#but i am so tired and i haven't even left for the semester yet

[scarletcomet]

does anyone else feel like the negatives of life far outweigh the positives? like i know it's probably just a depression thing, but most of life really sucks, even just common day to day things, like cleaning, working, etc. i am so exhausted.

[endursent]

- God Shattering Star

【 content; morax | rex lapis x reader , slow burn , mutual pining , multi-chapter , archon war period , afab!reader 】

【 note; last two weeks of the semester are kicking my ass, i'm fighting demons out here. only two chapters left of act 1 btw are we excited because i am!! | read on ao3 】

【 word count; 7.041 | previous chapter - next chapter | masterlist 】

- Chapter 9 - Dismemberment

You sit cross-legged as Morax holds your arm… very carefully. Thankfully it didn’t react to his touch this time, but he’s careful not to press on it unnecessarily. You’re too tired to deal with any troubles or more pain for the day—you just want to drink something warm and sleep.

  But at the same time… you’re not particularly excited about falling asleep, what if you suddenly leave into the night again?      And if there’s no one around to wake you up?

  You blink as you hear Morax’s voice, only just barely catching the end of his sentence. “Huh? Sorry…”

  He hums and repeats himself. “I will be departing tomorrow and will not be able to tend to you for a while, Ground Mender will continue to monitor you… but we’re hoping you’ll be alright to return to sleeping in your room in a few days,” he traces his finger gently across your uneven skin. Usually, such a soft touch and gesture would make the skin tingle… but you feel only a dull throb in your arm, as if it possessed a heart of its own to pound beneath your skin. 

  You’ve stopped feeling as sick as you had been for a while. Though the inky stretches of veins up your arms haven't receded, even as Ming Hui tried to push it back and extract it, it hasn’t caused you more problems… yet. 

  “Where will you go?” it was a question of curiosity, you won’t press for details if he won’t tell you. You’ve learned that despite technically being an ‘employee’ of the palaces at this point, you aren’t privy for a lot of the information that passes between the adepti and gods at the highest seats of the palaces.

  Morax gently sets your hand down and turns to pick up some trays that had been left behind by medics and otherwise. “South. Storms have gathered and shake the mountains…” he says and piles the trays together, stacking them neatly. “The lands beneath the mountains seem to have been deeply corrupted as well,” he adds with mild hesitation.

  The lands beneath…? The only village close enough that it could feel the storms above the southern mountains that line the bottom border of the Assembly is Cuihe village… the one you had settled in for a while before leaving earlier this year. “How so? Have the residents been evacuated?”

  Noting your interest—of course, he knows from where you were fetched months ago—Morax’s hand raises to his chin as he sorts through his thoughts. He reads many reports and documents per day, but despite that, it only takes him a few seconds to recall exact villages and people. “A unit of the Millelith by the border had an eye on the spread, evacuation was made, but they did not force people out of their homes… there are some that remain on their own accord.”

  Many of the villagers were old farmers, their families have stayed in place for generations… you can imagine a few grannies and grandpas being stubborn to up and leave suddenly. But at the same time, you feel a sense of responsibility. You meant to protect that village, and it seems the wards you set up didn’t hold. “Can I come?”

  “No,” his answer is straight-forward and immediate. “You are still healing, and stepping into afflicted territory could undo the progress of extraction that has been made.”

  You purse your lips a little. He’s right… but you still feel uneasy, like you’re supposed to do something about it. Not just sit around, like you’ve been doing for gods know how long. 

  Despite asking two more times over the course of the day—Morax still denied you, which you were somewhat expecting. He’s firm on his stance when he decides something and is a completely unmovable rock when it comes to changing his mind after the fact. 

  It was your responsibility to ensure the wards around Cuihe village were strong enough to last, and it’s only been a few months—what if someone got hurt or sick because of faulty talismans? What if you simply weren’t skilled enough to promise the protection you promised them?

Blinking out of your thoughts, you saw Morax leave the front doors of his palace, the deep brown wood nearly shines, the door wide open at all times. Your bare feet bad on the ground as you hurry to catch up to him, in recent days, your stomach wounds have settled well—deep scars mar your skin, but it doesn’t feel like your organs are about to spill out every time you straighten to stand, nor that you will tumble and fall when your heel touches the ground.

  Morax stops and turns when he hears you approach, he regards you with a careful gaze—it seems like he already knows what you want. Maybe you should have fluffed him up a bit first, if that’s possible, you suppose you haven’t tried. Since muscle atrophy swept your feet from under you, even just lifting your feet to walk had been a process very firmly kept on schedule by the healers and attendants of the ward. Even just walking across the gardens and towards him makes you feel a desire to sit down, despite your legs not hurting or aching. “I’m sorry,” instead of approaching with confidence, or an attempt to not make it sound like you’re going to ask again, you apologise. 

  “I apologise as well,” he replies with a surprising answer, and you stop in front of him with mild confusion. “I understand that you feel that you must do something—your tenacity to get back on your feet and return to work is… both respectable, and concerning,” he sighs, a soft sound that you don’t hear often. “But I must insist that you rest. I am glad that you are able to walk on your own now, and I wish for the process of your healing to continue at the pace it has been in the last days.”

  He is right. Morax is objectively correct that you should prioritise resting if you want to get better, if you want to be able to get back to work and help around like you’re used to… but you’re an unreasonable person at times, when it comes to the weight of your conscience. 

  “I know,” you agree, you do agree with him. You want to rest, you want to lie in the grass and enjoy the sun while it’s still so warm—but you can’t. The itch beneath your skin won’t leave unless you know everyone made it out of the village whole. “But there’s just…” you know that saying ‘I just have to’ doesn’t work on him, he needs a proper reason, and even then he will only consider considering your plea. “I promised them that my talismans would hold, I told the village leader that I would take care of the corruption—I didn’t even warn them before leaving, I just disappeared.”

  You never were good with goodbyes, you know yourself well enough for that—not because you become particularly attached to the places you stay in and tend to, it’s just… difficult, you can’t rationally explain it to yourself. But… perhaps you should have just bit your cheek, you could perhaps even have prepared some more talismans in advance—surely Moon Carver wouldn’t have minded staying a night?—and taught them how to apply them, charged them with energy beforehand… anything!

  Why are all the solutions just coming to you now, halfway across the lands, several months later?

  “They gave me a roof for myself, where I could sleep in peace between tiring rituals and fortifying—they were kind, and…” you didn’t realise you were rambling, the words suddenly stumbling out of your mouth like rolling dice as your tongue mingled with your thoughts. 

  Embarrassment clawed at your nape, you weren’t sure if to continue, to stop—why had you even opened your mouth? This is your problem, your mistake and oversight. Morax has far too much on his plate to be listening to you.

  Before you can wallow or think too much, a heavy hand rests on your shoulder. You raise your eyes and swallow the heap of saliva gathered from your hurried words. Morax’s initially guarded expression has slipped to the neutral mask he constantly wears, an expression you can never truly read or understand. “I will have someone look for any survivors, we were assured that most of the villagers left at first warning by the Millelith of danger.”

  You want to be comforted by his words, you want to feel relieved. But even as you nod your head, the nagging feeling of guilt doesn’t go away.

  What have you been doing, playing at palace purifier while the people among the borders you’ve dedicated years to protecting and safeguarding are left with seeping corruption and no one to protect and secure the wards?

  Cloud Retainer watched as you squeezed the dense wool ball in your left hand. How is this palm-sized ball made of yarn so damn dense? You hold the squeeze for a while, not too tight, and your entire arm aches, as if your nerves were being reeled in like the anchor of a ship.

  After letting it go, you let your arm lower to rest on your lap while Cloud Retainer notes something down. “Hm, good… your grip is terribly weak, but you can curl your fingers into the ball, bring it here,” the adeptus sets the board down as you raise your hand to her, it’s tired, so you help it life by setting your right palm under your elbow. “Does it hurt?”

  “A little,” you admit. It’s not painful, not really, your fingers just feel stiff and it feels like every movement or command you send to your hand goes through several filters before reaching its destination. 

  You and Cloud Retainer sit in silence as she uses her thumbs to massage your forearm—that, however, does hurt. But you grit your teeth and bear it. As she presses on your inner wrist, a tingle shoots straight behind your eyes—you nearly jump from the sensation and your arm jerks. 

  “Stop moving, this one is helping your body circulate energy,” Cloud Retainer scolded and pinched your finger, your expression pinches in return. 

  You try to distract yourself by squeezing the ball with your right hand, the yarn is surprisingly pliant now… Morax departed yesterday to the south—Guizhong assured you he wouldn’t be gone for long, that the conflict would be concluded swiftly and that updates from Cuihe would soon follow. 

  But you still have a feeling, there’s something prickling at the back of your brain telling you to go. See for yourself, see what caused your wards to fail. You were so sure they should have been able to fend off any foul energies for at least a year.

  “Ow!” you yank your arm back after Cloud Retainer pressed the joint in your elbow too hard. “Do you need to do it so firmly?? Aren’t you supposed to press and lift? Not just press?” you cradle your poor hand against your chest, a shooting sting travelling between your elbow and wrist.

  Cloud Retainer deadpanned and reached for your arm again. “Don’t be a child, one managed to release some of the trapped energy mulled by the miasma, so naturally it will bounce around a bit.”

  You didn’t bother resisting as she tugged your arm towards herself again. “Right… I would appreciate a heads up,” you mumble, slightly moody from the stings and aches and pains today—especially since you keep being touched and prodded at.

  After your energy had been rattled enough to make you feel like a child’s bell toy, your entire body buzzing, you finally got some peace and quiet to relax—kind of. You’re not really one to lie down and nap in the middle of the day in recent times, thus as soon as Cloud Retainer is out of sight and you’re left for yourself in your room, you stand up and move to your desk. 

  Ground Mender deemed you healthy enough to sleep in your own room again—much to your relief—with someone checking in on you in the night just in case of a fever suddenly rising… but most of the miasma has been cleared from your body, at least for now. You’re not particularly optimistic. 

  Taking some parchment out of a drawer next to you, you reach for your brush. You had been told very clearly—not only by Morax, but about four others as well—not to leave the palaces while you’re not fully recovered… but you move on your own. The method of cleansing requires both hands, of which you can draw out foul energies, write talismans and do other ritualistic gestures, thus you were taught to be able to use both hands effectively. You place the brush in your left hand, you feel the texture of the brush against the pads of your fingers and it seems well. You hold the paper as your left hand moves and glides across it. You’re stiff, your writing is off and you have to stop a few times to stretch your wrist as an uncomfortable tingle stretches out to your fingers… but after ten minutes, there is a sloppy talisman in front of you. 

  Not terrible… not very good either. Maybe it’s too soon to say, you might need more practice.

  Not feeling discouraged, you take a fresh paper out—you’ve always made sure to be well stocked—and try again. The talismans aren’t worth pouring energy into and activating, so it’s just the designs for now… even if they look a little wobbly, your hand shakes a lot in the longer strokes.

  Satisfied with the results for now, you set the talismans aside and reach for new parchment when you hear rattling. The ink bowl on your table seems to quiver, the dark liquid rippling with small waves against the rim, you reach out to stabilise it as you look up. The hanging lamp above your head is swaying as well. Strange, you don’t feel any shaking…

  The Guili Assembly isn’t unfamiliar with earthquakes, but it feels like they’ve become quite frequent in the last years… didn’t you feel some shaking during your more ill days a while ago as well? 

  Disregarding the thought, you dip your brush into the ink, intending to create proper talismans now using your better hand. You intend to somehow get to Cuihe village and investigate what happened, and if there’s still people there that will need the extra barrier of protection, it’s good to—the ground beneath your feet suddenly shudders harshly. The quivering was just the start…!?

  Usually, you’d be quicker on your feet, and think fast to avoid any incident. But your body is still unbalanced and stiff, your instinct to dive under a safe surface and hide takes over as you miraculously dash from your chair to the bed in the corner of the room. Thankfully, beds are built sturdy with high beams that close around the sides—were anything to fall, you should be okay. 

  You squat down on the mattress, holding onto the wood in a corner of the bed as you hear the rumble of the earth all around you… you recall the magical fortifications being enhanced after the last time the palaces shook like this—you feel a slight sense of ease at the thought, if anywhere is safe, it’s likely here. 

  Thankfully, it doesn’t last for long, your bones buzz a bit from the continuous shaking and trying to keep yourself steady as the bed wobbles beneath your feet, but it’s over faster than the time in the gardens. 

  Earthquakes in the Guili Assembly are usually one of four things. Something beneath the earth slumbering and turning over in its sleep, akin to an old tale you were told in youth. The battle between rivalling gods shaking the earth with every strike, if you’re close enough to feel the shaking, then you’re close enough to be in danger were that the case. Just some ordinary shifting among the mountains. Or, lastly, none of the above, and something new and likely horrifying. 

  Shifting to sit down on your mattress as the lantern on your ceiling idly sways, you rub your forehead. The shaking a few weeks ago… then the strange energies seeping in the west, the southern border escalating in conflict, Cuihe being drowned in miasma and now more earthquakes?

  You have a prickling feeling it’s either connected, or extremely unlucky. It could be either…

  Come to think of it, Cloud Retainer did mention that it “wasn’t natural”, what could cause such a terrible quake from such a distance?

  With a hurry, you open the dresser next to your desk. The stretching corruption, further conflict and increase in earthquakes—it all connects to the southern border. You don’t even really know why you feel such a sense of urgency to go there, the village might even be empty.

  Perhaps this is just an old prickle at the back of your brain. Of a lost home and empty streets, not wanting the children of Cuihe to have to leave behind the places of memory and family. Not having to feel as if there is no other place quite like home, unable to connect with the roots of towns already established without you.

  It’s unreasonable, it’s not a good idea—it’s a bad idea, if anything. 

  But you don’t have a recognisable good history of good decisions.

  After tossing some clothes and tools into a cloth bag—your basket is a bit too big and heavy for you to handle right now—you bind it across your torso and push your chair against your desk… it’s been nice to sleep in it, for the one night you have. But you have to go. You have to.

  You hadn’t made it very far when your feet began to hurt… walking from the south and to the capital, while not EASY, was definitely not this tiring immediately. With the outskirts of the large, lively city at your back, you adjust your travel robe slightly and continue onward, it was the one Si Leng’s mother gave you before you left Cuihe village. If you take enough breaks, you should be okay. 

  The sun hangs high in the sky, it’s barely noon as you reach the downhill roads along the side of the mountain. The dirt feels loose under your boots for some reason as you trudge down, squinting ahead as wind blows directly into your face upon exiting the shielding side of the mountain.

  You had left the palaces without a word, only leaving a letter behind… it’s better than your usual departures, without even a letter. 

  As the sun begins to dip and you’ve taken five breaks over the afternoon. You practically fall on your ass on the side of the road, your entire body is begging you to rest, your mind spins and you try to apply the breathing exercises Ground Mender drilled into you while you were bedbound. 

  This isn’t going to work, you’ve barely covered twenty five kilometres over an entire afternoon… wiping sweat from your forehead, you lean your head between your raised knees, trying to get some balance to your suddenly spinning head that as soon as you had sat down, began to twirl around. 

  You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling some nausea come on and decide to sit here for a while, at least until it passes. Every time any small little part of your body feels unwell, your arm throbs—there’s no massaging or squeezing that fixes it, you just tuck it between your stomach and thighs and try to ignore it.

  The travelling robe around your body is warm, though it’s heavy as well, the heaviness is rather calming. 

  After a while of sitting around and letting your body rest for a while, you hear a familiar sound. The creaking of wheels and the thumps of heavy steps. You raise your head and squint—though the sun has lowered, the skies are still a bright orange and pink, casting long shadows on the route from the trees behind you. 

  An old man sitting in a cart stops in front of you, a large and heavy ox huffs, his strong body dragging a cart filled with stacks of sacks, piled one atop of the other. The old man’s hair is long and tied back loosely, the wrinkles of his cheeks trying to pull him down to the earth. “Where’re you going?” he offers, the question clear indication. 

  You consider for a moment, but what is the downside? Worst case scenario, he’s not going close to your destination. 

  “South, Quiche village,” you reply, sitting up a bit straighter, you feel better than you did earlier.

  The old man hums, his foot tapping against the front brace of the cart. “Ah, I’ve been there once before, passed through once a’ summer. Met the loveliest innkeeper, it was at least twenty years ago, but you might know them!” he taps on his chin. “Old Xu! That was his name, know him?”

  You never really stayed at the only inn in the town, you can’t really recall. “Yeah, old guy with bushy eyebrows. I know,” it’s an innocent lie, it’s unlikely the old man remembers his face clearly anyway. 

  “Eyebrows? Maybe… that might be true,” he nods. He sure can talk, you’re not really in the mood for chatter, but you try to be polite. “Well, I’m not going all the way south, but I can take you halfway,” he makes a waving motion towards you to hop on. “You look five steps from rolling down the hill.”

  You do feel like the slightest stumble or misstep will lead to you just letting yourself slide down the long hills. 

  With a grateful gesture and a mumble of thanks, you climb onto the back of the carriage and lean against the heavy sacks, letting out a breath… why didn’t you think of this in the capital? Surely there was some merchant heading out that was willing to let you ride for a few mora. Your knees feel stiff, your eyelids are heavy… maybe if you can just take a small nap. It’s a long way south. 

  “Where are you headed?” you ask, taking your cloth bag from around your shoulder and torso and setting it down next to yourself. 

  The cart moves forward as the old man stretches, at least five bones popping in his back. “Town down west, some kinds tryna’ make a community for themselves. Didn’t pick the best place if you ask me, but seems they’re doing good—they’re buying all this wheat,” he reaches back and pats one of the sacks at the top, they just reach his lanky body’s middle. 

  You hum in acknowledgement, you’re not sure what settlement he’s talking about, but if he’s going in the southern direction then you might make good distance without having to walk.

  The old man talks endlessly, it seems. You don’t really mind, but you would like to close your eyes for a bit—he doesn’t scold you when you do, but keeps talking. Maybe he doesn’t mind if you’re only half-listening to him ramble about his son’s agricultural master plan.

  The cooler breeze of coming autumn feels nice against your cheeks, your heavy travel robe is like a blanket wrapped around you, and soon you drift into a nice, comfortable sleep.

  Dreamless, for the first time in a while, no waking suddenly or a cool sweat clamming your palms and cooling your back. Just a numb, mindless rest…

  Until something shifts next to you, your eyebrows pinch and you squint your eyes open—the sky is dark and the cart moves comfortably along the gravel road. You turn your head and nearly leap to your feet in surprise, jerking backwards at the sight of a familiar man sitting next to you. “M-Moon Carver?!!” 

  The adeptus, to his credit, has an entirely unreadable expression on his face, he sits next to you with his arms folded over his chest.

  The silence is almost unnerving, you look back to see the old man still driving the cart, humming a tune you’ve never heard before. You lower your voice. “Listen, I can explain—”

  He scoffs, oh no, he’s annoyed with you. “This one recalls that lord Rex Lapis had given you explicit orders not to leave the capital.”

  You cringe, you really hadn’t expected anyone to come running after you—it’s barely been nine hours… well, nine hours since you hopped the cart, perhaps twelve by now. “Yes… well, about that… I just—uh…” You have no idea what to say for yourself, it doesn’t seem the reasoning you tried on Morax worked, and you have a feeling it will not work on Moon Carver as well. “You know… that village, Quiche, that you fetched me in?”

  He looks at you in the corner of his eyes, feet crossed in front of him. “One remembers.”

  He likely knows what happened, he wants you to explain yourself. To give a reasonable explanation for this “escape”

  “It’s just—I didn’t really think ahead, I’ve never left a village that still so desperately needed me,” you pinch the bridge of your nose between your eyes, squeezing them shut, they still feel sleepy. “It doesn’t… it feels wrong—you saw the wards I set up, it should’ve held for longer than this, it hasn’t even been a year, it’s been seven months at most! It can’t have failed on its own, not unless a god exploded on top of it,” you exaggerated slightly… perhaps a lot. IT should hold so long as foul energies aren’t directly seeping in at all angles. 

  Moon Carver was silent as you talked, he looked ahead—which was really looking back—without making much of a reaction to your words. You’re unsure if he just has a really strong, stoic front or really doesn’t care for your answer. 

  After a long, uncomfortable silence, he sighs. “This one will go with you.”

  You stare at him, blinking almost dumbly. “... why?” it’s not that you don’t want him to come with you—in fact, it’s much better than you going by yourself. But you don’t exactly understand why he would? At this point, Moon Carver must be getting sick of being stuck on watcher-duty with you. 

  The adeptus lifts one arm from its crossed position and waves it vaguely. “This one suspects that simply tossing you back inside will only slow you down, and not prevent you from going where you please.”

  You scratch your cheek awkwardly, does he see you like such a stubborn person? Does everyone else? You feel like you haven’t been particularly stubborn as of late.

  But fair enough, you nod and accept his offer to accompany you. The carriage ride continues on into the night until it reaches a small road-side village—it’s more of a cluster of four houses and an inn to rest in. The old man looks back at the two of you. “I’ll be having a rest for tonight, you’re welcome to join me back tomorrow bright and early.”

  You glance at Moon Carver, trying to gouge his reaction—were you by yourself, you would likely take the night to rest as well. The skies have become cloudy over the two hours since you woke from your nap, and it’ll likely rain soon. Travelling under night, with rain padding on your already heavy robe… you wouldn’t make any substantial distance anyway. 

  He looks at you as well and tilts his head subtly as the old man hops off the front of the cart. “This one is not going to carry you this time, if you need rest, a few hours will make little difference.”

  You don’t entirely agree—the sense of urgency you feel in your joints demands that you don’t delay any more than necessary… but you’ll want to be well rested when you arrive. 

  So, you decide to retire for now.

  You don’t remember the journey being this difficult—of course, you expected this to be more difficult than before… but as you trudge your legs forward, you stare down at the road ahead of you and try to ignore the ache in your legs, the ache in your chest and back, the terrible ache in your arm.

  It sucks, but you press on, you even close your eyes for a time to try and focus on just walking.

  Eventually, Moon Carver can’t stand watching you exhaust yourself endlessly—with a shimmer and bump of an antler, his stag form walks alongside you. “Get on.”

  You frown, you don’t want him to have to carry you, there’s still thirteen hours of travel left—surely his back will hurt if he carries you the entire way? Not to mention that he’s already carried you before, when he took you east… 

  Sensing your hesitation, his antler poked your bicep again—which isn’t very pleasant. “The offer would not be made were this one not willing to extend it.”

  It’s difficult to continue arguing when your entire body feels like it’s going to collapse in the next hundred steps… so you move closer and practically toss yourself onto his back. The adeptus continues forward as you let your legs rest for a bit—this doesn’t really feel like the journey you imagined it to be. First you got a ride with a carriage, and now Moon Carver… you do recall he had shown some discontent about the thought of someone riding his back, but you had done so once before—though he had been told to—and now twice…

  You’re not used to having to rely on others for travels like this, you’ve always walked between towns and villages in the past… with some exceptions, you suppose you have hopped on a carriage up a steep mountainside or hill when offered, but it’s usually only for a short while. 

  It’s foreign, and you’re not sure how to understand it—you feel like you should be doing something in return, but there’s little you can offer. You reach into your bag and take out an apple, you lean forward and reach it around to his head. 

  Moon Carver, seeing the movement in the corner of his eyes, as well as feeling it, looks at the offering. “...”

  “...?”

  Does he not want it? You don’t really have food for two people, but you don’t really see him carrying food with him either—you want to share. Maybe he’s not hungry?

  “You do not need to… provide an offering,” his voice is awkward, as if he’s unsure how exactly to deny you without sounding too harsh. 

  You don’t pull back; you want to offer something. “This is the second time you carry me between places, and I haven’t had a chance to thank you,” you insist. 

  And still, he’s extremely tense about it, you don’t understand why—it’s just some fruit, surely he can walk and munch at the same time? “You can thank this one later.”

  Finally giving up, you straighten and put the fruit back into your bag, you don’t really understand… but you also don’t want to press too much—no reason to annoy him.

  Moon Carver is silent for the remainder of the afternoon. He decidedly doesn’t mention that he feels awkward being fed like a pet, he knows you just wanted to show appreciation, but being handed an apple like a horse being rewarded… if you knew how silly it felt, you would likely dig your head into the sand. 

  Finally, you reached the outskirts of the woods that lead towards the high mountains in the southernmost regions of the Guili Assembly. 

  Dark, heavy storm clouds darken the skies, the sinking sun is hidden behind them and casts little light through—shadows reach across the ground from below high, thick trees. You slide off of Moon Carver’s back, but his form doesn’t change. “It’s quiet,” you say mostly to yourself, there are no birds, no rustling of trees along a breeze. In fact, there’s no wind at all despite the thick clouds circling the peaks of the mountains you can see above even the high treeline. 

  “There is little life here,” Moon Carver says, only two steps behind you as you walk into the forest. The air is heavy and… it stinks. 

  The familiar odour of foul energies that have sept into the soil, a rotting, reeking smell that rises from the ground and gives little way to allow you to breathe without your nose and eyes stinging. You lower your posture so that your nose goes into the fur lining of your robe. “Corruption like this… it doesn’t just appear,” your voice is muffled by your robe as you squat down and touch the ground.

  It’s seeping with it, your right hand comes back wet and dark, small slivers of miasma clinging to your skin like little leeches. You shake it off and pat your palm on your robe as you stand up.

  The two of you walk through the dense forest until you see a familiar river—it’s the same that you stopped by on your way towards the capital for the first time. The village isn’t far away now.

  Unconsciously, you begin to walk faster, increasing your pace until you reach the edge of the village. The houses look the same—dark wood and sturdy rock foundations… but it seems empty, there’s no clothes hanging out to dry, there’s no jars of foods fermenting for the night, nothing. Perhaps everyone did leave in time.

  Somehow, it’s both relieving and disappointing. Were you hoping there would be someone here? Someone familiar? 

  You hardly knew them, even though you had been here for three years… you’ve never so harshly been met with the realisation that you never allow yourself to properly join the communities you help. After all, when you move between places as much as you do, why make it so difficult to leave it behind? 

  You’re not sure if you feel regret or not, but it does feel… strange. You can’t define it.

  “I want to check the homes,” you tell Moon Carver before heading towards the nearest front door. He trots behind you. “If there’s anyone here, we need to get them to safety.”

  You knocked, but there was no answer. Pushing the unlocked door open, you were greeted by an empty home, many things were taken from it—likely by the family when they left. Good. The air is stale and unused inside. 

  Checking three houses, it was all the same, some were homes, some were used for other agricultural things. All empty.

  You were tired, even though you hadn’t done most nor practically any of the walking today, you were still tired. Without knocking, you pushed open a door to a familiar home—it was the Si household. 

  And it was abandoned, clothing and half-sewn robes littered tables and any surfaces they fit on—there were toys and collected rocks from nearby rivers stacked by a small bed while another had some makeshift fishing rods. They left as well. 

  Sighing with relief, you felt tension leave you, this was the last house on the eastern part of the village and no one had stayed… winds were beginning to pick up outside, the clouds above your heads seemed closer to the ground—it would likely grow foggy soon. 

  “We cannot’ stay for long,” Moon Carver reminds you, he looks to the skies as you do. 

  “I know, I just want to check the western area, then examine where my wards failed—it won’t take long,” you nod and hurry to check the rest. With every door opened you find an empty home, many messy where the residents were in a hurry to gather necessities and flee.

  That is, until you opened a home on the edge of the village. You flinch at the smell, but the stench of death has become familiar to you now. There is a body lying on a bed in the corner of the home, another sits leaned over a table. 

  You don’t remember who owned this particular home, nor do you recognise them from clothes alone. You step further inside, but Moon Carver remains outside, standing in the doorway. Wrapping your sleeve around your right hand, you nudge the corpse by the table a little… the skin is pale and discoloured, patches are soft and fatty where miasma has sept deep into the body. Your left arm aches, it throbs and stings the closer it gets to the body, thus you work as quickly as you can. 

  Moon Carver waits surprisingly patiently as you lay down some incense for them—you don’t have the energy or strength to try and purify their bodies, nor give them a burial… but you hope once the southern conflict is over, that they can be given a burial once the Millelith pass by once again. 

  You only find four homes with dead in them, and it takes longer than Moon Carver would like for you to tend to them all—by the last empty house, he’s effectively nudging you away as harsh winds blow past the creaking homes and rain begins to pad down with it. 

  “Okay, okay—let me just check the ward!” you untangle his antler from your bag and hurry towards the fields. The crops are all grey and dull, you didn’t expect anything less… and once you find where you had placed the primary seal, you see that it’s unrecognisable. The talisman is dark and rotted, the parchment wet and torn like several boots had stepped on it, marched over it. 

  The strongest stench of the foul energies seeping into the village thread through the seal. You press your lips together but refrain from touching it.

  Looking towards the forest, you squint in the direction, focusing on the energy threading through—it’s coming from there. “Let’s try and find the source,” you tell Moon Carver, but the whipping wind requires you to raise your voice above it. You’re slightly anxious, despite your curiosity and need to find out how this happened… what if it’s another animal like the one that attacked you? Wandering the forest, waiting for another victim? A shiver tickles your spine and brushes the hairs on your arm.

  But you press on, you must find out what happened—you can’t have come all the way here and leave without knowing what happened.

  “The wind is getting stronger,” Moon Carver says loudly. “If it continues, this one will not be able to fly us away.”

  That’s fine, you want to say. But you hurry towards the forest without answering, unsure if you can convince him that it’s a good idea to stay so close to the border while there’s a conflict going on. The border is still several kilometres away… but you know well that a distance such as that means little when gods fight for territory. 

  The trees are unnaturally still despite the wind blowing harshly around you, you pick up your pace as you follow the thread of miasma through the forest—it seems to flow for ages, your lungs burn and your joints feel misaligned, you haven’t run in a while and you can definitely feel it. You hear Moon Carver behind you, his hooves thumping the moist soil easily, you feel like a stumbling paper doll in comparison. 

  Finally, you find it, your breath is heavy and mist leaves your lips with every exhale—when had the temperature dropped so much?

  This… this formation is familiar. 

  A tree stands tall before you, another flanks it only a metre away. The barks are dark and wet, black sludge seeps from between the torn bark, leaking down into the earth, stretching up to the twisting branches. You look down where the gathering of sickening energies bundled together, stretching line roots beneath the earth.

  This is where you had buried the afflicted bird, where you had dug a hole for its body and left it—for the miasma to erode on its own with a talisman to force it out of the body. The bird you had buried, the one you had left behind and let nature claim. 

  Your seal had failed, the energies had festered, they had claimed the corpse, ate it away and reached the life veins of the trees.

  A sinking, terrible and nauseous feeling pulls at your stomach. Your blood cools and your palms sweat, your arms tings, it hurts. It feels like every cell along the surface of your body is trying to pull away, to separate from the fool that let this happen. 

  Moon Carver says nothing behind you. He recalls this place as well, it doesn’t take a lot of critical thinking to connect the dots… the adeptus’ eyes are fixed on your back, unable to see your expression, only the way your right hand reaches to your left and clutches at your forearm. 

  Your nails dig into your sleeve, the distress in your body makes it hurt so bad—hot and cold flares, your skin tingles. 

  You hear your name from behind you, but you don’t have space to acknowledge it. A whole village, a home and community that’s stood for generations—you remember the village leader showing you around the first time you arrived. He had been so excited to show you all they had made for themselves, the stretching crops, the centre of the village that held festivals and gatherings. 

  You remember the three years you had been there; two people had celebrated becoming sixty—the entire village gathering to eat together, the Lunar Festivals where every street and home were decorated with red street lanterns and kites. 

  Gone. Eleven dead. Rotting in their homes. 

  Decaying with no funeral rites, their spirits stuck and unable to join their ancestors. 

  It’s difficult to breathe. 

  The last sounds of your name sound in your ears again, the harsh winds whipping against your side—it’s difficult to keep balance, you feel as if the wind is blowing in your face and preventing you from breathing properly. 

  Your coat feels too hot, your arm is aching, it stings, your fingers are numb. The stench of the miasma fills your nose and prickles your eyes.

  You can’t see anything. Your vision is black. 

  Your mind halts, as if it hit a wall—a cart rolling downhill that smashed into a wide tree. 

[fangbangerghoul]

It's snippet Sunday!

I haven't gotten tagged yet so....IM GONNA BE THE TAGGER TODAY! *Mischievous laughter*

Tagging all the faves: @bearlytolerant, @eridanidreams, @silurisanguine, @thatsgoodsquishy0, @5oh5, @booburry(smutty sunday?), @atonalginger, @toxiclizardwrites, @spookyspecterino, and if I missed you, please tell me! I am never sure who writes and who is on break.

OKAY! Snippet from chapter 8 of Fleeting Pleasures : > (no ETA on release but I did start working on it yesterday since my finals and semester are over!)

Everything was uncomfortable. The air was heavy, cold, and hard to breathe. It seemed the life support functions on this side of the station were just oxygen and gravity. The only heat this room retained was whatever was left over from the deck above which if Ghoul was right about placement was Delgado’s private quarters. Her body ached from the beatings she had taken the past 72 hours and the one in particular Delgado gave her when they were alone. She was angry at herself for giving in so quickly but she was tired, hungry, and whether she wanted to acknowledge it or not desperate for connection. Even if that connection was only skin deep.

            Ghoul knew she wasn’t strong enough to bust out of here if she could and let herself reveal too much, but there was also something about the way he commanded a room that made her want to give him even more. His prowling nature and dominance over his Fleet was something that lit a fire inside her. The way his eyes always lingered on hers like she had answers for him only she knew. Ghoul knew she shouldn’t feel this way about him even if the way he took her body made the nerves inside her tingle with electricity. Delgado was still a mother fucker for throwing her in this hole. The ‘cell’ he referred to was more so a storage room closet and it was big enough for her to fit in it and maybe one other person without their feet touching.            

She banged her head on the wall behind her to keep herself awake. The dull pain was enough to keep her alert and conscious. She stayed up through the whole night cautious of what the Fleet would have in store for her now that she was an outed traitor. She expected Delgado was holding his meeting with his second in command and a few of his trusted captains of the Fleet preparing something extra gruesome just for her. Ghoul was still shocked she didn’t have a bullet through her head yet and was even allowed to shower before she was thrown in here. It felt unusual for Delgado to keep her alive for this long considering it’s wildly known how he disposes of people for less. The heavy sigh that escaped her chest revitalized some of the memories Ghoul purposely had repressed. Images of her Constellation friends, the enemies she had killed along the way, and Sam.

[loorain]

Sims 4 Fontenot Legacy - Summertime Sadness

Unbeknownst to him, Alton's concerns come to fruition. Sabrina spends their summer cooped up in their dorm room, pushing through homework, papers, and presentations. They barely give themselves time to eat or sleep between the coursework and soccer summer camps. The exhaustion shows on their face but secretly revel in the distraction it gives their brain. No time to over-stress about the Beau drama, whose number is currently blocked in their phone, or Nyla, who has disappeared by choice. They don't reach out to other friends like Lakshmi, nor their mother or cousins, but they prefer it that way for now. They feel a little bad, since they haven't been back home since they started college, but they'll see their family soon enough.

One day, towards the end of the semester, Sabrina is busy working on their final essay for one of their classes, when the computer decides to conk out on them.

Sabrina: Why?!

Random Dormie: Hey, chill out okay? You've been at it all day. You need a break.

Sabrina: Yeah, you're probably right.

So they spend their break working on their final presentation for another class.

Sabrina: Nothing like a stale cookie to help you complete your presentation on nutritional cuisine.

They proceed to stab their finger with the thumbtack.

Sabrina: Argh! No blood on the board!

Sabrina is exhausted. They consider sleeping early and getting up early to complete all their work. They change into their pajamas and get ready to get into bed until they get an unexpected call.

Over the phone:

???: Bina?

Sabrina: Nyla?! Hi! Omigosh! Are you okay? Where are you? Is the baby okay? Do you need help?

Nyla: (with a laugh) One question at a time Sabrina! I'm fine. Baby's fine... I had a boy. Bina... can you come over?

Sabrina drops everything and heads to the address Nyla gives them over the phone. They knock on the door.

Nyla: It's open! Come on in!

They walk into a very nicely decorated apartment, full of color. Very Nyla. As they bound around the initial hallway, they spot her.

Nyla: ...Hey stranger.

They embrace.

Sabrina: Hey Mama.

Nyla giggles.

Nyla: Still getting used to that title.

Sabrina: So how have you been?

Nyla: Overall, pretty good. The pregnancy was rough, and labor even rougher... but he's healthy. That's what matters.

Sabrina: What's his name?

Nyla: Rodrigo. Roddy for short.

Sabrina: Roddy, hmm I like that. Wow... you're really a mom.

Nyla: Yeah, I know! It's crazy. Tiring, but so worth it.

Sabrina: So how did you manage to afford this place? I was expecting... a lot less.

Nyla: It's all thanks to Alex really. Well, he and his family. They helped pitch in for the place and furniture. Well, mostly paid for it. We're trying to pay them back for some.

Sabrina: So you two are cool now?

Nyla: Better than cool. We're... together.

Sabrina: For real?!

Nyla: Yeah. He lives here with me and Roddy.

Sabrina: Now is he treating you right? I still have no issue with taking care of him. You just say the word. Better yet, just blink if you need help.

Nyla: Don't worry Sabrina, we're good. Things aren't easy, but they're not bad either. We're taking it one step at a time. Trying to do right by our son.

Sabrina: That's good to hear. So... are you happy?

Nyla: Surprisingly, yeah. I am. I can't fit a lot of my old clothes and I don't get much sleep, but when I look at my little boy... nothing matters. He's my world.

Sabrina: That's so good to hear. I guess you don't need my dating expertise after all.

Nyla: Well I'll always take some pointers!

Sabrina: Not sure how helpful I can be nowadays.

Nyla: Sounds like stuff went down while I was gone.

Sabrina: Yeah. That's a story for another day though. Nyla... I was so worried about you. You just left without a trace.

Nyla: I know. I was scared. And I didn't want you to be rash. Dropping out of college for me was not the right choice for you, but you wouldn't listen to reason, so I felt the need to cut things clean. Just for a little while until I got settled. And now I am.

Sabrina: Maybe it was, but I'd still do it in a heartbeat for you. You're my best friend.

Nyla: Same here Bina. Forever and always.

Of course, Sabrina can't leave without meeting their new nephew.

Sabrina: Hey buddy! It's your Auncle Sabrina here. It's nice to finally meet you. You have a really great mommy. You'll be happy here. And I'll come to see you again.

Roddy: *cooing*

Sabrina: Aren't you the cutest little nooboo?

[wmarximoff]

(she will always be) a broken girl | w. maximoff

summary: life away from home is good, and you're studying at the college of your dreams; however, your new neighbor is loud, irritating and a person who doesn't respect boundaries. and, also, is your ex-girlfriend from high school, Wanda Maximoff.

warnings: lots of cursing, smoking, drinking, very brief mentions of smut, mentions of physical parental abuse, mentions of homophobia, angst, fluff.

pairing: Wanda x fem!reader

word count: 14k

A/N: and I'm back guys! I hope you guys like this, because I certainly enjoyed writing it!

|masterlist|

༺ᱬ༻

There's a thump on the wall behind your head, followed closely by a strident, full-bodied laugh and yet another dry bump, like a deferred hammer blow to a wet rag.

And then an eager conversation that goes back and forth around your head, which turns into lively, intelligible buzzes when muffled by a thin wall, which gives way to another round of drunken giggling like two intoxicated hyenas, as if the competition on the other side of the plaster, pipes and bricks were who could laugh the most without losing their breath first.

You open your eyes, but maybe you just haven't closed them quite yet. Your eyeballs sting as if carpeted by a thin dusty layer of sand that crinkles behind your eyelids, crying out for the sleep that never came, staring up at the white ceiling lit by the bluish luminosity coming from a streetlight outside.

Rolling lethargically to one side in your sheets, half grunting as you do so, your actions are shrouded in a thick veil of torpor; your tired left fingers grope vaguely on the pale wood dresser set beside your bed, and it is after considerable effort all blindly made in the helplessness of your dark room that you finally find the frozen plastic of your phone, that is plugged into the charger socket.

The white glow burns your retinas for half a second when you press the side button with the cheek of your thumb and unlock the screen half a foot away from the tip of your nose. Large digitized thin numbers show the time of 01:19 am. And you wonder who’s the goddamn bastard who would be making so much noise at 1:19 am on a full Monday, as if they were going to demolish the damn wall above your head.

Or a late Tuesday morning, in fact, your drunken brain kind of thinks so. But whatever, nobody cares.

You just know that you need a good night's sleep, and that your muscles are crying out for the much-needed relaxation found in the soft sheets of your bed, something that in the last week has seemed so difficult to achieve even while still inside your own home, your own apartment.

Life was placid, peaceful even, calm in the most acute sense of the word until it found its so fateful epilogue at the beginning of the last week. With the beginning of the college semester came the moving of your new next door neighbor (on the left), from who you don't even know what their face looks like, but who you sure know likes to enjoy life as if every day is the last one. Your healthy sleep has sickened and died on this neighbor's doorstep, so it's likely that each day will indeed be your last as long as your door is next to them.

And it's even odd for you, because your routine has been pretty much the same since you left the bliss of the small Westview, New Jersey (population 6,685), your birthplace and home, to go to college in the big city as soon as you got your high school diploma by shaking the headmistress' hand, three years ago or so.

Your day consists of working in the morning at a coffeeshop that has accepted your meager résumé as a recent high-school graduate and pays just enough to keep you from freezing or starving to death, a handful of classes to pay attention to in the afternoon, and overnight, after a few more hours of work, feed Loki, your grumpy black cat, and study for some upcoming test after having dinner on cereal with milk or instant noodles and drinking a bottle of cheap beer just because you can.

Sleep and repeat, one day after another.

But then it came, as the prelude to the descents of your peacetime; the thunderous beats and the guttural laughs, the intoxicating reek of smoked cigarettes one after the other, and the loud tunes of some distorted heavy guitar in an alternative rock song, engaged in a melodic voice that moans pro-sex and anti-system obscenities (and that actually, you kind of agree with that part).

But that mysterious person behind the wall is like a specter, a ethereal ghost, a foreboding sign that comes to haunt only at night, to torment and keep you from laying your head to rest against your pillow. And you know things aren't quite right with you because yesterday you burned the skin of your own hand by falling asleep propped up on the machine in the process of brewing a big, double espresso for a mean-looking man in a suit.

It's when the sound starts (and gets louder, and gets even louder after that, almost in the form of a rant) that you decide it's enough – the wall swelling with the sounds coming from behind it. Something in you comes undone in a bust, like a pulled thread that snaps in half from the tension at both ends, and the sleepless nights of the last week simply become too much to bear.

"You gotta be fucking kidding me..."

With your right hand you pull your covers to the side, and your bare feet nearly trample a sleeping Loki who's lying beside your bed like a pillow you accidentally dropped, and then you stand up, stretching your legs.

The cat meows in obvious displeasure when being woken up, straining with his front paws, but you just poke him in the side with the tip of your big toe.

“Sorry buddy, but I really need some sleep and this asshole next door isn't helping much.”

Your knees are bare, and your shoulders are tense as you step out of your tiny room into the single hallway, even scrawnier than your own room, and you go to your door, jerk it open, and then, marching like a general, you take about six or seven steps to the left to the side door, where the alternate metal song leaks through its cracks.

You knock once with your bent right fist, moving your wrist joint back and forth, but there is no immediate response and you just want to break down that door like your neighbor wants to break down your wall. Nor is there an eventual answer, when your good manners compel you to expect non-existent cooperation from this noisy stranger.

And you let out a cavernous grunt, plotting a lapse of hot rage inside you, feeling the tips of your ears and the skin of your shoulders smolder like embers.

“C’mon, open the damn door! I know you’re there! You can literally hear the music all the way down the hall, what the hell!”

And annoyance starts bubbling up inside you like magma inside a volcano about to erupt, growing and expanding in size, and then you hit it a second time, and then a third time, and you're barely counting how many times you knock on that damn door until you threaten to knock again (the side of your hand hurts), but then the door opens and your hand hangs in midair, like you're holding the handle of an invisible lantern.

You don't even hesitate to regurgitate, still half asleep and definitely very pissed off, the stress evaporating from inside you.

“Look here,” you begin to wiggle with your chest full of air and your cheeks burning, reciting the speech that has been stuck in your throat for about five or six days, “I know you probably have no idea or don’t care, I don't know which of the two options and honestly I don't give a damn about what you think, but some people around here tend to wake up early–”

And you blink at the figure in the doorway, a young girl with long dark hair who looks to be around your age. And she blinks back at you. And whatever you were going to say next, but the words die and wither behind your tongue, drying up in your throat. And you crease with the flash of skin between your eyebrows, as if you were facing some macabre apparition like in a horror movie.

“Wanda…?” a thoughtless whisper comes out of you that, without an effort, you would never have found actually slipped out of your lips, and not from some other person standing in the hallway that you just didn't see was there.

And it's like an atomic bomb being dropped from the skies on top of a city, because you see her (really see her), gorgeous and tangible, standing in front of you like a memory of your past, and your sleeping, irritated brain beeps and stops when your stomach drops, because your skin tingles as awareness leans over you and you realize that your incognito neighbor is, actually, an old acquaintance from a time you'd rather forget.

A time that you left behind, that you buried six feet from the ground and veiled and moved on after the due period of mourning paid in honor of your adolescence.

And the infectious smile she carries around the contour of her peach lips, with an air of excited laughter referring to a funny story still fresh on her features, fades, withers, and sets to dust when a glint of identification as helpless as yours breaks amidst her emerald irises, adorned by a smoky black eyeliner – the heavy makeup that looks like it was applied a long time ago, hours and hours behind the clock.

The atomic bomb dropped on the city exploded.

“Y/N...” she whispers your name, trying to understand, scrunching up her dark brows, and something in you breaks, “What are you... what are you...?”

“Wanda?” a male voice calls from behind her shoulder, intertwined with the sound of loud rock and the sour scent of cigarette ash, “Who is it? It’s late.”

And such a voice, to your deepest misery, is recognizable to your ears as if it were part of a second nature cloistered within you, of course – you would never forget the light chest, the quiet contentment that carried you during your days of youth, when you were part of the school's literature reading group and the debate club. Her shy smile and his voice carried by his native Eastern European accent.

Your onetime girlfriend, and your former best friend, the immigrant neighbors who moved in next door to you during your freshman year of high school. And you remember kissing her open-mouthed in the backseat of their father's car (by that time she already tasted like cigarettes and tears) and drinking hot beer with him behind the local gas station.

“No fucking way, Y/N!”

Pietro Maximoff is the one who calls out your name, passing his twin sister and almost bumping into Wanda Maximoff's left shoulder, who is motionless like a marble statue, as if her soul has left the shell that is her beautiful, (but) empty body.

And wearing nothing but a plain skinny blouse and sporty shorts that do nothing to cover your bare thighs, you feel suddenly exposed in front of the pair of siblings who should have stayed far away, buried in your past along with all of Westview. You don't want them to see you.

You don't want her to see you.

“Dude, what are the chances of us finding you around here, huh? It's been a long time, what the hell! And we are neighbors again, just like before!” he kind of chuckles to himself at his own line, his accent already faded, “I mean, Wanda is your neighbor again. But hey, are you here for college? I remember you got that approval letter! NYU, right?”

“Yes, I...” you whisper, half babbling, blinking sleep and shock out of your lingering brain, “I... yeah...”

You look at him, who has now grown a beard around his chin and bleached his short hair to a platinum silver tone, once the owner of streaks in a profuse coffee-brown color like the pretty hue that adorns the long beams on her head (he seems to be more of a man's bearing than a boy's per se), and your troubled gaze migrates towards Wanda, who is the only one of the two Maximoff twins who truly comprehends the core of your dazed silence, matched by a remorseful look that she hides behind her hair as she turns her chin appallingly to the side – because she knows, you know, and he doesn't.

He never knew. Nobody ever knew. She made sure no one ever knew.

Just as no one ever knew you ran off with Pietro in the middle of the night to drink cheap beer and eat cheeseburgers behind the gas station, no one ever knew you kissed the taste of red-filtered cigarettes on Wanda's tongue in the back of their father's car.

ᗢ

“And why did she break up with you?”

It's Yelena Belova who asks you the very next morning, your coworker and classmate alike, a friend for life, as her elbows work back and forth with the wooden handle of the wet mop that slides across the linoleum flooring in one fluid, continuous action, because today is her day to mop the floor and only tomorrow is yours, according to the appointment on the calendar adjacent to the staff room wall at the back of the store.

The two of you wear polo shirts on your torsos and similar aprons tied around your waists, the pieces arranged in the same shades of black and green and, behind the glass counter, which in turn has an array of sweet and savory to go with a cup of coffee, you growl lamely, like a grizzly mad dog that doesn't want to let go of the tennis ball in its mouth.

It's still fifteen minutes (and counting) before the store opens to a new wave of morning clients, and you just don't want to talk about your ex-high school sweetheart so early in the morning, even after a long sip of fresh coffee. Not after seeing her before you, (still as stunning, as enchanting, still as detestable as she was almost three years ago), in a dreadful revelation that the noisy, irritating, maddening neighbor, all this time, was just Wanda; an ex-girlfriend behind the door who distanced you from her.

But Yelena looks at you with keen amber eyes that gleam with insistent curiosity, pushing you over the edge, and your cup of coffee with shots of warm milk suddenly looks more interesting than your blonde friend who mops the floor under her feet.

“Homophobic rich dad, 'it's not you, it's me', stuff like that,” you mutter grudgingly from behind your drink, before shrugging your shoulders as if in a bogus performance of indifference.

“I mean, at least that's what she told me. You know, by text message. Three damn days before our senior prom, when everything was ready for us to go together. Just a single text message of four, five lines, whatever.”

And you take another sip of coffee, which even though it's soft against the milk, now feels as bitter as a crumbling lump of earth against the face of your tongue.

“Ouch,” Yelena exclaims in a falsely offended tone that smacks of laughter, “What a bitch.”

“Don't even tell me,” you muss, not being able to mask the wrath still pulsing in your tone, staring at the dark plastic lid that covers your paper coffee cup, “Just one hell of a bitch.”

“But hey, strict rich dad and mean teenage daughter, huh? Such a cliché.” She still mops the floor as she talks.

“Yeah, I guess,” you take a sip of coffee, “Erik Lester, Lehnsherr, any shit like that, whatever. He's a businessman, does something involving magnets, I don't know. All I know is that he has, like, a lot of money.”

Yelena mutters in agreement even though she has no idea who this much-hated father figure is, silently indicating that she is setting the stage for the continuation of your speech.

“She only met him after her mother died when she and Pietro were about ten years old, when they had to leave Sokovia. And like, the guy is a real asshole, I won't deny it, and he and Wanda never had a good relationship from what she told me and from what I've seen and heard, either. Sometimes I could hear his screams through my bedroom window.”

And you remember her crying, so beautiful and so broken at such a young age, the makeup smeared around her eyeballs that glistened in stinging tears, a black thread of eyeliner trail running down her ever so sharp cheekbones her as she crept out in your bedroom window, into the comfort of your arms or into your fogged-up car, searching for cigarette smoke through the desert streets of the small town, during the nights lit by the neon of streetlights and headlights.

And then, in a rather bittersweet mental parallel, you realize that you could never sleep properly while in the presence of Wanda, who is a nocturnal animal, a source of red energy – like a dream that came to torment you, disappearing along with the first cracks of sun to rise in the morning.

“I always thought she did those things – the clothes, the music, the cigarettes – to piss him off. And she did, yeah. He was very pissed off about all these things. The two were always up in arms in that house. But if there was one thing she was afraid of, it was that he would find out she liked girls. She was terrified of coming out to him. So she didn't come out to anyone. She didn't… she never assumed me to anyone.”

You gird your lips in a straight line, ending the sentence in a den of resentment that weighs heavily on the tip of your tongue; both your forearms braced on the clear face of the counter's reinforced glass, the half-full coffee cup placed in the space between your wrists.

“I thought that because we were together for the entire senior year it was going to work out, you know, me and her.”

Yelena looks at you from behind the counter, and there's an air of pity that envelops her facial expression, but that you prefer to just ignore as you focus your gaze on the rings that line the length of your fingers. Wanda wears these too.

“That thing we had, even if it was just between the two of us, it all felt so… right. So natural. Like, we were going to graduate and leave, weren't we? There was no reason to give up like that. It was me and her. Just the two of us. But then... then came the time for the prom.”

You sigh, as in a vicious memory. For a minute your vision threatens to cloud with smothered tears, but you blink them back from your eyelashes.

“And she freaked out and ditched me. Went with that stupid Jarvis Stark guy, an English idiot, son of Erik's business partner or some shit like that. And, well, I left town after that. Moved on. And now here I am, making coffee for rude people who barely look me in the face and having to deal with you bothering me all morning.”

Your voice is teasing, wrapped in a mockery that befits the goofy grin that breaks at the corner of your lips, and the young blonde girl half-laughs at you, swinging her high ponytail to back of her head.

“And now she's your noisy neighbor. Call it romantic.” Yelena reminds you in a voice full of petulant innuendo in an irritating retort, raising her thick, dark brows to the middle of her forehead.

You grunt against the plastic lid of your coffee cup.

“Ugh, please don't remind me of that right now, I don't want to think about it anymore.”

You can almost feel the heavy, dark bags under your droopy eyes, the sleepless nights weighty on the bones of your spine – but the young blonde woman smirks, having stopped mopping the floor for a good few minutes now.

“I'm pretty sure that would make a great plot for a low-budget romcom, if you ask me. One of those twin actresses could play her in the movie. She kinda looks like them, doesn’t she?”

“Yelena!”

“But it's true!” your friend laughs at your earnest displeasure, “But hey, maybe you can sneak into her apartment for the night and make her make it up to you for the prom. Or those sleepless nights, if you know what I mean.”

You blink in lethargic action, looking towards her.

“I swear I'm going to spill coffee on the floor you just cleaned if you don't stop pissing me off, Belova.”

ᗢ

The empty, hard blue plastic laundry basket rests against the right side of your hip bone, slithering against the waistband of your baggy, light jeans as you descend step by step on the concrete stairs that lead toward the laundry room in the building, located on the underground floor of the condominium residence.

The weight of the tiring day of flawed sleep still weighs on the muscles of your back, but you know the neighbors will nag like macaws if your laundry spends another day that takes possession of the washing machine again.

But it's late at night, past ten o'clock, so there's no one to be found in front of the sextet of washing machines that are still side by side against a white wall, like cars parked in a large parking lot. Your sneakers bounce against the black-and-white checkered linoleum floor as your left index finger presses the face of the switch, turning on a half-eerie, icy white light that flashes once and then stops right above your head.

You move without circumlocution, nonchalantly, walking toward the middle machine, and open the circular hatch to take out your now-clean, though damp, clothes.

But along with your clothes, you notice, with a curious and uncertain look, that there seem to be other pants and shirts that don't actually make up your wardrobe – in a way, such pieces don't even match your personal style, and you certainly don't remember putting them there in the first place.

Just take a single pair of tall black cotton socks between your fingers and something catches your eye, like a candle burning in the dark. Your eyebrows crease in the middle of your forehead, like a big question mark.

And, with the tips of your curious left fingers, you make your way to the hollow interior of the large domestic appliance to pull out, from inside, a thin red lace panties like the petals of a rose that is certainly not yours, hovering with the tiny piece in front of your eyes in midair – but you soon know whose it is when you realize that you already know that lingerie, the identification hovers like a crimson fog in front of your brain.

“For fuck’s sake...”

It's a beautiful piece that you bring close to your face to check, a cotton adorned with well-crafted details in the fabric and that, in the past, would be nothing more than purely sexy, which would incite libidinous feelings that would spark into the your chest and between your legs; but something in you inflates, bursts and goes flying, because you know whose alabaster thighs are from which you yourself have already taken those same panties, only to head towards the center wet with liquids of pleasure.

And you squeeze the damn red lace between your fingers, in a fist shape, like you're choking a chicken's skinny neck. A gust of hot air is expelled between your nostrils like steam coming out of a factory chimney.

So you turn on your heels and march toward the stairs, your cheeks burning in a snarling amalgamation of smoldering shame and volcanic rage, and six flights are a blur that burns your calf muscle as you walk hard to the second floor of the building, crossing the empty hallway in evenly spaced footsteps, like a guided missile aimed at the door next to yours on the left.

 The shiny metal of the numerals “1” and “9” attached to the center of the oak wooden door is what most attracts your solicitous attention when your closed fist knocks just above the handle; the round piece, large and gold, like a Christmas ornament the size of an apple or a clenched fist, you still holding the red garment in the palm of your hand placed to the side of your hip encased in the waistband of your jeans.

When footsteps are heard inside and Wanda comes to open the door, this time with her pretty face cleansed back to its natural state, devoid of the characteristic heavy makeup she usually puts on, it doesn't surprise you at all that she has a lit cigarette tucked between the fingers of her right hand, which has fingernails lacquered with a sober black polish that has peeled off the neatly cut and sanded ends.

“Y/N, what do you– do you have any idea what time it is, damn it?! It’s almost midnight!”

“What time is it? What time is it?! Look who's talking, for God's sake!”

When you brandish it with your hand, the underwear wobbles and it's only then that you remember that you still have it in your possession, and that seems to be able to irritate you even more.

“And is this yours by any chance?!” Holding the thin red strap just pressed between the tips of your forefinger and thumb, you lift the panties up to her face.

There's a curiously surprised frown in a flash of white skin between her dark brows, a light of disagreement circling the jade green of Wanda's eyes as they gaze at the underwear presented to her by you.

“What– what do you think you're doing with my panties, you creep?!” The accusatory tone in her voice, curled in thick cigarette smoke, is enough to pop a nerve in your neck.

“Creep?!” you whimper in thunderous rage, “I’m the goddamn creep?! You’re the one who put your underwear to wash with my clothes, you’re the creep in this whole situation! You creep!”

“What–?” Wanda looks at you like you're just insane, going into a snarky defensive pose, “I–I didn't do that!”

“Oh, of course,” your voice drips with angry sarcasm, “Your lingerie just decided to come out of the other washing machine and into the one I'm using. Seriously, Wanda, you've been better at lying before, I swear–”

“Look Y/N, I may have been confused, but I just moved here–”

“I don't,” your voice rises to match hers, ending whatever now-finished excuse that would come out of Wanda's mouth, “I don't wanna fucking know. I don’t care! Just– just take this and please don't bother me anymore!”

And there's barely a window that takes in the time it takes for the young woman with the jade eyes to plan with her brain an answer so her mouth can modulate it to you, because you crumple the red garment against her chest hidden inward the worn material of a loose-fitting band shirt that had faded to a tawny gray (that she had once sworn it was black), before turning around and, without giving her undue satisfaction, you head back toward the stairs that lead to the lower floor.

But you're barely ten or fifteen paces away from her door before Wanda's voice echoes across the hall, reverberating through the walls into your eardrums, through your muscles and your bones.

“Very mature, you asshole! How fucking old are you, five?!”

And you're just done dealing with her shit.

“Fuck you!” you bark like a shot in a game of table tennis and, without looking back, lift your elbow to your ribs, holding up the middle finger of your right hand for Wanda to see and take offense.

A shocked gasp comes from afar, but before she can even respond to you in a burst of rather naughty insults, there's the click of another door that opens at the end of the hall, and a third surly neighbor appears in a guttural rage as he engages in an unseemly bickering with Wanda ("It's late, shut the fuck up!" and "Go mind your own fucking business!" is the least that reaches your ears) while you, in full of silence and without giving much thought to the exchange of sharp curses between the young girl and an old gray-haired man from apartment sixteen, just turns the corner and walks down the stairs, trotting back to the laundry room.

Your right foot in your white sneaker taps arrhythmic to a distressed beat on the checkered linoleum floor, as you wait for the dryer to drying your clothes, your unflinching gaze staring at the silver device as it emits a round hum, your forearms interlaced down your chest, pressed against your rib cage, your shoulders stiffening in a recurring muscular tension from the episode of anger still fresh in your body.

When carefree footsteps echoes down the stairs, you don't stare toward the door of the laundry room because you only know who's approaching when the uncompromising scent of tobacco, smoke and strawberry moisturizer catches your nostrils, prompting a fearless grunt and an avid eye roll on your part.

Wanda carries a red plastic laundry basket with her, and doesn't exchange a word with you as she takes her clean clothes from the washing machine you've just used.

“It was a mistake, you know.”

For a moment, you think she's talking about your relationship. After all, it makes sense to imagine that this assumption is correct; your relationship with her was indeed a mistake, you know and imagine that she thinks so too. But her voice comes in a few seconds within the silence interspersed between the groans of the dryer machine, and she seems even half embarrassed as she doesn’t look directly at you, prickled into an almost intelligible thread.

You remain in terse silence as she gives it another try.

“It was an accident Y/N, that's all.”

But there's not a single answer that comes from you, and you don't even fix your proud gaze on Wanda, even though, with your nerves already chilled and your head clear away from the drowning fog of anger that seemed to have caught you in blind rage, you have realized that you have been quite unnecessarily rude to your new neighbor, your old lover.

“What do you want me to say, huh?” she claims your gaze, staring sideways at your profile, “That I'm sorry? Even by a stupid accident? All right, look, I apologize. I’m sorry. Now can you at least look at me, Y/N?”

But no, you don't look at her. And her shoulders sag in a sure sign of defeat.

When the machine finally dries your clean garments that smell sweetly of a softener pleasing to the senses, you pick them up, fold them, and place them in your blue hamper without uttering a word to make your actions light. And, walking behind Wanda carrying the basket on your hip, nonchalantly as if the girl in the cherry-red denim shorts were just an intangible ghost, you leave the laundry room—her gaze burns into the sore muscles of your back as you do.

ᗢ

Your nights are spent listening to loud music and smelling of toasted tobacco, and it's been a while since you've been able to watch TV anymore because of the loud noise from the neighbor next door. Maybe she's playing a tantrum, maybe she has no idea how life works in an apartment complex. But even Loki is more skittish by the lack of sleep that prompts his already grumpy nature.

The long scratch mark that grows angry red on your right forearm, towards the inside of your elbow, says a lot about how you and your cat have been having a rather toxic relationship on the feline’s part.

The early afternoon is engulfed by a partially warm climate, with a mild temperature, but even so, you chose to grab a sweater from your hanger, just before leaving the house early enough not to run into Wanda in the hallway, as had happened on a few unfortunate occasions since then – once when you went to meet a Thai food delivery boy and she was taking out the trash, and another time when you were leaving for work and she was arriving from whatever she'd spent the night before, looking a little woozy as she tried (and failed) to unlock her apartment door.

Carrying your backpack on your shoulders, your elbows tucked into your ribs and both your hands raised, squeezing the outline of your fingers adorned by a handful of silver rings through the dark straps. You walk in measure with Yelena's footsteps, who treads to your right, dressed in a stylish yellow flannel coat crisscrossed with gray and white stripes, and Kate Bishop, the tall girl with dark hair tied back from the of her head, who comes close to your left shoulder – the three of you heading towards the classroom befitting your third period Wednesday schedule.

“Man, I can't believe Nat actually became a cop,” is what Kate says in an indignant tone, addressed to Yelena.

“I mean, like, she's your sister, you know? And you’re so– so, so politically engaged! Besides, you are Russians, you should know about these things! Isn't your dad like, an anti-cops die-hard communist or something?”

“That literally says absolutely nothing,” Yelena answers her crookedly, wrinkling the skin on her nose, “Your mom is a goddamn CEO and yet you don't see me charging you about all the capitalist shit she does in her office.”

“But is different!” Kate exclaims back, almost offended, “My mom isn't like, that Howard Stark guy or something. She's just—”

“Rich,” spits the blonde girl, “She’s rich. She’s filthy rich. So yeah, she's kinda like him.”

“It’s different!”

“It's no different, Kate, I'm sorry,” you finally say to the girl in the purple blouse and ripped gray jeans, who just grunts in a pained, giving up response.

But it's when you turn the corner of a hallway that Kate turns to you with a certain air of curiosity that hovers over her actions.

“But hey Y/N,” she calls your name, and you turn your head towards her deep-brown eyes, “Is it true?”

“What exactly is true, Kate?” you blink in confusion towards her.

“That a crazy ex of yours moved in next door to you.”

One of your eyebrows rises in dubious ambiguity. You don't remember saying anything to Kate concerning Wanda, nor your disastrous relationship with the said Sokovian girl.

“How...?” but your train of thought soon traces towards Yelena, your confidant who lately is so close to Kate, who is also unnaturally quiet beside you, “Wait, did you tell her, Yelena?!”

“W-what? Sooner or later she would find out about it!” as the blonde girl shrugs her shoulders into the fabric of her yellow coat, you let a disgruntled grunt escape your lips.

Great, you allow yourself to think in an exhausted mindset, that's just great. What you most needed now is for people to know about your intimate life.

Not that the young Bishop heiress isn't a dear friend of yours, but it just so happens that you've only met her a few months ago, and it's not customary for you to open your heart to someone you're not so close to – for example, Yelena herself, who you've known for almost two years only became a close figure of your in the last eight months or so spent in each other’s company.

“I mean, everybody kinda knows that now...”

Kate says in a tiny voice, but it's not low enough to go unnoticed by your hearing or, for that matter, even by Yelena's ears, who scolds the other girl, exasperating a loud “Dude!” that echoes through the entire hall.

Your hands certainly yearn to strangle your friend in the coat who walks close to your right shoulder, to squeeze her neck which is adorned by thin and stylish chains in a good taste for fashion, but your fingers are content to just hold on enfolding the backpack straps that circle your shoulders, as your chin turns toward Yelena.

“Who else did you tell it to, huh?” but when the silence is lasting, your patience that is already running short insists on pressing the girl with the white backpack, “Who else knows about it, Yelena?”

“Well,” she starts, a little embarrassed, a little hesitant.

“Like, first of all, in my defense, it's not my fault you're an antisocial weirdo who doesn't go out to drink with us! But you know how it is, we went out with Natasha and Peter and Kamala this weekend and we went to this Irish pub that I keep saying you'll like, and I may or may not have had a shot or two more than the usual and, well... they started asking about you, well... and shit happens.”

“Shit happens,” you repeat in a half-tired, half-incredulous tone of voice, “Shit happens, sure.”

“Sure,” she repeats, before quickly adding a few more names to the list, “I mean, that Quill guy from the football team showed up with his girlfriend too, and Carol arrived later with Maria and Darcy, and then one of them called Jane and Brunnhilde, and then—”

“Ugh, okay, I get it, please don't continue,” you grunt, squeezing your eyelids together in pain, suddenly feeling several eyes turning to you as you cross the hall on a walk of shame, “Everyone knows.”

“Yeah, kinda everyone knows, yeah,” Yelena's tone is soaked in contrite agreement, and she shrugs her shoulders that carry the straps of her white backpack, “Sorry, dude.”

“No, it's okay,” you force plastic optimism out of your mouth, imagining that if you say it out loud the words will come true, “Everything's perfectly fine.”

Over their shoulders, Kate and Yelena exchange a worried glance.

But a few minutes pass after such a conversation had passed through the halls of the university with the other two girls dressed in the yellow coat and the purple jacket, and you can barely get your brain to focus on the mental activity of understanding the words uttered by Ms. Harkness's mouth, who dramatically cries out to the entire class of thirty or forty students as she gestures in a Shakespearean manner with her hands, waving her thick, long brown hair back and forth as she does – she was always a dramatic type, despite her genuine sympathy for students of her liking.

And even later that day is when you find yourself in the cafeteria's bathroom, rinsing the soap foam that lathers your palms under running tap water, when the door of a booth on your right opens, and you hadn't even realized there was anyone else there but yourself.

And your rib bones feel like they want to rip through the tissue in your lungs as you look up from the sink, only to realize that the figure in the open red sweatshirt and black miniskirt is Wanda, heading for a sink next to the left to the one you use to then squeak the record between her fingers and start the action of washing her own hands of matte black enamel nails.

You just want to blink and realize that it's an illusion, a mirage, a product of your twisted mind that hasn't been sleeping well and that you're certainly thinking too much about her, who is now your neighbor.

But she doesn't go away even as your eyelids open and close, once, twice, three times, and a hot, tangled thread rises from the muscle of your shoulders to the outline of your neck, crisscrossing your cheekbones and the tips of your ears.

The prickly anger that bristles your skin is like a hard, prickly grip around your throat, and a lump of flesh and gall weaves inside your larynx. The tips of your clipped nails scratch the palm of your left hand a little harder than necessary; the girl standing next to you is like a spark, and you are like a haystack.

And the ember burns loudly, almost even emanating smoke from the top of your head, as the melodiously unassuming voice in her usual low pitch echoes through the floor and the tiled walls.

“There's been word out there that your crazy ex moved in next door to you, did you know?” says Wanda, still looking at her wet, soapy hands.

You try to bite the words before they come out, but it's inevitable that you'll respond in the same tone.

“And what are you even doing here to begin with, huh? Have you become a stalker or something? That's kinda sad, even for you.”

And she half-laughs, which causes the blood in your body to leak to your head, but also to other rather unwanted locations in your lower organs.

“People have the right to study at this university. It's not all about you, Y/N,” you rub your hands together harder, “I mean, unless it's about your crazy ex. Then I think it's about you like, for real.”

And your tongue is quicker to rise to the roof of your mouth than your brain is to censor whatever it is you're about to regurgitate in the form of an insult, when the quick response comes in a reactionary backhand to the girl with the jacket of a deep shade of red like wine.

“Well, those rumors aren't even true. Because, you know, to have a crazy ex-girlfriend I would need to have had an official, public relationship, and as far as I can remember, I've never had that with anyone,” your saliva is bitter between your teeth, “So I don't think I need to worry about these rumors. It’s just gossip that everyone will eventually forget, anyways.”

You turn off the faucet on your use and Wanda does the same to hers, but neither of you moves to dry your hands or even head out of the bathroom. She looks at you instead, but you only find your own exhausted eyes in your reflection in front of the mirror placed on the wall in front of you.

“So you didn't have anyone,” Wanda says, her emerald irises fixedly contouring your jawbone, “After me.”

The thread of anger stretches from your stomach to your heart, and you still don't look at her as your curled fingers grip the oval edges of the white porcelain sink. She doesn't deserve satisfaction from you; after all, if you were never officially a couple, if there was never a title before the promise, it's all her fault, it fell on her, it starts and ends with her.

“That's literally none of your business,” you mutter under your breath, but you kind of hesitate a bit as she takes a step toward you in her biker boots that wrap around her ankles clad in a pair of black high tights.

“You didn't have anyone after me. Besides me. Did you, Y/N?”

And you turn your nose towards her, only to find a pair of verdant irises that lie dark as moss, a kind of possession that weaves through the abyssal dark puddles that are her dilated pupils, and the black smoky eyeshadow makes her retinas glow like two gemstones reflected by a beam of light in a darkened room.

Wanda is like a black hole that draws you into a dangerous magnetism, engulfing you like a supernova explosion.

And something primal inside of you kind of likes that, kind of craves for it, for her monopoly over you, for the exclusivity that's been maintained since the last time you two saw each other, three years ago, back in your hometown. Secretly you wonder if she hasn't had anyone else after you either, and you kind of hope the answer is a big fat no.

After all, if you're still hers, she's still yours too.

“Has anyone else ever touched you like I did?”

You swallow hard, the inside of your throat hardening when as close to her as you are, your shoulders deflating a little into your dark sweatshirt as the scent of strawberry moisturizer and toasted tobacco clogs up your nostrils, spilling Wanda's red into your bloodstream. She looks like an animal ready to devour you and you're not sure if you're going to let her do it or not, but you tend to think that yes, you will.

“Has anyone else licked you on the corner of your mouth before actually kissing you, because they know it turns you on?”

You swallow the still air in your throat.

“Did anyone else run their hands down the sides of your neck before holding your hair?”

She takes a step toward you, and you take another step back.

“Has anyone else,” her voice is a low, dangerous whisper, “Bitten the side of your rib before they went down on you? With their tongue slow and soft at first and accelerating as your moans get more desperate when you ask for more?”

You want to kiss her. Your hands tingle to cup the sides of her jaw and pull her face down so your lips meet in midair, and she kisses you the way she knows you like. As you've done before, as she once wanted. But then you remember why you hate her as much as you want to kiss her, and it's like a reality check. And a new gust of angry air ignites inside your chest.

“It's none of your business, Wanda,” you finally say through gritted teeth, steadying the bridge that connects your intense gazes. You are annoyed and turned on, and you just know that she will always be your undoing.

“And I don't owe you any fucking satisfaction. I don't need to remind you that it was you who broke up with me via texts, do I? You're the one who dumped me, not the other way around. I don't owe you shit.”

A guilty hesitation crosses her gaze, which taking slashes of blame, quickly turns away from you to stare at the sink pipe on the right side of your hip; Wanda seems to shrink a little, wilting, squeezing the folds of her ringed fingers through the single strap of the crossbody bag that spills down her torso.

“That’s not true, Y/N, I… I– I didn’t…” she muss, in a low voice soaked in massive regret, stepping back a step, “It’s not like that, you just… you don't… you don’t understand–”

“I don't understand what, huh, Wanda? I don’t understand what?!"

Your voice rises an octave, and something stuck inside you for the past two years, like a bottle of champagne that pops a cork, just starts to flow, pouring out of your chest in a loud, painful confession and just so, so purely angry.

“That you got tired of playing with my feelings and decided to finally be the perfect little girl your father wanted you to be? That you decided to pose as a straight girl for one night, hanging on that jerk Jarvis' arm to be the perfect couple with a bright future after graduation? That all our plans, our confessions, our dreams were nothing but a hobby for you, a toy to play until you got sick of me and threw me away when you just felt like it?”

She looks on the verge of tears, her waterline glistening in crystalline pools of liquid embarrassment and her bottom lip threatening to quiver, and you barely notice when hot strands of bottled up feelings begin to leak down your cheeks, dripping towards the contour of your chin.

“Because if that's what I don't understand, then yeah, I really don't. I don't understand how you had the courage to be so coward to hurt me and break my heart in that mean way, when the only thing I ever did for you was take you in, Wanda! I took care of you! I listened to you, I dedicated myself to you, I gave you my heart, I fucking loved you! And that's how you repaid me, because you're a walking fucking problem and nothing will ever, ever satisfy you!"

And there's a sharp, deafening silence that follows after that, rumbling in your eardrums. And a veil of reality falls both over you and her; after all, whether indirectly or not, at no time had you confessed to Wanda that in a way, even with the immaturity worthy of late adolescence, you loved her as much as was possible at that time.

She looks hurt by your words, her eyes a gloomy, sad green, her hands tightening on the strap of her bag. And even if you've spent three long years believing that you really wanted to harm her, once you've done it, you don't feel the way you should. It's not satisfactory at all, because it hurts you too. It hurts so, so much.

“Y/N...” she whispers, but there's nothing more to say after that, so your name just hangs and dies in the air around her.

You pant, inflating and deflating heavily with your chest as if you've just run the course of a long marathon. And she looks at you like a shy child who's done something stupid, and it only takes one blink for a drop of black makeup to run down her pale, sharp cheekbones, the green of the irises now as bright as the grass in the spring pastures or in Botticellian paintings.

Her tearful face should feel like your masterpiece, not your leading lament.

“Wanda, I…” you whisper, wanting to say something you don't know, wanting to undo what you've already done, “I... I didn't mean..."

She seems to take a gulp of air to part her peachy lips and start a whole new sentence when the bathroom entrance door opens and an agitated group of chatty girls enters, oblivious to the heavy atmosphere established between you and Wanda. You look at her who doesn't look at you.

With the back of your hand, you quickly sweep the tears away from your own cheeks. And, picking up your backpack that is on the floor, placed next to the sink, you brush past Wanda and head towards the door without saying another word to the young lady in the red sweatshirt, who looks just as broken as you do.

All you have to do is turn one corner to the thick tears begin to pour down the warm skin of your face.

ᗢ

The movement of warm-weather morning firstfruits is a little slow, even still, with the occasional businessperson in a suit or tired student stopping by to enter the store before the clock strikes nine in the morning, to resort to the necessary high doses of caffeine and only then can start their day with a temporary and bogus simulation of a burst of energy.

And it's when Yelena says something about needing to use the restroom, when there's no customer to attend to or even a soul sitting at the tables just to use the free WiFi, that you decide that checking a few emails in your phone's inbox will do no harm to your start of the day.

After all, you've already scrubbed the damn mop on the floor so much that the linoleum now looks like a mirror under your feet, and you've changed three times the napkins that didn't really need to be discarded and changed.

And you know well that you did, though, to take your mind away from the memory of the night before; of the loud, heavy music blasting through the dividing wall of your room with Wanda's, in a failed attempt to stifle the sobbing cry of the neighbor apartment, who kept your brain alert throughout the night, until tiredness won over by the fatigue of your muscles (or maybe her muscles first), allowing the both of you, so close and yet so far away, to fall asleep together, at the same time, each thinking of the other as you lost consciousness.

A few minutes pass, however, before the distinctive tinkling of the small bell above the front door engulfs your attention away from your cellphone screen, and your rehearsed speech of welcome comes almost as an involuntary response that fills your mouth, before the most genuine of smiles slip through the pulp of your lips as braided ginger hair comes into your field of view, clasped in a heavy, handsome leather jacket.

“Nat, hi!” you greet her, Yelena's older sister, and she smirks as she walks toward you from across the counter.

You always liked her and she always liked you.

“Hey, Y/N,” Natasha looks around as if scanning the area, before turning her piercing green gaze back to your face, never missing the tiny smile on her full lips, hands shoved in the back pockets of the dark jeans that she wears around her toned legs.

 “Yelena left you here to deal with those grumpy people all alone, huh? That suck. Guess I'm gonna have to rap her knuckles for a change.”

“Nah, it’s okay. She went to the restroom,” you smile, “I guess.”

“You guess, huh?” Natasha raises an orange brow, “Well, it must have been. She was never good at holding her bladder, you know? I mean, seriously, there was this time when we were kids back in Ohio where she was playing on the slide and then my mom—”

“Hey, don't you even dare to start it!” Yelena's voice comes from the back in a protesting exclamation, before the young blonde girl appears, tying her leaf-green apron around her waist.

“And may I know what you're doing here, huh? Don't you have, like, cop stuff to do around, officer? There must be some kitten stuck in a tree in Central Park or some sucker in a manhole in need of help.”

“I think this is a fire department thing,” you comment, and in return Yelena blinks in disbelief in your direction.

And the older sister lets out a lame giggle through her nose, expelling a gust of warm air through her nostrils.

“I was passing by and I decided to come around just to annoy you, 'Lena” says Natasha, half-laughing, prompting a roll of the eyes on the part of the youngest sister, “But I'll take the opportunity to ask Y/N to make me an espresso. You know, her coffee is really good.”

And when Natasha's voluptuous gaze falls on you, the corner of her lips twitching a little, there's a pang that nudges your stomach and makes your lungs inflate and deflate with warm air evaporating off your skin.

Natasha is a few years older than you (and therefore also more experienced), and you are well aware that she is a very stunning woman, who is constantly enveloped in a simple aura of sensuality, which spontaneous flirtation seems to be like a second nature to her. And it feels good, it's really warming to know that someone like her looks at someone like you in such a way. Even if, deep down, your brain is aware that your heart doesn't beat for her, and never will.

“For God's sake Natasha, the coffee is made by a damn machine, literally every time it's the same thing,” Yelena mutters crookedly under her grumpy breath, “Just get a room, damn it, this is a public place.”

“Come on, 'Lena, you don't need to be jealous,” and you know it's now nothing more than a sibling bickering, a healthy petulance that ends up trapping you in the middle of the situation that leans towards comic, “You're the lucky one who has to see Y/N every day, not me.”

And you take it easy, barely able to suppress a round of giggles when Yelena looks like she wants to jump over the counter and kick her sister in the face.

“Listen, get the hell out of here, go away! Go! Go! Go! You're not getting no fucking coffee anymore—!”

But the entrance bell jingles a second time as the glass door opens and someone enters the establishment.

And the second time is worse than the first, because all you need to do is glance over Natasha's left shoulder and a pair of emerald eyes other than the rookie cop's eyes connect with yours, like a knot tied in mid-air, two magnets that attract and repel each other. The soft smile plastered on your lips begins to fade and then disappears into a dry line and a wisp of skin between your brows.

And you just can't believe it's Wanda who's there, like an obsessive spirit or even an obsessed stalker, even though your apartment is just a block away from the coffeeshop, even though there's a cozy bookstore across the street and, if you hadn't paid so much attention to Natasha, you would have noticed the blood-red dress, so delicate against the imposing black jacket; the clothes dressed in the familiar silhouette that had entered the store on the sidewalk opposite your work environment.

“Such a psycho…” Yelena muss for only Natasha to hear, but you do the same and believe Wanda does too, because she looks hesitant as she gazes at your uniformed friend, standing beside you behind the counter.

You blink, and so does Wanda, still standing in the doorway.

The atmosphere that sets in is palpable, and the two sisters, then aware of your unfortunate situation with your neighbor-ex-girlfriend-not-really-a-girlfriend, exchange looks that only two people with a connection like theirs can exchange.

And then, you turn your stiff shoulders toward the coffee machine, stepping away from the compact glass counter, “I–I'll make your espresso, Nat.”

The clatter of the machine seems to be deafening when the silence is thick and even the sound of a penny falling to the floor would echo through the entire store, and the sudden sour smell of coffee sends your stomach into a wave of nausea you don't quite know where it's coming from, but it's here to stay and, in such a way, you feel like you want to cry.

The acerbic regret of harming her still eats you into your muscles and your bones.

Fitting the lid on the tall clear plastic glass, you place the drink across the face of the counter, in front of Natasha, who gives you a complacent look, in a green so different from the green that stares at you from behind her.

“Here it is,” you say in a rather mechanical voice.

Natasha takes her wallet from the back pocket of her tight dark jeans and places a bill that exceeds the stipulated amount next to the glass, holding you back with her hand when you get her the change. Everything is very vague, and the cozy, playful aura that once enveloped the three of you left the store as soon as Wanda opened that door.

“See you later, sis,” Natasha says to Yelena, who stares at Wanda like an angry guard dog, before turning back to you, “And you… take care, honey.”

There's a deliberately deferred squeeze of the red-haired woman's hand by the delineation of your own fingers caged in rings, and even as Natasha turns onto her back, her single long red braid slipping between her shoulder blades hidden inside her leather jacket, pouring along her spine, you know she shoots a hard look at Wanda, who flinches as she passes close to her shoulder – even though the two of them have never touched, it’s as if Natasha has bumped her shoulder against Wanda’s.

The temperature seems to drop, and the Sokovian girl takes a step forward, toward the counter – her dark hair looks beautiful even in a messy bun on top of her head, and you really have to hold back before uttering that compliment out loud. She doesn't seem to be sleeping well, and even layers of dark makeup can't hide the bags under her tired eyes. You thought it would bring you some kind of comfort, but really you just want to hug her.

"Can I help you?" Yelena is the one who takes the initiative, even if her hard tone doesn't at all befit the implications of her rehearsed store clerk phrase.

"I..." Wanda starts, opens her mouth, closes it for a second and then opens it again, "I was going to order an iced tea, but now I... I... Y/N," she then looks at you, “Can I talk to you? Please."

No, you want to say, not at all. I'm ashamed that I said those things to you. But Wanda's gaze is as intense as Yelena's. And you let out a lame sigh, squinting in disbelief towards your own thoughtless actions, before turning to your coworker who is next to your left shoulder.

Fuck it.

“I'm gonna… I'm gonna take a break,” you announce, before returning your gaze to Wanda, who seems to hide gratification beneath the hesitation in her eyes.

Yelena, on the other hand, seems pretty discredited with your words.

“Dude, it's like eight-thirty in the morning,” she reminds you, “And you're going to spend your break time with… this?”

The tone is displeased as she looks at your ex high school sweetheart, who then just looks away. You just shake your head in embarrassment.

“Yelena, please, just… please,” you look nonsensically tired at the young blonde in uniform, “Not now.”

And Yelena looks like she wants to say something, but she stops before she does, because looking from you to Wanda, two restless spirits, two broken bodies, she understands. Something about her understands, even if she doesn't like what she understands. And she shakes her head, following your figure that goes around the counter after untying your apron and, shadowing Wanda closely, just leaves the store behind you.

The bell jingles up from the door.

ᗢ

Leaning against the brick wall of the alley beside the cafeteria, a cigarette smoldering in its blazing tip, breathing in puffs of smoke, Wanda stares silently at her own feet—her faux-leather boots dark, tall, and worn. You, leaning against the damp wall opposite the one she leans in, watch her and look away every time she tries to engage her eyes with yours. It's like a game where whoever speaks first loses, and you and Wanda are just too competitive to let go.

You know there's no need to wonder why Wanda's sudden arrival has upset you so much, still a little remorseful for your explosive outburst in the university restroom as you are; but even as displeased as you claim to be to yourself, you also feel, in a way, happy and exultant, a comfortable lull warming the inside of your chest that you kind of really try to fight against, but it's a losing battle and you know it.

And, as engrossed in your own head as you are, you don't even notice the red specter that, like the devil himself, looks your way as if she might rip your soul out of your chest, the strawberry scent wafting through the alley with cigarettes that only Wanda Maximoff can squander.

With your hands tucked into the back pockets of your dark jeans, you just say nothing towards her.

“Do you... want a cigarette?”

Her voice catches your attention, but for a few seconds, you find yourself bereft of words that are capable of responding to it. When you lift your chin to look at her, though, both of your dark gazes are linked together in a single train of thought, Wanda too hesitant, you too uncertain.

She, with dark makeup, has the nicotine stick between the pulps of her profuse lips, and you watch her through the whole process that unfolds through her smoking the cigarette; you notice when her mouth is parted to receive the smoke, revealing flashes of white, opalescent teeth, and you also notice how a thin bed of glossy gloss ends up smearing the yellow filter, like a midnight kiss exchanged before imminent death.

Wanda blinks playfully at you, still waiting for an answer, her lepidopteran eyelashes fluttering in mascara, before leaning her head toward your gaze. Her sudden proximity shooting lightning bolts to your stomach, because now the alley seems so tight and her soft skin feels so touchable.

You stare at her for a few seconds, pupils dilated in a vortex of darkness, before shaking your head as you move your neck from side to side.

The thick smoke leaves Wanda's peach lips not long after you do. And then you remember doing it with her, cigarette after cigarette, between kisses and touches, the moans engulfed by dawn in the dark corners of Westview, where no prying eye could have realized that you loved Wanda Maximoff.

“No, thanks,” you raise your right hand hesitantly, “I stopped a while ago. I was starting to run out of breath to just walk up the stairs.”

You think she knows that you only started, years ago, because of her, in order to impress her, to be able to approach her the night you visited her house because of Pietro and, not knowing how to properly initiate a conversation with a pretty girl, you asked for a cigarette because you once saw her smoking behind the bleachers; she knows you never liked the taste and that you coughed more than you held the noxious smoke into your lungs and lied that you liked it, prompting an avid wave of laughter from her.

Then she shrugs, resolving to herself that she won't press the point. For a few minutes, present is the silence erected between you like a massive wall. Wanda puff on her cigarette, and after that, you sigh.

“You wouldn't order iced tea,” you say in a neutralized voice, “You've seen me in uniform before, in the hallway. You know I work there.”

And she kind of laughs, unsurprised, through thick cigarette smoke.

"Well, I do. But I really want an iced tea, just so you know,” there's an air of good humor in her speech, even as her icy eyes gaze at the floor between her boots.

The silence descends again for half a second, until it's pierced once more by you.

“I'm sorry, by the way,” is a semi-whisper that crosses the alley, “For the things I said to you in the bathroom that day. Or the things people are saying around about you. It's been a while since all that shit happened and it's not… it's not fair that you're being held accountable for this teenage bullshit. Breakups... breakups happen, I guess. You weren't obligated to stay with me.”

She looks at you, her eyes glowing the color of guilt-ridden jade.

“But I didn't have to break up with you in such a shitty way, also,” and then, a sigh comes in a cage of smoke, “I… I think I deserve some of your treatment. I'm the one who should apologize. It was stupid of me, it wasn’t… it wasn't right what I did to you, Y/N.”

You compress your lips into a line because you know it's true, but you don't want to start a new intrigue right after finishing another one.

“Well, you could have done it any number of ways that would have been better, in fact,” you shrug, “But we were seventeen, Wanda. I was an idiot, you were an idiot. And I understand it was hard for you, you know… with Erik, and stuff.”

The mention of her father's name seems to make her shift uncomfortably in her clothes, the dark jacket that covers the short dress of reddish fabric seeming abruptly cramped and exposed as she seems to shrink in on herself, lifting the walls that have kept you away. And then she smokes, closing her eyes, like she used to when he made her cry.

You see the smoke coming in and out of her pearly mouth, and you feel kind of nostalgic to see her like this, so vulnerable and transparent, feeling everything but saying nothing.

“Yeah, it was really hard,” there's an eerie tone that creeps into her voice, the moss green of her gaze seeming to carry a baleful hue, “But it wasn't fair that I just threw all that shit at your back every time that I was sad. But… that's in the past, right? It's no longer a problem I have to deal with, let alone you."

And she doesn't seem to want to talk about it anymore, so you don't bring it up again. A car passes on the street and a dog barks at a bicycle rider. When the cigarette she smokes finally runs out, she stubs out the butt against the brick wall and lets a limp sigh escape her nose.

“I think I'll go home now… I don't want to take your break time anymore,” and she smiles, albeit minimally, “Your tired face on me is starting to make me feel guilty.”

“Does that mean you're going to stop listening to Deftones all night long? Because that’s kinda depressing,” the air of laughter doesn't escape you, and she shyly lets the smile grow on the contour of her lips.

“Well… at first it wasn't on purpose, but then I just kind of kept doing it to get your attention,” she scrunches with the skin of her nose, “On second thought, it wasn't my best idea. Sorry about that. It was a stupid thing to do.”

“Fine,” you smile small, even if that still won't make your morning tiredness go away entirely, “I'll charge you more for your iced tea and then we'll call it even, Maximoff.”

“Are you still going to get me an iced tea?” Wanda looks in your direction and, a little awkwardly, you nod.

“You want one, don't you?” you look at her, “Still like black tea with lemonade?”

“Yeah,” she smiles, “Yeah, I do.”

ᗢ

The taut muscular tension radiating from the top of your spine fades along with the heavy bags of skin under your eyes, and the days gone by become bearable, even pleasant, as the weeks that follow as a result of the conversation and the apologies exchanged between you and Wanda.

In part, of course, you suppose your light mood is related to the fact that there is no longer a sound of drums and guitars that seems to want to breach your bedroom wall, once sleep is invited back to inhabit your bedding, cradling you in a necessary embrace that is only undone again when Loki bites your foot because he's hungry in the middle of the night. As if the recurring spark igniting within your filled chest could even be overlooked, anyway.

You then have the luxury of unconcernedly greeting Wanda with an exchange of affable smiles for the expected times you bump into each other in the hallway of the apartment complex you live in or the campus of the university where you both study, and now and then she goes to the coffeeshop where you work during her free time in the afternoons, carrying with her some excuse to buy an iced black tea with lemonade to sip along a classic book you know she likes to read.

“Hey sucker, you're drooling. Stop looking before I report you for public nuisance.”

Yelena mutters beside you as you find yourself staring at the girl in the black miniskirt sitting so charmingly at the table in front of the cashier, who then looks at you in a splash of emerald-green irises over the top of the hardcover book, allowing herself to hide a slight smile behind the full pages.

The skin on your cheeks and the tips of your ears glows in deep pinks when you tell your co-worker to “shut the fuck up”, because you just know there's no way to look away from Wanda's pale, exposed thighs that are draped over each other down the table – her kneecaps slightly turned toward you, almost as if purposefully put in that position just for you to look at.

One night when you came in from yet another extra shift at work, Wanda was having a hard time getting the key in her door while she had bags slung all over her forearm extensions, and you immediately helped her carry the groceries into her house, being then rewarded with a can of cherry Coke (her preferred drink), and a small peck ghosted on your left cheek that felt like an electrical charge against your epidermis, stirring something up inside you.

You exchanged your phone numbers later when you asked her to feed Loki for another extra shift and gave her your spare apartment key to do so.

Yelena, of course, made fun of you for grinning so kindheartedly when the notification came in for a photo of Wanda holding Loki against her lap like a grumpy little baby, but you just didn't bother to care about your best friend's continuous teasing that went on until late of the night. The following afternoon, Wanda sat with her tray on the table with you, the Belova girl and Kate during your lunch period at the cafeteria.

“Oh yeah, Y/N was part of the debate club when we were in high school,” she says with her cheek resting on her open right palm, prompting a good-natured eye roll on your part, “It was cute.”

“I bet it was, indeed,” Yelena replies, in a voice filled with hints of mockery, her mouth full of chewed apple, “So cute, little Y/N!”

“Dude, just shut up,” you grumble awkwardly from behind your glass of orange juice.

“I bet you guys were a really cute couple though,” but when Kate says that, drinking from the straw of her grape juice box, the atmosphere around the table is a little weird.

You and Wanda look at each other, and it even amazes you when you see that she can't help but express a reserved smile that goes far back, back to her adolescence.

The succeeding weekend, when Pietro came to the big city to visit his sister, he didn't accept less than a drunken company in your presence, which, according to him, would bring back the flame of the good old days; and it was late into the night, when the young boy in the bluish blouse (the brown roots of his hair sampled in the strain of dyed gray locks, cut short) pointed an accusing drunken left finger that trekked from you to Wanda and from Wanda to you.

“You know, it's a shame you two never dated back in high school,” he grumbles, before tucking the neck of his beer bottle between his parched lips, “I always thought you guys were, like, super alike. And Wanda kept saying she thought you were super hot, Y/N, seriously, it was super annoying!”

There's an incredulous grunt on the part of the twin girl with the creased brow and gauchely twisted mouth, who's sitting opposite her brother's, as she spits the cigarette smoke out of her nostrils instead of down to her lungs, tapping the ashes into a hard ruby-color metal ashtray placed in the center of the coffee table in front of you, amidst a heap of several empty beer bottles and leftover bread, hamburger and fries, the junk food now all cold and withered.

“Shut up, Pietro!”

Her voice is loud as the shyness that rises red across her pale cheeks, making her look younger and more innocent behind the dark makeup and lank hair. And you, sitting like a physical barrier founded between the pair of siblings, just take a sip of your own cold beer, sinking your body a little deeper into the dark linen sofa that smells like Wanda.

“Come on, Wanda, you’re always nagging that you're gonna die alone or whatever that emo shit you keep saying, so date Y/N instead! She's a great catch!”

“Pietro, I swear to God that I actually will fucking murder you.”

She looks like she's going to explode. It's almost funny in a certain way, but you don't allow yourself to laugh, so you just drink more and more of your beer.

“Y/N,” he moves to you in a drawl and, in a silence that connects your mouth to the mouth of the bottle, your hooded gaze turns to the boy’s piercing blue eyes, “Date Wanda. C’mon, date her! I know your type, I know you have a taste for edgy girls–”

“Seriously, just shut the fuck up!” thunders the younger sister, who is promptly snubbed by the older brother.

“Don't act like it's not true, Wanda! Back home it was always “oh, but Y/N is so pretty”, “Y/N is so cool”, “Y/N's sneakers are stylish”, “Y/N eyes are so–”

But before Pietro can continue in a monologue about his sister and how much she always noticed you, his speech is interrupted by a pillow of reddish fabric that flies close to the tip of your nose only to then crash into his forehead, causing him to spill beer all over his shorts.

But it's a few days later, maybe another weekend or the start of another Monday, that Wanda's wide television, which flashed on her screen an old black-and-white American sitcom that you know is to her taste (who appreciates classic literature and old series, nostalgic for a time when she never lived, something she says came from her mother) is the only thing that clutters the apartment like some source of light or sound, which meet the two of you, both of you snuggled up on her dark beer-stained couch.

You don't have anything to say to each other, but even so, the atmosphere is comfortable and domestic because Wanda, with a sudden abundance of coziness surging into her bubbling core, has her head exhaling the scents of freshly washed hair reclining on your shoulder, your arm in outline of her body pulling her close to your right side, chuckling along with her in innocent humor when some goofy character trips over a piece of furniture or a banana peel.

On the coffee table are a couple of cans of Cherry Coke and an empty red ashtray. You don't know when you two ended up like this, but there's no complaint on your part, and certainly not hers either.

When an alacrity chuckle escapes through the parted crack of her lips, her scalp approaches the underside of your nose and you feel the sweet aroma of strawberry shampoo, which is enveloped in a full-bodied cigarette smell that causes a wave of nostalgic clamor disperses through your bloodstream.

And she knows you like it, because her fingers curl against the hem of the blouse you're wearing on your hunched body on the couch, nails tinted in a sober black nail polish deferring a continuous, circular caress against your lower belly, close to your belly button, dangerously close to the zip of your pants.

“Y/N,” she calls out to you, in a low voice that comes with a background of laughter from an old-time television audience, “Did you really love me back then?”

You look at Wanda, whose head has slipped to fall to your chest, in the warm embrace in which you have captured her. She looks up, now bare of her makeup, in a modest shade of green that shines in the black-and-white lighting that radiates from the television. And in that bonded midair, with the sting of her gaze burning into your irises, you move your chin up and down, never dissolving the bond that you've built.

“Yes,” is a sigh, “Yes, there was a time when… when I loved you. When I really loved you.”

You say, as if you still don't love her. As if you wouldn't be able to break your own bones only to have her there again, lying in the comfort of your arms that salute so much for the outline of the warmth of her body glistening the red color against your bristling chest.

Wanda, for her part, stops with the deferred caress against your lower stomach, shifting her watchful gaze toward the glowing television screen.

“I loved you too, you know,” her body moves closer to yours, “I really loved you back then.”

"Then… why?" your speech can't help but emulate the reactionary question, which comes like thunder, hitting the back of your throat, "If you loved me, then why...?"

Her muscles, even beneath the rock band shirt she wears and the black miniskirt that adorns her hips, strain against you. She knows it's about the prom night, about the abandonment. Your tone isn't furious, but rather, just infested with a genuine curiosity that turns out to have a background in faded hurt.

“Those people,” she mutters between ragged breaths, “The rumors… he would have known. Erik, he… he would have known.”

“We were going to get out of that town, Wanda,” your voice is low against the top of her ear, “I had nothing else to worry about. I didn't care if any of those bastards were going to judge us—”

“It's not about the judgment, Y/N,” she interrupts you, her voice a whisper, after an empty, unfunny chuckle, “Fuck, I couldn't care less if someone was going to judge us. It's not like no one ever judged me for the trouble I got myself into or the shit I did back then, anyways."

And yes, she has a point. If there was anyone at Westview High who would be regarded as the black sheep, a hopeless cause, it would indeed be a young Wanda Maximoff. And then, your frown creases across your forehead. You don't know where she's going with this information that is nothing short of new to you, but you are willing to listen.

“It's just… I told Erik about you. Well, about you and me. On prom day,” your stomach drops as your grip increases the deferred pressure on her left bicep, through the cotton of her shirt, “And then that idiot hit me.”

Her laughter is not matched by yours. A sudden fury that takes over your bones makes you want to punch Erike Lehnsherr in his damn jaw. Wanda has always been the keeper of a sour humor, drinking from sources of cynicism, but this time you weren't able to escort her into a bittersweet joke.

“And I found out that stupid Pietro opened his big mouth and talked about your acceptance letter from NYU,” your gaze falls to the top of her dark-haired head, “And it turns out he had an influential acquaintance inside there. Do you know Professor Charles Xavier?”

“The bald guy who’s always wearing that ugly suit?” you ask, and Wanda nods, between another chuckle. The barely perceptible flicker falling over it indicates an onset of suppressed crying you've seen before.

“Erik, he,” she sniffles, “He said he was going to end your life. And I always knew, I– you wanted so badly to get out of that town, Y/N. You spent that last year studying so hard, you worked so hard for that damn letter… I couldn't let him get away with it, with everything you've worked so hard to achieve. It was your dream, I couldn't, I—”

She gasps against your shirt, in a greedy wave of painful sobs that feel like they want to shatter the bones in her shoulders. And you hold her when she cries, when she breaks down into tears that seem incessant, just like you did before, in your bed at night or in the cold of dawn inside your archaic old car given to you by your father. Even if you also wanted to burst into a painful cry. Even if you want to apologize for all the harm you've caused her in retaliation produced by the bastard who fathered her.

And you see her as you saw her before; just a broken girl in the world, the daughter of someone who didn't deserve to have her in his life.

“I–I just miss my mom so much,” she cries against your chest, sounding so young, so innocent, and so shattered.

You hold her until she sheds all her tears, when the crying subsides, and she begins to wheeze loudly in weary sleep against your chest. It's only then that you allow yourself to cry silently against her hair which, even after so many cigarettes smoked, still manages to smell so good. And you cry for what you did and what you didn't do either.

The bright sun of the pale of the next dawn comes to shine in the middle of the celestial field, somewhat immodic during that particular warm day, in the middle of a sultry and sunny climate.

The wide-open window causes golden slivers of sunlight to warm the top of your cheek, and when your brain finally wakes up, blinking the sleep out of your eyelashes, you feel along with the morning a look burning on your face. And when your eyelids open, it's to reveal Wanda's slightly puffy face in front of you; her eyes half red and puffy from the crying that had put her to sleep, her chin balanced on your chest.

She's lying on top of you, her legs tucked between yours.

“You woke up,” she whispers, like a little child. You smile, still lethargic from the recent sleep in your system.

“I woke up, indeed.”

“Are you okay?” Her tone is curious, full of meaning. A gust of warm air blows between your nostrils, close to her nose that almost touches yours.

"I am. Yes, I am. Are you? What time is it?”

“Early. And yes, I am,” and then, her gaze drops to the line of your lips, “I'm sorry, but I really want to kiss you right now.”

Something burns inside you.

“I really want to kiss you now too, Wanda.”

 And then Wanda dives toward you, grabbing the sides of your face between her warm hands. And you then reach forward and take her, pressing the commission of your lips against the contoured sleepy-cherry-flavored mouth that could belong to none other than the girl who always had your heart, who moved her body hers against yours. You just wanted to feel her close, all to yourself, comfortable in your grip.

A slow kiss, half snooty and sloppy, dissolves, but you hold the air inside your lungs and search for more of her, the red inside her mouth, armed with a soft red nostalgic familiarity contouring your bodies through your lips, being eagerly reciprocated by an affectionate Wanda. Your lips were moved carefully, following an invisible line that dictated you not so reckless actions like a rehearsed act.

The fervent kiss becomes a pacified kiss, and the pacified kiss becomes little kisses that soon fade into serene peace. You feel a forehead press against yours.

Soon, a sly pink tongue slips back into your mouth in search of what is hers, expert and needy. And then, a robust and powerful touch, palms wide open and pressed to the curve of your jaw, asks you to open your eyes – and Wanda stands before you like a creature out of a dream, Wanda usurps your senses, Wanda pulses inside your veins and on your tongue.

“You're perfect, Wanda,” you whisper hot against the pulp of her swollen lips, “You're just perfect.”

“I love you,” she says in return, and hot tears again adorn her eyeballs, “I fucking love you, Y/N.”

You want to explode, explode in love. Your forehead presses against hers, and she caresses the cheek of her thumb against the top of her cheekbone.

“I love you too Wanda,” you smile, “I love you too.”

She is no longer your noisy neighbor after this.

[polkadotsocks1993]

What Good Neighbors Do, Pt. 3.

Finals week for you means a celebration with your friends. However, once trouble occurs, the line of friendship with Osferth becomes blurred.

Warnings: violence, attempted assault, light smut

Notes: this story is brought to you by too much homemade wine and a winter storm 💀

thank you so much for your response to the first two, if you haven't read them, they're on my page!

Also, I write about the experiences of graduate school because I have experienced graduate school. I am trying to write Osferth and the Gang as OC as I can within modern parameters. Thank you guys for being understanding and supportive, I haven't written fic since 2016 so you guys are amazing.

It was the end of your first semester abroad.

Truthfully, it had been a rough school year for you. You had papers to grade as a teaching assistant, on top of final papers and your own work you needed to turn in. You'd elected to take a full load, thinking it would be no different than your undergraduate work. How wrong you had been.

The last two weeks had been nothing but grading, studying, more grading, and occasionally, sleep. Osferth had come over several times to find you slumped over a pile of term papers about Medieval England, none of which you'd graded yet. You were exhausted, to put it lightly, and you'd barely managed to look out for yourself.

"When does your term end?" Osferth asked, practically shoving a cup of coffee your way.

"In two days." You said, trying to remember what finals you had left. You only had three classes, but the history department had been understaffed and so you'd wound up teaching three classes. To say you were overwhelmed was an understatement.

"Then we're going out this weekend, after you get some sleep." Osferth said, "You need to have some fun."

"I won't say no." You replied, eyes already droopy from fatigue.

"Good. Finan already organized your first proper pub crawl." Osferth said, "I hope you're ready."

"No, I hope you're ready." You laughed, "I'm not a heavy drinker, so you'd better be prepared."

Osferth laughed tussling your hair like he always did before leaning down to whisper in your ear. "I'm looking forward to it, love."

As the term had progressed, you and Osferth's relationship had gotten even more tricky. You'd gone as his plus one to his half brother Edward's wedding; you'd met his sister and niece (who were actually nice and adored him), but also met his awful stepmother and after one too many shots of whiskey (thank goodness for open bars), you'd told her exactly what you'd thought. Then, you'd promptly gotten sick in the parking lot on the way to Osferth's car. You'd spent the rest of the night profusely apologizing in the chip shop Osferth had taken you to, only for Osferth to shrug and tell you, "I dunno, no one has ever stood up to Aelswith on my behalf, I might like to see it again."

The next two days were a blur for you; you had to be present for two finals (since you were the instructor) and you had to take two finals. You'd extended every last ounce of energy you had into trying to get decent grades, and barely made it on to the bus home. After tossing your keys on the table and taking a drink of water, you heard a knock on your door. Rubbing your eyes, you opened the door to see Osferth, holding a small bouquet of flowers and waving innocently.

"Your first semester done! How does it feel?" He asked. You blinked hard, trying to ignore the pounding in your head. You kicked off your shoes and took off your jacket.

"I'm tired. Get in here. I can't be held responsible for anything I do in the next few hours." You said, trying to get comfortable.

Osferth looked at you, raising an eyebrow, while you took off your socks and hoodie, tossing them on the sofa. Osferth made his way to your kitchen for a jar to put the flowers in.

"By the way," You said, theatrically rolling your wrist, "the flowers are appreciated. Thank you."

No matter how comfortable Osferth was with you, he was still painfully shy at times. He was confident, when he needed to be, but you could tell that his confidence faltered when dealing with you.

You took a step closer to him, observing his features. He was still in his paramedic uniform. For the last month, he had worked nights, and you could tell he hadn't slept yet, either.

"You haven't gone to bed yet, Osferth." You observed.

"I wanted to wait till you were home." He replied.

You squinted; you knew he was likely just as tired as you, and that he often put others' comfort before his own. You yanked him by the wrist, and drug him to your room.

"Where are we going?" Osferth asked.

"You're going to sleep with me." You answered.

"In your room?"

"Yes. In my room." You said, turning on the light and pulling back your covers.

"Um, I can just go back to my place, it's no bother." Osferth said.

"Absolutely not. You waited till I got home, you should have been asleep two hours ago." You scolded.

"I know, but I really wanted you to have something to look forward to today." Osferth explained. You hated his expression; he looked like a sad puppy and it was as endearing as it was frustrating.

"I am looking forward to something. I'm looking forward to a nice, long nap. And you're going to get one, too." You said. Osferth shifted around nervously, but didn't put up too much of an argument, his eyes giving away his exhaustion.

You took off your jeans and folded them on the end of your bed. Osferth's eyes widened, but he did the same. He had already changed his shirt before coming over, so he left everything on the floor next to your jeans. You snuggled in, under the covers, patting your hand on the mattress for him to join you. He climbed in and you scooted close to him, laying your head on his shoulder.

"Goodnight, Osferth." You whispered.

"Goodnight, Y/N." He replied.

Within minutes, both of you were asleep, and slept for hours. Neither one of you even moved much, until you finally awoke much later in the afternoon. Osferth didn't have to be at work that night, so the two of you enjoyed a little bit of freedom and swapped stories while you ate takeaway, the show Parks and Recreation coming from the TV.

"Wait, so Uhtred was the first person you had to do a field IV on?" You asked, trying hard not to spill your wine.

Osferth laughed, taking another bite of food. "Yes. He was so sick, I could barely find a vein, and here I am, some kid they'd thrown in there, and I had no idea what I was doing. Somehow managed to get the needle in, but that doesn't mean it was easy."

"I still can't believe Finan tries to ask you for IVs whenever he drinks too much." You said.

"Finan will ask for one this weekend. Sihtric will, too. Uhtred might, but honestly he handles alcohol better than all of us." Osferth replied.

"So, what's so special about this pub crawl Finan planned?" You asked.

"Finan plans pub crawls the way a bride plans a wedding." Osferth answered, "They're spectacular, honestly."

"I'm blaming you for the hangover I'll incur, then." You said, scooting closer ever so slightly.

Osferth's breath hitched, his smile faltering ever so slightly, before he leaned in close. Your spine straightened as you felt Osferth's lips near your ear.

"I quite like seeing you drunk."

You blinked, turning to him in surprise. "And why is that?" You asked.

"Because you're fiery, and I happen to like that in you." Osferth whispered. Your hair stood on your neck, and you leaned forward slightly, getting close enough to feel his body heat. You ran a hand up his thigh, feeling his gaze burn as your eyes met his.

"Well, then, I guess Friday is going to be fun."

Osferth grinned, pushing your hair behind your ear. "I look forward to it."

--------

That night, after he left, you laid on your bed, venting to your dog, Brownie, out of frustration.

"He didn't even kiss me, Brownie!" You huffed.

"Does he like me? Really? I am so confused."

Brownie just blinked; you wished you could talk to someone, since Osferth was the most confusing man you knew. He flirted with you, he did nice things for you, but he didn't seem to care to do anything more than that.

You grumbled. Your feelings were only getting more confusing, and you knew that it was bound to get worse. He was your best friend, but you wanted more. The question was: did he?

--------

As it turned out, Osferth's description of Finan's pub crawl plans was, in fact, pretty spot on. What the the boys were not prepared for, however, was how well you could keep up with them, despite never having done a pub crawl before.

"In honor of passing my finals, here is a round of shots, on me."

You handed the four men a shot of whiskey, and threw it back, the burn hitting your throat and you cheered.

"Look at you go!" Uhtred said, "You can keep up after all."

"Sometimes I can." You laughed. Finan had organized an "American Pub Crawl", in which the rules were that the only drinks that could be ordered were American. So far, you were on your third bar of the evening, and you'd taken the opportunity to buy a round of Jack Daniel's for everyone.

"Hey, Y/N, that man in the corner has been eyeing you all evening." Sihtric said, "He was at the last pub, too."

You'd noticed the man too, and you didn't necessarily like the idea. His eyes had been locked on you all evening, and it had made you stay close to Osferth.

"I hope he doesn't think he can follow me all night." You muttered, taking a sip of the beer you'd ordered.

"I've picked him up before, on shift. He likes to throw punches after one too many." Osferth said, taking a sip of his own beer. His arm had found a place around your shoulder and you gladly accepted it. You didn't like the way that man looked at you.

"Maybe he'll take the hint." You replied.

"If he doesn't, I'm sure we can persuade him." Uhtred said, "If he likes to fight, we can do that too."

"Wouldn't be a proper pub crawl without it!" Finan exclaimed.

Finishing your drinks, you went to the next pub, this time ordering whiskey and bringing out pickle juice to take pickle back shots.

Unfortunately, the man had followed and he was eyeing you still.

You tried to shake the uncomfortable feeling in your gut; you didn't want this man to ruin your night with your friends. Besides, you were resting your head on Osferth's shoulder, and he was flirting with you, and you didn't want to ruin that.

By the next bar, however, you'd shoved the nervous feeling down as you all drank Old Fashioneds, feeling a bit woozy as you stood up.

You placed a hand on Osferth's shoulder and leaned down. "I'm gonna go to the restroom. Watch my purse until I get back?"

"Sure, we'll be right here." Osferth said, giving you a smile. You walked back to the restroom and went in, trying to get out before anyone else noticed you were gone. You fixed you hair and adjusted your skirt, and walked out the door, only to bump into someone.

Your stomach dropped; it was the man who had been following you.

"I've been waiting to get you alone all night." He said. You could smell the liquor on him, he was incredibly drunk.

"Well, I'm going back to my friends." You said curtly, walking back toward the direction of your table. The man stopped you, and walked you backwards, your back hitting the wall.

"Where ya from, miss? I like that accent of yours." He said caging you in.

You looked around, suddenly feeling completely sober as the man entered your bubble.

"A place where we don't take kindly to unwanted attention." You replied.

The man growled, getting closer.

"Leave me alone, please." You pleaded.

"I don't think I'm going to do that. I've been watching you for hours now." The man replied. He stuck a hand on your torso, and began trying to move it up your shirt.

"Get OFF of me!" You yelled. You slapped the man in the face, and he in turn slapped you back so hard your head hit the wall, and you saw stars. You tasted blood on your lip, and it only made rage bubble in your chest.

"Get the HELL AWAY FROM ME!" You screamed. The man lurched forward, grabbing you by the hair, and slammed your head back into the wall, pressing his body to yours. You kicked and began screaming, until you heard someone yelling from behind the man.

"GET OFF!" Screamed Osferth, grabbing the man by the shoulders and throwing him into the floor. The man stood up, taking a swing, and connecting with Osferth's face. That's when Sihtric and Uhtred grabbed the man, while Finan got Osferth to his feet.

The look on Osferth's face was one you'd only seen a handful of times before, from other people. He was seething.

Osferth swung again, knocking the man to the floor, and he began swinging. Blood was pouring from his nose, but he seemed completely oblivious to the pain.

"YOU. DO. NOT. TOUCH. HER." Every word was punctuated with a punch, until Uhtred finally pulled him off.

"Osferth, your nose is broken." Uhtred said. Osferth was still in a trance, and you were shaking and crying. Finan had moved over to check on you, tears spilling from your eyes as he grabbed your face.

"Hey, hey, look at me, Y/N. Look at me." He whispered. "You're okay now. Osferth took care of him, he isn't getting back up for a while."

Osferth stopped wriggling in Uhtred's grasp and turned to you, assessing the damage like he would any accident at work.

"What did he do? Where did he touch you?" He asked.

You were sobbing. Coughing and choking while the other three men stood behind Osferth, blocking anyone else from coming near.

"He--I was coming out and he pushed me back." You cried, "he tried to stick his hand under my shirt and I told him to leave me alone. Then he hit me and he slammed my head into the wall."

This time, Sihtric walked over and kicked the man in the stomach. Osferth took a pen light from his pocket and looked at your eyes.

"You have a concussion." He said, "But not a bad one."

"Osferth, your nose." You said.

"I don't care. This isn't the worst I've had. Come here." He said, pulling you into his chest. You sobbed into him, your whole body shaking.

"Osferth, you get her out of here. We'll deal with him. You two need to go to A & E and get checked out. Especially you." Finan said.

"He'll learn his lesson. We promise you that." Uhtred said, "Take her home. We'll go check on you later."

Osferth took your hand and guided you out near the main entrance, taking your purse from behind the bar. Your hands shook ferociously, your lip was already swollen. Outside of the bar, you waited for a cab, but you couldn't keep your knees from knocking together.

"I'm so, so sorry, Y/N. That shouldn't have happened." Osferth said, rubbing your back. You had to sit down; your vision was starting to go black and you felt like the walls were closing in.

"I want to go home." You cried.

"We're going home, love." Osferth replied.

"No, Osferth," Your voice was breaking now, "I want my mom."

Osferth picked you up, pulling you close to him and holding you as tightly as he could. "I'll call your mum, Y/N. It's going to be okay. Take a deep breath, he can't hurt you. I won't let anyone hurt you."

As the cab pulled up, Osferth put you gently inside. The cab driver obviously had questions, but all Osferth did was give him your address. You were thankful; you didn't want to go to A & E, you just wanted to go home.

------------

You had a first aid kit in your bathroom, it was the one thing you'd always done since you grew up on a farm in the middle of nowhere. You sat Osferth down on the edge of the bathtub and began to clean him up, taking off his shirt and wiping the blood off of his chest, his neck, and his face.

"You said that wasn't the worst you had, huh?" You asked. He chuckled lightly, pointing to a spot just below his ribs.

"Almost died from this one." He said, "took a knife to the lung. If I hadn't already been in a medic tent, I would have died."

"When was that?" You asked, tracing your fingers along the scar.

"My last deployment. I was assessing a civilian they brought in, and he stabbed me." Osferth said, "I got out after that."

"And what about this one, here?" You asked, pointing to the scar on his shoulder.

"This was another bar fight, believe it or not." Osferth laughed. His eyes were already bruising and a little swollen, so you'd brought a pack of frozen vegetables to put on his face.

"He should have never touched you." Osferth said.

"I'm just glad you were there." You replied.

Osferth put his hands on your hips, placing his forehead in your stomach. You felt your heart thump so loudly that you were afraid it'd burst.

"I'll always be there." Osferth said. You felt his fingers tighten around your hip bones and you couldn't take it any more.

"Osferth." You said, he looked up at you.

"What is it?" He asked.

"I--I don't want to be your friend." You replied. His entire face fell, and you stumbled to correct yourself.

"I'm sorry, that came out wrong. What I meant was, I can't just be your friend." You said, "I thought I could, but I think I've loved you since the day you unlocked my door, and seeing you like this, I can't... I can't just be your friend--"

You were cut off by Osferth's lips hitting yours. His hands tangled in your hair, his touch soft but wanting. You put your arms around his neck and pulled him closer, a moan escaping as he moved to kiss your neck.

"I can't do this anymore either." Osferth said, "I thought I could. I thought I could just be your friend, but I can't. I love you. I've loved you for a long time."

You took his face in your hands, placing a gentle kiss, then moved to loop your fingers in his jeans and pull him out of the bedroom. His hands roamed your back, your neck, your hips, taking care not to do anything too suddenly or without permission. You pulled him to your room, kicking off your shoes and taking off your tights, pulling him on to the bed with you.

He climbed in, laying next to you, cradling your head in his hand, his other hand trailing your waist. You sighed, smiling, and ran your fingers through his hair.

"Stay the night." You said. It was a plea, a wish.

"I'll do whatever you ask." He whispered.

He took off his jeans, and your eyes grew wide.

"I'm not expecting anything, they've just got blood on them." He said. You nodded, and then a rush of thoughts came flooding to your mind.

"Osferth?" You asked.

"Yes, love?" He said.

"I've... I've never done this before." You admitted. He furrowed his brows.

"Done what?" He asked.

"What we're doing. Or what we're about to do. I don't know how to explain it." You huffed. He stopped, understanding what you were trying to say, and then nodded.

"You know that's not what I'm after, right?" Osferth asked.

You kissed him, moaning as he moved a hand up your side.

"I know, but I need you to know. I spilled my guts, I needed to tell you in case you wanted an out." You said.

"No." Osferth said, taking your hand in his. Yours was comically small compared to his, and he kissed your forehead.

"I don't want an out. I've been thinking about you since you knocked on my door. I knew I loved you for sure at Edward's wedding. I love how your face lights up when you talk about what you're passionate about. I love how kind you are. I hated history, but when you tell it, I could listen for hours. I don't want a quick lay. If I wanted that I could go into town and get it. I want you, Y/N. Only you."

Your breath hitched, and you looked at Osferth. You were nervous, and you didn't exactly know the right words to say.

"What does this make us?" You asked.

"Whatever you want us to be, but I know I'd like for us to be together." Osferth answered.

You smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. "I want that, too."

Osferth laughed, pressing a kiss to your forehead. He laid his head back down on the pillow, sighing.

"I'm actually glad you said something, because my nose does hurt a bit now." He admitted. You couldn't help but laugh as you pressed kisses to his temple.

"Then maybe we should sleep? After you've taken something for the pain." You suggested.

"That actually sounds nice." Osferth said, "We have plenty of time. I intend on sticking around, if that's alright with you."

"I'd like that, very much." You said.

That night you fell asleep with your head on his chest, his arm around you. Though both of you wound up with bruises for days, neither of you would have changed the events of that evening. And though your relationship had now evolved into something more, you were elated and excited.

With Osferth, you looked forward to many things. And you couldn't wait to explore.

-----------------

I will obviously be writing more parts, I'm obsessed with this story and I cannot put it down.

Also, the reason there wasn't full on smut is because I have NEVER written it before, so please bare with me as the next chapter will probably be lots of filth 🤣 thank you all for the feedback!

[porcupine-girl]

Update on my covidness. Covidity?

I'm at 4 weeks since I got sick.

I count last Monday, July 25, as the first day I wasn't actually sick anymore, so I was actively sick-sick for like 17 days. But the fatigue has barely let up - I've had a couple good days but they're usually followed by really bad days. I can basically do One Thing a day, such as helping with dinner or going with my husband to the grocery store (which turned out to be a mistake and wore me WAY out, but I hadn't left the house in three weeks and was desperate).

It's especially bad in my arms - some days my legs feel like I could probably take a walk (I haven't dared yet) but doing almost anything with my arms is exhausting. After the trip to the grocery store, where my husband did most of the work, I was reduced to playing games on my iPad one-handed, switching out hands as each one wore out.

So that's where I am now. Four weeks in I'm not sick, but I'm also hardly capable of doing anything. If this happened during the semester IDK what I would do - I have video lectures from when we were remote that I can use, but I couldn't even fucking grade in the state I'm in.

The only thing I can compare it to is when I was undergoing chemo 18 years ago. It feels so much like that sometimes it's creepy. The way I would be doing okay and then suddenly go way downhill in a matter of minutes - that happened the one time I tried to eat at a restaurant. (Our anniversary was while I was still sick-sick, and the kid was at camp for a week so since I wasn't sick-sick last Friday I was like okay I can sit in a booth and eat for an hour. And I did, and was tired but hanging in there, but around the time we ordered dessert I just crashed.)

The arm tiredness is also similar to chemo. The way some days typing or holding a book is too much for my arms, and holding a video game controller in my lap is the best I can do (I have played a LOT of ACNH let me tell you).

Anyhow. In case anyone was wondering. I really hope this lets up a bit before classes start in 2.5 weeks!

A full recap of the past four weeks under the cut:

I think my husband & son picked it up at the July 4 parade, which was a Monday. They got sick Wednesday/Thursday. Thursday night I wasn't quite sick but I felt the way I always do right before I get sick so I knew it was coming.

Friday, July 8 was the first day I was definitely sick, fever and all. (I will note that although 100.4 is technically the "fever" cutoff, my baseline body temp tends to be around 97-97.5 instead of 98.6 so I consider anything above 99 as a fever, and even though my immune system is messed up and I'm sick way more than my husband or kid it's still pretty damn rare for me to get a fever even by that measure.) Saturday my temp got up to like 101.5, when I still had a fever Sunday I tested and was positive for Covid.

At that point I thought to test my sense of smell and realized it was mostly gone. My husband realized that the problems he'd been having since his brief sickness Wednesday/Thursday were all due to covid brain fog.

Monday, July 11 I went to a grocery store clinic and got a positive test there and a prescription for Paxlovid. Took Paxlovid like a good girl for five days, but by the time I was done with it I still had a fever and was still testing positive (I tested 24 hrs after my last dose, so on Saturday July 16). I'm assuming it prevented me from getting worse, at least, but I did NOT have the miraculous "I started feeling better two days into Paxlovid!" experience that I've heard from so many others.

Finally that Sunday, the 17th, my temp dropped below 99 and stayed that way. So I had a fever for about 9-10 days straight. I was still very definitely sick, though. My bones still hurt all the time, my sinuses were a mess, headaches on and off, and I had the general "sick feeling" that is often the only symptom I get. My sense of smell and taste were still off, though smell was at least returning. I finally tested negative on Saturday, July 23 but I was still sick for another day or two.

[creambunnie]

For the best

you tapped your foot as you glared at your boyfriend, Haechan , who was laughing with your girl classmate . you , Haechan and your other classmate, Seungyeon, were assigned as a group for a class research. you were pissed. no not because your boyfriend was talking to another girl. no you were not that childish and petty. you were pissed because everytime you tried to suggest your ideas or opinions, Seungyeon would interrupt you , cutting you off completely. what you were really pissed about was that Haechan didn't even defend you. he smiled apologetically to you and listened intently to Seungyeon's words. you were also aware on how Seungyeon smirked here and there when she got your boyfriend's attention all to herself.

you honestly didn't care and could handle this well if it was a one time thing. the problem was, you had sat in the same cafe 3 times for the group discussion which went the same as today. you would always be cut off and you would be glaring at the both of them who were obviously flirting with each other more than discussing for the project.

you quickly stood and 'accidentally' slammed the table, startling the two flirts.

"i'm just gonna go to the ladies for a while,". you excused yourself. Haechan gave you a soft smile and nodded while Seungyeon rolled her eyes at you for interrupting her conversation with Haechan.

you went out of the cafe and decided to go to your bestfriend's place which was technically Haechan's house too.

your besfriend, Jeno, was Haechan's housemate. he was the one who introduced the two of you to each other. you've been ranting to him about Haechan's behaviour during discussion and told him about your insecurities. Jeno tried his best comforting you and you really appreciate his help.

Jeno opened the front door seconds after you knocked. "he messed up again?". you nodded to his question and entered the house. Jeno sighed and went to the kitchen. "drinks?". you shook your head as you placed your bag down. Jeno smiled softly and went to the sofa, sitting next to you. you scooted closer to Jeno and rested your head on his shoulder. you draped one of your arms on his stomach while Jeno wrapped an arm around you as he played with his phone . you felt the warmth that you've been craving for after your older brother passed away. Jeno was like an older brother to you and he protects you like how a brother does. your relationship was like a simple siblings relationship. there for one another though you guys always argue over petty things.

Jeno looked at your phone when he felt it vibrate a few times. he was about to ask you to pick up your phone but he noticed that you fell asleep. he quickly took your phone and answered the call before the vibrations wake you up.

"hey babe? where are you? why aren't you replying to my texts?". Jeno heard Haechan's voice from the other line.

"oh Haechan. yeah she's here. i guess she's just tired. yeah come back hurry, she is just taking a nap. alright, see you.". Jeno hung up and sighed. Jeno carressed your shoulders as you curled in closer to his chest. Jeno didn't want his bestfriend to get hurt. He didn't want his friend to be hurt too. he sighed for the nth time and hoped for the best.

once Haechan reached home, he stood still in front of his girlfriend who was literally cuddling his housemate. Jeno didn't seem bothered by his stare and woke you up calmly.

"hey wake up. Haechan is back.". Jeno said gently as he tapped your shoulder. Haechan smiled when he heard you groan as he found it cute. but his smile dropped and his fists curled when you buried your face into the crook of Jeno's neck and mumbled. "5 more mins". Jeno chuckled and pulled you off him gently as he stood up. Haechan was thankful for Jeno's actions or else he would have punched him in the face.

you opened your eyes slowly only to see your boyfriend staring at you. you wiped your eyes and was fully awake as if you haven't been sleeping for the past half an hour. your burning heart made it hard for you to think about sleep.

Jeno cleared his throat before excusing himself. "i'll be in my room if you guys need anything.".

Haechan nodded and sat beside you once Jeno was inside. "is everything okay?". Haechan asked softly. you rolled your eyes and stood up . you ignored him totally and went straight for the front door. Haechan quickly ran towards you and grabbed your wrist to stop you. "what is going on babe?!". you scoffed and turned to him. "what is going on? stop acting dumb Haechan! you know well what is wrong.". Haechan sighed and looked at you coldly. "is it because i talked to Seungyeon?". you pulled back you wrist and shook your head in disbelief.

"you know well that i don't mind you talking to other girls. i am not that petty and childish to get jealous over shitty things. heck, even your tablemate is a girl! did i get mad ? no!". you paused to take a breath.

"you. you didn't even defend me when Seungyeon bullied me! you listened to all her words--".

your words were cut by his. " i didn't want her to feel left out , that's all! i didn't want her to feel like a thirdwheel with us.". Haechan explained calmly as if what you said before didn't bother him. you closed your eyes and took a deep breath.

" really? didn't want her to feel left out but it's okay if i am put aside? it is okay that my opinions are not being listened? it is okay for a classmate to bully me like that?boys are really boys huh. you didn't even notice that she was giving me looks. you know what? Seungyeon is going to be so happy right now.". you paused to muster up all your courage. Haechan looked at you, confused with what you were going to say next.

"you're available starting this very second. go on and flirt with her all you want without having me as a burden.i'm breaking up with you Lee Donghyuk.".

Haechan knew he messed up bad when you stopped calling him by his nickname. Haechan shook his head and grabbed your shoulders. "no! i can fix this! i like you not her! please babe, please don't do this.". you pushed him away and wiped a tear that fell on your cheek.

"no. she is a bully. not to me only but to many more. and you. you're her accomplice. i don't associate myself with such people. people who took my brother away from me. i lost half of my heart already. i'm not losing my other half. not to someone like you. we are done Lee Donghyuck. now and forever.". it hurt you to say those things but you believed it was for your own good. you quickly ran out of the house, not giving Haechan a chance to say anything. Haechan was frozen from your words. He wanted to chase after you but his legs gave away. he was on the floor, clutching his chest while soft sobs echoed the living room. Jeno went out of his room softly and sighed when he saw his housemate. he quickly went beside him and patted his back to comfort his friend.

*it's for your best Haechan* Jeno thought as he felt like crying himself.

you didn't attend the next discussions. you decided to just do it on your own though it might affect your grade. you were more willing to act this way rather than hurt yourself and Haechan more.

"this is a very good research y/n. but I cannot give you higher than a C because rules are rules. this was supposed to be a group project hence one of the criterias is teamwork. i really love your project but i am very sorry.". your teacher said as she handed you your grade for the project. you smiled and thanked her. "it is okay Mrs Moon. it is what i deserve anyways. thank you.".

you went back to your seat and saw a glimpse of Haechan. he looked guilty when he heard the conversation between you an the teacher. he knew you've always worked hard in everything and try your best to get straight As. but because of him, your grade was affected. you ignored his stare and kept your graded assignment.

and that marks the end of your school semester as summer break has begun. you quickly packed your bag and ran to the school entrance as usual after your break up. you didn't want to bump into him. it's been about a month since then. he would text you and call you everyday since the break up but you of course ignored everything. you blocked his number and asked Jeno to tell Haechan not to bother you anymore. you wanted to heal. you wanted to move on. people might say that you're petty but you take your relationships seriously especially after the death of your brother. who commited suicide after his 'friends' stabbed him in the back. and especially because you never felt anything like when you were with Haechan before. Haechan has a very special space in your heart. till now. but you didn't want to ruin your precious memories with bitter ones. hence it was better for you to break up with him before more bitter memories were created, overflooding your precious ones.

~

you decided to apply for a job at a small cafe. a cafe owned by an elder couple. the cafe was small and didn't have a lot of customers but that was all you needed. peace. calmness.

you were serving your regulars when a new yet familiar face entered the cosy cafe. you held your head down and greeted the customer softly. you completed the regulars' orders before taking the next customer's order. "it's my first time coming here. my friend told me that the food here is good. but would you recommend me anything?". you nodded your head and pointed to the fudgy chocolate cake. you knew he loved chocolate so much. he always has a bag full of chocolates in his bag. he smiled and nodded. "i'll take that then and a cup of americano.". you keyed in his orders and quickly prepared them. he took his orders and went to a table nearest to the counter where he could see you work. you only sighed and pulled your cap down to cover your face while doing your work.

it was finally time to close the cafe. but he was still there. reading your shared favourite book. you took a deep breath and went up to him. "i'm sorry but we are closing the cafe now.". he looked up from the book and smiled. your breath hitched. the face that you have been missing and at the same time avoiding was looking straight at you right now. "can we talk a bit?". Haechan asked.

you knew this was coming. you knew you can't run from this forever. "sure,just let me clean some stuff up,".

the two of you were finally sitting opposite of each other, face to face. you looked at your fingers all the way. you didn't want to face him. not after hurting him. but you still believed he deserved it for hurting you too. you felt warm fingers wrapping themselves around yours. oh how you've missed his warm hands. "do you still like me?". he asked calmly. you kept quiet for a while before looking up to him with teary eyes.

"of course i still like you, Lee Donghyuck.". you replied.

Haechan smiled and squeezed your hand that he was holding. he was about to celebrate when you stopped him by pulling your hand away from him gently.

"but we are not meant to be with each other. i like you. i love you. but we can't be together. i want to thank you for all the precious memories that you've given to me. i would like to also apologise, for hurting you with my words. i was hurt too but this is the best for us. please, don't try and fix something that is already broken into pieces.".

Haechan gulped, restraining himself from crying. "i really messed up bad huh?". he said as he stood up quietly. "i wish the best for you. i hope you would find happiness someday.....

i love you.".

Haechan said before going straight to the door.

you watched his back walk without turning to look at you again.

*this is for the best. this for our best.* you thought as you wiped your neverending tears.

pics credits to the rightful owners💕

[captorcorp]

a comprehensive list of things i am currently anxious about:

- my rooming situation next semester - current roommate is moving to a sorority wing of the dorms so i either have to get accommodations for a single room (via psychiatrist/therapist) or risk a roommate i don’t get along with, and if i do get a single room not having any friends or connections on campus since my roommate’s like the only person i'm somewhat close to rn

- figuring out whether to disappoint my d&d group by not being able to come to the event we planned that's before the end of my semester since i make things inconvenient for them by being the only one out of state, or get big anxiety by leaving early and have to get my profs to move all my finals and cram check-out procedures and everything, and have to decide this quick bc dad keeps bugging for my answer so he can take days off work to drive me back

- figuring out if i want to ask my parents about going to a con with internet friends in may when they're almost certainly going to interrogate and lecture me about not meeting internet people or not justifying an out of state flight for something dumb and as much as i want to meet my friends just meeting them irl will also be big anxiety

- deciding whether I want to cut my hair short or not and what haircut i want

- having to apply for a new job over the summer because i feel too awkward to apply at my old one but too intimidated to train somewhere else and i need money

- having a d&d discord session this weekend which i already get anxious about over video call but my roommate’s gonna be in the room this time for it too which is even more Anxiety

- having lots of homework tonight and this week and next week to manage, like compsci hw i have to leave the dorm for and that wasn’t explained very well but i don’t want to go to office hours or tutors for help with

- having to schedule a psych appointment somewhere bc the np psychiatrist on campus is tired of dealing with me but calling to schedule appointments is scary and the two i did call weren't taking new patients and i don't know what i want from a psych appoint (besides possibly room accommodations)

- having to schedule a therapy/counseling appointment, slightly easier bc i just have to get to emailing my school counselor but still haven't yet

- my roommate walking in on my crying - as i was writing this she did and i left but now anxiety about asking her to leave if i need to cry later when i come back

- not being able to manage these things

[buddaheadcannonsonice]

Don't ignore me

|| 707 route when he pushes MC away ||

You didn't like how Seven ignored you. You thought him saving you from his brother would have brought you two closer. Or that him staying with you in that apartment with the bomb would have allowed him to be more open with you.

You hoped that it would have. But it wasn't the case.

You got out of bed, ready to face another silent filled day with Seven and his memories.

"Did you sleep well?" You walked into the kitchen where Seven was grabbing a soda from the fridge.

He didn't respond and you just nodded, making your way to get coffee, not in the mood for food.

"You should eat something MC," Seven pointed the stove where eggs and bacon were already made.

"Thanks," you nonchalantly said, feeling yourself go into one of your moods before having met the RFA.

The silence that clung to the early morning was disrupted by Seven's phone ringing. And like that the morning went by. Seven left to work in his corner, and you left to the bed where you slept.

--

707 entered the chatroom.

Jumin: How is MC? Any progress with the security?

707: I am almost done. MC is probably sleeping again...

Jumin: Are you two fighting?

707: ... No. But it's for the best. If MC gets too involved with me, danger will always follow them. I can't allow that. So. It is good.

Jumin: If it's what's best for MC.

Zen entered the chatroom.

Zen: HOW CAN YIU TWO BE SO DENSE?!?!

707: Oh, MC just woke up. I'll talk to you guys later with updates!

707 left the chatroom.

707

It was for the best. He told himself that as long as MC was safe, none of the rest mattered.

But he began to notice a pattern in MC. The odd hours of sleep, the odd eating schedule, and the odd times MC would disappear with whispers.

At first he thought it was because MC would talk in the chat and that the chat was the cause of MCs odd habits.

Until he caught MC in conversation.

"No, everything is good. The semester doesn't start for a few more weeks and I found a good apartment. It's not too far from the university... no, you don't have to worry. All is good! Yes. I scheduled an appointment for that. And that too. Okay, love you. Bye."

It wasn't in MCs regular tone of voice. But maybe MC too had demons they haven't dealt with.

707 continue with cooking food for MC, stocking the fridge with fruits and healthy snacks, and even making MC coffee before they'd wake up.

But no matter what, MC wouldn't budge. They'd budge when trying to get him to eat and take a break or maybe to even talk, but the more he pushed MC away, the more MC tried.

Until MC stopped trying.

Maybe it was when he said he wished MC never downloaded the app, or when MC saw him breaking the robot, or by avoiding conversation. But MC stopped trying too.

MC would still remind him to eat, take a break, relax, and even leave him food. But it was the lack of sticky notes that worries him.

"Everything is great! I sat in one of those dog cafes and it was the greatest! Oh he is? That's great. I miss him so much, he has no idea... yeah. Don't forget to take him walking! Okay, bye."

He noticed MCs voice fluctuation when they lied. When they were sad. When they were done.

"Do you have a dog?" He found himself asking before he could stop it.

"Sure. Yep. I'm sorry, I'm so tired. I'll use the bathroom first, I hope you don't mind." MC said in regular MC voice. It made him wonder how much else he didn't know about MC.

MC entered the chatroom.

Yoonsung☆: MC! How is everything?

Zen: Is Seven being a gentleman? Tell me if I need to call and yell at him.

MC: ^^ everything is good! Seven has been so nice. Honestly, he's such an honest fellow~

Yoonsung☆: Still, I'm so jealous he gets to see you first!

MC: Should I send a picture? ^o^

Zen: YES.

MC: *picture of 707 in another wig*

Yoonsung☆: Wuah! I am really jealous now!

Jaehee: Honestly, you and Seven have an odd sense of humor.

Zen left the chatroom.

Zen entered the chatroom.

Zen: Ha ha. Very funny. I'm going to practice some lines.

Jaehee: Good luck!

MC: ^^

707 entered the chatroom.

707: That was my favorite picture!

MC: ... Yes, well it was fun! But I am tired guys, I should go to sleep. Sleep well everyone! ^^

MC left the chatroom.

You didn't try to be awkward or anything, but you didn't know what else to do. It was obvious Seven didn't want you around.

So you did your own digging.

You thought that if you could do your own research, it would make Seven feel less stress and maybe even be less avoidant.

You talked to a few of the guests, asking for nonchalant questions of previous RFA parties, going through the drawers of papers, and even getting into Rika's email.

And what you found was astonishing. Times 10.

Through he files there were coordinates, pictures of Seven and his brother, of everyone in the RFA crossed off, and of her manifesto.

"Crap." You didn't know what to do with this information. Should you go there yourself? Or should you tell someone? Should it be Seven? What if you called Jumin? Maybe Zen?

"What're you doing?" You closed the laptop quickly and took your glasses off, facing Seven at the door of the room.

"Research." You technically didn't lie. You knew he'd look into the web searches later.

"On what?"

"Previous RFA parties. I don't want to mess this up. You've all been so helpful and if this does a lot of good, I want to do it better." Again, not really a lie.

"Oh. Well. It's late. Go to sleep, I'll see you in the morning."

"Wait!" You stopped him before he closed the door, building that barrier again.

"I'm safe to leave the apartment, right? I mean. You're hiding from the agency so it isn't safe for you. But say I wanted to go to the library for some books or to get some snacks, I'm free to go, right?"

Seven thought about and then nodded.

"Yeah, just don't go with any strangers and stay in the chatroom so we know you're okay. Better yet, here. Give me your phone and I'll add a tracker."

"No." You say quickly and add, "You don't trust me? And besides, you already put a tracker in my jackets after I left that one time."

"It's not about trust but your protection. Someone is still after you and if we know where you're at, it would be useful."

You hand him your phone, scared that he'll go through things you never told anyone.

"I promise I won't go through anything."

And like that he left you with your thoughts at night.

--

707

MC was at the library, which meant that he could have a few hours of snooping

He's happy MC took his advice to ignore him but he didn't think he'd feel worse than before about it

Not like this.

He decided now would be the perfect time to go digging into MC's background.

He promised he wouldn't but he needed to make sure they were not already from a bad situation

He read about their life, their family, their situation, and their reason for leaving

"OH shit."