark contrast to your own haphazard pile on the chair. as he folded his shirt with the precision of a seasoned military man, you moved to the bathroom to change into your pajamas. the sound of running water filled the small space as you washed your face and brushed your teeth, the coolness of the water a welcome reprieve from the day's tension.

as you emerged from the bathroom, spencer was sitting on the edge of the bed, already changed into simple sweatpants and a t-shirt his glasses perched on the nightstand. with gentle, practiced movements, he removed his contact lenses, the brief look of vulnerability making him seem younger than his years. the way his eyes squinted slightly as he gently rubbed them clean brought back a flood of memories—his first pair of glasses, the way he'd squinted at the board in school, the excitement of discovering a new book that had kept him up all night.

you climbed into the bed, the softness enveloping you like a much-needed hug. the coolness of the sheets was a balm against your overheated skin, and you sighed in relief. "good night, spencer," you murmured, rolling onto your side to face the wall, away from the soft glow of the lamp sitting on spencers bedside table.

spencer slid in beside you, his movements careful and deliberate, as if trying not to disturb the fragile peace that had settled over the room. "good night," he echoed, his voice barely a whisper. for a few moments, the only sound was the steady rhythm of your breathing, the quiet hum of the air conditioner, and the distant murmur of the city that never sleeps.

despite the exhaustion that tugged at the edges of your consciousness, your mind raced with the details of the case, piecing together the puzzle that had brought you to this unassuming hotel room. the weight of the gun at your side was a constant reminder of the danger that lurked just outside the door.

spencer seemed to sense your restlessness, he reached over and placed a comforting hand on your arm. his touch warm and grounding. "try to sleep," he said, his voice soothing. "we'll tackle it all in the morning." his eyes searched yours in the dim light, and you could see the genuine concern reflected in their depths.

his hand remained there for a moment longer before retreating, leaving a lingering warmth in its wake. you felt his eyes on you as you rolled onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. the silence stretched out, each second feeling like an eternity as you both lay there, lost in your own thoughts.

you took a deep breath, breaking the quiet. "do you remember, spencer, when we were about ten years old, and we used to take those walks around the neighborhood?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. "the ones where we'd stay out until the streetlights came on?"

his breath hitched, and you felt his eyes on you again. "yes," he replied, a soft smile in his voice. "we'd talk about everything. it was like our own little escape from the world."

you nodded, feeling his gaze still on you. "we'd make up stories about the people we'd see," you continued, your voice a little wistful. "like that old man with the three cats, we were convinced he was a retired secret agent."

spencer chuckled, the sound low and rumbling. "i remember that. we'd spend hours planning how we'd infiltrate his house and find his secret lair." his voice grew softer, a hint of nostalgia painting his words. "you always had such a wild imagination."

you felt a smile tug at your lips. "yeah, and you were always the one who knew every possible escape route." you rolled onto your side to face him, propping your head up with your hand. "it's funny how things come full circle, isn't it?" you mused. "now we're actually solving mysteries together."

spencer's eyes searched yours in the dim light, his smile mirroring yours. "it is," he agreed. "i never thought we'd end up here, but i'm grateful we did." his voice was soft, filled with a quiet intensity that seemed to charge the very air between you. "i've missed having someone to share all this with."

his words hung in the air, and you felt your heart swell with an emotion you hadn't expected. "me too," you whispered, the confession slipping out before you could stop it. the warmth in his gaze grew, and for a moment, you forgot about the case, about the dangers that lurked just outside the hotel room door. you were just two old friends, sharing a bed in the quiet of the night.

spencer's hand found its way back to your arm, his fingers lightly tracing patterns on your skin. the sensation was soothing, a gentle reminder that you weren't alone in this world, that you had someone who understood you in a way that few ever could. "we've come a long way, haven't we?" he said, his voice filled with a sense of wonder.

you nodded, feeling the warmth of his hand seep into your very bones. "we have," you murmured, your eyes never leaving his. the room was still, the only sound the steady beating of your hearts, echoing in the quiet like a secret code that only the two of you could understand.

you took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the day finally begin to lift. "good night, spencer," you said, your voice softer than you'd intended. his eyes searched yours, a silent conversation passing between you, filled with unspoken truths and the comfort of old friendship.

spencer's hand paused on your arm, his thumb making lazy circles. "good night," he replied, his voice thick with something unidentifiable. you watched as he reached up to switch off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness. the sudden absence of light made your heart skip a beat, and you could hear the rustle of fabric as he settled into the bed beside you.

you didn't know how much time had passed when you were jolted awake by the shrill ring of the alarm clock. the room was bathed in early morning light, and spencer's arm was draped over your waist, his body curled towards yours. it was a position that spoke of trust and familiarity, and for a moment, you couldn't remember where you were. but the weight of his hand on your hip brought everything rushing back—the case, the hotel, the gravity of the situation.

you gently nudged him awake, the warmth of his skin lingering even as he shifted away to silence the alarm. the room felt smaller somehow, the air charged with something new and unspoken. you both sat up, rubbing sleep from your eyes, and spencer looked over at you with a sheepish grin. "sorry," he mumbled, his cheeks flushing slightly. "i didn't mean to…"

you waved off his apology with a laugh. "it's fine," you said, the sound bouncing off the walls. "i didn't exactly have nightmares with you as a human teddy bear." you swung your legs over the side of the bed, the coolness of the floor a jolt to your system. spencer's gaze followed your movements, his eyes lingering for a moment before he cleared his throat and stood, moving to the window to pull back the curtains.

the cityscape outside was bathed in a soft, early morning light, the buildings casting long shadows over the quiet streets. "we should get ready," he said, his voice still a little gruff from sleep. "we have a lot to do today."

taglist: @yokaimoon

edited: 8/30/24

[goldengleams]

hiii pookie 😙 i've never requested anything so, feel free to do anything you want but w matt rempe pls? 🩷 ily!

come back to bed | m. rempe

hope you enjoy sof!!! love you my cutie!

You rolled over in bed, having just woke up from a dream and wanting to reposition yourself in Matt’s arms. You let out a soft whine when you realized he wasn’t next to you in bed.

“Matt?” You whispered. You lifted yourself up on your elbows to squint at the alarm clock on your bedside table. 3:29 AM.

Reluctantly arising from your warm bed, you quietly walked down the hallway. You carried a blanket for Matt in case he was asleep on the couch, which wasn’t uncommon if he was watching hockey. The bathroom light wasn’t on, nor was the light near your television. In your sleepy haze, you heard a glass clinking as it was set down. Bingo.

Finally, you spotted Matt sitting on a stool by the kitchen island. His hunched figure was shrouded in darkness, illuminated only by the candle that was lit in front of him. The scent of vanilla entered your nose as you drew closer.

“Matt, why are you up? It’s three in the morning,” You called in a whisper. He whipped his head towards you, startled by your presence.

“Geez, you scared me Y/N,” he chuckled softly. Matt’s hair was strewn about, the product of him running his hands through it incessantly and his leg bounced up and down.

“Sorry,” you mumbled sheepishly, stepping closer to him to wrap him up in the blanket. “I woke up and you weren’t there.”

“Yeah, just couldn’t stop thinking about today,” he sighed, mumbling a soft thank you. He was looking at you with an expression you couldn’t read. Your sleep-addled brain was not ready to comprehend big feelings, but you wanted to be there for him.

“It’s finally happening,” you said, smiling. “I’m so excited for you.”

Matt nodded, focusing his attention on the cup in front of him. He traced the rim with his finger, lost in thought once again.

You were overwhelmed with a sense of deja vu as you watched him in the ambient light. You and Matt had met two years ago. At the time, you were a college student in Connecticut and Matt was playing hockey in Hartford. You had met through a dating app and while it didn’t seem like you had anything in common, Matt had won you over pretty easily. Both of you were set on living in New York City-you wanted to do more schooling and Matt was hoping to be called up by the New York Rangers. After many date nights, hockey games, and one graduation, you were both closer to living your dreams. You had been waiting for the day that Matt came and stayed at your apartment while preparing to play for the Rangers.

But, it was never without some bumps in the road.

You knew you’d never understand what Matt went through as a hockey player, but for the past two weeks, you had tried to be there for him. He’d received the call from the Rangers in the beginning of February to play, but he hadn’t gotten any playing time. That would change today when he made his debut.

“Your family is so excited too, I can’t wait to sit next to Steph and Alley and cheer you on,” you tried again. It was true, in a few hours, you would be driving with Matt’s family to MetLife Stadium to watch his NHL debut. You couldn’t be happier for him.

“I can’t believe it,” he muttered. “It’s everything I’ve ever wanted and it’s, like, here. Feel like I’ve waited for so long and I just want it to go well. Especially today.”

“It’ll go well, babe. You know that,” you said. You made your way to sit next to him at the other stool. Matt and his family had been thinking of his Dad who had passed away and you knew that it would be a huge deal for him to make his debut on his anniversary. You reached out for his hand and gently traced a pattern onto his palm.

“You’re going to make your family so proud, Matt. Especially your Dad.”

Matt released a shuddering breath he had been holding in for far too long. He pulled the blanket tighter around his broad shoulders, a chill running through him from the seasonal February weather.

“What if I’m nobody?” Matt whispered it so quietly you’re not sure you would’ve heard it if it wasn’t silent. The doubts of not being good enough swarmed in his mind.

“First of all, you won’t be nobody, Matt. And I know that the people in your circle wouldn’t care if you scored a hundred goals or zero, or ever played with the Rangers. You’ll always be somebody to us,” you said softly. “You’ll always be someone to me.”

You brought his knuckles to your lips and gave a soft kiss. You watched the tension leave his shoulders and he quickly reached over to give you a kiss. He leaned into you easily.

“There’s my boy,” you said against his lips.

“Thank you,” Matt said. “And thanks for listening to me at 3 in the morning.”

You chuckled. “Technically it’s 4 now, so you should come back to bed and cuddle me until your stupid alarm goes off at 7.”

Matt blew out the candle and stood up from the stool. You made grabby hands at Matt, which he quickly took and led the two of you back to bed. You both climbed in bed and Matt wrapped the blanket around both of you to keep warm.

“Love you baby,” he mumbled, already drifting off. His hair tickled your ear as he moved closer to you. “Gonna score for you tonight.”

“Yeah and you better not get in any fights, Rempe.”

“Mmm, no promises.”

——————————————————————

Enjoy this Matt Rempe blurb and go request more in my inbox! 😋😋

[yandereunsolved]

Hi 👋 I have a few technical questions for the self aware au for HOTD, if you wouldn’t mind me asking.

Does the world just… stop if we pause the tv? If I rewind a scene bc of whatever reason would that give then motion sickness? Back on pausing the show, does the world stop but the character don’t? Like if I paused the tv and started talking to someone about whatever, is Aemond crossing his arms and tapping his shoes while pouting? WOULD MUTING THEM ACTUALLY MAKE THEM MUTE??

Are the dragons jealous if we talk about dragons from other forms of media? I have loyalty to Paarthurnax for best dragon 😅 ooo what If we had a Skyrim tattoo? Imagine comparing lore?

And lastly, how would they react if we had started watching game of thrones? I like to try to rewatch stuff in chronological order if prequels or branching media gets made, I like to see the chain of events you know? Would the self awareness spread to more of that verse bc of that? Can we pull John Snow?

Sorry for the wall of text and rambling, I love LOVE self aware aus and love learning more about them

Let me retrieve my sacred lore scroll.

retrieves it.

For every rule I lay down here—they can be broken under one circumstance: if the character is completely self-aware. None of the characters I have written so far have gotten to that point. Complete self-awareness may drive any of them to insanity.

(1) Does the world stop if we pause the tv?

That version of the world stops. So that canon timeline is still there, but other things are happening off screen. They are subconsciously led back to the plot when the television is unpaused again.

(2) If I rewind a scene because of whatever reason—would that give then motion sickness?

It erases their memory and gives them a sense of deja vu. They prod inside of their mind but it's like a wall has been put up inside of their minds.

If the character is already predisposed to motion borne illnesses then they would get motion sickness.

Example. If Aegon II was incredibly drunk and you rewinded a part he was in it'd make him feel like he was going to throw up. However, he wouldn't actually throw up because he wasn't as drunk/or drunk at all (depending on how much your rewound) at that time.

(3) Would muting them actually make them mute?

Yes, it would. They would be talking in their world and wouldn't be able to understand how you aren't listening.

If they found out how to work the volume then you'd be screwed. Some may be able to do this unintentionally, while others would have to be more self-aware to unlock the ability.

Dreamers are more likely to be self-aware due to their inante abilities. So Helaena would it without even realizing it.

(4) Are the dragons jealous if we talk about dragons from other forms of media? —Imagine comparing lore.

Yes and no. It depends on the dragon's personality. If you were head over heels for another dragon in another form of media then any one of them would be jealous. If you just enjoy the dragons in that verse then some of them are okay with it.

Example(s). Vhagar would be okay with you liking other dragons as long as you liked her the most. Vermithor goes into a rage anytime you so much as mention another dragon in a positive context.

(5) How would they react if we had started watching game of thrones?

Confused at first. Since hotd is the prequel to got they'd be very puzzled. Then they'd be curious. If it took up all of your time then they'd be angry. There would already be an undercurrent of jealousy, but there's also a superiority complex there.

"We were here before them."

"Without us they wouldn't exist."

Them meaning got characters.

(6) Would the self awareness spread to more of that verse because of that?

When consuming any form of their media it is like a portal is being opened up into their world. That's the crux of what helps them become self aware. There's usually a moment in their lives that spurs that on.

With the hotd characters already being insanely jealous that interference between the two media's would cause the self awareness to spread.

(7) The most important question—Can we pull Jon Snow?

Yes.

The shit that dude has been through? He has plenty of opportunities to become self aware. Having someone there for him, even passively, would cause him to become obsessive. Possibly a bit bitter because you aren't helping him until he realizes that you are physically unable to.

Don't 👏 be 👏 sorry. 👏 I love giving lore.

[infpisme]

Admit it. You aren’t like them. You’re not even close. You may occasionally dress yourself up as one of them, watch the same mindless television shows as they do, maybe even eat the same fast food sometimes. But it seems that the more you try to fit in, the more you feel like an outsider, watching the “normal people” as they go about their automatic existences. For every time you say club passwords like “Have a nice day” and “Weather’s awful today, eh?”, you yearn inside to say forbidden things like “Tell me something that makes you cry” or “What do you think deja vu is for?”

Face it, you even want to talk to that girl in the elevator. But what if that girl in the elevator (and the balding man who walks past your cubicle at work) are thinking the same thing? Who knows what you might learn from taking a chance on conversation with a stranger? Everyone carries a piece of the puzzle. Nobody comes into your life by mere coincidence. Trust your instincts. Do the unexpected. Find the others.

Timothy Leary

[rizlowwritessortof]

Remember Me - Part 1

Michaela’s mundane life takes a strange turn when she has a random encounter with a very attractive stranger in her local bar. It must be déjà vu – or maybe it isn’t.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OC Michaela

Word Count: 2031

Warnings: None in Part 1, eventual smut

Dividers by @talesmaniac89

A shot and beer hit the bar in front of Michaela, and she handed a ten to the bartender with a vague smile and “Thank you.” It had been a very long week, so it was time to medicate a little and try to relax before going home to her too-quiet house.

The bar was almost always sparsely populated, and that night was no exception. She glanced around the room, finding nothing new to hold her attention, so she focused on the television playing “Wheel of Fortune” and downed her shot.

She and the bartender exchanged small talk – she didn’t really know her very well, but it passed the time. She was almost finished with her second beer, scrolling on her phone when the girl leaned over the bar to whisper in her ear. “Do you know that guy?”

She looked up at her, confused, and the bartender quirked her head to the right. She turned slowly, and it was as if time shifted down, sounds muted, her vision narrowing its focus to the tall, broad-shouldered stranger at the end of the bar. He was staring at her with fierce intensity, his eyes narrowed and his brows drawn together as if he was trying like hell to remember something.

She knew exactly how he felt.

It was right there, dancing around the outskirts of memory. He was definitely not the kind of man you’d forget, but she’d never seen him before, she’d swear to it. A nagging voice inside her head, though, was telling her it was a lie, that she should know him – that she did know him.

She slid off her bar stool and moved slowly towards him, irresistibly pulled into his orbit. Even in the dim light that faded most colors into nondescript greys and browns, his eyes were a striking shade of green. He swallowed hard, dropping his gaze and taking a step back, suddenly uncomfortable. She tilted her head, still looking at his face. “Do – do I know you from somewhere?”

He cleared his throat, leading into an awkward laugh. “Yeah, you look really familiar to me, too. Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare like a creeper.”

She leaned one elbow on the bar as he looked into her face again. “Seriously, I have the strangest feeling...”

He nodded. “Yeah. Me, too. I, uh…” He cleared his throat again, clearly nervous. “You wanna get a table? Maybe we can figure it out.”

She gnawed at her lip for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, just – let me grab my stuff.” He watched her walk away, grabbing the phone from his pocket and dialing.

“Sammy? Yeah, I’m at the bar, it’s Sandy’s or Randy’s or something. There’s a girl here… Yeah, very funny. No, Sam, I think there’s something weird going on. Witchy, or… I don’t know. Just come down here, see if you know this girl. Okay.” She watched him put his phone back into his pocket as she approached him, and he smiled. “Just letting my brother know where I am. You – ah – you want another beer?”

“Sure. Another beer sounds great, thanks.”

He motioned to the bartender, who acknowledged his waved bottle with a nod. He turned back to the table where Michaela had already claimed a spot, pulling out the chair across from her. “My name is Dean, by the way. Dean Winchester.”

“Michaela Barrett. Nice to meet you. Or see you again. Whatever this is.” She smiled, a little self-conscious, and ducked her head down to look at the table, thanking the bartender for the beer as she closed her hand around it.

“I can’t believe I’d forget a smile like that,” Dean said softly, and she blushed, glancing up at him to catch the genuine confusion on his face. He wasn’t flirting. He was serious. She let her eyes roam over the contours of his face, the shape of his mouth, the breadth of his shoulders, then back to his eyes. He was looking right back at her, and she felt her face grow warm again.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to stare, I just – I can’t believe I’d forget you, either. This is so...”

“Insane?” He was smiling, and she responded in kind.

“Yeah. Kind of.” She looked up as the bell above the door rang, and her eyes widened a little. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” Another stranger, very tall with shaggy dark hair, had entered the room, and she was having that weird feeling of recognition that she’d experienced with Dean, although not quite as intense.

Dean turned in his chair. “Sammy. Somebody I want you to meet.” Michaela watched as the man neared their table, his eyes never leaving her face. “Mikey, this is my brother, Sam.”

She stared at Dean, her eyes wide. “How did you know… I never told you I go by Mikey.”

Dean shifted self-consciously in his seat. “Michaela. This is Michaela Barrett.”

Sam nodded to her, returning her uncomfortable smile, and took a seat, looking at his brother in disbelief. “Okay, now I see what you mean. This is...”

“Crazy, we know,” Mikey interjected, looking into his face. “So you think you know me, too? Did you guys used to live here?”

Dean shook his head. “I’ve never been here. Have you ever been in Kansas? Or South Dakota?”

She shook her head. “No. I’ve lived in Ohio my whole life. I’ve never been out of this state. Except maybe a trip when I was a kid or something, but otherwise...” She took several swallows of her beer and took a deep breath, blowing it out between her lips. “I’m freaking out a little. I’m – I’ll be right back.” She stood suddenly, pushing her chair back and rushing towards the restrooms in the back. Sam turned an incredulous look on his brother.

“What the hell, Dean?”

“I know! I have no idea. You think something witchy?” His quizzically raised eyebrows slowly lowered themselves into a frown as Sam watched.

“What?”

“Something witchy? Or something angel-y.”

Sam’s expression tightened as well as he met Dean’s glare. “Shit. You think?”

“I think we need to talk to Cas. See if he knows anything. Tonight.”

“I agree.”

Mikey made her way slowly back to the table, and Dean watched with concern as she took her seat, her hands shaking a little. “Hey, Michaela – you okay?”

“Really – Mikey’s okay.” Dean’s lips twitched into a one-sided smile and he nodded. “I just… this has me spun out a little. I think I need to go home. Can I give you my number, maybe we can talk again?”

“Yeah, sure. And I’ll give you mine.” He looked intently into her eyes as she handed him her phone. “We’ll figure this out. We will.” They exchanged phone numbers, and then they all headed out to the small parking lot. “Sure you’re okay to drive home?” Dean asked as he walked her to her car. She nodded, looking up at him with a lost expression.

“I’m okay. I’m cold sober right now. And besides, my place is just a few blocks, so - not like I have far to go. I just wish I knew what was happening.”

“If we figure anything out, we’ll let you know, I promise. Be careful.”

He leaned in, his hand on her face, and kissed her. Sam stared in shock, harshly whispering, “Dean!” and watching his brother jerk away from her as if he’d been burned.

Dean looked at Sam, his eyes wide, then back to Mikey, who was blinking up at him with her mouth open. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I did that.”

She closed her mouth and swallowed hard, her fingers brushing over her lips. “I – um – it’s okay. I mean, funny thing is, it was like… like I almost expected it? Like it was – kind of normal.” She turned back to her car, pulling the door open and getting behind the wheel. “Okay, well… don’t forget to call if you… you know.”

“We will. G’night.” Sam raised his hand in a little wave, and she backed out, then headed down the street, Dean still staring after her.

“Dean, what the hell?”

“Sammy, I don’t know. It just happened, I didn’t even think about it. She’s not the only one who’s spun out over this.” He jerked the driver’s side door open. “I need some sleep, and we need to talk to Cas ASAP. I’m going nuts, here.”

The next morning dawned grey and rainy, and Mikey dragged herself out of bed and into the shower. Dean had called, wanting to stop over and bring a friend of theirs to meet her, and she agreed, although she couldn’t see how he would be able to help. It was all just too strange, and the dreams she’d had the night before didn’t set her mind at ease.

When she answered the door, Sam and Dean were greeted with the smell of fresh coffee, bacon and cinnamon rolls hot out of the oven, and it took effort for Dean not to pull her in for a bear hug when he saw the food set out on the large coffee table.

“So, where’s this friend of yours?” she asked after they had filled their plates, watching Dean’s enthusiasm for the food with a smile.

“He’s meeting us here. Should be coming soon.”

“So – how is he going to help? I mean, is he a hypnotist or something? I don’t understand...”

Dean and Sam exchanged a cautious glance, and Dean turned to face her. “Well, we should really have a talk. Some of it’s gonna sound a little weird.”

“Weird. Weird like the dream I had last night, you and I fighting some kind of monsters with sharp teeth, chopping their heads off? And a whole trunk full of weapons in that car of yours? I think I must be losing my mind,” Mikey laughed, and then let the smile melt from her face at the brothers’ expressions. “What?”

Dean stood up, holding out a hand. “Come with me, Mikey.” She stared at him warily for a second, then took his hand and let him lead her out to the trunk of the Impala. He unlocked and opened it, then stepped back, watching her eyes widen at the sight.

“What the fuck.” The color was draining from her face, and Dean took hold of her arm.

“I seriously think maybe we’d better sit down for this.” He led her back into the house to the sofa, seating her there and taking a place beside her.

“Dean, I don’t understand...”

“Sam and I – we hunt monsters, Mikey. Like the kind you dreamed about. Those were probably vampires, they’ve got a mouth full of sharp teeth, not the two fangs like in the movies. And beheading is how you kill them.”

“Vampires.”

“Yeah.” Her face was white, and Dean reached for her hand. “Mikey, breathe.”

“You’re telling me vampires are real.”

“And a lot of other things. Most people don’t know they exist, unless they’re unlucky enough to run into them. But they’re out there, and my brother and I take care of them. Save people from them, as much as we can. And I think, maybe, that you used to hunt with us.”

“You think I used to help you cut the heads off monsters.”

“And I think somehow that our memories got erased. Possibly by an angel.”

She stared at him as if broccoli had just sprouted from his ear. “Sure. Probably. I mean, who else would erase our memories but an angel?” A firm knock sounded at the door, and she pulled her hand from Dean’s, going to the door and continuing as she opened it, still looking back at Dean. “You’re being serious right now? I’m not still having one of my weird dreams?” She turned to face the visitor still standing at the door, staring into his very blue eyes for a frozen second, then almost tripping over her feet as she scrambled backward in terror, moving behind the sofa to stand behind Dean. “Stay away from me!”

Cas stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. “Hello, Michaela.”

Tags for my lovelies: 

 @saenalife    @deanscarlett    @jensensgotyoudean    @jinkieswouldyoulookatthis    @deansdirtylittlesecretsblog 

   @geeklibrarian    @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid      @mrswhozeewhatsis    @littlegreenplasticsoldier    @sleep-silent-angel  

  @darcia22    @winchesterprincessbride    @ellen-reincarnated1967    @eyes-of-a-disney-princess      @deanslittleangel2y5  

  @melanie451        @spectaculacular-sammy     @bookchic20    @jodyri    @selma-jean-blog   

        @savingapplepie-eatingthings    @kittenofdoomage    @masked-maiden42    @lean-mean-deanwinchester    @ericuhlorain  

  @undecided-garden    @ceeceewinchester    @typicalweirdbookworm          @callmesweetheartifyoumeanit    @youtoldalie 

   @tanithlowisabamf-blog    @deandoesthingstome    @jxackles    @nerdwholikesword    @soivebuiltupaworldofmagic  

  @kreweofimp  @gabavaldman    @chaos-and-the-calm67-blog    @darkx143    @disassociativedogma   

 @ioanashalala    @jencharlan    @deansthirstblog     @dorky-and-i-know-it    @mischief-maker1   

 @winchestersandwordprocessors    @percussiongirl2017    @bringmesomepie56   @akshi8278    @torn-and-frayed  

  @sandlee44   @wingedcatninja  @evansrogerskitten   @emoryhemsworth  @peaceinourtime82 

 @dean-winchester-is-a-warrior  @sarcasmqueen74   @maliburenee     @mrsjenniferwinchester   @yeehawbitchs  

 @emily-winchester  @hobby27    spnbaby-67   @zepskies  @ladysparkles78  

@alwaystiredandconfused   @just-another-busyfangirl

[wmarximoff]

𝐝é𝐣à 𝐯𝐮 | 𝐰. 𝐦𝐚𝐱𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐟𝐟

summary: as you slowly reconnect with Wanda, you feel a familiar feeling of déjà vu.

warnings: making out, smut, strap-on sex (Wanda receiving) mentions of smoking, mentions of drinking, canon typical violence, angst.

pairing: Wanda x fem!reader

word count: 10k

main masterlist| series masterlist|

༺ᱬ༻

A carton of almond milk, a jar of peanut butter, a dozen eggs, a stick of butter, a can of peas, a bag of soft multigrain bread and a sizable bottle of wine are the components of the plastic basket that Wanda carries slung over her right arm. She doesn't know that she forgot to get a can of corn too. But the basket is kind of weighty and she might as well use her magic to levitate the items around her own silhouette, but she prefers that way, holding them down herself with her own arm strength.

Sometimes it's good to keep the sense of normality active. Even if normality just means carrying a basket full of groceries around the supermarket. She then looks at the face of the brown watch buttoned at the base of her left wrist and checks the time, blinking her greenish eyes after squeezing a long, full yawn in the back of her throat.

A gray-haired old lady (Mrs. Sharon Davis, an elderly widow, all wrapped in her pale blue cardigan) in front of her appears to be in a conflict with herself to find some of the change interred in the lowest of her silver wallet. And Wanda scrutinizes the establishment around herself, between the shelves stocked with groceries and the glossy linoleum floor; the weary gaze wavering absorbedly over her own white-fabric sneakers and contingently fixing on a dark, even smear on the floor between them.

 Old Mrs. Davis still hasn't spotted her desired coins, and she's been digging into her wallet for the silver pennies for a good few minutes now. Wanda listens over her shoulder as someone pulls into a shopping cart right behind herself and lets out an audible groan, evidentially annoyed at the delay of the old lady with her change, but Wanda doesn't see the point in bothering to torment herself.

It's not yet six o'clock and she'll be peaceably walking home, for Westview is a small, undisturbed, reticent suburban town where everything is so close and easy to find. And she knows that, with her house being just a few blocks away from the locality of the modest market, she won't be long in coming to prepare dinner for her and her boys (whom she has left securely at the house, both doing their math homework). She smiles tenderly to herself when she thinks about Billy and Tommy.

After all, she knows she's never loved anyone as passionately as she loves those two little boys (the grace of her life, the reason for her morning smile and for the blaze of keenness pulsing within the fond fortifications of her warmish heart). For her they are everything, and that is why she would do anything for them – they are the epithet of the purest form of love that Y/N had ever gifted her with; the culmination of their love converted into two vulnerable little creatures that are made up of the best of the two of them.

She just knows, like a good mother who understands both her children so well, that at that moment, the twin boys are probably watching some silly cartoon on the television set beside the broad fireplace found in the corner of the commodious living room. And she is placid in a supermarket line, getting a whiff of the eccentric consequence of the odd combination of the full-bodied aromas of cleaning product and some sturdy feminine perfume – an even slightly nauseating aroma, kind of overpowering and suffocating. In some aisle away from her, a child is heatedly asking his mother to buy him some treats.

Wanda then ponders about making something a little special for dinner, and recalls about the delicious kugel recipethat her mother used to prepare in the length of her childhood days, back in devastated Sokovia, so many years in the remote past that encompasses the beginning of the disasters that marked her life.

The memory that gushes over her is sentimental and bittersweetly recurring to her core; she deliberates about the sporadic months of starveling and a small humble family of four, when her father was lucky with his sales and there was a sufficient amount of money left to buy the soldiers' leftover ingredients.

But then, she retrieves back to the years of her late youth, all lived in the restful caresses of the compound in upper Manhattan. She was still understanding about how to breathe without having Pietro to hold her hand. She was learning to live on her own. She was coming to terms with the truth that living didn't inevitably have to be a bad experience at all; not when Y/n showed her that there could still be delight in the little things in life.

And it was Y/n who used to marvelously praise the dish when Wanda found comfort in the act of cooking, and she always repeat a few slices every time Wanda cooked it so long ago, when they were just two teenage lovers (and eventually also young wives, both living in a small bubble of love and companionship on the edge of a comfortable wooden cottage surrounded by dozen of yards of apple orchards).

There was the sweet virtuousness of the warmth of two young girls' lives at that time. It was the first time that Wanda was really fond of being young (of breathing and having a beating heart, of having a life to live valuing every little detail of it).

She memorizes the exultant smile of her ex-wife, looking so light and beautiful even while talking with her mouth full (a half-crocken smirk drawn to her left-side, like the smirk also articulated in the innocuous characteristics of her little Tommy after he was born, which reminds her so much of the radiance that used to gleam in the sweet features of her former companion). Her ex-wife wasn't always a lonesome and distant creature creeping in the corners of her mind, and it genuinely aches inside her chest to remember that.

Y/n always devoured lavishly every traditional Sokovian dish she has ever prepared and promptly asked for more – and then thanked her with a chaste kiss placed on the pulp of her lips, which promptly evolved into the building of an intimate, sweaty moment with two bodies rubbing greedily against each other. But she soon lets out a crestfallen, rather disillusioned sigh, repressing herself for having gone back to those secluded memories amorously stored in the edge of her brain in the first place (of the concept of two adolescent girlfriends absorbed in love in the purest sense of the word, emulating the seriousness of a relationship with adult bearing, but never losing, at its core, the youthful sweetness worthy of teenage lovers). Two girls playing love in a world that was a little too hard on them.

She glares ruefully at the bulbous base of the red wine bottle and then lets out a sorrowful exhalation. Her relationship with Y/n felt like it was straight out of the old sitcoms that she always appreciated so much, where no problem was a genuine obstacle and that, by the end of the day, the two lovers would be in each other's affectionately secure arms again (and that perhaps she let have an effect on her a little too much, when dealing about decisions made early on in her adult life).

But then she reminisces that she was merely turning eighteen years old when she became a wanted on an international scale, and that, prior to that, she had also grown up in a war-torn country. She never knew how to behave like a normal person per se – whether that was before or after she became able to expel bolts of magical energy from her fingertips. She never quite knew how to fit into the role of a child or a young adult in the first place. Not by herself.

There was no time in Wanda’s life to understand precisely how to fit these labels (she was protesting with so much loathe constricted within her heart, volunteering to save her homeland, being made of little more than a lab rat by the clutches of a bunch of mad men, being used by the being that promised her greatness, but only ended up costing her the life of her darling brother).

In the cramped confines of a bleak, sullied cell, with only a modest television in the corner to entertain her mind away from the needles and the brutality, there were not many allusions of love and passions that elapsed through her life outside a square screen.

Wanda was aware that she just mimicked other people's movements and transcribed them into her own actions, as if it was all just a show and she was its young star, trying to intomb in her core the path of catastrophe and violence that had always shadowed her closely; it was only the years of strict therapy, self-knowledge and self-care, right after being blipped and coming back, that edified her to be her own person in a truly healthy way. There would be no more extremes in her life.

Her cohabitation with Y/n at the time facilitated, of course – even though her wife had changed a lot in the time that followed since the blip, at first, things had worked out well between them. Or as well as possible under the anomalous circumstances. The two of them took care of the (still) newborn twins and of each other, always with great tenderness and affection while they did it. At least that's how it worked for the first year after their reunion – until Y/N got into alcohol's graces for good, that is.

Their relationship had always felt rather light and jovial before Thanos snapped his fingers. And after that she might even have come back, but it was indeed her marriage that had turned to dust in that remote dreary day in Wakanda. In all honestly, she's not quite sure what's changed in that meantime that she's been away (dead, she was dead). And it's uneasy to ponder about it, but sometimes she does – she can’t help it.

Her corporeal existence had disintegrated into a sift of life, crumbling into her own ashes. There was color, and then the dreadfully wide expanse of emptiness (death); she, as a self-aware being, ceased to exist with just a thought and a snap of two fingers.

Her consciousness faded before she could even realize she was doing it – the palms of both her hands constrained firmly against the wound in YN's stomach that was leaking bundles of fresh blood. And Wanda never relatively questioned her existence before that (she only questioned why she ceased to exist in the first place). Returning to dust, as people of faith would say. Five long years that slipped through her fingers and dripped onto the floor in the form of a veil of dust.

It still feels odd in her guts, even ten years later, to remember that there's a void somewhere in her life that would be filled with the time that was thieved from her by the Infinity Gauntlet. A void that had once been filled by the subtle presence of Y/n's love.

Once, when the twins were about a year old after the blip, Y/N drunkenly knelt down with her face defectively reclining on Wanda’s thighs and questioned her as to why Wanda and the babies where the ones erased from existence while she stayed behind, abandoned like an old piece of furniture that no one wants to use anymore. Wanda never knew how to answer it, but they got divorced about a month later or so.

But she imagines that it, the crumbliness of their relationship, has something to do with the fact that they were both a little precocious in getting married before their twenties properly speaking; maybe if they were older and more experienced before doing it, she thinks, standing in line at the supermarket, maybe then they wouldn't have had the sorrowful culmination that they did (the crying faces and the broken hearts).

Maybe they could have risen together, and not just drifted further and further away as the days passed. Maybe Y/n didn't feel guilt-ridden every time the twins cried in need to be held or fed. Maybe Wanda wouldn't have queried her for the love she no longer knew how to give – she is fully aware of the fact that she has always had a somewhat pushy nature, after all. Maybe this, maybe that.

She doesn't know why she's been thinking about maybe so much these past few days. But it's not her fault that her ex-wife happens to be so pleasing to the eye. The person behind her in line grumbles again, and there is a mischievous chuckle that reaches her ears with airs of grace. Wanda is sincerely considering summoning some coins with her magic for Mrs. Davis.

“Oh my God, this wine is divine!”

It is Sarah Proctor who addresses Wanda, the key to undeniably everything in this town. Wanda knows it's the other woman because a sudden pulsing urge to fade away takes over her nervous system as soon as the voice echoes behind herself.

She is the high-nose blonde woman who lives up the street, is a devoted member of the Westview Elementary School parent-teacher association (in the year before Wanda had witnessed her make a young teacher leave the room in tears after a meeting), proudly cultivates the most exquisite yellow roses in the neighborhood and wears a pair of classy yoga pants that would fit a young teenager with half of her age. A self-proclaimed wine mom.

Her daughter is a classmate of Billy and Tommy, and the children often attend both the Proctor and Maximoff residences – which occasioned in Sarah a vague idea of intimacy that only endures in the head of the blonde woman with bobbed hair.

She has already invited Wanda several times to Westview Pool Club girls' gatherings, but Wanda politely declined with an odd smile and a trivial wave of her hand, because she's never been the socially outgoing kind of type—and she's always been under the impression that every attempt Sarah made from approaching her were due to the fact that the other woman knew of her past as an Avenger (as did most of the small-town citizens), and so was trying to turn her into a kind of living-tourist-spot for the eyes of the rest of the world to witness.

Rumors had it that Sarah would run for mayor in the upcoming election, and having a former Avenger as the face of her campaign certainly sells well with the predilections of the American public. Little does she know that Wanda won't vote for her.

“Oh yes, it's one of my favorites,” Wanda retorts, talking about the dark tall bottle of red wine prudently deposited inside her plastic basket, “It's been a while since I've had a drink, so I decided to buy a bottle to open this weekend.”

“Some special occasion, I suppose?” Sarah articulates a suggestive grin, but Wanda just frowns uncertainly, half squinting at her neighbor, “Maybe some... special visitor? I always knew you had it in you, Wanda. You know what they say about the quiet ones...”

“What– no, no. No,” she flashes a half embarrassed, half awkward smile, chuckling nervously while doing so, “Y/n is staying with the boys for the weekend, so it's just a special little thing for me. All by myself. A quarantine-style staycation. A whole weekend... just to myself.”

“Y/n, huh?” Sarah raises a well-crafted eyebrow in a pique of curiosity, “Your ex-wife, right? I remember seeing her at the twins' birthday party. I mean, she's pretty, yes, but she's quite the quiet type, huh... just minding her own business with a cup of soda.”

“Yeah, she was never one to talk much in public, even when we were with our teammates… but neither am I, honestly.”

“A pair made in heaven, indeed,” Sarah then flashes a smile, but the taste that slides across Wanda's tongue is bitter and kind of hard to swallow. Wanda shifts her body weight uncomfortably from one leg to the other.

“But wait, she's also an Avenger, isn’t she? Yeah, she's the one in the black and white outfit! Oh my God! Who wore a jacket over it and had that kinda mean attitude, all punk rock and stuff?”

“Herself,” Wanda agrees, pressing her lips together in a long, clumsy line. She just wants to go home and cook her damn kugel.

“My my, how did I not notice this before? I remember seeing her in the news once, when I was in college. I also had quite a taste for delinquents back then, if you know what I mean. And, well... I explored a lot in college.”

Wanda feels a hot twinge high in her face and she bites the inside of her cheek in a rather timid act (but there's no denying that Y/n's somewhat rebellious attitude has always had a lewd effect on her legs as a young teenager with a schoolgirl’s heart).

“She and Black Widow, I think, saved the life of the mayor in that bombing on the Fourth of July in... ‘15, ‘16, maybe? Yeah, I remember that! She's the one who's super strong, isn't she? Who held up a scaffold once and saved those kids!”

“That's her, yes.”

The brunette muss in a limp voice, which seems to draw a slightly indecent laugh from the blonde woman with her shopping cart full of knick-knacks and silver hoops clicking in her earlobes. It is from her that the aroma of sturdy perfume comes.

“Well, I imagine that super strength of hers comes in handy in some… situations.”

“Situ–” but then she blinks just one time, “Oh,” Mmrtification hangs over Wanda like a bucket of paint spilled over her dark-haired head.

She opens and closes her mouth like a golden fish, frowning, and her cheeks don't take long to reach strong shades of scarlet, glowing red like one of the tomatoes inside Sarah's cart.

It's inappropriate, and she knows it, but she can't help but feel a certain tingle in her breasts as lapses of memory enlighten her thoughts with the ghost of touches coursing along her body. Then she thinks of Y/N's warm, measured breath against her earlobe (of strong hands pinning her wrists above her head, of a tense, impassive hip against her own hip, of the cracked headboard and the broken bedframe). A movement and a moan. An electrical discharge in her bowels. And then, fuck... just Y/n tearing her insides apart.

The other woman smiles viciously, and Wanda suddenly wishes she hadn't put on a sweater before leaving the house, because she can actually feel herself starting to perspire at the expectant look her neighbor bestows on her.

She's never been one to deal with such intimacies with anyone other than her ex-wife (merely some casual, unsuccessful and sporadic blind dates that's never been more than a few kisses and a few touches here and there, by no means ending up in her or anyone else's bed). But she permits herself only to flash a wan grin towards the other woman when she realizes that, in front of her, the old lady has lastly found her damn change. Fucking finally.

And then, with the memory still boiling hungrily in her innards, like a hungry beast devouring her from the inside out, she takes a large step in the other direction, trying to walk away from Sarah as humanly possible, as if the other woman carries with her a toxic cloud that sickens everything that comes in contact with her. If Wanda couldn't probably get a nice lawsuit for that (or worst), she'd turn Sarah into a disgusting slimy frog.

“Well, I, I, I need to go, Sarah, but it was really nice meeting you around here. Bye,” the enchantress raises her wrist, bidding the blonde woman goodbye with a wave of her hand and a small, introverted (half-awkward) grin.

There is barely time for an answer to be formulated on the part of the housewife. Wanda's cheeks are still red hot as she (virtually) dashes through the small supermarket's automatic double doors like a fugitive on the run. Mrs. Davis drops a coin on the floor on her way out.

ᗢ

You don't know exactly how long you've been raising and lowering the joint of your bent elbow above your head. It doesn't feel right to do it, just as it doesn't do it if it feels wrong. It's just necessary – it’s like cracking some eggs if you're in the mood for an omelet for breakfast. You just have the fullest conception that a few good minutes have passed since the beginning of all the activity, and as in the rehearsal of a play, you are repeating the gestures until you overcome them with great proficiency and your culmination comes out perfect, from your liking.

And you don't bother to intend to stop doing it anytime soon – such a guttural, animalistic and barbaric action. At this point, the movement is already instinctive after being recorded in at the core of your memory, an automatic message engraved between the ligaments of your neurons. You've done it innumerable times before, and you know you'll do it a few more times after this one.

You lift your right arm, lowers your implacable fist constricted like a steel ball, the resonance of smashed cartilage and wrecked bones echoing in your eardrums, all instructed by the figure of a bloodthirsty invisible conductor within the ramparts of your own cranium. The face of the bewildered guy lying beneath you looks like a loaf of raw, misshapen meat as you repeat a cadence of sequentially delivered punches against his facial bones. And he, who is at least twice as big as you, lets out a piercing howl of pain from the cavernous depths of his throat, as even a wild bear would do if attacked deep in a forest.

But in that alley on Long Island there is not a soul available to help him to get rid of your uncomplacent fists – not at the end of a passage that is unpopulated, far from prying eyes that could creep in your direction during the action which takes place there, a beacon of environment squeezed between two amorphous walls of scorched bricks, which gives the illusion of a single long, damp, narrow street. 

A sphere of blood is clotted on your face, like an eccentric gemstone, a dark red pearl splattered under the arch of your left eyebrow. And you pant heavily, your veins stiffening.

You've never been one to refuse punching a motherfucker in the face – your forte has always been pounding up things, whether on the countless missions conveyed alongside your teammates or at work during your teenage years, taking advantage of your inhuman gifts to have something to eat at the end of the week.

You've never had a dilemma in whacking someone’s ass. Even more so when that said someone had committed a hate crime against a racial minority and got away with the trial, because that's the way it is in New York City. The recurring metallic scent of fresh blood squirts in a jet of reddish color, thick and gleaming across your rigid, compact knuckles. The gruesome fragrance is no stranger to your sense of smell, and you're not quite sure whether you want it to be or not.

But it is what you are; as an inherent component of your biological chemistry (like the serum gushing through Steve's veins, altering him from inside out, or the magic pulsing within Wanda's core, changing the structure of her brainwaves), you know that hostility is a primeval part of your nature longer than the placid ends of an ordinary, quiet life.

The peaceable domestic life lived alongside Wanda is long gone, and desolation and wrath are your only roommates within the walls of your morbidly valueless apartment. You've been living like a cornered animal for fifteen years in programmed mode, always exposing your fangs and your claws at any sign of danger, just self-destructing, dying little by little, not craving to exist for one more day after laying your head on the blandishments of your pillow and staring blankly at the ceiling, whirling through your usual drunken state. Just desiring to somehow wreck your imperishable body that can't be cut or torn by human hands or tools.

People much well-intentioned than you are long gone, and you, by some implausible probabilities, were (cursed) fortunate to have endured thorough all the catastrophes that life directed at you. The car accident as a child. The blip as a mother and as a wife, as a friend.

The damn journey by the mountain of Vormir, in which three of you went in the grip of that appallingly isolated planet, and only two came back with a chest full of oxygen and life pumping through your nervures. The avid combat for proprietorship of all the six Infinity Stones, and the provenance of the final snap that brought back peace to the equilibrium of the universe by eliminating the existence of its greatest known threat at the time.

You just seem to live confined in this unbearable cycle of misfortune, and it's not fair to others that you are the person left to tell the story of those who are gone. If only you could, you would swap places with the true heroes who gave their lives for the greater good. You would even be honored to do so yourself.

Your chest heaves and deflates severely within the molds of your leather jacket fitted around your shoulders over a short-sleeved plain shirt, your veins bulging with rushing blood, and you rise to your feet, setting up your knees, and step back to inspect the big man who lies defeated to the floor of the alley, amidst a pool of his own blood and filth typical of places like this — your jacket sleeve shimmering with bundles of fresh blood, a coat of gleaming sweat limping glistening on the beam of skin on your forehead, near your hairline.

He is still alive, groaning in a vital position, and is severely battered. And it was never your intention to kill anyone. He probably learned his lesson. Maybe you should break his legs, just in case. A tremor rolls under your black sneaker feet as a loud motorcycle passes by in the distance. Sirens also pass presently afterwards, coming and going with their blue and red outcome.

But there, squeezed inside the claustrophobic walls of the dim alley, you are far from any possible intervention. You then register a single shake that travels along the outline of your left leg as your cellphone pulses inside the back pocket of your old jeans, shivering against your hip bone.

 You take an elongated gulp of air before diving into your flickering pocket and hooking the device through your fuming, blooded finger length. You know your pupils are dilated and dark. Your gaze is empty and brittle as you scrutinize between the digitally formed words before your motionless eyes. Frequent bursts of oxygen are a method of neutralizing the pulses of adrenaline throbbing in the artery inside your neck. But the taste that slips between your teeth is acid and sour, and you lock your jawbone at the information that is cognitive to you.

Hey, Y/n. Are you really going to come get the boys tonight? I saw somewhere that it will rain later, so I wanted to check with you just to make sure.

(seen)

It’s Wanda.

(seen)

By the way.

(seen)

Yes, you know it's Wanda (your sweet Wanda, the trace of humanity lingering inside your icy chest), that she texted you. And it doesn't astonish you at all (not anymore), because not many people contact you lately during the sunny period of the day. You two have been keeping in touch the last few days, after all, you told her that you wanted to be more present in the twins' lives. And it's not an untruth at all, but your sly creaking anxiety makes you feel like it's a kind of uncertainty inside your throbbing stomach walls.

Maybe it's not the right decision, the voice inside your head spoke. Maybe at this point in life they don't need you anymore. Maybe this is a breakthrough, or even the commencement of a calamity worthy of a Greek novel, you're not quite sure yet. You turn on your heels and spin your back on the battered man, so you can send your reply to your ex-wife's number without looking at the ferocious outcome of your latent tantrum.

yup, your avid thumbs type along the digital keyboard provided on the screen of the small electronic device, i’ll be there in 1 hour or so. hope they like cheeseburgers.

And then you slide your upper teeth along the flesh of your lower lip, somewhat unsure of how to proceed.

try to enjoy your staycation btw. you deserve it

(seen)

:)

(seen)

You don't know why you sent her that stupid emoji. It's not like you're a teenager reproducing a failed flirtation attempt with the girl you have a crush on anymore.

But a lapse of realism is present as your vision aims on the blood folds on your stinging fingers folded around the cellphone, and you feel a heavy ball of constricted lamentation taking shape in the back of your throat when your sorrowful eyes scrutinize thorough the lines of your hands and find there only odious signs of a cavernous viciousness (a raw, physical cruelty also reflected within the mirror of your shattered soul).

In the background, the man is still groaning in pain. And you're not sorry you broke him in a beating. No, no. You're just sorry for yourself, because you didn't bat an eye when you did it. Vaguely the memory of Wanda placing chaste kisses along your hands invades you, and you realize you wouldn't want her to kiss your unseemly fingers right now (because you find her too pure to dwell on the filthiness of your touch).

The skin on your hands abruptly itches and feels dull, and you don't feel like having those plagued fingers around your children’s immaculate faces anymore.

ᗢ

The twilight of dusk breaks with the trepidation of an ingrained thunder, which rumbles all in a glow of white light that splits along the longitudinal path that comprised the pleasant suburb that is Westview. So, this is an opaque afternoon resulting from the middle of the rainy day, gray and hazy in its chilly essence, with tenuous threads of a torrential drizzle protecting the foundations of the two-story house on the slopes of the street, making the dewy ivy rustle on its ground, dripping slowly from the eaves of the ceramic tiles.

Standing on the porch of Wanda's house, you ponder that you should have listened to the weather forecast when it was said that during the afternoon there would be a period of rain. Your dark hoodie is really soaked through and your hair, pulled back in a high half ponytail, is damp against the skin of your own forehead. You feel kind of stupid.

Compact, opulent, slate-colored clouds were uneven against the emerald green of the panorama of howling houses, hills and trees, like the leaning of thick smoke from a desolate fire. A fierce storm, nevertheless, is not anomalous in the face of the oscillating spring climate of the state of New Jersey, which is not a real stranger to the rainy weather of the season. Thus, the nonstop drizzle is not the atypical episode of the day altogether.

The conquering event of such a rank happens when Wanda opens the door and finds you there, standing with your elbows dripping cold droplets water in the light wood entrance, and then pulls you into the cozy embrace of the pleasant climate established within that domestic environment of her own home.

“For God’s sake, Y/n, you're soaking wet!”

She reiterates, surveying you with an apprehensive gaze that runs the length of your head to toe, her slender ringless fingers still pressed worriedly around the outline of your right forearm tucked beneath the humid fabric of your damp blouse – but Wanda doesn't seem to realize as she's still carries with the action, and you kind of don't want her to let go of you anytime soon, so you say nothing about the warm touch tingling on your cold skin.

“Yeah, the rain started when I was halfway there and there was no way for me to avoid it, so I just went with it,” you mutter, with a certain lack of interest smoldering in your quiet voice “Sometimes I wish I still had a car...”

“But you didn't bring an umbrella?” Her gaze is accusatory in your direction, the tone of voice sounding dangerously concerned inside your ears, “Wait, you walk all the way over here?! I could have gone to get you!”

“Well,” you kind of sigh, shrugging your shoulders within your hoodie, without looking her straight in the eye “You see, I, hah… I didn’t think it was actually going to… you know… to rain. And technically I have some level of super speed in me, so...”

And then you look at her, and the exact facial expression you'd expect to find there makes its way until it slides all over her face. She’s pissed off.

“But I told you it was going to rain!” she then frowns at you, looking a little exasperated while doing it, her beautiful features drenched in an irritated tone of incredulity, “Seriously Y/n, you need to listen to what I say more! What if you get sick?”

You flick an eyelid at the grumpy figure of a very upset Wanda standing right in front of you, exhaling aromas of tea and crimson color. It's funny how the pique of nostalgia slips through your bones – there is an air of familiarity when a subtle sense of déjà vu settles into your cognitive system, like the feeling of coming home after a long trip. You feel at home. You feel belonging.

This image is very cherished to your spirit, and you can't help but to articulate a small grin that feels light in your heart in front of your ex-wife, who then aims towards your gaze with a gleam that is an assortment of misunderstanding and irritability flickering in the greenish irises, the color that look like two emerald stones embedded within her eyeballs, curving a single one of her sharp dark eyebrows in an high arching cut.

You feel married to her again for half a fraction of a second – it's like your remote newlywed routine all over again. And the feeling is actually good. She looks so pretty. It's like you could kiss her lips right there.

“What? What's so funny?”

Wanda questions you in an almost petulant way, and you let out a pleasant chuckle as she tilts her head slightly to the side of her right elbow, her chin pointing toward the tip of your nose – her typical irritating movement as the harbinger of an angry reaction to anything that troubles her spirit.

“You know I'm physically incapable of getting sick, don't you?” you declare, still with a smile carved along the outline of your own lips, and Wanda crosses her forearms close to her chest in an even vaguely embarrassed way in front of you. She was always a stubborn type anyways.

“It's that super durability mutant thing or some shit like that. At least that's what Banner told me once, and he's a smart guy y’know, so I believe him,” you casually shrug, “I haven't had a cold since I was, like, thirteen. Shit, I don't even know if I remember what it's like anymore. You don't have to worry about me, Wanda.”

“W-well,” she exasperated in a timidly cute way, even a little childish in essence, pressing her open palms against the sides of her hips well-guarded by a pair of pale mom jeans – the attire so far from the miniskirts and chains and torn clothes she used to wear when she was younger, at the apex of her mean girl phase.

Today isn't the first time you've noticed that her waist got wider as a result of the prudent ripening endowments of late adulthood blossoming into her beautiful body-type. It suits her well. You want to touch her skin through the fabric of those flimsy jeans and the thin white cotton blouse; your fingers itch to do it.

“Just because you don't get sick like other people it doesn’t mean you can walk around in the rain whenever you feel like it. You look like a wet dog right now, you know.”

“Alright, alright, I get it,” you raise both your hands to shoulder height in a placid gesture of surrender, “No more walks in the rain, I promise you.”

“You're impossible, Y/n,” she then rolls her green eyes into their sockets, but you just smirk jokily at her reaction.

It only takes a nonchalant magical flutter of Wanda's wrist, with her right five fingers all enveloped in a fading mist of crimson steam, for the well-versed witch to make your garments still swell on your body, expelling from the bristles of fabric, as even in a chemical separation reaction, the water molecules that soaked them in the first place.

It's like a huge hair dryer blowing hot air the entire length of your body and then unexpectedly stopping as if pulled from the socket, making your skin temperature pleasant again like a sunny embrace all around your body. You find yourself dry in a matter of seconds, from your socks to your underwear, thanks to her remarkable magical gifts.

The tingles consequential from the scarlet mist touching your skin still slither down the length of your body. It is familiar and eccentrically comforting – it's like eating again a candy that you used to eat during the preludes of your childhood; tastes like home and happiness.

“You know what, your powers come in handy sometimes, I’ll give you that,” you say in a mocking tone of voice, and she raises a single eyebrow in response.

“You’re annoying. I'm still considering throwing you out back in the rain for dripping water all over my carpet, just so you know.”

“All right, mom, relax. I won’t do it again, girl scout word.”

“You were never a girl scout, Y/n.”

Wanda just casts a weary glance in your direction, but there's a slight lighthearted tone that resides in the green outline of her graceful irises, as if an inside joke has taken hold between you two. She smiles, and so do you, because you feel comfortable while doing it – a pair of complicit grins from someone whose chest is filled of joy and fullness. The atmosphere that sets in is comfortable, and you feel more relaxed being close to her.

You don't really do it, but it feels like your fingers are entwined with the fingers of her own hand – the specter of touch is written between the two of you, and it's as if your soul can really feel hers at its core, like two magnets that can't stop attracting each other instantaneously. You've always gravitated towards Wanda's overwhelming presence, and things won't be any different now.

“Come on, the boys are watching cartoons in the living room,” Wanda says, then turning her back on you so that you follow her lead to the intimates of the house, “You can stay until the rain stops.”

You follow after your ex-wife without further circumlocution, the two of you passing through the small and comfy entrance hall as you go after Wanda into the large rectangular living room, your hands always tucked inside the single pocket of your hoodie as you accompany her with phlegmatic steps in your essence. Your shoulders feel even lighter as she turns to you and casually offers you the sweetest smile you've ever seen in your life.

Torrential rain is still pouring down from the sky outside the house, and the boys Billy and Tommy can be seen wearing warm, comfortable clothes, both the twins snuggled up against the back of the gray linen sofa, their little smart eyes looking smilingly at each other’s faces and not towards the television screen, where some cartoon that seems unfamiliar to you is shown.

They seem to share some secret that only two people with some primal connection as to what unites them would be able to do it, but the sounds of banter irrigated in the air of childish shenanigans reveals the mockery between their giggles.

They are brothers and they are twins, yes, two parts of a whole, born of the same womb that they shared from the beginning of their existence as two living beings, but you were always a little happier to realize the closeness established in the friendship between your children. Billy and Tommy are each other's best friends.

The pair then seem to make themselves aware of the presence of their two mothers as they enter the room, and the smiles of both children scintillate in enthusiasm as the pairs of eyes look up and acknowledge your appearance a little further behind Wanda's still figure, following her very closely, ceasing the small section of chitchats they had between the two of them.

“Mom!”

“Mommy!”

From the sofa the boys joyfully call out to you, beaming in your direction. You can't help but do the same to them.

“Hey, my demons spawn. What are you up to there, huh?”

“We were preparing something! Okay, so, mom,” Billy speaks in response, barely seeming to be able to contain the glee of excitement inside his tiny body.

“Listen to this-!” Tommy complements his brother's phrase, in a tone of enthusiastic anticipation.

"Hey, I want to start it!" but the other twin intervenes promptly, almost indignantly.

Tommy frowns, turning up his freckled little nose towards a rather annoyed Billy, who is sitting next to his left elbow. The little boy briefly tilts his head to the left side towards his brother, and you know you've seen similar action in Wanda's characteristic mannerisms.

“No, I want to start it!”

"I want to start it!"

“But I want to start it!”

“I want to start it!”

“Why don't you both,” Wanda then promptly interferes with the small disagreement between the boys, increasing her mother's reproachful tone of voice a little, preventing, at the beginning, that the intrigue takes a somewhat bigger proportions, “Start it together?”

“Yeah,” you support her in a complacent tone of voice, “You two came up with the idea together, so the right thing would be to do it together too. Whatever it is, I mean.”

"Okay."

"Okay..."

The two of them mutter almost in almost defeated tune, fidgeting together on the couch. You think that they look cute while they're there, tiny and sitting like two baby rabbits.

"You ready?" Billy questions in a low voice, turning to the brother beside him.

“Yeah,” Tommy mussed back, nodding in agreement.

“Okay,” says Billy then, almost proudly, “Three, two, one, go.”

And then, you can barely contain a smirk when the boys, in different and discrepant voice tones, begin a silly chant in their thin children's voices. In the corner of your peripheral vision, you notice that Wanda also lets out an amorous smile, melting into a comfortable puddle of kindness, dying in love with her two singing little children sitting across from the two of you.

“We like ice cream like any child should,” they hum together, vocalizing playful tones as they proceed through the song's component words, “And if we get some ice cream, we pro-mise to be… good!”

Then they look towards the two of you, displaying expectant smiles written all over their childish faces. And you and Wanda exchange glances, and the smile she offers you is very similar to the one that graces the curve of Billy's lips.

"Nice try, smarty-pants, but you haven't even had dinner yet."

“But mama,” Tommy replies in a pleading tone of voice, “We really want ice cream!”

“Yes, we want ice cream!” exclaims Billy in agrément, "We can't wait!"

“Well, we can have dinner first, then ice cream. What do you guys think?" you offer them, your eyes darting towards Wanda's face, "But you need to have dinner first to grow to be strong and healthy, and ice cream is for dessert only. Right, mama?"

Wanda looks in your direction, and then smiles. And you smile back, because the situation is prone to do so. You, for the first time in so long, feel welcomed and hassle-free in the presence of others. The air inside the house is blissful and warm, so unlike your empty, disdainful apartment forgotten somewhere on the West Side of Midtown Manhattan. Wanda doesn't feel like your ex-wife right now – at least, that's not how she looks at you.

“Right,” her eyes flash pale green beams towards you “Let's have dinner first, mommy.”

ᗢ

You wake up in the middle of the night, but maybe you just haven't fallen asleep at all. The sheets that grace the bottom of your body are soft and comfortable, and the pajama set you wear is not your property. It's late in the course of the long night, and like so many that have passed before this one, you just know you wouldn't be able to rest your relaxation anytime soon.

How could you even do it? Perhaps you stayed longer than you realized detailing the gloomy ceiling of Wanda's guest room, counting in your mind as you scrutinized every passing second so that you still had control over something (time being something), so that you wouldn't go mad at being dismembered alive by each of your own inner demons.

If the beginning of the night was watered in jubilation and a serene comforting coziness on your part, the firstfruits of the dawn soon came to frustrate you in the form of intrusive thoughts quite harmful to your twisted mental health.

The torrential rain didn't stop anytime soon, and after having dinner with Wanda and the boys (in a very warm congregation, you were sitting at the table with your family, eating the same food as them and breathing the same oxygen, always supported by grins of pleasure as you chatted eagerly with each other), and the twins were slow to fall asleep after two generous mugs of chocolate mint ice cream each.

Your ex-wife insisted that you stay for the night after the two of you carried them upstairs and deposited them in their respective tidy beds, showering each of them with chaste kisses to the tops of their childish heads – Wanda's little staycation was long-forgotten by then. You let out a disturbed sigh, both palms of your hands polishing the length of the dull face of yours.

What the fuck, you think, what the fuck are you doing there? This may even be your family, but this is not your house. It's not your home. Not anymore. Reverberating through your insides you find the throttling need for a drag of a cigarette eating away at the bottom of your lungs like a harmful parasite sucking the life from its source, and then you get up to do it, because lying down feels like it consumes you from within in a profuse haze of bubbling anxiety that bursts from your stomach to your mouth, making you feel so weak inside.

It has always struck you as a somewhat ironic cynicism on the part of the universe that you, who are possessed of an impenetrable shell on the outside, suffer so much from the brittle fragility of your own interior – hard skin does nothing to protect a broken mind.

The lavender bedclothes had begun to tighten the muscle in your neck after a while, and in the room just down the hall, you assume Wanda sleeps comfortably cuddling in her bed. When searching inside the single pocket of your hoodie, the well-folded garment on top of a plain desk in the corner of the room, soaked in the darkness of the shadowy environment, the absconse pack of cigarettes from a brand that you are quite familiar with, that keeps you company in the acrimonious moments of solitude, you take a single cylindrical unit towards the spaces open to your drooping mouth and then you find the cold lighter with your fingertips, leaving for the entrance door of the room offered to you by your ex-wife.

After descending the stairs, stepping one step at a time with your bare feet, you are surprised that the door leading to the backyard is already open before you are even there, and the cold night wind has blown inside the house like a curious, invisible animal, installing an icy feeling of dysphoria within the broad walls.

But before you could search with your watchful eye for some intruder who went beyond the icy specter of the night, in avid state of alert, you notice an apollonian silhouette hunched outside, sitting on the step outside the door, with a long waterfall of soft hair in the color of a raven's down running halfway down her spine.

The restlessness that weighed heavily on your shoulders eased as the familiar full-bodied scent of hibiscus tea mixed with the sweetness of a mild strawberry shampoo slithered into your nostrils and filled your lungs thirsty for smoke and tobacco. As you approach, you see that Wanda, wearing a sheer silk robe over a red nightgown, is accompanied by a large cup that exhales small clouds of steam, with the tiny bundle that carries the tea herbs submerged into the hot water inside the dark container.

"You really have loud thoughts," Wanda's small, soft voice ripples through the air and then hugs your body as your ex-wife turns toward you with a lingering slowness that, to you, is as familiar as the taste of your unsmoked cigarette.

Her eyes glow an intoxicating green hue amid the darkness of the night, only supported by the silver light of the moonlight coming from outside the residence. You feel like a frog being studied on a silver platter in some high school biology class.

Wanda's diligent gaze always seemed to be able to penetrate through the cracks of your soul – she always understood you as if she were an expert when dealing with any subject concerning you. You let out an uneasy sigh, oddly scratching the inside of your throat as you do.

"Sorry if I woke you up, it wasn't... it wasn't my... intention."

“It’s okay,” she mumbles serenely over a sip of hot tea, the pulp of her nacarine lips being moistened by the hot liquid she's ingested, “I still haven't been able to sleep anyway.”

And it's no surprise to you, because you slept and woke up next to this woman for several of the component years of your life span, and it was always well known to you that Wanda is a woman quite affected by long sleepless nights, not being able to afford to actually close her eyes and be fortunate enough to have a good night's sleep.

Countless were the nights turned to morning dawns, when you both resided under the same roof in the compound back at the Avengers Tower, so many years before you were there, standing in the middle of her kitchen, silently watching her perform the simple act of drinking tea at her backyard door.

“Still having trouble sleeping?”

“Once in a while,” Wanda answers you, and with her eyes she indicates the empty space next to her right elbow so you can sit there, “Sometimes I need to relearn how to sleep all by myself. And... It's not easy, when I’m under the same roof as you again.”

Without saying a word, you cross the entire length of the kitchen, passing by the island and the marble sink, to be seated on the marble step that freezes your warm skin, next to the woman who smells of hibiscus with strawberries and deep scarlet tones.

Her eyes recognize the figure of the unsmoked cigarette between your fingers, unlit and forgotten like the insignificant little rolled-up tobacco paper that it is, and then she looks toward the profile of your silhouette, blinking once with her thick eyelashes as she does so.

“You start smoking again?”

“Yeah, it's been a while, actually. A couple of years to be honest. Not that I'm proud of it, but,” your gaze shifts to the small cylinder, turning it between the digits of your index and middle fingers of your tender right hand, “This little shit here helps me calm down, I guess. Or at least I like to think so. I don’t know."

Silence touches both of you shoulders, and there is a moment for Wanda to sip more of the tea that has spilled into her cup. When the drink is gone, then all the way into her stomach, she places the container on the floor, close to her left ankle like a tame kitten, safe from her company. You are still hesitating in the uncertainty of whether or not to light up that damned tempting cigarette.

“Earlier today,” she begins, immediately drawing your attention to her pretty face, and you're met with her pink lip as she clamps her upper teeth over the contour of her wet mouth.

“You and me and the boys... it was good. They like having you around. And I... I like it too, Y/n. It felt right.”

She hums in the sigh of the night. You feel a crackling feeling swelling inside your swollen chest, but you don't say anything in sequence, because it's Wanda who continues to talk in her silver moonlight monologue.

“I had forgotten what it was like to feel like this. Me and you acting like family with the boys the way we’re supposed to be. And it's good, Y/n. It’s… really good. I missed that, you. I missed you.”

You choke relatively. For Wanda, a heartbeat rumbled in her ears. And then she looks at you, and you look at her.

And suddenly, you don't want to light that cigarette anymore – because she leans her chin forward, leaning her head towards you, and you do the same when your body cries out for her, lips colliding in midair like the consolidation of a wish, a scarlet fever supernova bursting within your own chest.

And then, the full-bodied freshness of hibiscus darts into the half-open breach in the gap between your lips, pressing a velvety tongue against the slit between your teeth, discharging into your mouth a red-sour-sweet flavor, definitely good though, but rougher than usual as the two of you now share a needy, somewhat sloppy, even animalistic kiss.

Even if there is indeed a need on Wanda's part, and you just need someone to scare you away from the evil inside your head. Your ex-wife, in a thoughtless act, dives with her clever hands into the thin fabric of the tank top that clothes your impenetrable skin, grabbing the sides of your waist in a needy way, as if all she wanted at that moment was to feel you, as if her entire existence existed based on physically feeling you snuggled into her icy body.

She blinks, consenting to the overflow of her feelings, enraptured by the image of your cheeks burning and your chest heaving. And she does what she thinks is right to do, which seems to be the only option possible in this small moment of affection and dedication, filled with an ember that if she could name it, she would call it love - because she knows she love you, even if she didn't say it out loud yet. You are the love of her life, and she is the love of yours.

Wanda then hurls herself even farther forward, a nymph figure smitten with idolatry, and takes her prize, pressing the commission of her red lips against the outlined mouth with the flavor of melancholy that could belong to none other than you, so exotic, and never the same.

You feel the smart hands rest at the end of your spine with an almost practiced disregard, seeking nothing but feeling at first, far from the lascivious idea of consolidating the carnal act. Wanda just wants to feel you close, all to herself, comfortable in her grip. Between a set of pink lips, a tongue is present, and this tongue curls up in another in a not hasty and exaggerated way. It's elegant. It's careful. It is harmonious.

But a slow kiss unravels, and Wanda holds her breath and returns in search of more of her favorite flavor to keep in her mouth, only to be promptly reciprocated by a devoted you, a soft nostalgic familiarity edging your silhouettes connected by the lips beneath a star-studded sky, with an absorbed perfection that no one else but the two of you would be able to achieve.

Up and down, side and side; surrounded by genuine attunement, lips moved carefully, following an invisible line that dictates your not so reckless actions. A waltz of delicate, tangible lips that still fit together so perfectly, so neatly, that you might as well cry.

But the pacified kiss soon takes the form of a fervent kiss as you pant hot against your ex-wife's lips, and the fervent kiss becomes little kisses sprinkled around her neck that soon dissolve into a hollow moan, into a world where there didn't seem to be any more worries as long as you were in each other's arms.

In her own time, Wanda drags her teeth along the lower lip of your mouth, which groans deeply in response with a tingling in your throat, a tiny fraction of time passing until, like a buzz, quick, rough lips take refuge again in a tongue inside your mouth, and you feel an icy hand grasp your breast in a primitive way.

Clever fingers, soaked in crimson, traveled to your scalp, and a light mouth caresses yet another moan of yours. In a heartbeat, Wanda swings a leg over your knees and sits right on top of your lap, grabbing your wrists to put your hands around her waist.

“Please,” she cries against your lips, “Please, Y/n, touch me. Make me feel you again.”

The feeling is familiar. Toxically familiar. It is the red invading your senses, intoxicating you with dense doses of scarlet. You know very well that, even before the enticements of alcohol and cigarettes, your primary vice has always been the crimson sweetness of Wanda's body. And, well… you're not known for being resistant to the temptations of your addictions.

ᗢ

A crimson marble glow glistening under the palms of both your hands. Sweat glistened in the hollow of your groin across your burning hips. Wanda riding on your lap, naked as a Renaissance painting displayed in the dim light of a museum, her chest heavy like a marathon runner. The long, thick length of the red strap brushed against a specific spot on her inner walls that made her delirious and increasingly pivot her hips toward you, seeking more, brushing against each other like two animals in heat.

There was nothing rational in that animalistic act. The symphony in the room was that of skin beating wet against skin; of her lascivious wetness voraciously swallowing your cock.

You could see it from the single, retracted drop of sweat that poured into the valley between her own swollen breasts, the two mounds swaying just before your lascivious eyes; a delight modulated to your stormy gaze, profuse as sea water, which clouded your young girlfriend's body with a predatory look, immersed in illicit labor.

Your insides tingled in a white-hot tingle, both clits sliding through the material of the strap, the insides of your thighs strong and wet against Wanda's pulsing center.

Her tight pussy pressing against the erect silicone phallus between your legs, the red of the material buffed with the sticky juices from inside of her. That was her bed, her sheets wet beneath your sweaty bodies, the walls of her room reverberating the pornographic grunts and moans from deep in her throat.

“F-fuck-!” she clenched her teeth, her nails lacquered with black nail polish carving red paths in the muscles of your back, “Y/n, fuck, right there, ah-!”

Her thick Sokovian accent spilled into your ears, and something primal and cavernous rumbled inside you, like a spark that explodes in a raging fire. You wanted to own her. You wanted to consume her.

You wanted to eat her alive; fuck her until the mold of your strap was forever etched into the walls of her greedy cunt, which was increasingly squeezing the silicone phallus, a delicious pressure forming a red knot just below her belly button.

“Ah-! Ah-!, pozhaluysta, pozhaluysta-!” she gasped in her native dialect, loud and clear against your ear as you fucked her as hard as possible “Trakhni menya... ya pochti u tseli, ya po-pochti u tseli... Ugh, dorogaya!”

“Fuck, are you close?”

“M-mhmm! ” she kind of moaned, both eyes squinted two lewd lines “Please don't stop, don't stop Y/n, ah-!”

The scream was loud as you dropped her suddenly onto the sheets, her sweaty back slamming against the thick material of the mattress, her dark hair spilling across the pale material of the pillow.

You slipped your hands between the folds of both her knees and brought her lower back close, barely giving her time to miss your strap inside her dripping cunt before guiding the red material between her sticky folds, resuming the vigorous action of fucking your way against her cervix.

Your strong hand pressed itself (as did the bone of your jaw) against the upholstered headboard, and there a rip was deferred by your own touch – as it had done to a plucked pillow, and a lampshade shattered to the ground.

The lamp above your heads flashed white. Wanda's eyes glowed a profuse scarlet that swallowed the moss green of her irises, the darkening of her dilated pupils making her eyes look like two bottomless wells of lust. You buried your face against the beam of sweaty skin that joined her neck to her collarbone, and placed a generous, savage bite there.

“Fuck- I’m gonna cum, I'm gonna– fuck! Y/n! Oh, fuck!” she decreed, panting against your bare neck, pressing her fingers against your buttocks in an incitement to the act they so indomitably committed.

“Come for me Wanda,” you murmured against her ear, “Come on my cock, pretty girl, make a mess for me. I wanna hear you fucking scream my name.”

The bed hit the wall again. And again. And again. You didn't stop at the first orgasm. Nor in the second. Nor on the third. Until you abandoned her in the middle of the night.

[mi-i-zori]

Run, Boy, Run (Unfinished)

CoD - König

SYNOPSIS : Despite the gruesome news flashing on his television screen, König goes on a walk in the middle of the night. Surely, nothing could go wrong.

WARNINGS : König’s past (bullying), anxiety. This isn’t a good mental health night for the guy, so maybe don’t read if it’s the same for you.

Author’s Note : I wanted to write this for @ghouljams ‘ King Killer Challenge, but got stuck in a writing stump not long after, and I’ve been having a hard time getting out of it. I don’t think I’ll ever finish this, but I guess it’d be sad to simply leave it in a dusty corner of my WIPs. Hope you like it !

I do not allow anyone to re-publish, re-use and/or translate my works, be it here or on any other platform, including AI.

In König’s mind, winter nights possess a charm he has never been able to describe.

When the world slows down, lit up only by artificial lights of which the colours fail to compare to the natural glow of the moon, his heart finds a rhythm even his subconscious tends to forget. The wind seems to freeze every single thing it touches, and it’s as if time itself had decided to slow down, mesmerised by the very idea of resting. König has always struggled to do the same. Instead, he fights constantly against a choir of ghostly laughs, so similar to the cold lingering outside his window. As a whole, it is all somber and strange ; not unlike the ice that keeps devouring the foundations of his being.

It’s familiar, almost. Frighteningly so.

Yet he finds himself unable to find even an ounce of comfort on such a stage of déjà-vu. The spectres’ wails, lost in the invisible abyss hidden behind his own carcass, refuse to cease. The dark circles lining his face keep getting deeper as his eyes fall onto the semi-darkness of his apartment ; the cacophony of his thoughts is so dense it has become impossible to decipher.

He barely has the courage to turn on the lamp standing next to his couch, the light defining his tired profile so bright despite the thick lampshade muffling its glow. A small table holds a box of pills in front his silent judgment, akin to a frightened servant bowing in front of their beloved king.

A bitter taste coats König’s tongue, and he can’t seem to pinpoint its source - the infusion he drank a few moments ago, or the nauseating sight standing in front of him.

His gaze is heavy as he focuses on the sleeping pills. The very idea of ingesting one of them in order to spend a peaceful night is tempting ; he already did it multiples times before, although the nature of the pills he once used to take was much different. He would do anything to tame his nightmares ; but his time in the army changed him. He can no longer stand the feeling of vulnerability gnawing at his insides whenever he wakes up after following his doctor’s orders. The need to keep a hand in every single aspect of his existence only gets stronger each time, ruining the few hours of rest he accumulated while unconscious. What was meant to appease his mind only made things worse, and he can’t afford to succumb to the loss of control looming over his horizon.

The memory of his trembling reflection in the mirror, of the stranger sharing his face looking back at him with eyes painted red with fear, anger and exhaustion, launches a trembling assault down his spine - a series of painful shivers he only suffers from when lost on the battlefield of his thoughts. The little pills are crushed under the iron of his grasp, only finding their salvation at the bottom of the trash can.

A new weight falls upon his chest at the thought, tearing a sign from his lips. He raises a hand to the back of his neck, hoping to find a little bit of clean air among the pollution of his mind and lungs. His memories bounce around the walls of his skull, set free by an endless asthaenia. Akin to a crowd of gladiators thrown in their favourite arena, they lunge towards him, ready to bring him down in order to save their own lives. Usually, he would face them with ice in his eyes and steel in his veins - but not now.

The midnight news ramble once more about a peculiar and terrifying series of accidents haunting the streets of the neighbourhood. But König doesn’t care about the wide fatal wounds found on the victims of what only seems to be a monster, nor about the wild thoughts of Pale Crawlers a bunch of idiots like to spread on the internet. To him, this only sounds like a bunch of gang fights, or robberies that turned badly, hidden behind a crude story for children. So, without even thinking about it twice, he throws a simple leather jacket on his shoulders, in the pockets of which he stores his keys and phone. As if anyone would be suicidal enough to even try to corner someone of his stature.

They did, though, a fearful voice in his head rumbles, multiple times. The memory of his school years is littered with mockeries and hits ; bruises and broken bones ; whispers and side glances. Though reaching his current height also came with a small share of admiration, it didn’t stop the usual bullies - it even encouraged them instead, prompting them to rally more people to their « monster hunt ».

The front door of the building quickly makes way for the usual chill coating the city’s winter nights, pushing the hurtful visions aside. The soldier shivers behind his black surgical mask, mumbling about how he will never get used to his civilian clothes. The small rectangle of polypropylene leaves him feeling naked against a world of which he only wishes to avoid the gaze ; but he still decides to make his way down the barely lit street, silent under the glow of the moon.

If his own mind keeps threatening to break the ice on which he tries to find shelter, perhaps a cold winter night could help him strengthen it.

He doesn’t really have a destination in mind. Instead, he lets his legs carry him slowly while he focuses on his surroundings. If he happens to cross paths with a few cars, the majority of the streets is still empty. His heartbeat echoes in their silence, and he can’t help but notice how different they sound from the usual noise crowding the corridors of a military base. He starts counting the lights paving his way, but quickly decides to stop as the shadows they create play with his tired eyes, each one following an unexpected dance on the sides of his vision. He fights himself to ignore them, and it’s only when his jaw starts aching that he realises how tense he is, his demons immediately laughing at his pitiful state.

You’re such a big guy, they cackle, an erratic choir in the back of his head, yet you’re afraid of a few shadows ?

- Pathetic, he mumbles, and hisses once noticing how easily their voices mix with his.

The war machine he has become is not made for living in such a normal, peaceful environment. If there once was a time when he saw silence as a form of salvation, he now only sees it as the calm before the storm, a veil hiding an inevitable danger. The gruesome news reports spewed by his TV monitor suddenly make an appearance in his mind, as if trying to mock him further. He forces himself to burn them over and over, ignoring the way the shadows seem to erratically creep closer to his own.

Through the barred up display window of a nearby store, a clock strikes two in the morning. König stops for a moment to read it, blinded by the eclectic signals of a neon sign. The light assaults his eyes like a wildfire raging in a forest during summer, and he only looks away once it drags a tear along his cheek. It burns only for a second before dying on the synthetic fabric covering his face - but the frost comes back quickly, and a part of him regrets not thinking about wearing a scarf.

He tends to forget more and more about such things, he realises. As if he didn’t have the strength to care for himself anymore.

He stays here for a moment, blinking the light away in the middle of the sidewalk, before finally resuming his walk.

[sillylittlegirlthoughts]

rekindling | chrismd

Jersey had been your home for the past 28 years. Moving away was long overdue. London seemed like the place to go, the capital. So be it. Boxes were littered all over your flat. Your staring burning holes in the cardboard. Finally standing up and stretching tearing open the first box. You brought it to the kitchen and began to make the place yours. In your bedroom, six hours later the newly placed clock read 19:47. You decided to take it easy putting on mindless television and pouring a generous glass of wine.

A box solely dedicated to knick knacks, little trinkets and a few shoeboxes filled with memories. Placing some little plants around your room along with many a teddies who you refused to let go of. The shoeboxes were all getting pushed under the bed without a question when one flung open and the contents spilled out.

It was your earliest memory box.

You found yourself neglecting the remainders of your packing and your sole focus being on the spilled shoe box. A ticket to Harry Potter and the half-blood prince. A movie you went to see with your closest childhood friends. Friends you hadn’t heard from in a while. Some photos. You remember going to print yourself. You, Chris and Arthur all squished together. Faces bright red after spending all afternoon in a trampoline park. Another one, taken with your childhood dog. The last one was just you and Chris hugging eachother after you blew out your candles on your 13th birthday cake.

You missed them. You weren’t going to lie. Nothing you could do about it. Life happens. Although. You couldn’t take your mind off the two boys. The boys you loved so dearly. An Instagram search wouldn’t hurt, right?

You knew both of them pursued YouTube and yes in the early days you kept ho to date with them. However, it seemed they had gotten incredibly big. You smiled, you couldn’t not. You were so proud of them both. They looked well and seemed to be happy where they are. You thought about following them. You thought how crazy is that thought. Then you did it. Following them both. They had thousands of followers anyway, they wouldn’t realise.

chris & arthurs pov

You didn’t pick a great time to do that, considering they were sitting together, amongst two other friends— Arthur Hill and George Clarke. Chris jumped, seeing the notification. “Y/n y/l/n?” He spoke, ArthurTV’s eyes instantly widening. He wondering why Chris mentioned her so abruptly. “What?” His voice was slightly high pitched. The other two guys sort of just glanced at one another each feeling a Deja vu feeling to your name. They watched as they scrambled instantly looking at your account.

“It’s her, mate.”

Chris noticed the confused look on his friends faces. “Y/n— she was me and Arthur’s best friend. We haven’t heard from her in forever.” George nodded, “So, are you gonna contact her?”ArthurTV flinched, startled by the idea of rekindling. He didn’t know if childhood friends could become friends again considering so many aspects of their lives had changed since then.

“Uh, I don’t know if that’s the greatest idea.” Arthur (tv) mummered and Chris gave him a glare. Chris’ head was already thinking of how great this reconnection could be. How much their other friends would just adore her. “Why not? She followed us. We followed her. We can’t just do that and move on,” Chris sighed. “Right, look. Just say hello. If she doesn’t reply it’s not the end of the world.”

“You message her Chris, you always were closer to her.”

your pov

You had been staring at the chat between you and Chris thinking of anyway to start a conversation, until he sent you one first.

chris: hi y/n, how have you been?

y/n: hi chris, i’ve been good recently got my dream job so i suppose not to bad. how have you been?

chris: you’re a writer? that’s amazing. I’ve been good. YouTube still going strong.

She smiled at that message, after all fo these years he still remembered her passion for writing fantasy novels.

a few weeks later

Chris and Arthur had made plans with Y/n, to see her again and catch up on everything they had missed. Unfortunately, Arthur has been working like crazy at the moment and Chris can’t bare to know that Y/n is in London and he is not visiting her. Therefore, it was just Chris and Y/n.

Chris embraced her in a tight hug, his arms going around her waist holding her as tight as ever. Her arms went around his neck smiling into his hoodie. They sat down at their seats at the café. “I couldn’t believe it when you followed me. I must’ve checked ten times to make sure it was definitely you.” Chris chuckled turning towards the girl who had grown to be even more beautiful than he remembered. “Yeah well, when I was moving I was putting my memory boxes away,” Chris hummed remembering how you’d gather any physical memory of occasions. “One spilled open and it was just filled with memories of the three of us. I couldn’t help but try and find you guys. Which wasn’t too hard.”

“Yeah, I can imagine. We were both extremely happy. Quite ironic actually, we were just talking about you the other day.” He spoke softly, Y/n humming along as she admired him. He had let his hair form naturally his curls forming. He had grown a beard. The first time he ever had facial hair. It was long but it suited him.

Chris later got home, the smile never fading from his lips. Once he arrived through the door he found everyone sitting on the sofa. “You’re home earlier than expected.” ArthurTV mummered. “As are you. Are you not meant to be shooting?” Chris questioned his friend who sighed and explained how the video ended up being significantly shorter than anticipated. “Someone looks giddy,” George Clarke teased, laughing as he saw his friends face. Completely lost in his thoughts about Y/n. “He’s fancied her since they were 12. Im not suprised it’s rekindled.”

Chris retorted some rude joke towards his three mates who continued teasing him profusely.

He may have left out the part when they kissed.

authors note!

hey sorry for the delay on this one and it is much shorter than i would’ve like but i didn’t want to delay putting it out any longer than i already have. i love the idea of two people rekindling so here you go.

[kawaiibunnora]

Top 10 Game Changer Episodes

In lieu of the recent WatchMojo video, Top 10 Best Game Changer Episodes, I feel like making my own top 10 Game Changer eps in spite of them. (fyi I will be grouping any repeating episodes into one unit. Ex: Sam Says, Sam Says 2, and Sam Says 3 would all count for "Sam Says")

10. Bingo The reason this episode makes it into my person top 10 is because of how many times I was caught off guard. The plot twist AFTER the plot twist made this episode such a fun watch. Also I love seeing the cast torture Brennan by making him "defend" Elon Musk /lh

9. Deja vu Everybody do the Wenis! The Wenis is a dance. Everybody is a genius who knows it in advance! This episode has such a great cast and the reoccurring bits were so fun. I loved how they started bribing Brian to stay quiet, and I'm personally just a huge sucker for time loops (one of my favorite games is In Stars and Time)

8. Yes or No Do I even need to explain this one? Just go watch the clip if you dont know why this is here. Look up "Brennan Lee Mulligan monologue" and you'll understand why this episode is in the top 10. The only reason the episode isnt any higher is because the bulk of the episode is pretty forgettable.

7. Second Place Another Brennan monologue!!! Honestly, If Brennan stares into the camera and monologues for a solid minute or two, that episode is guaranteed to be in the top 10, but, what puts this episode above Yes or No is the episode itself. The cast is so full of life and passion, and Brennan's consistent philosophy throughout the whole episode makes it one of the greats.

6. Don't Cry I have been a Dropout member for 2-ish years now. When I first became a member, I binge-watched all of Game Changer. Or at least I thought I did. It wasn't until a few weeks ago that I saw someone mention Don't Cry and I had no idea what episode it was. So I went back, watched the episode, and was in tears by the end of it. Not only is the episode a beautiful gesture for an amazing writer and comedian, but every word spoken felt genuine, which made the entire episode so much more impactful.

5. A Game Most Changed Every single Dropout cast member is extremely talented, but not once have I seen an improve show as breathtaking and skillful as A Game Most Changed. The amount of skill and talent that is required to improvise an entire Shakespearean play while being thrown those curveballs- the insane coordination between the three actors, with each setting the others up for points. Despite playing for points, the cast frequently set up the others to succeed, favoring storytelling over winning. Absolutely beautiful.

4. Escape The Backroom Pure, unadulterated entertainment. Watching 3 grown adults go ape shit trying to solve puzzles and escape an escape room while unsubtly threatening their captor. Brennan, Lou, and Siobhan have such good chemistry as a team, leading to some of my all-time favorite Game Changer clips. The creation of an entire story for the escape room was inspired, and Sam's switch at the end was just the cherry on top.

3. Sam Says Whenever I have a friend over and I want to show them one Game Changer episode to represent EVERYTHING that Game Changer can be, I show them Sam Says. Each episode has an amazing cast that bounces off each other, and each episode continues to surprise and delight me. Personally, I think Sam Says 2 is the best, but all 3 are fun, high-energy, and insane. Perfect for comedy television.

2. Survivor The tension. The trust. The drama. The betrayal. And, most importantly, the funnies. These episodes have it all and more! In a game where relationships ARE the game, we, as the audience, get invested in each player. And as Brennan seemingly schemes and plots his way to victory, Lou manages to rival Brennan and best him in a game of trust and loyalty. Survivor truly shows what Game Changer can be, and as we see in later seasons, the show keeps evolving from there.

1. Make Some Noise Season 1, Episode 2. SEASON 1, EPISODE 2. Clipped so much that it got it's own show which is now clipped even more. The reason many people sign up for Dropout (and for good reason), this episode puts 3 of the most talented comedians in a space to just be funny. These episodes not only contain some of the best Game Changer moments, but they contain the best Dropout moments, the best impressions, and the best jokes I've ever heard. It's no wonder that these episodes got spun-off into its own show, which is now one of the primary advertisements for Dropout in the form of YT shorts. Brennan, Zac, and Josh are all so talented in drastically different ways, and by putting all three together, something magical happens. Make Some Noise is the gateway into all of the amazing content on Dropout. It is the best episode of Game Changer without a doubt. Season 1, Episode 2, Game Changer, Dropout.tv.